The Coffinmaker’s Garden

19

‘... increased tensions in the Middle East, after the downing of that British Airways flight...’

Porridge, with salt, and a cup of decaf tea. Living. The. Sodding. High. Life.

Alice’s half bottle of gut-rot still sat at the end of the table, its badly spelled label reflecting in the glass. The sound of retching echoing out through the closed bathroom door as she got rid of the rest of it.

Darkness pressed against the flat’s windows, the city’s lights twinkling in the early morning gloom.

A teeny whinge, and there was Henry, looking up at me with his shiny black eyes. Tail wagging. Thick pink tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth.

Oh to be a wee Scottie dog with nothing to worry about but who was going to feed him, and take him out to pee on things. No dead journalists on his conscience. No murdered children.

‘... tributes paid to the crew of the Ocean-Gold Harvester, lost in Storm Trevor on Friday when it was buried in a landslip...’

He closed his eyes and widened his grin as I ruffled the hair between his ears.

‘Give us a minute to finish this, and we’ll go for a wee walk. It’s—’

A harsh trilling came from the corridor. Was that the bell?

‘Right, you wee horror, no stealing Daddy’s porridge. Sit. Staaaaayyyyy...’

He looked at my finger as if it was the most exciting thing in the world and wagged his tail even harder.

Thick as custard.

Down the corridor. I peered through the spyhole set into the front door, because in Oldcastle you never knew.

Franklin’s face stared back at me, all distorted and bulbous in the fisheye lens. I let her in.

She frowned me up and down. ‘Are you not ready yet?’ She’d bundled up in a thick puffa jacket, with a scarlet scarf wrapped around her throat. Tartan bunnet on her head.

‘Ready for what?’ Limping back to the living room and my rapidly cooling porridge.

‘Morning Prayers. Mother wants everyone there, and you can’t drive, remember? Pain in the foot?’ A what-can-you-do shrug, playing it nonchalant. ‘So... you OK today? You know, after last night and—’

‘I’m fine.’ Well, other than having a go at Alice when I got home, and the horrible dream, and the ache digging its teeth into my shoulders. Other than that? Just peachy.

‘God save us from macho...’ She froze as she caught sight of Henry. Then squatted down in front of the wee lad and ruffled his ears. ‘You’re a sweetie, aren’t you? Yes you are.’ Pulling on a pout. ‘Yes you are!’

Henry lapped it up.

‘... five-year-old, missing since yesterday evening. Colin Broadbent is in Oldcastle for us. Colin, what are the police saying?’

‘Thanks, Siobhan. Toby Macmillan disappeared from his home in the city’s Kingsmeath area at seven—’

I killed the TV and polished off my porridge. Dumped my bowl in the sink. ‘Give us two minutes and we can head.’

‘Always wanted a dog, but Mark’s allergic.’ Cupping our lad’s hairy wee face in her hands. ‘Oooh, you’re lovely...’ Then up to me: ‘What’s his name?’

‘Henry. And he’s had breakfast, so don’t believe a word if he says he’s wasting away.’

The bathroom door thunked open and Alice slouched out, dressed in mismatched tartan jammies, the top buttoned up all wrong, showing off a slice of stomach the colour of old yoghurt. Yawning and scratching, head looking like something horrible had happened to one of the hairier Muppets.

Franklin stared at her, cheeks darkening as she abandoned Henry and stood. Brushed her hands down the front of her jacket. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you had... company.’

‘Franklin, this is Dr McDonald: Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. Alice, this is DS Franklin: Misfit Mob.’

‘Urgh...’ Alice scuffed past and disappeared into the kitchen.

Franklin pointed down the hall. ‘I can wait in the car?’

‘I’ll only be a minute. Have a seat.’

When I got back from brushing my teeth, Franklin was still standing where I’d left her. Shifting from foot to foot as Alice slouched over a large steaming mug of hot chocolate — going by the smell.

Neither of them seemed to realise I was there.

The bags under Alice’s eyes had darkened, a puffiness to both them and her cheeks, the beginnings of creases forming on either side of her chin. Looking more mid-forties than early-thirties. She rubbed a hand across her shiny forehead. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, I might be a teensy bit hungover.’

Franklin nodded. Looking even more stiff and uncomfortable. ‘Not a problem.’

‘When I started out, I had a mentor who claimed alcohol was the key to “forging non-linear connections in behavioural evidence analysis by dampening down areas of modal control in the brain, allowing the forensic psychologist to experience a heightened state of detached-consciousness processing” the only problem being that you end up drunk thirty percent of the day, operating normally for twenty percent, and hungover the rest of the time.’ All this, whoomped out in a non-stop rattle. ‘Sorry, I’m babbling, I babble when I’m nervous, and how long does it have to take for paracetamol and ibuprofen to kick in?’ Almost sobbing at the end there.

‘Well... maybe your mentor...?’

Alice folded forwards, forehead on the table. ‘Henry.’

‘Henry?’ Franklin pulled her chin in and stared at the hairy black face gazing up at her with his tail wagging. ‘He’s your mentor?’ Backing off a pace from the clearly crazy lady.

‘Dr Henry Forrester, he’s dead now. We named our dog after him.’

‘OK. So, basically, your mentor, Henry, who isn’t the dog, told you to get drunk a lot and that’ll help you think like serial killers?’

Alice raised a hand, and gave her a thumbs-up.

‘No offence, but he sounds like an idiot.’

I cleared my throat and Franklin turned. Blushed again.

‘Mr Henderson. Are you ready?’

‘When you are.’ Pulling on my coat. ‘Alice, you looking after Henry today, or are you too hungover?’

‘I’m dying...’

‘Fair enough. I’m taking some of your business cards, OK? Chucked the last of mine at Leah MacNeil yesterday.’ I dug a dozen or so out of her satchel, stuck them in my pocket, then grabbed the wee man’s lead from the shelving unit. ‘Franklin, you don’t mind if he joins us today?’

And her face lit up, like it had on the carousel. Then she hauled on a blanket of studied nonchalance. ‘Suppose so. Why not?’

‘Good.’ Alice got a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Shower. You smell like a dead person.’ Henry came running soon as I jangled his lead. ‘Come on, teeny monster, we’re off to catch some bad guys.’

Hopefully.

The darkened countryside streaked past the pool car’s windows, twinkling lights of distant farmhouses drifting by in slower motion.

Hands wrapped around the wheel, Franklin glanced across the car at me. Probably thought she was being subtle.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Henry poked his head through from the back seat, panting away, looking up at me then at Franklin, as if trying to figure out if either of us had any sausages.

Franklin did it again. ‘Only, you and Dr McDonald... they’re OK with you two working together? I mean, I know LIRU isn’t strictly speaking Police Scotland, and you’re both civilians, but still.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be OK with us working together?’

‘You know, if you’re,’ she pulled her mouth out and down, jerking her chin up a couple of times, ‘at it?’

Eh?

‘At what?’

‘It. You know, sex. In a relationship. Shagging.’

I stared back across the car. ‘Are you insane?’

‘You’re not—’

‘She’s young enough to be my daughter!’

‘Yes, but you middle-aged men like—’

‘I am not sleeping with Alice! We’re... I don’t know, family?’

Franklin stuck her eyes on the road again. ‘None of my business anyway.’

‘Christ knows what would happen if I wasn’t there to look after— Oh, for God’s sake.’ My phone blared out ‘I Am the Walrus’. Which could only mean one person. I pulled it free and pressed the button. ‘Sabir? Not like you to surface before noon.’

‘Not gone to bed yet, been too busy shagging yer ma.’

‘She’s still dead, Sabir.’

‘I’m not that fussy, these days. You seen yer email yet? Sent yez a list of them locations in the photos. And youse should be wershipping the ground I walk on for that. You got any idea how hard it is to write an algorithm that does a reverse image lookup, with wildcarding, for backgrounds across all of Google Maps and every image posted to Facebook in the last six years? See if I wasn’t a total IT god, you wouldn’t have a—’

‘Are you planning on getting to the point at all, here?’

‘How come no bugger appreciates a proper banging genius in their lifetime? Anyway, I got youse all them locations and...?’

‘If you’re waiting for a thank you, you’re going to be there a while.’

‘God, you’ve gorra right cob on, this morning, haven’t ya? The “and”, at the end there, refers to the fact that I know who one of yer victims is.’

My phone dinged and buzzed in my hand. Incoming text message.

Sabir4TehPool:

The message came with a professional headshot — it was the laughing man from Princes Street Gardens, the one in front of the Scott Monument. Same beard, but doing a smoulder for the camera this time.

Another ding-buzz. This time it was a bunch of web links, including one for Simpson Kinkaid’s Wikipedia page.

‘Ye got all that?’

‘What’s B-and-TB, when it’s at home?’

‘Beauty and the Beast, you cultureless div. Don’t youse never go to the theatre?’

‘And let me guess, Gordon Smith did the set for them?’

‘No idea, crap like that’s way below me paygrade. Get yer bizzie mates to find out. Till then, I’m gonna roll back on top of yer ma and see if I can’t hump her back to life. Laters.’ He hung up.

One down.

I called up the footage I’d shot in Smith’s basement, pausing it at the Polaroid in question. Spooled it forward till it got to the matching one from the other side of the room. The one after Gordon Smith and his wife had been at him. The one with all the blood and frozen screaming.

Franklin was looking at me again. ‘Something important?’

‘Got an ID on the bearded guy.’ Slid my finger across the progress bar, restoring him to life again. Went a bit too far. Ended up with the young woman on the beach, T-shirt and shorts. Then the young man trying to grow a moustache. Then the young woman and older man, in ugly sportswear, on a putting course. And back to Keith Whatley, AKA: Simpson Kinkaid, again.

It was... weird. Risky. Abducting and murdering someone you’d worked with: that would leave a trail. Why would Gordon Smith take that chance? Or did he feel invincible thirty-two years ago? He’d got away with it so many times before, why would anyone make the connection?

Still, it was worth a look.

I thumbed out a reply to Sabir’s last text:

SEND.

Took barely a minute for the reply to come winging back.

Sabir4TehPool:

Ah well, it’d been worth a try.

Ooh, on the other hand, this would be the perfect thing to lumber Detective Constable John Watt with.

‘Erm... Mr Henderson? What’s with the evil smile?’

Watt indeed?

A thin line of pale blue ran along the horizon as we climbed out of the manky old Ford Focus. No wind. No rain. No thundering waves pounding at the headland. Instead it was actually kind of pleasant. And surprisingly warm for mid-November.

The small handful of working streetlights cast their cheery yellow glow into the pre-dawn gloom, someone’s cockerel crowing out its morning greeting. And, blessing of blessings, no sign of any outside broadcast vans or journalists. Not yet, anyway.

Franklin frowned at me. ‘You’re doing that smile again.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and it’s creepy, so please stop.’

I clunked my door shut and she locked the car.

Henry danced a couple of circles on the end of his lead, letting loose a ripple of small happy barks. Before sniffing one of the front tyres and widdling on it. Scraping his back paws on the pitted tarmac.

The curtains twitched on Helen MacNeil’s caravan.

Great.

Thirty seconds later she was out, hurrying across the road and following the three of us up the path to Mother’s commandeered basecamp. ‘Are they searching for my Leah?’

‘Mrs MacNeil.’ I stopped. Turned. ‘E Division have a lookout request on the go for her, but she’s—’

‘You have to find her!’ Hard strong hands grabbing at my lapels. ‘You have to bring her back.’

Down by my ankles, Henry growled.

‘It’s...’ I went for that reassuring-police-officer voice again: ‘I’ve asked for a warrant to track her phone.’ Which was true. Helen didn’t need to know that Mother had turned me down flat.

‘Your weird girl was right: I should’ve put a tracking app on Leah’s mobile when I had the chance. But it’s too late for that. I need you to find her!’

‘We’re doing everything we can.’ Trying to sound sincere and convincing. ‘But you know what police budgets are like. Maybe you could try getting a private detective? Johnston and Gench, in Shortstaine are good. Or there’s McLean and McNee, in Logansferry?’

She let go and stepped back. ‘You’re not going to help me, are you?’

I raised my eyebrows at Franklin, but she just stood there. Then seemed to twig, because she made a great show of looking at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs MacNeil, but Mr Henderson and I are late for our morning briefing. We’ve got a killer to catch.’

‘I’ll chase up the lookout request and make sure Edinburgh are still on it. I promise.’

Franklin took hold of my sleeve. ‘We really do have to go.’

Helen glowered at me. ‘Leah’s all I’ve got left.’

‘I know. But in the meantime, I’m going to try catching the bastard who murdered your daughter.’

20

‘Any questions?’ Mother folded her thick arms and leaned back against the windowsill. Behind her, that line of pale blue had reached up the sky, a smear of red replacing it on the horizon. The outside broadcast vans had arrived at last, bringing with them a flotilla of hatchbacks and four-by-fours. All ready for the media circus to kick off once more.

Especially now one of their own had died.

The team was gathered in their cheap and nasty plastic chairs, Henry curled up at my feet — making tiny whimpery noises as his paws twitched. Chasing something in his dreams.

DC Elliot put her hand up. ‘Simpson Kinkaid: are we going public with that? And if we are, has anyone delivered the death message to his next of kin? Or are we holding off telling them?’

‘Official line from on high is: we’re holding off for now.’ She pointed. ‘You look like you’ve got one, John.’

He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the window. ‘Who’s handling the press?’

Mother stretched out her jaw, as if she was having difficulty swallowing something. ‘Our beloved leader will be addressing the nation this morning. And, in the absence of any real bones to throw them, and after what happened last night, I expect we’ll get a bit of a kicking.’

