LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER TEN

      After a disturbed night’s sleep, Farrell was hotfooting it down to the Major Crime Administration room after getting his usual caffeine fix when he saw Lind bearing down on him, his face set in an uncharacte‌ristically grim expression. Immediately, Farrell tensed. Had Laura taken a turn for the worse? Lind halted in front of him, his personal anguish bricked up behind a brisk demeanour.

      ‘Twin boys have been abducted from Happy Faces Nursery in Catherine Street. I’ll coordinate the search from here. I’ve appointed DI Moore to head up the investigation. However, being a small force, we need all hands on deck for this one. I want you to drive to the nursery and see what you can get from the woman in charge. She didn’t make much sense on the phone. Then get over to the parents. The kids are only three years old. What they must be going through …’

      Lind spun on his heel, barking orders at the swarm of officers buzzing around him as he went.

      Galvanized into action, Farrell grabbed his jacket and keys and took off down the corridor.

      ‘McLeod,’ he bellowed. ‘You’re with me.’

      Mhairi emerged from the ladies at a brisk trot looking disgruntled.

      ‘Is nothing sacred?’ she grumbled as she trotted to keep up with her boss’s loping stride.

      ‘Two three-year-olds are missing from their nursery. It seems they’ve been abducted by some nutter.’

      ‘Who’s the Family Liaison Officer, Sir?’

      Farrell thought for a moment.

      ‘You are, if DI Moore has no objection. That’s if you think you can handle it?’

      ‘I’m sure I can, Sir.’

      Their eyes met in sombre recognition. Dealing with relatives was hard enough at the best of times, but when there was a possibility that some sick creep might have killed two little kids the job would be harrowing in the extreme.

      The nursery was located in a sandstone-terraced house near the Ewart Library. Cheerful pictures and smiley faces adorned the windows. As Farrell and McLeod pulled up into the adjacent kerb they had to dodge a stampede of hysterical mothers bearing their offspring away. The jungle drums had been beating in the manner of all small towns. Frightened by the commotion, the youngsters were bawling their eyes out. A crowd of onlookers were already starting to gather, ready to stake their claim in what might turn out to be a tragedy.

      A slender middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes came to the door. Wordlessly she let them in and took them into a small tidy office. She gestured for them to sit opposite her.

      ‘I’m DI Farrell and this is Detective Constable McLeod,’ started Farrell. ‘And you are?’

      ‘Janet McDougall; I own the nursery.’ Her eyes filled and she clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

      ‘Who else works here?’

      ‘There were three of us on duty today: myself, and two nursery assistants, Fiona Thomson and Gill Brown. They didn’t see anything as Fiona was settling the babies in another room and Gill was leading story-time in the quiet room.’

      Farrell asked Mhairi to nip out and take preliminary statements from the two young women waiting outside the office, one of whom was weeping quietly while being comforted by the other. The last remaining children had now clearly left. He returned to his seat.

      ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened when Mark and Jamie Summers were taken?’

      ‘This man came,’ she began. ‘He said he was from the social work department, had an ID card with him.’

      ‘Did you examine it carefully?’ asked Farrell, holding her gaze.

      Janet McDougall flushed but didn’t look away.

      ‘Of course, I did. It looked absolutely authentic. He was even wearing the same tie in the photo as he had on when he came here.’

      ‘What time did he arrive?’

      ‘It was shortly after nine; the boys had been dropped off by their mum at around 8.15. She works at that firm of accountants in Irish Street.’

      ‘What exactly did he tell you?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘He told me the boys’ father had been in a bad car accident on his way to Glasgow, might not even survive.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘The mother had gone on ahead to the hospital, he said. He’d been asked to take the boys to join her. He gave me this.’

      With shaking hands, she pulled a letter out of her pocket. It was a handwritten note, apparently from the mother, asking the nursery to hand over the boys to David Nolan, social worker.

      Farrell immediately radioed the station so that they could verify whether or not a David Nolan actually existed within the social work department.

      He was careful to keep any note of censure out of his voice.

      ‘Did you recognize the handwriting?’

      ‘I hadn’t had much in the way of letters from her before but I did compare her signature with something I had on file. It matched, or I thought it did …’ she added miserably.

      Turning away from them she rummaged through a file with shaking hands and produced a consent form. Farrell scrutinized the two signatures. They looked alike, if not identical. The abductor had done his homework. His radio crackled into life.

      ‘DS Byers here. There’s a David Nolan all right. He’s been off for months on the sick.’

      ‘Put a call in to Cornwall Mount and request a firearms team be mobilized as soon as can be arranged to surround Nolan’s house. He might or might not be armed but I’m not taking any chances where young kids are concerned. We’ll also need uniformed backup. Bring Lind and DI Moore up to speed.’

      ‘This man,’ said Farrell, ‘what did he look like? Tell me anything you can remember.’

      ‘He was tall, very tall. About your height and build.’

      ‘What colour were his eyes?’

      ‘Green.’

      ‘Are you certain?’

      ‘Yes. He had glasses on, but at one point he took them off, gave them a wipe and put them on again. Now I think about it he had cold eyes. His mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. Oh God, what have I done?’ she moaned.

      ‘What colour was his hair?’

      ‘Dark, very dark. He had a lot of it. And a large beard covering most of his face, but very tidy.’

      ‘Any distinguishing marks? Scars, tattoos?’

      ‘I can’t remember anything like that but, thinking back, there wasn’t all that much of his skin visible.’

      ‘What

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