Death's Door

Fourteen

Unusually, Griff Montell was mildly annoyed; his sister had a day off from her job in Harvey Nichols, and he had promised her that he would find time to go home for lunch. Instead he found himself standing in Torphichen Street, at Haymarket, waiting for a bus.

Not that he had any intention of boarding: he was waiting for the arrival of the service from Dunbar and Haddington, and for its driver, Josephina McTurk. The existence of female bus drivers in Scotland had come as news to him when Tarvil Singh had called him, passing on the DI’s orders. He had assumed that the demise of conductors would have made the job men only, on security grounds if nothing else.

Mrs McTurk was a good timekeeper. Her single-deck vehicle drew up at its last stop almost exactly at quarter to two, disgorging its last three passengers. As the last one stepped on to the pavement, Montell boarded, to be faced by the driver’s surprisingly small, upraised hand.

‘You cannae get on here, sir: this is drop-off only. The return service leaves frae West Maitland Street.’

He took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘CID,’ he said.

‘See you polis!’ the driver exclaimed. ‘Some of you think you’re special, honest tae God. Get round the corner and wait wi’ the rest of them.’

Montell grinned. ‘I don’t want to go to Dunbar, Mrs McTurk. . not that I’ve got anything against the place, of course. I need a word with you.’

The woman stared at him: she was somewhere around thirty-five years old, fresh-faced, with a touch of the sun on her cheeks, and her naturally frizzy brown hair was pulled close to her head by a heavy band that held it in a ponytail. He had expected her to be bigger than she was, to be driving such a large vehicle: all in all, he reckoned that she was the most attractive bus driver he had ever seen. ‘Me?’ she exclaimed. ‘What the hell have I done? Gone through a red light or something?’ She stopped, frowning. ‘It’s no’ my Dylan, is it? Has he been at it?’

‘Not as far as I know, Mrs McTurk,’ said the detective, ‘although I can find out, if you like. No, I want to talk to you about Monday night, about two passengers you picked up on the last run out of North Berwick.’

‘From Church Street?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Blonde lass, dark-haired lad.’

‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘At that time of night, wi’ the pubs closing, you tend to take a good look at young people gettin’ on your bus, even in North Berwick. Monday nights are the quietest, though. It was just them got on.’

He took out a copy of the retouched photograph of the dead girl. ‘Is this her?’

Josephina McTurk took it from him and peered at it. ‘Aye, that’s her. She’s a bit livelier than that in the flesh, though.’

Montell frowned. ‘That wouldn’t be hard. She was dead when that was taken.’

‘My Goad,’ the driver gasped, ‘you’re kiddin’ me. You mean she’s the lassie they’re talkin’ about in the papers this mornin’?’

‘I’m afraid so. How did they seem when they got on your bus? How did they act?’

‘Fine. They were a very nice young couple.’

‘Was there any tension between them?’

‘No; quite the opposite, in fact. They looked like they wanted tae eat each other.’

‘Where did you take them?’

‘Gullane. I dropped them at the bank, then picked up two lads for Longniddry.’

‘This would be. .?’

‘Eleven twenty-four; bang on time.’

‘Good for you.’ Montell chuckled. ‘Listen, you didn’t happen to see where they were headed, did you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. I looked in my side mirror before I took off and they were heading across the street, humphin’ all their gear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They both had rucksacks. She was carryin’ another bag too, and he had a tent on top of his.’

‘A tent?’

‘Aye, one of those micro things. My Dylan’s got one: big enough for him and his dad tae go campin’ in it, but it’s amazin’ how small it is when it’s packed away.’