‘Speaking of bones,’ Elliot again, ‘what about the post mortem?’

‘Nine sharp. Anyone want to volunteer and join me? Anyone? Hello?’

No one made eye contact.

‘Of course you don’t, because you all want to sod off on a jolly, don’t you?’ She chewed on her lip for a moment. ‘Bunch of ingrates.’ Pointed at me. ‘Ash?’

I produced the printout of Sabir’s locations. ‘The only place we can’t ID is the bicycle-and-hedgerow picture. Other twelve range from Tiree to Malaga.’

Mother folded her arms. ‘And before anyone asks: no. You can’t go to Malaga.’

‘Awww...’ Dotty slouched in her wheelchair.

‘Pick up your assignments from Rosalind on the way out. And don’t—’

The living room door creaked open and in strode a large man in the full Police Scotland black, peaked cap tucked under one bulky arm. Face like a slab of granite that’d been carved by a sadist. Inspector’s pips. ‘As you were.’

Henry scrabbled to his feet, claws clicking on the bare wooden floorboards as he turned to face the newcomer.

Mother tried for a smile, but it wasn’t very convincing. ‘Inspector Samson, to what do we owe this—’

‘The Chief Superintendent would like a word.’ Making it sound like a death sentence.

‘I see.’ She dusted herself down. ‘Right, well, let me tidy up here and—’

‘With all of you.’

Right on cue, in stalked Chief Superintendent McEwan. Ducking slightly to get through the doorway without banging his head. Military moustache drawn in a hard sharp line above a hard sharp mouth. He removed his peaked cap — revealing a shiny pate surrounded by close-cropped grey hair — and handed it to Samson.

The pair of them were bookends, more like bouncers than police officers.

McEwan took his time to glare at everyone in the ensuing silence. Then turned to Mother, voice a deep rumbling baritone, calm and flat, as if nothing at all was wrong in the world. ‘Detective Inspector Malcolmson, would you be so kind as to explain to me why I’ve got half the world’s press CRAWLING UP MY ARSEHOLE WITH HOBNAIL BOOTS ON?’

Henry scrabbled around behind me, peering out past my legs. Tail down.

Give Mother her due, she didn’t even flinch. ‘Perhaps this isn’t the—’

‘I know we don’t expect much of your team. But Divisional Investigative Support is supposed to do precisely what its name suggests: support investigations, NOT GET JOURNALISTS KILLED!’ Going redder and redder.

‘Now that’s not fair, we—’

‘Have you any idea how difficult you’ve made my job? You.’ Jabbing his finger at her. ‘All of you! YOU’RE A BLOODY DISGRACE!’

Mother pulled her chin in, shoulders back. ‘My team has done nothing wrong. You can criticise me all you like, but—’

‘Nothing wrong? Your team does nothing but wrong! If they were capable of anything else, they wouldn’t be in your team!’ He was actually trembling now, flecks of spittle glowing in the light of that one bare bulb. ‘You’re an unprofessional—’

I thumped my walking stick down on the desk, making the collection of paperwork dance. ‘Shut up, you bloviating, half-arsed, jumped-up, overbearing PRICK!’ Because he wasn’t the only one who could do the shouting thing.

A pause, then Henry found his courage again, popping out from behind me to growl at McEwan.

The head of Oldcastle police stared at me. Eyes growing wider. Mouth curdling. ‘How dare you talk to me like—’

‘Oh, fuck off. You were an arsehole when I was in the Job and you’re an even bigger arsehole now.’ Closing the gap between us to poking distance. Jabbing a finger in his pompous chest. ‘DC Watt, DS Franklin, and DI Malcolmson risked their lives last night, trying to save a moron journalist who wouldn’t take a telling and stay away from the cliffs!’

‘The media have been very clear that—’

‘So what if the press are crawling up your backside? So what if they’re screaming for scapegoats?’

‘This isn’t—’

‘Your job isn’t to help them, your job is to stand behind your bloody officers! No, you know what: it’s to stand in front of your officers and take the flack so they can keep on DOING THEIR BLOODY JOBS!’ Another poke, hard enough to send him flinching back a step. ‘SO GROW A PAIR OF BALLS, GO OUT THERE, AND DO YOURS!’

His eyes bulged, white teeth bared, moustache twitching.

Then Inspector Samson cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir, but we’re live on the BBC in two minutes.’

Some more twitching and glowering.

Henry barked at him.

‘Sir?’

McEwan’s nostrils flared as he stuck his nose in the air, then he turned and marched from the room, snatching his hat out of Samson’s hands as he went.

The inspector shook his head. Hissed out a long slow breath. ‘Between you and me? That probably wasn’t a great idea.’

I gave him the benefit of a cold shark smile. ‘You can tell your boss: he briefs against the Misfit Mob, I’ll go straight to the press and tell them all about Deborah Stalker.’

That got a frown from Samson. ‘Who’s—’

‘You’ll find out tomorrow, when it’s all over the front pages.’

‘Right. Well. Yes.’ He backed from the room. ‘I’d better...’ Samson turned and hurried away down the corridor. ‘Sir? Chief Superintendent? Sir, I need to talk to you!’

The front door clunked shut and silence settled into the gloomy mildewed house.

Dotty blew out a long, hard breath. ‘Bloody hell. Ash Henderson, you absolute monster!’ Clapping her hands and mugging at me. It built into a slightly embarrassed round of applause from the team that ended with a wee hug from Mother.

Nice to be appreciated for a change.

Henry did his round-and-round dance again, as if he’d been wholly responsible for chasing McEwan away.

Watt grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, flicking through to BBC One, where the same reporter they’d had in town all week was doing his piece to camera.

‘... tragic death of Nick James from the Glasgow Tribune, prompting fierce criticism of the police presence here in Clachmara.’ He moved a pace to the side, the camera following him. ‘I’m joined now by the head of O Division, Chief Superintendent McEwan.’

And there was McEwan, turned slightly away from the camera, with Samson whispering something in his ear. He looked up, face a lot paler than it had been during his rant.

‘Chief Superintendent, how do you respond to accusations that your officers were negligent in ensuring the safety of media teams in the area?’

Watt folded his arms. ‘Negligent my arse.’

‘I’m...’ McEwan cleared his throat. Glanced back towards Samson. Then faced the camera again. ‘My team did everything it possibly could to prevent this tragic death.’ Getting into the stride of it, popping his chin up. ‘Let’s not forget that three of my officers put their own lives at great risk trying to rescue Mr James, after he ignored repeated warnings to stay away from the cliff...’

‘Well, well, well.’ Watt smiled. ‘Looks like Shouty McShoutface isn’t so shouty after all.’

‘... utmost confidence in my officers to track down Gordon Smith and bring him to justice. And we’d once again ask anyone who has any information on Smith’s whereabouts to get in touch with Police Scotland on...’

‘All right, John,’ Mother waved at the screen, ‘I don’t think we need to see any more.’

He killed the TV.

‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, assignments. Rosalind?’

Franklin opened a folder and pulled out a wodge of paper. ‘John: in light of Simpson Kinkaid appearing in one of Gordon Smith’s pantos, we need you to get together a cast list of every show Smith worked on and see if anyone else has been reported missing.’

‘Noooo...’ Watt wrapped his arms around his head and curled up in his seat. ‘Why can’t Amanda do it?’

‘Because Amanda and Dotty will be visiting Aberdeen, Fochabers, and Inverness.’ Franklin passed across two printouts: blow-ups of the ‘before’ Polaroids: the guy at a graduation ceremony, the young woman on a pony, and the bloke in the beer garden. ‘No point going to Balmedie, we know the victim there was Sophie MacNeil.’

A big smile from Dotty. ‘Girls’ road trip!’

I hobbled over to the printouts that DC Elliot and Watt had pinned up, opposite Gordon Smith’s headshot. The same thirteen blown-up Polaroids that Franklin was handing out — the ones from the ‘before’ set — made a wide-spaced grid on the fusty wallpaper. If there was a corresponding ‘after’ picture, it was stuck underneath the living one, which left four smiling people with no corresponding torture shot.

The remaining eleven unmatched ‘after’ pics formed a second grid. Where they would probably stay, unknown and unnamed. But hopefully not unrevenged.

Someone had added Sophie’s name to the bottom of her picture in blue sharpie. They’d done the same with Simpson Kinkaid. Leaving eleven unknowns on the ‘before’ grid. Well, fourteen, if you counted people, rather than pictures. The happy couple on a carousel: photographed in Glasgow, according to Sabir. The two young women hugging on the seafront: Brighton. And the older man and younger woman posing awkwardly on a putting course: Rothesay.

‘Mr Henderson and I will take—’

‘Does this look familiar to you?’

Franklin pursed her lips and lowered the chunk of paperwork in her hand. ‘I’m in the middle of—’

‘No, come look. Here.’

She rolled her eyes, groaned, then sloped over. ‘What now?’ Glanced at the photographs. ‘Yes, it’s a carousel. Wish I’d never let you—’

‘Not the carousel, this pair. On the putting course. He not remind you of someone?’

Creases appeared between her perfect eyebrows and she leaned in to stare. ‘... Maybe?’

‘Cos he reminds me of Gordon Smith’s brother: Slimy Pete.’ Only in the picture he had to be about thirty, maybe forty years younger? Instead of that swept-forwards Nero hairstyle, he had a full head of frothy brown curls, a Peter Sutcliffe beard, and a turquoise-and-red shell suit.

‘Now you’ve said it? Yeah... Kind of.’ She poked the picture. ‘Same piggy eyes.’

‘Think we should go pay Bute a visit?’

Franklin held up her paperwork again. ‘Way ahead of you. We’re down for Cupar, Glasgow, and Rothesay.’

‘In one day, are you off your head? Do you have any idea how long that’ll take?’

She poked at her phone, then held the screen out in front of me. A map of Scotland with a wiggly blue line stretching nearly all the way across it with a narrow loop on the right-hand side. ‘Seven hours, fifty-five minutes. Should be back here by... twenty to four?’

‘Assuming we don’t actually stop the car, or do any police work when we get where we’re going, or pause for two minutes every now and then so Henry can have a wee!’

The little man perked his ears up at the mention of his name.

Mother appeared, unfurling the crinkly white top to a bag of sweets. ‘What are we arguing about now?’

‘Detective Sergeant Franklin seems to think Police Scotland are going to lend us one of those old blue public call boxes, and that it’ll actually travel in space and time.’

‘That’s nice.’ Mother took hold of my arm and led me over to the window, where the outside broadcast units were still lined up, their various journalists doing pieces to camera as the sky lightened above them. ‘Listen, about this post mortem, you heard Professor Twining, we’re supposed to get a forensic anthropologist to attend.’

‘So go find one.’

‘I can’t. The woman I always use from Dundee has sodded off to Lancaster University, and everyone else is away working in godforsaken parts of the globe. Like Guildford.’

No idea why her lack of staff was my problem... But that wasn’t exactly being a team player, was it? Play nice.

‘Could always try the next-door neighbour — the pregnant one.’ Pointing through the wall and off to the right. ‘OK, she’s not qualified, but better than nothing. Maybe.’

‘Oh, God.’ Mother covered her face with her hands. ‘And it had all been going so well...’

The sun finally made it over the horizon, painting the world in shades of gold and amber as Franklin worked the pool car through Logansferry. Even the harbour looked attractive in this light. As we drove up the dual carriageway, the view between the buildings opened up, giving a clear line of sight across the river and up into the bleak horror of Kingsmeath. Not even the sunrise could make that place look like anything other than what it was: dark, depressing, and dangerous. A twisted nest of cheap council housing and brutalist tower blocks.

Should’ve bulldozed the place years ago.

The Luftwaffe had spent all their energy bombing the Logansferry docks, could they not have flattened Kingsmeath while they were at it? Was that so much to ask?

And yes, technically most of the place had only been built after the war, but that was no excuse.

I stretched out my right leg, setting the tortured ankle clicking as the bombs fell, wiping the whole area off the map.

‘You’re doing that weird evil smiling thing again.’

‘What can I say, I’m a cheery individual.’ Sometimes.

Henry nudged his nose through from the back seat, rubbing his muzzle against my arm till he got a scratch.

I gave Franklin the side-eye. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you decided to partner up with me again, today: my winning charm.’

‘Best of a bad lot, to be honest. Dotty’s lovely, but she’ll drive you insane after thirty minutes, John’s a dick, and Amanda is...’ Franklin screwed her face into a thoughtful pout.

‘Bit too earnest? Eager to please? OTT?’

‘Could say that, yes. On top of other things.’

‘Go on then: what did she do wrong to end up in Mother’s Misfit Mob?’

‘You’d have to ask her that.’ Franklin joined the queue for the roundabout, stuck behind a bread van and an eighteen-wheeler full of vegan sausage rolls — going by the branding. ‘What really matters is that I get to hang about with Henry all day. You’re just collateral damage, so—’

Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ started up in my pocket: Detective Superintendent Jacobson.

She nodded. ‘You want to answer that?’

‘Not really.’ But I pulled out my phone anyway. Swiped the button. ‘What now? I’m on secondment, remember?’

‘Ash? Sabir says you’ve still not sent him that cost code for his eight hours. And while I’ve got you: Steven Kirk.’

‘I’m sure I emailed it across.’ Which was a lie.

‘Kirk’s solicitor is threatening us with all manner of horrible things, Ash. I do not want LIRU getting sued because you roughed up a nonce. Understand?’

‘Tell Sabir to check his spam folder, maybe it ended up in there?’

‘Alice says she’s had a word with Kirk, but I need this done belt-and-braces style.’

‘I can try resending it, if you like?’

