Aftershock

Seventy-seven

‘Any news of Inspector Varley?’ asked Jack McGurk, as Becky Stallings stepped out of her cubicle and into the CID general office in Torphichen Place.

‘He’s in the clear,’ she told him.

The detective sergeant’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is he indeed? I shouldn’t admit it, but while most of me is pleased to hear that, there’s a small piece that’s saying, “Bugger it, there goes our speedy clear-up.” I must admit, I thought he was four square in the frame for it. What was his story?’

‘He went along to tear a strip off Weekes for naming his wife, nothing more. When he left, he was alive.’

‘Run that past me again, boss. He knew about Weekes spilling the beans about his wife?’

‘I asked the same question. Superintendent McIlhenney was less than forthcoming about it. He told me, very politely, not to take it any further.’

‘Somebody’s in the shit, then.’

‘I imagine so. Any unexpected personnel moves should give us a clue. Meanwhile. .’

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Sauce Haddock called from across the room. ‘I’ve just taken a call from Gayfield Square. They’ve got something there they think might interest us.’

‘What?’

‘A pale blue T-shirt. It was handed in by a cleansing worker. He found it stuffed in a dustbin in George Street when he was emptying it.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s got blood all over it. Could be it’s related to another incident, but the Gayfield people don’t have anything on their books that fits the bill.’

‘Is there a bar code on it?’

‘No. All the labels have been cut off.’

‘Call them back. Tell them to bag it and. .’ She stopped when she saw the detective constable nod.

‘I have done, ma’am. It’s on its way to the lab for analysis.’