Gallery Whispers

75

Brian Mackie stared out of his bedroom window into the night; it was raining hard in Musselburgh too. He looked across at Sheila, still and asleep on her side, facing the opposite wall, then crept softly out of the room and downstairs to the hall.

He picked up the telephone, dialled Clan Pringle's divisional office number and asked to be put through to the CID office. A sleepy voice answered. 'DC Regan.'

'Hello,' he said, 'it's Detective Superintendent Mackie here. What the hell's happening with the Weston and Paterson stakeouts?'

'Nothing, sir,' replied the detective constable, awake all of a sudden.

'Mr Pringle phoned twenty minutes ago, and I checked then with both cars. The girl's in her flat, but the boy hasn't shown up yet at either place. I've checked with Grampian, Tayside and Fife; he hasn't been in a traffic accident, and he hasn't been lifted for anything. He seems to have vanished, sir.

'Er, there's one of these rave events on at Ingliston all night tonight.

Maybe he's gone in there.'

'That's a possibility, I suppose,' Mackie conceded. 'We'll have officers there; get Control to raise one of them on the radio and have the car park checked. Oh aye, and have the Pandas in the city centre keep an eye out for his motor in the streets near to the nightclubs.

Long shots, both, but better than sitting all night doing bugger all.'

He hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. Wide awake, he made himself a coffee and settled down to read, in front of the gas fire. Gradually the warmth got to him: the pages of his book became more and more fuzzy until…

He sprang back to consciousness with the ringing of the phone, jumped out of his chair and dived into the hall. Sheila was there before him, at the foot of the stairs, picking up the receiver. He heard her answer.

'Hello Clan. Yes he's here. He doesn't look too sure what time it is, but he's here. Hold on.'

Brian checked his watch; it was eight twenty-three. He took the phone from his partner and grunted into the mouthpiece.

'The boy's turned up,' said Pringle, gruffly. 'He showed up in his motor at his dad's house ten minutes ago. The girl still hasn't stirred.

I've told the uniforms to stay on station and let us know whenever either of them makes another move.'

'The girl could be on duty today, Clan.'

'Naw. I checked yesterday; the breast unit doesn't work at weekends.'

'Let's wait and see then.'

'Aye. I hear you phoned during the night.'

'Mmm. Couldn't sleep.'

The neither. It's a bastard, this job Brian, is it no'?'

'Tell me about it. Speak to you later.'

He had just stepped out of the shower when Pringle called back.

Sheila, well-groomed even in her dressing gown, appeared in the doorway of the en suite bathroom. 'Clan says,' she announced, 'that, and I quote, "The wee bastard is on the move already, heading towards the girlfriend's flat in Saughton." '

'He says he's told the watchers to do nothing other than follow them if they move on from there. Failing that, he says he'll meet you there at ten o'clock.'

He made a face. 'Sorry. I really feel guilty about working on Saturdays.'

'That's all right,' she said. 'You can do the ASDA run on your way home.'

He smiled. Domesticity was still a new experience for Brian Mackie: he rather liked it.