‘Yes, excellent attempt at evasion, but you’re not wriggling out of this one. You’re meeting with Kirk’s solicitor ASAP, and that’s final.’

Franklin took us around the big roundabout and onto Camburn Drive. The traffic lightening up as we hit the ring road through the woods.

‘Can’t today, we’re on our way to Fife, Glasgow, and Bute.’

‘Don’t care, as long as you stop off past HMP Oldcastle on the way. Because if you don’t — and let me make myself really clear here — if you don’t, I’m going to make it my mission in life to cut you loose, point out the “accountability for own actions” clause in your contract, and make sure Steven Kirk’s legal team nail you to the courtroom floor. By your testicles!’

The rotten bastard would as well.

‘That’s not exactly—’

‘And send Sabir that cost code! I’m not running a charity here.’

Then silence. He’d hung up.

Lovely.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Gave Franklin an apologetic smile.

She pulled her chin in. Clearly suspicious. ‘What?’

‘Slight change of plan.’

A groan. ‘Of course there is...’

21

Strange how much one prison looked like any other these days. Well, assuming it wasn’t built in the late eighteen hundreds. The new ones, though, were more community centre than penal institution. From the outside, anyway.

Inside, it didn’t matter where you were, it always smelled of too much air freshener trying to cover up the animal funk of too many people crammed into one place for too long and never allowed to go anywhere.

Out in the real world, Franklin wandered past, her shape distorted by the wall of tinted glass that fronted the main entrance, Henry trotting along at her side on the end of his leash — nose down and sniffing. Searching for interesting things to widdle on.

The officer on reception frowned at my ID for a while, porn-star moustache twitching as if he was trying not to read the words out loud. Then it twitched up at me instead. ‘And you want to see...?’

‘Kenneth Dewar.’

‘Right. Mr Dewar.’ He swivelled his chair around and called across to a beefy woman in matching white short-sleeved shirt, epaulettes, black tie and trousers. No moustache, though. ‘HOY, JESS, YOU SEEN MILKY-MILKY ANYWHERE?’

The voice that bellowed back was remarkably posh. ‘HAVING A WEEP, ROUND THE BACK OF THE BINS!’

‘CHEERS!’ A finger swung around to point at a door this side of the security scanners, X-ray machines, and conveyor belt, marked ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY’. ‘Mr Dewar will be on your left. I’ll buzz you through.’

Kenneth Dewar didn’t look the type to be having a cry behind the prison’s collection of massive wheelie bins, but there he was: broad shoulders; thinning hair, swept back from a tanned scalp; jet-black leather jacket; sitting on the kerb with his knees up against his chest, one arm wrapped around them, the other hand covering his face as he rocked back and forth. Breath coming out in sharp little jags. An untouched vending-machine cup of something frothy and brown resting on the tarmac at his booted feet.

The kind of person Alice would’ve been all over. Trying to help him through his pain, instead of leaving the poor bugger to blub in peace. Which I would’ve done, if there weren’t a million more important things to be getting on with.

‘Mr Dewar?’ I flashed my ID, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘My name’s Ash Henderson, Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. I believe we need to talk?’

He blinked at me between his fingers. Hauled in a deep wobbly breath. Then scrubbed at his face. Sniffed. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. Sorry.’ Stood, wiping his hand down the leg of his blue jeans. Then held it out for shaking. ‘Kenny.’

All covered in tears and snot? Don’t think so.

I limped over to the opposite wall instead, where a tiny sliver of sunlight had made it through the chain-link and barbed wire. ‘So, Kenny, I hear you represent Steven Kirk.’

He stooped and picked up his cup of brown. Gave himself a shake. His eyes might’ve been bloodshot, but they were still bright sapphire with a dark border. Wolf’s eyes. A strong jaw and muscular neck. Large hands at the end of brawny forearms. Exactly Shifty’s type. But then Shifty always had terrible taste in men.

Dewar pulled his head up and nodded. Bit his lip. Then looked away again. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like having to represent people like Steven Kirk, day in, day out? Because no one else will even be in the same room as them?’

I shrugged. ‘You don’t have to do it.’

A short, bitter laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter what they’ve done: everyone has the right to legal representation. Even Steven Kirk. Because if we don’t, what’s next? Maybe we should do away with the judicial process altogether? Instead of judges and juries we should give police officers guns and you can execute anyone you think’s broken the law?’ Dewar shook his head. ‘There’s enough fascist regimes in the world without us joining them.’ The breath that rattled out of him was long and sad. ‘So this is how I spend my days.’ One hand sweeping up to indicate the prison. ‘Wading through the child abusers, rapists, and everyone else you wouldn’t touch with a cattle prod.’

Oh, I would — especially if it was fully charged.

I settled back against the wall. ‘What does Kirk want?’

‘You know what the rest of my morning looks like? Helping a man who murdered his wife and two daughters rehearse for a “diminished-responsibility” plea, on the grounds that he thought one of the girls wasn’t his, so they all had to die. Then prepare some sort of argument so a complete animal can get visiting rights to his toddler, even though he beat the living crap out of its mother. Short break for lunch. Followed by a woman who filmed herself abusing and killing a wee boy. She wants to sue the prison for not letting her publish the slash-fic novel she’s written about Jimmy Bloody Savile granting wishes at Hogwarts...’ Dewar’s shoulders slumped, head thrown back to stare up at the cold blue sky. ‘Should’ve listened to my mother and gone into the priesthood.’

A seagull screeched by, overhead.

‘Nah.’ I gave him a small smile. ‘If you did that, you’d still have to deal with paedos, rapists, and freaks, only you’d have to absolve them of their sins, then send them off on their merry way, safe in the knowledge they were going to do it all over again. Imagine having that on your conscience.’

He let his head fall forward, staring at his cup of vending-machine brown as he nodded. ‘True.’ Took a sip. ‘Steven wanted to press charges for assault, even though Dr... McDonald is it?’

I nodded.

‘Even though Dr McDonald claims he assaulted her and you were only trying to save her.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Which you and I know is utter bollocks. You gave Steven Kirk a good kicking, because he deserved one.’ Dewar took a deep breath. ‘So here’s what I’m going to propose: you make a full and sincere apology. Police Scotland — or your LIRU lot, don’t care which — make a modest financial settlement to acknowledge his pain and distress. Somewhere in the ballpark of eight to ten grand should do it. And I talk Steven into dropping the charges. Mary Brennan’s screaming for his head on a spike now she knows he was cosying up to her in church. That should give us some leverage.’

Eight to ten grand. Not sure if Detective Superintendent Jacobson would go for that, but you never knew...

‘Thank you.’

‘Yeah.’ Dewar took another sip. ‘And in return, I need you do me a favour, OK?’

The silence stretched.

That gull soared past once more, bringing a couple of squawking friends with it.

Outside the high fences, a car horn brayed.

‘You’re supposed to ask what the favour is.’

‘OK... What is it?’

Kenneth Dewar downed the last of his drink and flipped the empty wax-paper cup into the nearest bin. ‘Steven Kirk didn’t kill Andrew Brennan, or any of those other wee boys — he’s got an alibi that I can’t tell you about. A proper one. Nothing to do with looking after his dying mother.’

‘Something that violates his SRO?’ AKA: something that could get him wheeched right back to prison for being a sketchy child-molesting bastard.

‘That would be one possible interpretation, but I can’t confirm or deny it, because even a perverted monster like Steven Kirk is covered by client confidentiality.’ Deep breath. ‘But I want something in return.’

‘What, in addition to your cut of the eight grand?’ I took out one of Alice’s business cards, scored out her mobile number and printed my own in its place. Held it out. ‘In case you change your mind about that client confidentiality. Off the record, of course. Anonymously, if you like?’

‘I want you to promise me you’ll find the man who killed those wee boys.’ Dewar bit his bottom lip and nodded. ‘You find him, and you make him pay.’

‘How much?’ Jacobson sounded as if I’d just stabbed him.

‘Eight. Well, eight to ten.’ I shifted the phone to the other ear as the pool car thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thumped its way across the Tay Road Bridge. The river sparkled in the sunlight, a massive slab of slate grey, scarred by the passage of an RNLI lifeboat. A handful of Jackup rigs reaching their latticework ladders into a dull-blue sky.

‘Thousand pounds?’

‘No, jelly babies.’

A smile played at the edge of Franklin’s mouth, but she kept her face front, following a wee sandwich van with ‘BINGO BRENDA’S BAPS, BUTTERIES, & BRIDIES!’ on it, at a stately fifty miles per hour.

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be sarcastic, do you?’

‘Kenny Dewar is adamant Steven Kirk isn’t our boy. He was doing something else at the time. Something that breaches his Sexual Risk Order.’

‘Ten thousand pounds! Do you have any idea what that’ll do to my budget?’

‘Kirk’s not going to make something like that up, is he? Well, maybe to get away with abduction and murder...’

‘How can you not take this seriously?’

Thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump.

‘Look, it happened, and I’m sorry, but it happened.’ I sagged back in my seat. ‘Kirk weaselled his way into Saint Damon’s, got himself a nice little volunteer job where he could slither up to Mary Brennan. It all kind of... happened.’

‘Thought you said you went for him because he attacked Alice?’

‘That happened after.’ Almost. From my slouched position, the road behind us was dead centre in the rear-view mirror. A wee open-topped sports car, driven by a wrinkly old lady with wild grey hair. A dumpy Mini the colour of dung. A dull-yellow Volkswagen Golf clarted in rust. And behind them the grey swathe of Dundee as it faded into the distance behind us.

Say what you like about the place, at least it was trying — with its V&A museum and redevelopment and infrastructure plan. More than Oldcastle was doing.

‘Ash?’

Oh, right. Jacobson.

‘Look, we’ve got personal liability insurance, haven’t we? Use that.’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

Thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump.

Then, ‘How do you manage to be the biggest ache in my rectum, Ash? You’re in a team with Professor Bernard Huntly, for God’s sake, you shouldn’t even come close!’

‘And see if you can chase up Sabir, eh? He’s had his eight hours — about time he produced the goods and got us some IDs.’

‘The ice is thin, Ash, and you’re skating very, very heavily.’

‘Yeah.’ I hung up and put my phone away. ‘I know.’

Franklin held up her printout of the young woman standing on one leg, then shuffled around until the real-life bandstand lined up with the one in the photograph. In the picture, a blob of pink flowers and a wavy line of red and yellow ones punctuated the grass, but here, in the middle of November, Haugh Park was all faded yellows and browns. No leaves on the trees.

She nodded. ‘Definitely the same place.’

Sabir was good for something, then.

We wandered back up the path, Henry having a good sniff at everything, past some sort of memorial statue, and stopped at the roundabout.

‘What now?’ Franklin pointed left, where the road curved past a big sandstone lump of a building. ‘Police station’s that way. Go have a dig through their missing persons’ database?’

‘Would be sensible.’ I limped across to the other side of the roundabout, Henry trotting along at my side, tail up and waving. Making for Cupar town centre. ‘So, you nip off and do that.’

She hurried after me, rolled her eyes. ‘Come on then, out with it.’

‘Nothing at all. It’s the sensible thing to do. Like I said.’

‘And what will you be doing, while I’m digging through fifty-six years’ worth of misper records?’

‘The cops aren’t the only ones who keep tabs on missing people.’

‘Ash Henderson, I thought you were dead!’ Vera Abbot held her arms wide for a hug. A spattering of stains marred the front of her flouncy paisley-patterned blouse, dog hairs on the legs of her baggy red trousers, a pair of knee-high boots that probably hadn’t seen a lick of shoe polish since she’d bought them some time in the eighties. The long brown hair was gone, instead it was a short-back-and-sides in shades of grey and white, making her ears stick out even more than normal, dangly gold earrings hanging from the lobes. Dark eyes and a slightly ratty smile, emphasised by the collection of creases and laughter lines.

Up close she exuded the mismatched scents of sharp Olbas Oil and stale cigarettes, as she planted a ‘mmmwah’ on both my cheeks.

Then stepped back to give me a proper once-over. ‘You’re far too thin. How’s Michelle? Or are you still seeing that stripper, Susie?’

‘Susanne, and no.’

‘Oh, too bad. I know how middle-aged men like you put great store in boinking a twenty-four-year-old.’

Vera’s office was a sea of paperwork: shelves on the walls, groaning with stacks and stacks of it, file boxes lining the room — three deep and four high in places. A drift of printouts and newspaper cuttings buried her desk. More on the windowsills, blocking off the bottom half of a view out over the Crossgate to the Chinese restaurant opposite.

She bent double, patting her hands on her knees, and beamed at Henry. ‘And who’s this handsome wee lad?’

‘My sidekick. Police Scotland just can’t get the staff any more.’

‘True.’ Vera thumped back into her office chair, setting it rocking on groaning springs. ‘Tea?’ Dipping into a desk drawer and coming out with a bottle of Glenfiddich. ‘Or something stronger, perhaps?’

I cleared a stack of newspapers off the room’s only other chair and eased myself into it. ‘Can’t: pills. And it’s not even ten o’clock, yet.’

‘True, shouldn’t be a cliché, should we?’ She popped the whisky back in her desk. Then took a deep breath. ‘SANDY! TWO TEAS! AND NIP DOWN THE BAKER’S FOR A COUPLE OF SAUSAGE BUTTIES!’ Vera winked at Henry. ‘AND AN EXTRA SAUSAGE!’

A loud teenager groan rattled out from somewhere down the hall, followed by a grudging, ‘All right, all right...’ and a door thunking shut.

‘The joy of interns.’ Vera creaked her seat from side to side, smiling at me like a deranged squirrel. ‘Now, I’m guessing you didn’t come here to chat about the good old days, and it’s too early for a booty call, so what can the Fife Daily Examiner do for you? Is this about those murdered little boys? Saw another one went missing yester—’

‘You still keep that big file full of missing persons?’

