Chapter One

The Murder Sessions

By Rebecca Allan

Excerpt from the Murder Sessions Podcast Episode 100 – “To Perish with Passion”

This episode was recorded on the night Dayna Khalid disappeared and has not been released to the public. – Sgt. A Andrews

Blair: Good evening Bloodlusters’ and welcome to the one hundredth episode of The Murder Sessions! To celebrate making it to one hundred episodes tonight, we have none other than model and social media influencer Dayna Khalid. I know a lot of you had requested I get her back on as a guest – and it took persuading – but here she is!

Dayna: Hey there Lusters, it’s good to be back. I have been busy but I will always have a keen interest in true crime and unsolved mysteries.

Blair: I am sure you all remember Dayna from earlier episodes “The Kindness of Strangler’s” and “Wicked Women”.  For our newer listeners out there, if you have not listened before then you should definitely check them out. So! Without further ado, Dayna would you like to introduce tonight’s topic and explain to our listeners why you chose this subject?

Dayna: Tonight we are going to be discussing and dissecting crimes of passion. I chose this subject because I think there is something so fascinating about what pushes people to kill – especially people that they love. You know, what makes someone snap like that, why are they driven to do these things?

Blair: That is a great topic of discussion. I have to say, I think particularly with crimes of passion, there is a thin line between love and hate and sometimes crossing that line can be lethal.

Chapter 1

       If I had known that she was going to disappear that night, what could I have done differently? The question has been running around my head for two days. Two days since my best friend, Dayna, disappeared without a trace. Two days of searching through the vast, uninviting forest, treacherous mountains and the sprawling beaches that our little village sits nestled between. Dayna always said that Kirkleithen was devoid of any excitement or drama, and in a sick way, I knew she would relish in being at the centre of its first big media storm.

        We had spent the night of her disappearance in “The Breakwater”, a small pub attached to her parent’s hotel. Sitting in the beer garden atop the cascading rocks down to the harbour, it had become somewhat of a high school reunion. This of course led to copious amounts of alcohol and little blue pills; there isn’t much else to do for recreation in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. Dayna was like a princess in the slums whenever she was in town. Her half-Emirati, half-Scottish lineage made her stand out amongst the crowds of fishermen and pale, ginger Scots. She was tall and curvy with dark skin and long, shiny hair to match; the polar opposite to me with my short, flat stature and blonde hair. Growing up, Granda always referred to us as “the odd couple.” That night, however, I felt more distant from her than ever. A feeling I soon quelled with the warm, dizzying sensation of vodka and the euphoric rush that follows a line of white powder.

 I awoke the next morning still in last night’s clothes, my head throbbing. I could barely manage to roll over, my body as heavy as a ship anchor. The hangover only intensified when the sound of what I thought was Granda hammering away in the garden filled the room. In my probably still drunk from the night before stupor, it took a moment to realise the sound was coming from my bedroom door.

       Mum barked on the other side. “Blair, are you awake?”

       I answered with a groan. “Yes. What do you want?”

      “Get up! Breakfasts ready!”

I rolled out of bed and peeled off my wine stained blouse, grimacing when I saw the mess of it. I had borrowed it from mum and I knew she would kill me if she caught sight of it. Scrunching it into a ball, I stuffed it onto the top shelf of my wardrobe between old cuddly toys and battered handbags before throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I noted my eyes were bloodshot and swollen, another symptom of a comedown from hell. As I made my way down to the kitchen, the floorboards of our old, creaky cottage groaned with each step I took. They were faded and stinking of bleach; mum often took her frustrations and anxieties out on the house, armed with a bottle of cleaning product. The day was abnormally humid and the pots and pans sizzling on the stove as I entered the room only added to the uncomfortable heat.

Granda sat at the kitchen table, his balding head poking over the top of his newspaper as he sipped at a cup of tea. Across from him sat Jamie, the local pharmacist and mums new boyfriend. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as he shot me a smile.

        He let out a long yawn, “Good morning Blair. How are you feeling this morning?”

I shrugged as I took a seat next to Granda and began buttering a slice of toast, “Like shite. I can barely remember last night at all.”

        Mum spun around, spatula in the air and frowned, “Blair! Language please.”

Jamie shuffled in his chair as Granda let out a chuckle and winked at me from behind his shield of print. Like me, he was not the biggest fan of mum’s new squeeze; there was not anything inherently wrong with him per se – he was handsome, kind and respectable – but he wasn’t my Da. Nevertheless, he made mum happy and apparently, that was supposed to be enough. I watched the way she gazed at him as she dished bacon and sausages onto his plate and my stomach churned. The taste of last nights’ alcohol suddenly burning the back of my throat. I stood up to make a break for the bathroom when the doorbell rang, followed by three sharp knocks.

         Mum frowned. “Who the bloody hell could that be at this time on a Sunday morning?”

         I feigned a gasp. “Mum! Language please.”

