Cooper cleared his throat. ‘They’re still there.’
I passed the folder back to Jacobson. ‘Of course they’re still there. Where else are they going to go? We’ve not had a turn-off yet.’
A thin band of trees loomed like a wall in front of the car, then past into more fields. We drove through farmland bordered by another line of pines, then Cooper took a left. The headlights behind us did the same. Then a hard right.
Through a tiny village, to the junction. Left at the primary school. And we were heading back towards the A90. Soon as we were through the limit end, Cooper put his foot down, the Range Rover’s engine bellowed, smearing the fields past the windows.
The car behind us did the same. Keeping pace as the needle crept up to eighty.
I clipped in my seatbelt. No offence to Cooper, but he looked about twelve years old. ‘Either whoever’s tailing us is really crap at it, or they don’t care if we see them or not.’
‘Hmm …’ Jacobson shoogled his shoulders in the seat again. Settling in. ‘In that case, it’s either those dicks from the Specialist Crime Division, or your halfwit Oldcastle mates. Keeping an eye on the competition.’
I checked back over my shoulder as we roared through the underpass, then left. The tyres screeched, the back end kicking out for a moment, then we surged up the slip road and onto the dual carriageway north again.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six …
The other vehicle’s headlights appeared behind us again, falling into place three cars back.
Specialist Crime Whatsits, Oldcastle CID, or something much, much worse.
Cooper pulled the Range Rover up to the kerb, opposite a boarded-up pub on the eastern fringes of Cowskillin – where it merged into Castle Hill.
No sign of the black BMW.
‘Right,’ Jacobson turned in his seat and pointed a hairy finger at me, ‘you go in there and you wait till I get back from this sodding press briefing. Remember, you’re on an investigative team now, not sharing a shower with some hairy-arsed rapist from Dunkeld. Try not to hit anyone.’
I clunked open the rear door and eased out onto the pavement. Bloody right foot ached, like the tip of a red-hot knife was being slowly driven through the bone. That’s what I got for sitting in the one position in a warm car for nearly two hours. The walking stick had to take a bit more weight than normal. ‘What makes you think I won’t just do a runner?’
He buzzed down his window and winked at me. ‘Honesty, integrity, and the fact that there’s a GPS locator built into your ankle tag.’ He popped open the glove compartment again and came out with a little plastic box fitted with an antenna. Pressed a button on the matt black surface. It bleeped. ‘There you go: all paired up. Now, if you try to tamper with the thing, or it registers a gap of more than one hundred yards between it and the one your sponsor’s wearing, all hell breaks loose.’
‘Sponsor?’
He chucked the remote into the glove compartment. ‘Go inside and all will be revealed.’
I closed the car door, limped away a couple of paces. Cooper indicated, pulled out from the kerb and drove off into the night. Leaving me all alone with my bin-bag. And my ankle monitor.
One hundred yards.
So what was to stop me going inside, battering my ‘sponsor’ unconscious, hotwiring a car, chucking him in the boot, and heading off to pay Mrs Kerrigan the kind of late-night visit that would’ve given Jeffrey Dahmer nightmares? They could send me back to prison for as long as they liked after that. Who’d care?
Not like I’d have anything left out here …
I creaked down and picked up the bin-bag, hoisted it over my shoulder.
The Postman’s Head nestled between a closed-down carpet place and a vacant bookshop with ‘FOR SALE OR LET’ signs in the window. Behind it, the granite blade of Castle Hill reared up into the dark-orange sky – winding Victorian streets lit by period lanterns, the remains of the castle at the top bathed in harsh white spotlights. From down here the ruins looked like a bottom jaw, ripped from its skull.
An old-fashioned wooden sign hung outside the pub – a severed head wearing a Postman-Pat-style hat. Sheets of plywood covered all of the windows. The paintwork was peeling off the door.
It sat opposite an abandoned building site, the chipboard barrier smeared with graffiti and warning notices. A sign with a faded artist’s impression of a block of flats: ‘LEAFYBROOK SHELTERED ACCOMMODATION OPENING 2008!’ The padlock and chain dripped rust smears down the painted wooden gates. Probably hadn’t been opened for years.
A spot of water landed on the back of my hand. Then another one. Not big drops, just tiny flecks. A prelude to drizzle. Can’t remember the last time I actually felt the rain on my face … I stared up into the sky. Clouds heavy and dark, reflecting the streetlights’ sodium glow, a faint mist of rain growing heavier with every passing second.