Her eyes widened at me, eyebrows going up. ‘You have piqued my interest, Mr Henderson. And would there be an exclusive in it for me?’

‘Depends.’

‘You know what the other really lovely thing about interns is? You can get them to do all sorts and call it work experience.’ Vera gave a wee nonchalant shrug. ‘Like digitising the entire archive. Fancy a wee squint?’

Damn right I did.

22

I polished off the last mouthful of sausage butty and washed it down with milky tea as a young man in a tartan shirt and polka-dot tie poked at the keyboard on a shiny new laptop. It looked as if he’d modelled his haircut on Vera’s, only with a vaguely obscene quiff. Peering through small round glasses at the array of black-and-white images on his screen. An accent so Fife you could’ve designed rollercoasters with it — up and down and up and down and up again. ‘See, the real trick is getting the metadata right when you’re putting the stuff into the database in the first place.’

Vera leaned back against an overflowing filing cabinet in what passed for the Fife Daily Examiner’s newsroom — barely big enough to fit in yet more towers of file boxes, an old dining table, and four wooden chairs. ‘You still haven’t said why we’re looking for this woman, Ash.’

‘Haven’t I?’

The young man poked at the keyboard some more. ‘Right, so if we eliminate anyone from the last fifteen years, male, blonde, or over thirty...’ The images refreshed on his screen, narrowing down the field. ‘Then we cut off anything more than sixty years ago...’ They changed again. ‘And that gives us fifty-six possibles.’ He looked up at me with a wee swaggery wobble to his head. ‘You want me to flick through them?’

No, I was standing here for the good of my health.

‘Please.’

‘Right.’ A woman’s face filled the screen — too old to be standing on one leg and with completely the wrong shape of nose. ‘Well?’

‘Keep going, I’ll tell you when to stop.’

Face after face clicked past, each one staying there for no more than a couple of seconds, their names flashing up underneath the pictures. A list of info down the side: names, dates, all that kind of stuff. Some were professional photo-studio jobs, others were more informal, some blurry and grainy, some done down the local nick with a height chart in the background, some wedding pics, and some were those cheesy end-of-year ones they used to do in secondary schools.

‘Stop!’ I leaned in. ‘Go back a couple.’

He did.

And there she was: Julia Kennedy. Fifteen years old — definitely younger than she looked — grinning out at us in front of a mottled background. Blue blazer with the school crest on the breast pocket, white shirt, blue tie with yellow-and-red diagonal stripes, straight skirt. A butterfly hairgrip, holding her side parting in place. Missing for the last thirty-five years.

Took some doing, but I kept my face as still as possible. As if it didn’t really matter one way or another that we’d found her.

The printer in the corner creaked and whirred into life, chugging out three or four sheets of A4.

Vera wheeched them out of the tray. Pursed her lips as she frowned at them. ‘I remember this one: her mother was in absolute bits for years. DI Dickie fancied the stepdad for it, kept waiting for Julia’s remains to turn up, but they never did.’ A grey eyebrow waggled at me. ‘Until now? Is that why you’re here, you’ve found her body?’

‘Nope. We found her photo and wanted to know who she was.’ I held my hand out and, eventually, Vera handed the printouts over. ‘You know what investigations are like these days: every stupid little thing has to be followed up.’

‘Because if you’ve found her body and you’re not telling me, I’d—’

‘We haven’t found her body.’ Which was true. ‘And I promise if anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’ The folded sheets went in my pocket. ‘In the meantime, do me a favour and stay away from the family. No point getting their hopes up for nothing.’

Vera narrowed her eyes and squinted at me for a while in silence. Then nodded. ‘Deal. But you better not stiff me, Ash Henderson.’

‘Would I?’

‘Yes, you bloody well would!’

‘Don’t know why you’re glowering at me. I IDed our victim, didn’t I?’ I pushed my seat back, reclining it and stretching out my right leg. Trying to work the crackling knots out of the tortured ankle as Franklin scowled her way along the M8.

Her suit might have started the day a smart shade of black, but it’d developed an off-grey patina, spotted with the occasional clump of fluff. ‘I was digging through those bloody boxes for ages, while you were swanning about having sausage butties and cups of tea!’

‘Well, one of us had to take the official route, didn’t they? Besides, we got a result — that’s all that matters.’ Trying to rub some life back into my calf.

That was the trouble with a walking stick. It was good for belting people with, but after a while the whole ‘hobbling about’ thing set every other muscle in my body squint and aching.

‘Hmmph!’

‘Look, if I buy you a sausage butty when we get to Glasgow, will that cheer you up?’ Reclining my seat even further, till I could see the motorway behind us in the rear-view mirror. ‘Getting to be a bit of a habit.’

‘Oh ha-ha.’

Yup — it was definitely still there. ‘Can you see what I see?’

‘I’m not playing I Spy with you.’

‘No, you twit. Three cars back: Rusty VW Golf.’

‘Yellow?’

‘Been following us since we left Cupar.’

Franklin shrugged. ‘So what? Lots of people drive to Glasgow. Even Fifers.’

‘It followed us across the Tay Road Bridge, too.’

She pulled herself closer to the mirror, squinting at it. ‘Can’t see the number plate... Journalists?’

‘Maybe.’ Or maybe not.

‘Want me to lose them?’ Tightening her grip on the steering wheel. No doubt looking forward to another go at ‘FIVE DEAD IN MOTORWAY PILEUP HORROR’.

‘Nah. Let’s see if we can’t front them up when we get to Glasgow.’

Franklin’s shoulders dipped an inch and she loosened her grip. ‘Suppose...’

Yeah, I was no fun.

We stood in the shadow of the Nelson Monument — a stubby dirty Cleopatra’s needle that didn’t provide nearly enough shelter from the wind whipping in up the Clyde. Bringing with it the peppery-ozone scent of impending snow.

Detective Chief Inspector McManus nodded her head towards the squat glazed bulk of the People’s Palace — a silvered jellyfish, washed up in the middle distance — then held up the printout in a gloved hand. She had a large, powerful frame; hair scraped back from a high forehead; small piercing eyes. Voice trying hard to lose the tenement twang and almost succeeding. ‘That’s it there, just visible between the carousel horses.’

Sabir and his magic algorithms strike again.

‘Any idea who they are?’

Something chugged by on the river behind us, accompanied by the faint bmmtssshhh-bmmtssshhh-bmmtssshhh of dance music played too loud on cheap speakers.

I turned, but McManus was staring off in the opposite direction. Watching as Franklin and Henry wandered through a double avenue of trees, the wee lad’s nose down and tail up. ‘She’s very pretty.’

‘She’s a he. Scottie dog.’

That got me a withering look. ‘Not the terrier, the Detective Sergeant.’

‘Oh, you soon get over that if you have to spend any time with her.’ I poked the printout in McManus’s hand. ‘Who are they?’

‘Hmm?’ McManus dragged herself back to the photo: a man and a woman, waving at the camera as their carousel horses galloped by. He had sideburns and a leather waistcoat, one of those flouncy ceilidh shirts unlaced far enough to expose a ‘V’ of pelt-covered chest, shoulder-length brown hair bouncing out behind him. Maybe mid-twenties. The woman was a good five or six years younger, mousy-blonde hair in a bulbous bob, wide white smile stretching her happy round face. Long, floaty, floral-print dress, ridden up at the side showing a flash of pale thigh. ‘No idea.’

McManus lowered the printout. ‘One of our history buffs managed to date the picture, though. Going by the fairground, the positioning of the stalls, and the terrible fashion sense, this was taken forty-two years ago, sometime between the fifteenth and twenty-first of April. Circus was in town. I’ve got people going through the archives for all missing person reports within a three-month window.’

‘Let me guess,’ I leaned back against the monument, ‘stacks and stacks of dusty boxes?’

‘It’s like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. And every time I even suggest getting everything digitised?’

‘Budget cutbacks?’

‘Can barely afford to police the streets as it is.’

‘You should get yourself some interns.’

Franklin and Henry made one more pass around the trees and headed back towards us.

McManus stared at them, a slightly droopy wistful look on her face. ‘Course, there’s no guarantee they were even reported missing here. People come on holiday to Glasgow all the time. Could’ve been from anywhere.’

True.

I dug my hands deeper into my pockets. ‘You want some unsolicited advice?’

‘Not really.’ Curling her lip.

‘The last senior officer who perved on DS Franklin ended up with a broken nose. Ask E Division.’

‘I do like a challenge...’ McManus returned the printout. ‘Where you off to next?’

‘Bute. Smith photographed his brother and a young woman on a putting course.’

‘Oh, shame.’ Clearing her throat as Franklin and Henry got closer. ‘I could’ve come with you. You know... to help facilitate access and interdivisional cooperation with local resources, but that’s K Division’s patch.’

Aye, and there were no prizes for guessing whose inter-divisional cooperation Detective Chief Inspector McManus was trying to access. Standing up straighter and smiling as Franklin finally arrived with the wee hairy boy.

No prizes at all.

The pool car passed under a raised walkway, and the landscape opened out to the right — the wide River Clyde a choppy blue smear with hills and mountains disappearing into the lowering sky on the other side — while we roared along the dual carriageway.

‘Tell you, it’s an absolute nightmare.’ Rhona gave a disgusted grunt. ‘Soon as Toby Macmillan was reported missing: total media feeding frenzy. “Is missing five-year-old the latest Oldcastle Child-Strangler victim?” Second editions are all “picture exclusive, pages four to nine”, and opinion pieces from every mouth-breathing halfwit who ever wanked into a sock. Shifty looks like his head’s going to pop like an over-ripe pluke any second now. Doesn’t help that your wee friend’s hungover as hell. Been sick three times already this morning.’

‘Do me a favour and keep an eye on Alice, OK?’

Rhona groaned. Then, ‘OK, OK. But if she pukes all over me, you’re for it.’

Franklin overtook a big green articulated lorry with the ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens logo down the side, and, ‘ONLY A CLUCKING IDIOT WOULDN’T LOVE SCOTIABRAND CHICKEN MACSPORRANS!’ Someone had finger-painted, ‘VEGAN REVOLUTIONARY ARMY!!!’ and ‘MEAT IS MURDER!!!’ underneath, in the grime.

‘And while you’re there, chase up Edinburgh plod for me, will you? Supposed to have a lookout request on the go for Leah MacNeil. Make sure they’re not sat on their arses twiddling their thumbs.’

‘Yeah. You’ll have to wait till I’m done here, though. Got a media briefing in five. Hopefully I won’t be spending most of it holding Her Ladyship’s hair back as she barfs all over the front row.’ The smile in Rhona’s voice was loud and clear. ‘Not that most of them wouldn’t deserve it, mind. Then it’s back to interviewing nonces for the rest of the day. Which is about as—’

‘Thanks, Rhona.’ I hung up. Tapped the phone against my palm. Might be worth tuning in to listen. Then again, if Alice really was in that bad a state, maybe better not.

We passed a minibus full of grumpy-faced pensioners. A taxi with a sobbing man in the back. A Transit with two blokes singing along to something in the front. An ancient Ford towing a trailer full of logs.

Then a wide stretch of nothing but us and the river and the hills.

Franklin risked a glance back over her shoulder, even though there was a perfectly good rear-view mirror, right there. ‘They still following us?’

‘Will you keep your eyes on the road?’

‘I can’t see them, maybe they’ve... No. Rusty yellow Volkswagen Golf at twelve o’clock.’

I tried not to grimace, I really did. ‘Of course they’re at twelve o’clock, they’re following us.’ Poked at the screen on my phone, bringing up the web browser and scrolling down the Calmac timetable. ‘OK, we’ve missed the twelve fifteen, and the next ferry’s not till one.’

She glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘Plenty of time.’

‘Ah... According to this, we need to be there twenty minutes before it sails.’

‘Going to be tight, then.’ The car’s engine changed pitch as she put her foot down and the needle crept up to eighty. ‘Can’t believe we didn’t make the Golf, back in Glasgow.’

I slithered down in my seat. Three cars back, the Volkswagen accelerated to match our speed, pulling out to overtake the red van in front of it.

Gotcha.

Sat up straight again, turned in my seat and pointed my phone’s camera at the rear windscreen.

And immediately, Henry popped up like a gopher, big happy head filling the picture. ‘Get down, you daft lump.’

He stayed where he was, but his expression got even more glaikit.

Took hold of his collar and pulled him into the footwell. ‘Stay!’ Then took the shot. Turned and faced the front again.

‘You get them?’

‘Find out soon enough.’ Calling up the photo showed it wasn’t great, but there was just enough grainy detail when I zoomed in to make out the number plate. Right. Rhona was already doing me a favour, so I texted the pic to Shifty instead.

SEND.

The response was surprisingly prompt, given he was meant to be giving a media briefing.

SHIFTY:

Which was actually a fair point. He really did have more important things to do.

I smiled across the car at Franklin. ‘You haven’t got DC Watt’s mobile number, have you?’

23

Franklin stood at the front rail, peering down into the ferry’s loading bay. The huge metal prow was raised, like the open beak of a vast blue-and-white metal parrot, banging and clanging coming from below as the last of the vehicles was driven on board. ‘Any sign of it?’

Wind grabbed at her hair, making it stream out to the side, water breaking in spumes of white against the dock’s pilings. Henry scuttered up and down on the end of his leash, ears flapping.

‘Over there.’ I raised a finger and pointed, past the apron with its twelve lines reserved for vehicles waiting to board — two of which were already full, ready for the next sailing — to the parking area away to the right, down by the pebbly shore. Where that rusty yellow Golf now lurked. ‘Must’ve missed the loading cut-off, so they either abandon the car, or abandon the chase.’