        She placed a hand on her hip. “Stop being cheeky and answer it. It’s probably for you.”

Desperate to escape the smell of fried egg and bacon, I made my way to the front of our home. The cool, sea breeze was welcoming as I pulled opened the door. Sara Khalid, my best friend’s mother, stood on our doorstep. Her eyes were as red raw as mine, and her greying hair was sticking out at all angles.

       “Blair!” she demanded, “Is Dayna here?”

        I shook my head, “No I haven’t seen her since I left the pub last night.”

        Her eyes widened. “Oh I’m so worried Blair. This isn’t like her not to come home, or be here.”

I sniffed, trying to contain a smirk. I wanted to tell her it was exactly like Dayna. That I had been a cover story for numerous hook-ups and nights at Patrick Laird’s house back in high school. But I daren’t do it. Dayna’s father was a strict Muslim man and she had always joked he would murder her on the spot if he found out half the shameful shit she got up to.

         I gestured to the kitchen. “Why don’t you come in and I can try calling her?”

        Sara nodded, “Yes ok. I’ve been ringing all morning but she hasn’t answered. Perhaps she will answer if she thinks it’s you. She probably thinks she’s in trouble.”

It was ridiculous to me that a twenty one year old woman – who had been living away from home in Inverness for three years – still had to answer to her parents like this whenever she came back. However, something in her mother’s face sent a shiver down my spine. It only worsened as we gathered around the table and listened to her phone ring out.

        “Do you have any idea where she could be?” asked Mum, staring me down with the large green eyes I had inherited from her.

Yes, I wanted to answer. I knew many places she could be, but she had sworn me to secrecy.

       “No idea,” I lied.

       Mrs Khalid tapped her chipped nails on Mum’s equally chipped oak dining table. “I think I’m going to have to call the police. I’m worried she’s lying in a ditch somewhere. You were all so rowdy last night.”

        Granda cleared his throat. “I’m sure she’ll be fine Sara. She’ll be hungover at a friend’s house somewhere and come home with her tail between her legs when she’s feeling better.”

       She shook her head. “It’s just not like her. She had a big modelling job in Inverness today – there is no way she’d miss it.”

       “Well there you go then,” said Jamie, “She’s probably left to go to the job and can’t answer because she’s driving. Problem solved.”      

       “No. Her car and her purse are still at the house.”

      Mum placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Why don’t you try calling some of your friends that were there last night Blair. Who else was with you, Patrick Laird?”

       I scoffed; he was the last person they should be calling. Patrick had been Dayna’s first love and high school sweet heart. He had recently gotten married to her old high school rival, Hannah Mckay. The marriage, however, had not stopped Patrick from coming on to Dayna that night at the pub. Or Dayna discreetly leading him through to the empty kitchens as the night went on. Or me walking in on them all over each other.

She pretended to hate coming home, but I knew from the glimmer she got in her eye, that Dayna loved the attention. Every boy within a forty-mile radius of Kirkleithen knew who Dayna was. Sure, mainly because we all went to the same tiny school, but her beauty had become legendary. A trait that had benefited her greatly in her “social media influencer” career. Girls wanted to be her, whilst guys (and some girls, I guess) wanted to be with her. That particular night, Patrick wanted to be with her.

 Somehow, Hannah had caught wind of what was going on and showed up to the pub, rage and jealousy burning in her eyes. Patrick had stood there like the coward he was, letting Dayna take all the abuse, before she threw them both out of her parent’s establishment. That was the last thing I remembered. As I strained to remember the night, my head began to pound harder and a nagging feeling formed in my chest.

       “Patrick Laird’s a scumbag,” I announced, “He left early anyway, so he wouldn’t have seen her leave. I’ll text around; she’s probably stayed over somewhere.”

       Sara shook her head. “I have a really bad feeling about this. I’m going to go down to the station and speak to Sergeant Andrews.”

       “I’ll drive you down,” said Jamie, “I need to go pick some things up from work anyway.”

      “Let us know if you hear from her,” said Mum, “Blair will do the same.”

As I watched mum show them out, Granda placed his paper down on the table and leaned towards me.

       He whispered to me with an intense look in his eye. “You sure you don’t know something?”

       I furrowed my brow in response. “Of course not. Why wouldn’t I just say?”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment, with an expression I couldn’t read.

       He shrugged before standing up to clear his plate. “If you say so.”

I bit my lip, my stomach doing flips. The more I pictured the look on Hannah’s face as they argued last night; the raw, unadulterated anger, I couldn’t help but shake an overwhelming feeling of dread. I always used to imagine that I had a connection to Dayna on some spiritual level; like soul mates or twins. Sometimes I could feel when she was in trouble or upset, even after she moved away. So many times I called her, following a strange urge that something was wrong, and she would answer: “How do you always know when I need you?” Only, this time the feeling was stronger than ever, as her phone continued to ring out. I listened to the dial tone connect to voicemail once more and I just knew. I knew something terrible had happened to Dayna.