Read Online Everything She Forgot by Lisa Ballantyne - Free Book Online Page B

the Caithness choir, which had raised five hundred pounds for the Thurso care home. He had a police scanner on his desk that he had bought a month ago in the hope of discovering a scoop. He had already lost interest. Highlands police only talked about food and TV, except on the odd occasion when someone shoplifted in Inverness or someone else was glassed in Fort William.
    At work, Angus was focused and professional. He was not merely punching the clock or passing the time. Angus was improving himself and educating the readership of the John O’Groat Journal. He wasn’t just collecting a pay check, he was a journalist: it was a calling of messianic proportions.
    He was five feet three but he had always wanted other men to look up to him. There were some in the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland who considered that Angus’s profession was worldly, if not blasphemous. Angus was frustrated at the John O’Groat Journal , but he felt that the true journalism to which he aspired was fully aligned with his beliefs. Journalism was evangelism. He only needed the right story. The right story could bring Angus Campbell’s vision to the world.
    He pulled the pages from his typewriter and read them with his corrector ready. Suddenly, over the airwaves, Angus heard the sentence that he had been waiting his whole life to hear: it was a soul-completing sentence. Hearing it was like being born: being born again.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Attention all units: Suspected abduction of a female child from Ravenshill Primary School in Thurso. The suspect is a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a dark suit and a light shirt. Car make and number plates are unknown, but it is a dark-colored hatchback, possibly red, brown, or black. The child’s name is Molly Henderson, and she is seven years old, with long dark hair, an eye patch, and was last seen wearing her school uniform.
    A ngus submitted his article on the sing-along and then jumped into his car. It whined when he turned the ignition but started on a second try. It was a thirty-minute drive from Wick to Thurso. He drove straight to Ravenshill Primary School, fixed his tie and inspected his teeth in the rearview mirror, dusted his jacket, slipped it on, and then walked into the school, notebook in hand.
    Angus knew Betsy Clarke in the school office from church. Her husband, Thomas, often led the hymns. Angus asked for Betsy as soon as he arrived, but she was on her tea break and so he waited, on a chair made for a child, his knees to his chest, considering the questions that he would ask her. He wrote down several points on his notepad and underlined each one heavily in ink.
    Betsy came for him the minute her tea break ended. Shewas wearing a tweed skirt with a Fair Isle sweater. At church, unfailingly, Betsy wore a navy suit with white collar and cuffs and a felt navy hat with net detail.
    Betsy took him into the office, made him a cup of tea, and offered him a digestive biscuit, which he accepted. He flicked over the pages of his notebook.
    â€œIt’s a terrible business,” Betsy began, brushing a crumb from her ample bosom. “You never think it’ll happen here. I mean, that wee lassie, just the other day I was talking to her . . .”
    â€œYou know her and the family?”
    â€œThe Hendersons.” Betsy nodded with her mouth closed, dimpling her chin. “He’s the big boss at Dounreay. They don’t want, that’s for sure . . . They live in the big detached house on Rose Street.”
    Angus’s eyebrows shot up. “Rose Street.”
    Betsy nodded.
    Angus made a note that Molly’s father, Mr. Henderson, was the managing director at Dounreay nuclear plant, just five miles west of Thurso. Looking back at the notes he had made so far, he said, “The police have a rough description of the kidnapper . . . so there were witnesses?”
    â€œThree girls in Molly’s class say they