‘Hmmm...’ She narrowed her eyes at it. ‘So they’re definitely on board.’

‘Came a hell of a long way to give up now.’

Franklin turned, resting her back against the rail instead, looking up at the wheelhouse as it towered over us. Picking the hair out of her mouth and setting it free to writhe in the wind again. ‘Still nothing from John?’

‘Useless as he is ugly.’ I tried to flex out the knots in my right leg. ‘You want to run the PNC check instead?’

‘I’m not your—’

‘Do it myself, but they tend to frown on members of the public hacking into the Police National Computer.’

She made a pained expression, then slumped. ‘Fine, but you owe me a sausage butty, remember?’

‘Deal.’ I handed her Henry’s lead and sodded off inside.

‘Thanks.’ I pocketed my change, picked up the cardboard coffee-holder thing and the wee paper bag with the not-sausage-butties in it.

The ferry was busier than you’d think, for the one o’clock sailing on a blustery Sunday in November. The outside seating area at the stern was virtually empty, though. Instead people were clustered inside, on the rows of vinyl seats or around the puggy machines — feeding in their money and pressing buttons to a soundtrack of dings, tweedles, and flashing lights.

A couple of fake-tan tourists in neon hiking gear were going pale and sweaty as the ferry forged its way against the wind. Deck rising and falling, wallowing from side to side. Making limping anywhere with two decaf lattes and a pair of pre-packaged cake slices even more difficult than usual.

Should’ve been paying more attention to where I was going, but I was more concerned with not falling on my backside, and thumped sideways into a fat bearded bloke in a stripy top. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry.’ An apologetic shrug, even though I was the one who’d barged into him.

Still, at least...

‘Are you all right?’ He put a hand on my arm. ‘Only, you look like you’ve seen a—’

‘Hold this.’ I thrust the coffees and cakes at him, then pushed past, heading for the narrow passageway through to the other seating area.

Rows of angled seats, a couple of small tables, lots of bored-looking people, and a handful of screaming children running in circles. Piles of luggage against the bulkheads — wheelie cases and cardboard boxes of things.

Where the hell was...

There: by the window, staring out at the darkening sky.

I limped straight over, thumped a hand down on her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter, couldn’t get your car on the boat?’

Helen MacNeil froze for a moment, then turned and scowled at me. ‘It’s a free country.’

‘I told you I’d chase up that lookout request, and I did. They’re looking for her.’

Franklin burst into the passenger area, dragging Henry with her, making a beeline for me. ‘Ash: you’ll never guess who owns that yellow...’ She stopped and stared at Helen.

‘You’re too late. I already know.’ Pointing.

‘What’s she doing here?’ Franklin stepped closer. ‘What are you doing here, Mrs MacNeil?’

Wait.

I looked at Franklin. ‘It’s her car.’

‘No, it belongs to Nick James, the journalist who got washed away yesterday.’

Great. Of course it did.

‘You stole a dead reporter’s car?’

Helen opened her mouth, but a voice behind me got there first, ‘Technically, we borrowed it.’ No need to turn around to know who that was: Jennifer Bloody Prentice.

I turned on my heel, and limped off. Pausing only to retrieve my coffees and cakes from the confused-looking bearded bloke.

Jennifer’s voice brayed out behind me. ‘Oh come on, Ash, don’t be like that!’

‘... all drivers return to their vehicles...’ The nasal announcement echoed through the metal stairwell as I hobbled down to the car deck, the air thick with the scent of diesel. Walking stick clanging on the steps.

Franklin was waiting for me, leaning on the roof of our manky Ford Focus, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. Voice hard and clipped. ‘Like to tell me what that was all about?’

‘No.’

She climbed inside. Pulled on her seatbelt as I settled into the passenger seat. Radiated Arctic cold at me. ‘So, according to Ms Prentice, she had an arrangement with Nick James, where she could use his car if she needed to go incognito.’

‘And you believed her? That woman could lie for Scotland. If they ever make it an Olympic sport, she’d beat Donald Trump.’

Henry scrabbled his way between the front seats, covering the handbrake and grinning up at me with his tongue hanging out. That was the trouble with Vera giving the greedy wee sod a sausage.

Muscles rippled along Franklin’s jaw. ‘Prentice says you’re helping her write a book about Gordon Smith: “The Coffinmaker ~ hunting the world’s most dangerous serial killer”.’

‘Hmmph.’ She’d changed the title then.

The car thrummed as the ferry’s engines changed tone — a loud growl you could feel in your chest.

Franklin’s voice rose over it, spitting out the words as she bashed a hand off the steering wheel. ‘What the hell were you thinking? We’re in the middle of an investigation and you’re passing info to a journalist?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

A grating siren blared out, orange lights flashing as we bumped to a halt.

Franklin started the engine. Glared at me. ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, writing about a case we’re still working on! You two-faced—’

‘I’m not writing anything! I want sod all to do with Jennifer... Pain-In-The-Arse Prentice, and I told her that. But she won’t take no for a bloody answer.’

‘Then why did she tell me—’

‘Because she’s a liar!’ My hands ached into tight fists. ‘I told you that already. You really think I’m going to slip her information? After what she did?’

Franklin’s mouth opened. Then closed again. ‘What did she do?’

‘None of your sodding business.’

The sirens got louder as a flap in the stern hinged down, a fat bloke in high-viz and a hardhat directing the cars and lorries out through it into the cold grey light of the afternoon.

Two minutes later we were rattling off the ferry and up onto dry land again, in a fug of angry silence.

Rothesay curved around the water, a marina full of yachts sitting between the ferry terminal and a line of old brown brick buildings. A three-sided town square straight ahead. And more bland buildings to the right. Someone had painted the last lot in faded shades of pastel yellow, pink and blue, presumably in an effort to distract tourists from their uninspired façades.

But in front of them sat the flat green carpet of a putting course. Three couples slowly whacking their way around it in jumpers and woolly hats.

Franklin jerked her chin at them, forcing a hint of jolly into her voice, as if that would make everything all right. ‘Looks like we found our photo location.’ Turned right, onto the main road. ‘God’s sake, is there nowhere to park?’

A weird end-of-the-pier-style building sat alongside the putting green — a big domed middle, fronted by a pair of red-roofed pagodas. Then another putting course on the other side. Another group of idiots out braving the wind.

I pointed. ‘Pull in there.’

‘It’s a bus stop.’

‘You’re a police officer. We’re hunting a serial killer!’

‘It’s still a bus stop.’

‘I’ve got a blue badge. Stop the damn car.’

‘Right!’ She slammed on the brakes, getting an angry fusillade of horn blasts from the Transit van behind us. ‘Out. You get out here and I’ll go find somewhere to park.’

And just like that, we were back at war again.

‘Fine.’ I clipped on Henry’s lead as the Transit launched into another barrage. ‘Come on, wee man.’

He followed me out onto the road, and as soon as I’d closed the door, Franklin roared off.

God save us from unreasonable detective bloody sergeants.

Henry and I crossed over to the other side, stomping along the pavement that skirted the putting course. Then took the tarmac path into it and did a lap of an ornamental fountain — its sprays of water jerking and twisting away in the wind. Definitely a lot colder than it’d been back home.

We followed a line of blue railings, up a long ramp, and out onto the promenade.

Had to admit, the view wasn’t half bad. Green-and-grey hills, buffeted by fast-moving clouds, light and shadow moving across the concrete-coloured sea. Probably was quite something in summer.

In November, it was freezing, though.

Henry sniffed at pretty much everything we passed, widdling on half of it as we hunched our way along the waterfront. Seals bobbing in the troubled water. Herring gulls scrawking as they scudded past, sideways.

Might not be a bad place to retire, this.

‘There you are.’ Franklin, hands on her hips, padded jacket zipped up to her neck. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you and this Prentice woman had a history. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Like I was a sulky toddler.

A sigh rattled out to be whipped away by the wind.

Maybe I was? Barging about, whingeing and moaning...

Yeah.

I nodded. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Good. Thank you.’ Franklin stomped her feet on the tarmac. ‘Now we’re all friends again, can we get this over with, please? Losing all feeling in my toes here.’

Might as well.

I pulled out the photo of Peter Smith and the unidentified young woman, the paper crumpling in my hand as the wind tried to whip it from my grasp. ‘Over there?’

We went back down the ramp, out onto the putting course.

According to the flag, this was hole number seventeen, looking back towards the sea and the hills beyond, a palm tree off to one side.

‘Waste of time, of course.’

‘What is?’ Franklin dug her hands into her padded pockets, shoulders curled up around her ears.

‘All... this. Pointless. We should be out there hunting Gordon Smith, not faffing about here.’

‘You really are a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?’ But she was smiling. ‘What about the victims’ families? Don’t they deserve to know what happened to their loved ones?’

‘Of course they do, but that’s not as important as catching the scumbag who killed them.’

Franklin gave me a half nod, half shrug. ‘Tell you what, how about I get us a couple of putters and we can play a round? Might cheer you up a bit. You can pretend it’s like a go on the “wooden horsies”.’

‘No thanks.’ I turned and hobbled across the grass, making for the road again.

‘Oh come on, Ash, I’m trying to apologise here!’ Hurrying after us. ‘What’s wrong with putting?’

‘Once upon a time, there was a man called Adam Robinson. He found out his wife was having an affair with someone at her golf club, so do you know what he did?’

‘Talk to her about it, like a rational grown-up?’

We’d reached the pavement. Stood there, waiting for a break in the traffic.

‘He started saving up his urine.’

‘OK, not so rational, then.’

A taxi drifted by and I hurpled across the road behind it, making the other side as an open-topped bus rumbled past. Kept going down a narrow street between one of the few branches Royal Bank of Scotland hadn’t shut and a carpet shop.

‘Adam collected it in two-litre bottles, you know, like Diet Coke, that kind of thing. Then once a week, he’d take the most mature samples and go up the golf course in the dead of night. Filled each and every hole, from the first to the eighteenth with his rancid piss.’

‘Why on earth would he—’

‘So that every time someone sunk a putt, they’d have to stick their hand in the hole to fish out their ball.’

Franklin’s mouth opened wide, tongue sticking out, eyes creased almost shut. ‘Oh... Yuck!’

We crossed another road, and entered another tiny street, passed yet another carpet shop.

‘He kept that up for six months, then decided the only thing left to do was march into the clubhouse with a shotgun and blow holes in every male over the age of fifteen.’

We emerged from the tiny street into a big open space, with a moat and a partially collapsed castle in the middle of it. A saltire flag snapping and crackling in the wind above.

‘Killed three people, crippled six, injured about a dozen.’ I shook my head. ‘Genuinely a terrible shot.’

‘What happened?’

A gull worried away at a discarded polystyrene container, chips spilling out into the gutter.

Henry rushed at it, firing out sharp-edged barks till the lead brought him up short.

Unimpressed, the gull stared back and kept on pecking.

‘Well, by the time an Armed Response Unit got there, Adam had barricaded himself in the golf pro’s office, with his wife and a bottle of Glenfarclas he’d liberated from the club bar.’

‘This doesn’t have a happy ending, does it?’

‘Hell no.’ We followed the road, around the castle. ‘Took the crime-scene cleaners four days to dig all the tiny bits of skull out of the wooden panelling. So, no: I’m not keen on a game of putting.’

A wet popping wheezing noise gurgled out of Franklin and she rubbed at her stomach. ‘You still owe me that sausage butty.’

I leaned on the windowsill, rolling my right ankle in small clicking circles. That’s what I got for walking all the way to Rothesay Police Station from the putting course.

Our meeting room was pretty much identical to the ones you’d find in any Police Scotland building. Someone had tried to glam it up with a series of ugly watercolours and a wilting pot plant, but it hadn’t really worked.

Pulling back the vertical blinds had revealed a view out across a twenty-foot strip of flat roof and over the road to a weird boxy building in pink granite with a sign fixed to its black front door: ‘CARPET SHOP BEHIND CHURCH ’.

What the hell was it with Rothesay and carpet shops? How much carpet did one small town need?

Henry had found himself a spot by the radiator, curled up and dead to the world, making wheezy snoring noises as we waited. And waited. And waited.

I checked my watch: twenty past two. ‘I’m giving it five more minutes, then sod the lot of them.’

‘Absolutely starving...’ She slumped back in her chair at the empty meeting table. Stared at the ceiling. ‘How long’s it been?’

‘Over half an hour.’

‘And not so much as a biscuit.’

‘Ah, now you mention it.’ I dug into my jacket pocket and came out with the two pre-packaged slices of cake I’d bought on the ferry. Each about the size of a small remote control. Held them out. ‘You want a cranberry-and-pistachio slice, or rocky road?’

‘Yes!’ She took both. Ripped open the plastic and tore a big bite out of the knobbly chocolate slice. The words all mushy as she chewed. ‘So are you going to tell me what it was Jennifer Prentice did?’

‘No.’

More chewing. ‘She showed me a text from Nick James saying she could borrow the car whenever she liked.’

‘Probably nicked his phone and sent it to herself.’

Franklin chomped on another mouthful. ‘You really don’t like her, do you?’

‘That woman’s a complete—’

The meeting room door creaked open and in marched a stiff-backed bald bloke in the full Police Scotland black. Three pips on his epaulettes and a full-bore Highlands and Islands accent that lilted higher than expected. ‘I understand you’re...’ His face pulled in around his scrunched lips. ‘Is that a dog? We don’t allow dogs in the station.’

Henry stayed where he was, but Franklin stood to attention. Hiding the rocky road slice behind her back. ‘Sir.’