The wind got up too, whipping down the street, rattling the corrugated metal fence running down one side of the road, fluttering the ‘CONDEMNED ~ WARNING KEEP OUT!’ notices stuck to it. Creaking the postman’s severed head sign back and forth.
Sod this.
I hobbled across the road, grunting with every step, and tried the pub’s door. It opened onto a small airlock. Light came through a pair of frosted glass panels in the inner doors. I pushed through.
God knew when I was last in the Postman’s Head. Probably when we had to kick our way in to arrest Stanley-Knife Spencer. Took fifteen of us, six of whom spent the rest of the night in Accident and Emergency, getting their faces stitched back together.
Place was a hovel then and it was even worse now. Two walls were stripped to the bare brick, batons of wood bristling with rusty nail-heads – some of them still clutching little chunks of plasterboard. The scarred bar stretched the length of the room, dotted with stacks of paper, the pump handles sticking up at random angles. A small pile of tools – screwdrivers, spanners, a hammer – lay next to a delicate china mug with the Rangers logo on it.
Someone had heaped up most of the old wooden chairs and tables in the corner by a dead fruit machine, leaving a handful of them behind – arranged in a semicircle around a pair of easels. One held a whiteboard, the other a flipchart, both of which were covered in bullet-points and arrows.
Head-and-shoulder shots of all seven original victims were pinned up by the toilets. Above six of them was a grainy photocopy of a handwritten letter. No white on the sheets, just grey and gritty black. They’d been copied so often that the handwriting was fuzzy, the letters bleeding into each other. A shiny flatscreen TV was mounted above the cigarette machine, little drifts of plaster dust on the floor below.
No sign of anyone.
I dumped my bin-bag on the nearest table. ‘SHOP!’
A voice rolled up from somewhere behind the bar, thick and plummy. ‘Ah, perfect timing. Be a dear and pass me the adjustable spanner, would you?’
A dear?
I stepped up to the bar and picked the spanner from the pile of tools. Hefted it in my right hand, smacking it against the palm of my left. Good as anything for giving someone a concussion. Have to get to him first though.
I put my good foot on the metal rail and levered myself up. Peered over the edge of the bar into the space behind.
A long man lay on his back on the floor, crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, pink tie tucked into the gap between two buttons. Dust smudged the black pinstripe trousers, took some of the shine off the leather brogues. He raised a hairy gunmetal eyebrow at me – it went with the short-back-and-sides and military moustache. ‘You must be the ex-Detective Inspector we’ve heard so much about.’ He sat up and brushed his hands together, then held one of them out. ‘I believe you’re the chap who let the Inside Man get away?’
Cheeky bastard. I didn’t shake it, stuck my chin out instead, pulled my shoulders back. ‘I’ve not crippled anyone for days, you volunteering?’
‘Interesting …’ A smile. ‘They never said you were touchy. Tell me, were you always like this, or did losing your daughter to the Birthday Boy do it? Did you get worse every time another card plopped through the letterbox? Seeing him torture her to death, one photo at a time? Is that it?’
I tightened my grip on the spanner. Forced the words out through a clenched jaw, tendons tight in my neck. ‘You my sponsor?’
Please say yes. It was going to be a pleasure caving his head in.
6
‘Your sponsor?’ He laughed, letting it fade into a chuckle. ‘Oh, dear me, no. Tell me, ex-Detective Inspector, do you know anything about beer pumps?’
‘So who is?’
‘You see, I’ve never really had much to do with them before – more of a gin-and-tonic man myself – but I like to think I can turn my hand to anything. So, did you let him go on purpose, or was it just a bit of incompetence?’
Right, that was it.
And then a voice behind me: ‘Ash?’
Alice. She’d ditched the suit for a grey-and-black stripy top and black skinny jeans, a pair of bright red Converse trainers sticking out of the ends. A leather satchel, worn courier style, at her hip. Her curly brown hair, freed from its ponytail, bounced as she charged across the room and jumped at me. Wrapped her arms around my neck. Buried her face against my cheek. And squeezed. ‘Oh, God, I’ve missed you!’ Tears damp against my skin.
Her hair smelled of mandarins. Just like Katie’s used to …
Something clicked deep beneath my ribs. I closed my eyes and hugged her back. And whatever clicked, spread out across my chest, making it swell.