Another uniform hurpled in after him, this one a good head shorter than his boss, his official-issue T-shirt stretched over a decent-sized beer belly. A thick brown beard covering his cheeks and chin. Saggy eyes. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting...’ All smiles and handshakes.

His fingers lingered over Franklin’s.

She slid her hand free and wiped it on her trouser leg, soon as he wasn’t looking.

The Chief Inspector stuck his nose in the air. ‘Detective Sergeant Rosalind Franklin, I understand you want to search through all of our historical missing person reports?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A cold fish eye swivelled in my direction. ‘And this is?’

‘Mr Henderson. He’s with the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. We’re—’

‘While I’m quite happy to allow police officers access to our records, I draw the line at civilians. And dogs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Sergeant Campbell will assist you. Sergeant Campbell, please make sure you escort Mr Henderson from the premises first.’ He turned on his heel, as if it was a parade ground manoeuvre, and marched from the room, head up, shoulders back.

Prick.

Sergeant Campbell grimaced. ‘Sorry about that. The Chief can be a tad... brusque?’ He placed a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. ‘But I’m sure we’ll get on like the best of friends.’ Rounding it off with a greasy smile.

Yeah, he was going to end up with a broken nose, like her old boss in Edinburgh.

24

‘Here we go, son. You want any sauces or mustard wi’ that?’ The woman in the black shirt and red waistcoat — both of which were too small for her — clinked the plate down on the table in front of me. Then brushed the grey hair from her eyes and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘And I’ve got the chef to do a cheeky sausage for yer dug, too.’ Wink.

‘Thanks. This’ll be great.’

She squatted down to pet Henry. ‘Who’s a lovely wee boy, then? Oh, you’re just pure gorgeous, so you are.’

Our table was next to the window, with a view out over the castle’s remains, moat glinting in the golden light as the sun sank lower in the sky. More seagulls strutting about on the pavement, looking for an unsuspecting tourist to mug.

One more ruffle, then the waitress straightened up, beaming down at the lad. ‘Oh, he’s smashing.’

I dipped into my pocket and came out with the printout — Peter Smith and the unknown woman, standing together on the putting course. Passed it across. ‘Don’t suppose you recognise either of them, do you?’

‘Hold on...’ She produced a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the end of her nose, peering at the photograph. ‘Shell suits? Before my time, son, I’ve only been here thirty years. I can ask the chef, though? She’s been here since the dawn of time.’

‘That would be great.’

She plucked Henry’s sausage from the plate and tossed it to him. Smiling like a proud granny as the wee lad snatched it out of the air. ‘Clever boy!’

Then she was off, taking the printout with her, while I dipped a chip in my tiny dish of mayonnaise and Henry scarfed his cheeky sausage.

Sitting on the tabletop, my phone dinged and buzzed.

RHONA:

So did I.

Bit awkward: poking out a reply one-handed, but it left the other one free to scoop up my burger with chargrilled halloumi and mushrooms. Chewing while I texted.

SEND.

Good burger. Have to make sure and tell Franklin all about it. She’d like that...

SEND.

I’d barely managed another bite before the phone ding-buzzed again.

DS FRANKLIN:

Buzz-ding.

DS FRANKLIN:

Yeah, he’d looked the type. Still, I’m sure I could make her feel better:

SEND.

Sometimes, it was the simple things in life that gave you pleasure.

I was halfway through my burger before the next text came in.

RHONA:

Chief Superintendent Angus McEwan, the gift that kept on giving.

As if the team didn’t know how important it was to find Toby Macmillan. As if they didn’t know the first twenty-four hours were the most important. As if they didn’t know Toby was probably already dead. Because, let’s face it, Gòrach wasn’t really about the delayed gratification, was he? Well, except when it came to strangling his victims. That he liked to take his time over.

Crunched my way through a couple of chips.

Unless that was part of his evolving MO, of course. Andrew Brennan is a victim of opportunity: no planning involved, dumped where he was killed. Oscar Harris: abducted, killed and the body hidden. Lewis Talbot: abducted, taken deep into the woods, killed over a long time, then hidden so well we didn’t find his body for nearly two months.

Maybe Gòrach had got himself a hideaway: somewhere he could keep a small boy for a few days? God knew there were enough abandoned buildings and shacks in the thick swathe of forest that ran from Camburn Woods to the Murders. Moncuir Wood alone was big enough to lose a small town in.

Might be worth chasing up.

SEND.

Another bite of burger. Chewing as I stared out the window at the castle.

Wonder what Alice was up to...

Look at me: sitting here; shoving fried food into my face, one-handed; crouched over my phone like a braindead teenager. Supposed to be a grown man.

SEND.

You know, an intervention might not be such a bad idea. Maybe it’d help Alice live to see her thirty-third birthday.

‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

Wonderful.

And Mother thought the universe hated her.

I looked up and there was Jennifer Prentice, hauling out the chair opposite and sinking into it.

Big glass of red wine in one hand. A tight smile that barely dented her frozen face. ‘Wasn’t hard to find you, in case you’re wondering. Your pretty little detective sergeant girl said you’d both skipped lunch, so I looked for the nearest restaurant to the police station, open on a Sunday afternoon, that lets dogs in. And there you were, sitting in the window.’

I went back to my burger. ‘Sod off, Jennifer.’

‘She’s quite something, isn’t she? DS Franklin? Bet she’d be great in a threesome. That lovely dark skin of hers, all naked and glistening. It’d look very sexy next to mine, wouldn’t it? Our limbs intertwined, lips and tongues exploring each other. You’d like that.’

And with that delightful image, the burger curdled in my mouth.

I dumped the rest of it back on the plate. ‘Whatever you want, might as well bugger off right now, because you’re not getting it.’

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Odd...

Maybe Alice had borrowed a phone from one of Shifty’s team and that’s why the number wasn’t recognised? That’s what happened when you got too drunk to put your mobile on to charge overnight.

‘Now, Ash, is that any way to talk to an old friend? One who has a proposition for you?’ Jennifer’s wink wasn’t anywhere near as appealing as the waitress’s. ‘And not a sexual one this time.’ She looked over her shoulder.

I followed her gaze.

Helen MacNeil was outside, standing with her arms folded, back against the railings, coat buffeted by the wind. Face like she was trying to stare down the world.

‘Thank God, right? I mean, can you imagine that in the nude?’ Jennifer faked a shudder. Then leaned forwards. Glanced left and right as if someone might be eavesdropping. ‘Six million pounds. I checked it out: Steve Jericho’s place got knocked over fifteen years ago. Hallelujah Bingo, cash-in-transit job. Official report was they made off with twenty grand, but unofficially Steve Jericho had got his hands on Nigel Cavendish’s stash — all the stuff he’d robbed from private collections and museums, going back to the seventies.’

‘Cavendish?’ Why did that name sound—

‘Hacked to pieces in his living room with a machete. Anyway, Helen says Billy “the Axe” Macgregor was the one who nicked Steve Jericho’s stuff. No one ever found the armoured car, or its driver.’ Jennifer’s eyes widened. ‘She says it’s still in Oldcastle, and she knows where.’

‘Did you follow me all the way here for that?’ I scrubbed my hands clean on the napkin. ‘Not interested.’

‘Four million for her and two million for us.’ A glistening pink tongue flickered around Jennifer’s lips. ‘That’s one million pounds each, all we have to do is find Gordon Smith. And you’re doing that anyway! It’s a win-win.’ She sat back and toasted me with her glass, before downing a mouthful.

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Wait a minute.

Wait a bloody sodding minute.

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

I scraped my chair back, grabbed the phone and stuffed it into my pocket. ‘I’m not going to do anything with you, Jennifer. Not now. Not ever.’ Gave her a smile as I hauled on my jacket. ‘And Helen offered me two million, so why the hell would I need you?’ Picked up my walking stick and Henry’s lead. Nodded at the half-eaten burger and chips. ‘You can finish that if you like.’

Dumped fifteen quid on the bar on the way past, and limped into the windy sunshine.

Fiddled my phone out again and hit the call icon at the top of the two unknown text messages. It rang twice, then disconnected.

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Holy shit. It was her.

Send.

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Right, there was only one thing for it.

SEND.

Soon as it went, I called Mother.

‘DI Malcolmson?’

‘It’s Ash. Remember...’

Helen MacNeil was staring at me.

By rights, I should go over there and tell her.

Tell her what? That her granddaughter isn’t safe and laying low in Edinburgh after all? That she’s been grabbed by Gordon Smith, and can’t get away because she’s terrified of him? That we had no idea where she was now? How exactly was that going to help?

Yeah. Maybe not.

I gave Helen a small wave instead and limped off down the High Street, towards the ferry terminal.

‘Ash? Remember what?’

Keeping my voice low, in case Helen decided to follow. ‘You really need to get that warrant out for Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone. She’s been in touch: Leah’s with Gordon Smith.’ I ducked around the corner — sheltering in the lee of an off-licence — out of the wind and Helen’s line of sight. ‘You still there?’

‘Ash, I hate to be a cynical Charlotte, but some might think this was a bit convenient, given your—’

‘Fine: I’ll forward you the texts. Hold on.’ I did, sending my replies on too. ‘She’s with him and she’s scared. If you get a warrant, we get her. And if we get her...?’

‘We get him.’ The sound went all scrunched, as if Mother had put a hand over her phone’s microphone. ‘John, whatever you’re doing, stop it and get a warrant for Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone location!’

DC Watt’s reply was too muffled to make out. Probably whingeing, knowing him.

And Mother was back. ‘Any luck IDing the Bute victim?’

‘Had to leave that to Franklin and a sergeant. The local Chief Inspector doesn’t think civilians should have access to missing person archives. Doesn’t allow dogs in his station, either.’

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘Nothing’s been digitised. It’s going to take them a long time to wade through everything. And the last ferry back to the mainland’s at seven.’

‘Hold on...’

‘Anything from Dotty and Elliot?’

Silence.

A couple of Russian tourists trundled their wheelie suitcases past, arguing about something.

A taxi stopped to let an old man, bent like a question mark, hobble into the off-licence behind me. Techno music vibrating out through the car windows.

‘I’m sorry if I’m boring you, but—’

‘There’s another ferry. If you go up to... Rhubodach? Am I saying that right? Last one from there sails at nine. Think Rosalind could be finished by then?’

‘No idea. Maybe?’

‘Let me know if not and we’ll get a B-and-B sorted. And keep all your receipts!’ With that, she hung up.

Henry thumped down at my feet, staring up at me as if I was the divine provider of sausages.

‘Better hope she gets us somewhere that takes greedy hairy monsters, or you’re sleeping in the car tonight.’

That didn’t seem to dent his enthusiasm any, instead his tail wagged even harder.

‘Scuse me?’ It was the waitress from the restaurant, arms wrapped around herself, grey hair flailing in the wind.

‘I put the money on the counter.’

‘Oh, I know, thanks. No, you left this behind.’ Holding out the printout of Peter Smith and the young woman. ‘I asked Elsie, but she doesn’t recognise either of them, so I showed it round all the staff and customers.’ Her mouth made a creased zigzag. ‘Sorry. Maybe someone else knows who they are though?’ She pointed across the square, at a narrow street between a jewellery shop and a red-painted bar with a couple of Tennent’s ‘T’s hanging outside. ‘You could try the Black Bull? The library’s got a book group, meets there on Sunday evenings: seven for half seven. Mostly gossipy auld wifies and nosy auld mannies, but that’s maybe what you’re after, son?’

Worth a go.

Till then, probably better make myself useful.

25

Thick, muggy air followed me out into the cold and wind. Lingering for a second as the pub door shut behind me, before the wind snatched it away.

Streetlights gleamed against the raven darkness, illuminating the curling seafront, headlights sweeping their way along the road as the occasional figure hurried somewhere warmer.

Henry cocked his leg against a downpipe, then we headed off along the pavement, following the map on my phone to the next location. Past shuttered cafés and antique shops.

The scent of hot fat and sharp vinegar drifted after us — the siren call of an empty chippy — as my phone launched into its default ringtone, the words, ‘DS FRANKLIN’ replacing the map. ‘Hello?’

‘This is an absolute nightmare. There’s a huge stack of boxes left, and we’ve only got as far as 1970!’

‘You’re having fun then?’

She sounded muffled and distant, as if she had the phone on the table and her head in her hands. ‘Only upside is Sergeant Campbell clocked off at five, on the dot, so I don’t have to put up with his sleazy gitbaggery any more.’

‘Mother wants to know if you’ll be done in time for us to catch the nine o’clock ferry from Rhubodach.’

‘Nine tonight? Not a chance in hell.’

Bed-and-breakfast in sunny Rothesay for us, then.

‘I’m going to be stuck here for hours.’ A groan rumbled down the phone. ‘And while I’m slogging my way through three tons of missing person reports, what are you—’

‘Pub crawl. Well, technically it’s a “pub limp”, but you get the picture.’

Franklin’s voice got a lot louder. ‘Oh for God’s—’

‘Teetotal, remember? Pills. I’m showing that photo of Peter Smith and the girl to anyone old enough to remember shell suits being a thing. Every bar and hotel I can find. And failing that, there’s a book club meets in one of the bars at half seven. Meant to be full of oldies.’

‘Worth a try, I suppose.’

Henry and I kept going.

‘You were right in the first place: when we were on the putting course. This is a complete waste of time.’

‘Yup.’ I paused outside a little place advertising Karaoke and Tennent’s Lager. The muffled sound of someone slaughtering a country-and-western tune oozed out through the pub windows, rising to a horrible blare as the door banged open and a couple of middle-aged women scurried out in a fit of the shrieking giggles. They huddled in the lee of a parked Transit van and lit a couple of cigarettes, eyeing me as they smoked — like I was a piece of meat, found at the back of the fridge, with a dodgy sell-by date.

‘You know what we should’ve done? We should’ve gone back to HMP Edinburgh and shoved that photo in Peter Smith’s face. Demanded to know who she was.’

‘Yeah. But he’d just sit there and deny everything, wouldn’t he? All we’d achieve is giving him something else to wank about after lights out.’

‘Thanks for that image.’

‘Give me a shout when you’re ready to pack it in for the night.’ I put the phone away and pushed through into yet another noisy crowded bar.

It would’ve been classified as a ‘light drizzle’, if it hadn’t been jabbed in like needles on a howling wind, as Henry and I struggled our way back along Argyle Street. The warmth of tea and a Jaffa Cake at the Robertson Hotel a swiftly fading memory.

Which meant we’d tried every hotel on the seafront, every bed-and-breakfast, and every bar. Except one.

The gale slammed itself against my chest, stabbing its needles deeper into my face, making the streetlights sway in the darkness. Misty shadows dancing around them. Henry more out for a drag than a walk, whimpering on the end of his leash like a petulant wee hairy anchor.

Past old stone buildings with bay windows, their lights on, showing off warm domestic scenes as the sensible people stayed inside, out of the horrible night. Jammy bastards.

On the other side of the road, waves smashed themselves against the seawall, white spray curling over the metal railings to spatter down against the pavement.

Should’ve made Franklin hand over the keys to the pool car, sore foot or not. Couldn’t hurt more than it did right now, anyway. It was as if someone was taking a cordless drill to the bloody thing, screeching hole after ragged hole into the bones every time my right foot hit the paving slabs. If I’d been driving, it’d still hurt, but at least I’d be dry.

I dug the hand with Henry’s lead deeper into my pocket, the one clutching my walking stick aching and numb all at the same time.

So much for retiring to sunny Rothesay. They could—

Oh, for God’s sake.

My phone, doing its basic ringtone again.

I limped across the road, into a car park outside what looked like a cross between an art deco swimming pool and a car showroom, all concrete and glass, lights blazing in its windows, kept going till I was under the overhanging portico and out of the wind and rain. Hauled out my mobile and stabbed the button. ‘What?’

The sound of a band rehearsing boomed out from the floor above.

‘Not the friendliest of welcomes I’ve had, Ash.’ Mother. ‘I was calling to say I’ve got you and Rosalind rooms at the Hotel Sokoloff, but maybe you’d rather sleep in the car instead?’

‘It’s blowing a gale, I’m cold, I’m soaked through, and my foot’s killing me because I’ve been hobbling all over Rothesay for the last four and a half hours, trying to ID your murder victim!’ Adding an extra scoop of sarcasm to my voice. ‘So excuse me if I’m not in the most sociable of bloody moods.’

The band launched into a grating cover of an old Foo Fighters song, even though the drummer really wasn’t up to it.

They’d staggered their way to the chorus before Mother came back on the line. ‘And has your sore foot discovered anything?’

‘Yes. That it hates sodding about in the buggering wind and rain.’ I leaned back against the steel pillar holding up the concrete portico. Huffed out a breath. ‘No one knows who she is. Got one place left to try.’

‘Dotty and Amanda have IDed our graduating student. According to Aberdeen University, he’s Alex Yates. Got a two-one in Law, 1978. Parents reported him missing three days after the ceremony.’

‘Anyone told them yet?’

‘The Chief Super still doesn’t want any of this getting out till we’ve got Gordon Smith in custody. And before you say anything: no, I don’t think it’s fair either.’ Mother’s voice sagged. ‘Dotty couldn’t get an ID for the girl on the horse in Fochabers, or the young man in the Inverness beer garden. And we’re still no nearer to laying our hands on Smith.’

Thirty / forty years was a long time. People moved away. They died.

‘Then we’ve got no choice: hit the media with Gordon Smith’s “before” Polaroids. Someone has to know who they are.’

Upstairs, the half-arsed rendition of ‘All My Life’ sputtered to a halt. Then started again from the beginning. And the drummer was still terrible.

‘Chief Superintendent McEwan won’t like that.’

‘Tough. You’re thinking of retiring anyway: cruises, golf, gardening, and grandchildren, remember?’

‘Don’t you start. Get enough of that from my Jack.’

Henry whined on the end of his leash, wee sides shivering, tail between his legs, fur all slicked down and dripping.

‘And I thought your IT guru was supposed to get us IDs: what happened to those eight hours I paid him for?’

Good question.

The Black Bull’s monochrome frontage was sandwiched between an angling shop and a café, its olde-worlde mock-Dickensian windows looking out over the marina to the ferry terminal. As Henry and I limped over the threshold, a wall of warm air wrapped its welcoming arms around us, bringing with it the sound of laughter.

Busy in here.

Henry and I worked our way through the crowd to the small bar, where a young woman with far too many piercings and a lopsided haircut was pulling pints of Belhaven. ‘What can I get you, love?’ As if she was a Glasgow granny.

‘Looking for the book club.’

She pointed off to her left, through a narrow passageway. ‘Down there, take a right. Drink?’

‘Pot of tea. Decaf, if you’ve got it?’ Talk about painting the town beige...

‘Aye, I’ll get someone to take it through to you.’

I handed over the cash and then Henry and I squeezed through the gap at the end of the bar; past another, longer bar; and turned right, into a large-ish nook, with a tartan-carpeted floor, red bench seating, and a bunch of old folks — most of them women — sitting around seven wooden tables. The eighth was empty, so we commandeered it: me collapsing into the padded seating, Henry collapsing under the table. The pair of us looking as if we’d swum here.

Everyone else had a paperback in front of them: black cover, moody shot of a crumbly warehouse, author’s name in big yellow lettering. That would be a crime novel, then.

I stretched my right leg out, teeth gritted as the ankle moaned and clicked and complained at the top of its voice.

A large woman, going bald on top, leaned over from the next table. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

‘Actually, I’m not—’

‘Here you go.’ A wee tray with a small metal pot of tea, mug, bowl of sugar sachets, and a thing of milk clicked down in front of me. Packet of shortbread on the side. Then the spotty youth who’d delivered it turned and hurried from the room before anyone could order anything from him.

She leaned in again. ‘Where were we? Yes, so, you’re new and—’

‘All right, everyone, we all here?’ A smiling woman in a floaty grey top, body warmer, and council lanyard stood at the head of the room, holding the book in her hand. Blonde hair with a half-inch of grey roots on show. ‘Welcome, everyone, to the Rothesay Library Criminally Good Book Club! Who’d like to start?’

A flurry of hands.

‘Maureen?’

The woman next to me lowered her hand. ‘I don’t understand why it had to be so gory! I mean, a man who collects dead animals in a steading, it’s horrible.’

Someone else nodded. ‘It was offensive, if you ask me. Sickeningly, cynically, offensive.’

I unwrapped the two tiny shortbread biscuits and fed one to Henry under the table.

‘What about the characters? Anyone?’

‘Yes.’ Another woman, this one done up in a trouser suit with lacquered hair. ‘That lesbian police officer. She was so revolting! Always talking and swearing and scratching and digging at her underwear. I didn’t like her at all: she ruined the whole book.’

Someone else nodded. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with female lesbians in crime fiction.’

‘Well, of course not, but there is when it’s nothing but an excuse for blasphemy and crude so-called “humour”.’

I poured my tea.

‘Can we please have a proper crime novel, next time? Like one of those nice Ann Cleeves ones.’

‘Oh, yes, I do like her books. She was lovely when she came to the crime-writing festival, too.’

And on, and on, and on they went, as I drank my decaf tea and finished the remaining biscuit.

Soon as I was done, I dug out the printout and levered myself to my foot — keeping the right one off the tartan carpet, so it wouldn’t sting so much. ‘Speaking of murder investigations,’ I flashed my expired warrant card at them, ‘do any of you recognise the people in this picture?’

The woman with the lacquered hair pursed her lips and glared at me, clearly not happy at being interrupted mid-rant about how terrible it was that anyone could enjoy a book where children got murdered.

Tough.

Welcome to the real world.

I passed the picture to Maureen. ‘Take your time, this would have been in the 1980s.’ Gave the rest of the room a bit of serious eye contact. ‘Anyone remember a young woman going missing back then?’

The librarian fiddled with her lanyard. ‘My cousin ran off with an American tourist. And there was Sheila Fraser — everyone thought her dad did her in and got rid of the body. Or Effie Parsons?’

One of the auld mannies shook his head, setting his combover bouncing. ‘Naw, that was in the seventies — having an affair with that Glaswegian artist bloke who used to come here and paint nudie women all the time.’

‘Sorry, never seen her before.’ Maureen handed the printout to the next table.

They all huddled over it, muttering away to each other.

‘All right, not Effie Parsons then.’ The librarian creased up her forehead. ‘What about Georgina Kerr? The police searched every house, bothy, shed, and outbuilding on the island, looking for her.’

The picture had nearly made it all the way around the book club.

Still, it’d been worth a try.

My phone ding-buzzed, deep in my damp pocket. When I pulled it out the screen was misted up. Had to wipe the condensation off with my shirt.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Damn.

I nodded at the book club. ‘Excuse me a minute.’

Slipped from the tartan nook, then out the back door. Into that narrow street that the waitress from lunch had pointed to. Into the drizzle too.

Quick hobble across the road, to shelter in a shop doorway. Somewhere nice and secluded to poke out a reply.

SEND.

Ding-buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Time to give Mother a kick up the backside.

She answered on the third ring. ‘Ash? Have you—’

‘What’s happening with that warrant?’

‘Were you always this rude, because—’

‘Leah’s been in touch again: she’s going to leave her phone on so we can trace it. Now where’s that warrant?’

‘John’s trying to serve it now.’ Mother sounded as if she was deflating. ‘Of course, at this time on a Sunday evening, chances are her mobile provider won’t be—’

‘You’ve got till Leah’s phone runs out of battery to find her. Gordon Smith’s not going to let her recharge the damn thing — we’ve got one chance and that’s it!’

‘I know, I know... We’re pushing as hard as we can, Ash, we really are.’

‘Then push harder.’ I hung up. Stuffed the phone back in my pocket. Slumped against the shop’s doors, staring up at the black wooden ceiling.

Smith hadn’t hurt Leah yet, but that couldn’t last. It wasn’t as if he’d had any qualms butchering her mum, and he’d been like a grandfather to her too.

‘Erm, excuse me?’ Woman’s voice.

When I looked down, there was one of the Rothesay Library crime book club’s members. One who’d sat quietly through most of it, nursing a large glass of white wine.

‘Sorry. Erm, hi, I’m Aileen. Aileen McCaskill?’ She tried on a pained smile. Her wrinkled waterproof and creased forehead made it look as if she’d shrunk into herself over the years, thin jowly neck protruding from the cowl of a thick orange jumper like a turtle. Watery blue eyes blinking up at me in the gloom of the shop doorway. ‘Told everyone I was off for a cigarette.’ She pulled out a pack, fingers covering the graphic warning image as she opened the top and offered me one.

‘Thanks, but I don’t.’

‘Quite right too. Filthy habit.’ But she lit one anyway, sucking on it with her eyes closed, setting the tip glowing a hot orange. Then letting out a lungful of smoke in a juddery breath. Another couple of puffs. ‘I...’ She cleared her throat. Looked away, down the street, towards the square. ‘That woman in the picture. With the man? I think it might be my sister.’

She huffed out a breath, smoke-free this time. ‘Linda was... could be difficult. Oh God, could she ever.’ Aileen bit her lips together. Shook her head. Stubbed her cigarette out, even though she’d barely touched it. ‘Drinking, boys, staying out late, failing all her O levels. Broke...’ Deep breath. ‘Broke my mum’s heart when Linda left: up and walked out one morning, didn’t even say goodbye. At least, that’s what we thought.’ Aileen dug into her waterproof and produced a tatty leather wallet. Clutching it in trembling fingers. ‘Was my dad’s.’ She flipped the thing open and held it up to the greasy streetlight, revealing a faded photograph of two teenaged girls: one in pastel-green trousers; the other, pastel yellow; matching baggy grey-and-blue jumpers with the popped collars of their shirts sticking out the neckholes. Big hair.

When I looked up from the photo, Aileen was staring at me, her eyes a lot waterier than before, a lot more needy, the tip of her nose pinkening.

She pointed at the girl in green trousers. ‘That’s Linda. You see?’ She reached out and took hold of my sleeve. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? The girl in your photo, with the ugly man in the shell suit? It’s my sister...’

Had to admit, it looked a lot like the woman in the photo with a young Peter Smith.

‘When did she go missing?’

‘June twelfth, 1985. It was my seventeenth birthday...’ A small, sour laugh. ‘Always thought she’d picked the date just to spite me. It’s not my fault I was a year older, is it? That I got new stuff and she had to make do with my hand-me-downs. God, how she hated that.’ Aileen let go of my arm and wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘But she... she didn’t, did she?’ The words coming quicker and quicker. ‘She didn’t run away. If she’d run away, you wouldn’t be here, showing her photo round. It was him, wasn’t it? The man in the picture did something to her.’

Something horrible.

If it was her.

The date was about right, going by the clothes and the haircuts. And the resemblance to the young woman in the photo was undeniable. But without a body or any forensic evidence to compare? With nothing but two stills taken from mobile phone footage in a darkened basement? Impossible to know for sure.

Aileen stared up at me, her father’s wallet clutched to her chest, bottom lip wobbling as her eyes filled up again.

What was better: false hope, or certainty and closure?

That whole year when I’d thought Rebecca had run away from home, when in reality she was already long dead. Hoping she’d walk in the door one day as if nothing had ever happened. Then that first homemade birthday card landed on the doormat and I found out what had really happened to my little girl.

But Aileen deserved the truth, didn’t she? No matter how much it hurt.

I nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her mouth opened wide, the bottom lip curled in over her teeth as dark pink flushed her cheeks, eyes screwed tightly shut. The silent scream made her knees bend and her hands curl into claws. Then a painful breath howled into her lungs and roared out in a jagged wail.

So I opened my arms, wrapped Aileen in a hug and held her as she sobbed.

Because Helen MacNeil was right: I knew how it felt.

26

I closed the taxi door and Aileen blinked up at me from the back seat, face all puffy and streaked with mascara. Then turned to face front as the old Ford puttered away down the narrow lane, took a right at the junction, and disappeared.

Jesus.

I sagged back against the empty shop doorway, pulled out my phone, and called Franklin.

‘For God’s sake, what now? I’m going as fast as I can, but there’s three tonnes of—’

‘Our girl’s Linda McCaskill: sixteen, went missing twelfth of June, 1985.’

Silence from the other end.

Then, ‘How did you—’

‘Old-fashioned legwork. See if there’s a misper report.’

More silence.

‘McCaskill, McCaskill, McCaskill... Here we go. Linda McCaskill.’ Some rustling, then a groan. ‘If it isn’t her, it looks a hell of a lot like her. But without a body?’

‘Yup.’ I checked my watch. ‘Five past eight. We got time to finish up and make the last ferry at nine?’

‘You are kidding, aren’t you? Have you forgotten how much paperwork it takes to turn a missing person into a murder victim? Be lucky if I’m out of here before midnight!’

True.

‘Then wrap it up; you can finish in the morning.’

‘But—’

‘We’ll have to spend the night in Rothesay anyway, so there’s no point busting your hump. Might as well grab dinner.’

But you know whose hump was worth busting?

Sabir’s.

Soon as I’d hung up, I gave the useless wee sod a call.

The sound of explosions and machineguns rattled in the background. ‘This better be important, like, I’m savin’ the werld from Nazi zombies, here.’

‘Where are my IDs?’

‘Hello, Sabir. How are you, Sabir. You’re my favourite, you are, Sabir.’

‘Oh, sorry, let me try that again. Hello, Sabir, where — are — my — sodding — IDs — you — lazy — tosser?’

‘A guy could go off you.’ The sounds of war came to an abrupt halt. ‘I’ve got web crawlers going through every Friends Reunited and LinkedIn profile on the net. Every missing persons’ database too, including a few I’m not meant to have access to an’ all. Cough, cough, GCHQ, cough, cough.’ A slurping noise. ‘See, your trouble is you know bugger all about information technology. You watch one episode of Dr Who and think you’re an expert, but I can’t search for stuff that’s never seen a computer in its puff!’

‘I thought you were meant to be—’

‘You wanna better result? Try looking for people who didn’t fall off the globe thirty years ago, you utter divvy! I’m doing me best here.’

Yeah...

‘Fair enough.’ I limped across the road again to the Black Bull’s back door. ‘Do me a favour, though?’

‘What, another one?’

‘DS Watt’s got a warrant for locating Leah MacNeil’s mobile phone. He’s an idiot.’

‘And you think calling us a “lazy tosser” is going to make me want to help youse?’

I leaned my walking stick against the pub wall, closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose with my free hand, and did my best not to swear. ‘I’m sorry, Sabir. You’re a tech guru, and DS Watt’s an idiot, and I want to find Leah MacNeil before Gordon Smith tortures her to death.’

‘Bleedin’ heck: you and the melodrama.’ A wet raspberry noise. ‘Hold on.’ The phone scrunched and squealed for a minute. Then Sabir was back. ‘Right, let’s see what’s on the system...’ Keys rattled. ‘OK... Jesus, your lad Watt’s spellin’s appalling.’ More keys. ‘He’s got it set up all wrong too. Give us a minute...’

I ducked back into the warmth, retrieved Henry and the printout, gave the lacquer-haired harridan a big smile, then headed outside again. ‘Any idea where she is?’

‘Can you shut yer gob for two minutes and let us werk?’

Fair enough.

We limped out of the lane and into the square, wind shoving against my spine, drizzle stabbing the nape of my neck. Past a tiny, closed, windowless newsagent’s with a big advert for Tunnock’s on one side of the door and a sandwich board screwed to the wall on the other: ‘HAS OLDCASTLE CHILD-STRANGLER STRUCK AGAIN?’

Knowing our luck? Definitely.

Across the square and down a cobbled road lined with wee shops, two banks, a huge Ladbrokes, cafés, and chemists. The only thing open was a small pub, the sound of a singalong in full-throated roar as we went by, bringing with it the funky scent of spilled beer and crowded bodies.

And nothing from Sabir’s end yet, but the clatter of oversized fingers on a noisy keyboard.

We’d made it as far as the Co-op on Bridge Street, cutting across the car park to the relative safety of the overhang above the main doors, before he was back.

‘You still there?’

‘Where else am I going to be?’

Henry got tied up outside, and I hobbled in, grabbing a basket on the way past.

‘One, you’re entirely correct: DC Watt is an idiot, and I am a tech guru. Two: I’ve fixed it so it werks now — muppet didn’t understand a mobile’s IMEI number and its phone number aren’t interchangeable. Three: I’ve been through the data they’ve got.’

‘And?’ Limping along the aisles to the one with face creams, shampoos, medicines, and various toiletries.

‘Got her phone being handed off between cell towers heading north up the M9 between Linlithgow and Junction Nine. Then it goes dark about three and a half miles south of Stirling. Either she’s switched it off, or it’s outta battery, like.’

Two cheap toothbrushes went in the basket along with a couple of bottom-of-the-range toothpastes. ‘Address?’

‘It’s the Stirling Services: they’ve gorra food court, tourist info centre, petrol station, and a Travelodge. So unless your Leah’s stopped for a touch of the early-evening budget-hotel delight, followed by a romantic Berger King, I don’t think so.’

‘Sod it.’ Down the aisles again, looking for the pet food.

‘Till she terns it on again, the system can’t find her. You want us to set up an alert, if she does? Straight to yer phone, like.’

‘Thanks, Sabir.’

‘Now, if ye’ll excuse us, I’ve got a werld to save.’ And he was gone.

Franklin wriggled out of her soaking jacket and collapsed into the chair opposite mine, mouth pulled into a grimace. ‘Bloody hell...’ Plucked a napkin from the table and scrubbed the water from her face. ‘Absolutely starving.’

‘Hold on a minute...’ I finished adding Leah’s mobile to my contacts, picking a different text-alert sound and ringtone so it’d be obvious when she tried to get in touch. Then pushed the bottle I’d ordered across the table to Franklin, flecks of condensation beading on the glass. ‘Got you a Cobra.’

The Chinese restaurant was tucked down a side street, within view of the putting course and seafront beyond. Warm in here, even as rain drummed against the steamed-up window, the air rich with five spice and sesame oil.

Franklin leaned over to one side and peered under the table. ‘Where’s Henry?’

‘Back at the hotel, tucking into a tin of own-brand meaty chunks in gravy and filling the room with wet-dog stench.’ I called up the map on my phone and placed it on the table between us. ‘According to Leah’s mobile provider, Gordon Smith is heading north.’

Franklin frowned at it. ‘Going back to his brother’s farm on the Black Isle?’

‘That’s Mother’s guess.’

She picked up the menu and frowned at that instead. ‘He’d be an idiot, though. Surely he knows we’d be waiting for him?’

‘And you don’t get away with killing people for fifty-six years by being an idiot.’

‘Szechuan ribs, crispy seaweed, Kung Pao chicken, egg fried rice.’ Franklin turned and waved at the waitress. ‘You want to split a thing of noodles?’

‘I’m getting some anyway; we can share, if you like.’ I wheeched a couple of fingers across the phone’s screen, scrolling up the A9, past Perth and on to Inverness. ‘He knows we’re after him, but he doesn’t know we can track Leah’s phone... Assuming she switches it on again.’

The waitress wandered over and Franklin ordered, then thrust the menu at me.

‘Can I have the spring rolls, salt-and-pepper king prawns, and... mushroom chow mein?’

‘Oh, and a thing of prawn crackers!’

Soon as the waitress was gone, I zoomed out the map. ‘There’s a lot of Scotland you can get to from Stirling.’

‘Yes, but most of it’s easier from the M90. If you’re heading north from Edinburgh, why not go straight up to Perth? Why the detour?’

Good question.

One thing sprung to mind: ‘Think he’s got property there?’

‘Not according to the Land Registry. The place in Clachmara was it.’

‘What about his brother, or his wife?’

Franklin raised an eyebrow. ‘Now that’s worth chasing up.’ She looked up as the waitress returned with a heaped bowl of prawn crackers. Had to be enough there for at least six people. ‘Perfect, thanks.’ Franklin scooped up three or four of the curled white discs and stuffed them into her mouth, one after the other. Eyes closed. Making happy humming noises as she crunched.

I bit the edge off one — still hot from the deep fat. ‘Unless Smith’s going the long way round on purpose? Tootling along in his ugly old Mercedes, staying off the main road so we don’t catch him on the ANPR cameras. Thinks he can sneak up to the Black Isle without anyone noticing.’

She stuffed in another prawn cracker. ‘He’d still have to be an idiot.’

The map on my phone shifted under a grease-free finger till the Black Isle filled the screen. That knobbly peninsula, just across the water from Inverness. Not really big enough to lose yourself in, if you didn’t want to be found. Assuming anyone was looking, of course.

‘Highlands and Islands have got the farm staked out, don’t they?’

Franklin paused, cracker half-in half-out of her mouth. ‘Yeah. Bound to.’ But she didn’t sound convinced.

Still... Wouldn’t hurt to check tomorrow: make sure someone was actually watching the place. But at least that was N Division’s problem, not mine.

‘OK,’ I pocketed my phone again, ‘so we hit Stirling tomorrow. How long do you need to finish up here?’

‘Could probably palm most of it off on sleazy Sergeant Campbell. I’ve got all the important bits done anyway. Even he couldn’t cock up the rest.’

‘Good. If we get the nine o’clock ferry, we can be in Stirling by eleven-ish?’

‘Doable.’ She rubbed her hands together as the starters arrived, diving straight into the ribs. And that was it as far as sensible conversation was concerned.

Too busy eating.

‘So, is your room nice?’ Alice, doing her best to sound upbeat and cheery, and not getting anywhere close.

‘You’d love it. Great view out over the sea and all the mountains in the background.’ Or at least there probably was, if you had a room at the front of the Hotel Sokoloff. I cleared a porthole in the steamed-up window, looking out over a car park and a building site. A nearly-full skip overflowing in the rain.

‘How’s Henry?’

The wee lad was curled up at the foot of the bed, making snuffling snores, paws twitching as he dreamed. His dirty-grey wet-dog stench filled every corner of the room, like a coat of horrible paint.

‘You asked me that already, remember?’

‘Yes. Right.’ A heavy breath.

‘Is everything OK?’ I pulled the curtains shut and sat down on the bed. ‘You sound all... squirrely.’

‘You didn’t see the Sunday papers? The tabloids found out that Gòrach garrottes his victims, so now they’re calling him the “Oldcastle Child-Strangler” and it’s all over the front pages and everyone on the team’s looking at me as if it’s my fault we can’t catch him and—’

‘It’s not your fault!’

‘Bear says we have to interview all the sex offenders again, but that won’t help, I mean, the profile clearly shows that Gòrach hasn’t been in trouble with the law before, or if he has it’s been for petty things like shoplifting or setting fire to the bins outside a takeaway or something minor like that, but he’s not going to be on the Sex Offenders’ Register, because this, what he’s doing, it’s been a journey for him trying to work out what his sexuality really is and how it works, and Bear’s going in the wrong direction and Toby Macmillan is going to turn up dead and strangled and it’ll all be my fault for not catching Gòrach and everyone will hate me and I’m horrible and useless at my job and why aren’t you here to help?’

Never ceased to amaze that she could do all of that in what sounded like one breath.

‘I can’t always be there, Alice. I wish I could be, but I can’t.’

Just like I wasn’t there for Rebecca. Or Katie...

The duvet whoomphed beneath me as I slumped onto it, lying flat on my back, one hand covering my face. ‘And it’s not all on you, OK? Jacobson’s the one in charge, if everything goes tits-up it’s his fault, not yours. Do what you can.’

‘Urgh...’

‘So the question is: what are you going to do?’

She made a noise like a deflating beach ball. ‘I don’t know. I want to rework the profile, but I genuinely can’t face anything stronger than Lucozade and Irn-Bru. Everything else bounces.’

‘So try doing it sober for a change. To hell with what Henry Forrester said, you’re not his minion any more, you’re a highly respected forensic psychologist who’s caught dozens of sick bastards and saved countless lives.’

‘Then why do I still feel like a total—’

‘Beating yourself up isn’t helping, OK?’

Silence.

Henry stirred at the foot of the bed, let out a huge pink yawn, then curled up and went back to snoring again.

‘Alice?’

‘You were right: what you said to Bear. I really won’t work without you. Going by the way I’m stumbling about, achieving sod all, I’m starting to think I can’t. Come back to Oldcastle. Please!’

‘You don’t need me to function, Alice, and you don’t need Henry Bloody Forrester. It’s time to drag your arse out from his shadow, stand on your own two little red trainers, and do it your way.’

She let out a long rusty whine. Then, ‘You’re right, you’re right.’

‘Of course I am.’

Twice in one day.

First time for everything.