The git in the shirt and tie tutted. ‘You know, if you’re going to fornicate I’d really rather you didn’t do it here. Nip upstairs and I’ll get the video camera.’
Alice pulled her head back, grinned at me. ‘Ignore him, he’s only trying to get a reaction. Best bet is to let him get on with it till he bores himself.’ She planted a huge kiss on my cheek. ‘You look thinner. Do you want something to eat, I mean I could get something, like a takeaway, or we could go to a restaurant, oh no we can’t, Bear wants us to wait here till he gets back from the press conference, I’m so glad you’re out!’ All done in a single breath.
She gave me one last squeeze, then let go. Pointed at the guy behind the bar. ‘Ash, this is Professor Bernard Huntly, he’s our physical evidence man.’
Huntly stiffened. ‘Physical evidence guru, I think you’ll find.’
Her hand was warm against my cheek. ‘Are you OK?’
I spared Huntly a glare. ‘Getting there.’
He leaned on the bar. ‘Mr Henderson and I were just enjoying a robust philosophical exchange about his daughters and the Birthday Boy.’
Alice’s eyes went wide. Looked from Huntly to the spanner clenched in my fist, and back again. ‘Oh … No. That’s really not a good idea. Trust me, there’s—’
‘You never answered my question, Mr Henderson.’ The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. ‘Why did you let the Inside Man get away?’
Alice prised the spanner from my hand and placed it on the bar. ‘Professor Huntly thinks being rude to people makes them reveal their true selves, I mean it’s nonsense of course, but he refuses to accept that reactions under stress aren’t indicative of our inner cognitive—’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Huntly disappeared back down behind the pumps again. ‘What’s your opinion of psychology, Mr Henderson? Airy fairy nonsense, or load of old bunkum?’
Bunkum?
Alice climbed onto a creaky barstool. Then pulled up the left leg of her jeans a couple of inches. A thick band of grey disappeared into a blocky plastic rectangle, about the same size as a pack of playing cards. My sponsor. ‘You’ll be staying with me, obviously, I mean it wouldn’t really work if you had to live on the other side of the city, what with the hundred-yards thing. I’ve got us a flat and it’s not great, but it’s OK and I’m sure we’ll be able to make it cosy …’
That complicated things a bit. No way I was going to crack her skull with a spanner. Why couldn’t it have been Huntly?
The breath hissed out of me, and my chin dropped an inch.
Probably for the best. Keep a low profile. Be a team player. At least until Mrs Kerrigan was sprawled in a lake of her own blood.
Alice patted the seat next to her. ‘Did Bear bring you up to speed on the details?’
‘Who the hell is “Bear”?’
A frown. ‘Detective Superintendent Jacobson. I thought you knew.’
Bear? Seriously?
Lunatics and idiots.
I sat. ‘He showed me the deposition scene photos and a couple of statements. Said we weren’t bothering with the post-mortem and forensic results.’
A clunk from behind the bar. ‘There we go, that should do it.’ Huntly stood, then placed a bucket underneath the middle pump. ‘Fingers crossed.’ He hauled on the handle and air hissed from the nozzle. ‘The press conference should be starting about now: the remote’s on the table if you want to do the honours?’
I picked the thing up from the table, pointed it at the TV, and thumbed the power.
The screen flickered, glowed blue for a second, then filled with a grim-faced woman in a tight blue suit. ‘… just as the school opened, leaving six dead and thirteen injured. Police marksmen fired on the gunman who is believed to be in a critical condition at Parkland Memorial Hospital …’
Huntly gave another haul on the pump and water sprayed into the bucket. ‘Success. Now all we need to do is clean out the pipes and get a barrel hooked up.’
‘… candlelit vigil on Wednesday. Glasgow now, and the hunt is on for three men who abducted and raped paralympian Colin …’
Alice swivelled her seat from side to side. ‘I still don’t understand why they didn’t take you with them?’
He stiffened for a moment. Then untucked his tie. ‘Mr Henderson, there’s a very good reason why we’re not using the operation’s forensic and post-mortem results: investigative bias. It’s our job to remain objective, independent, and unsullied by operational preconceptions. I would’ve thought that was obvious.’
I smiled at him. ‘Let me guess, you’re not allowed in front of the press, in case you come off as a pompous, arrogant, condescending arsebag?’
‘… are appealing for witnesses.’
‘There are three Major Investigation Teams attacking the Inside Man problem. One from Oldcastle Division, one from the Specialist Crime Division. And we,’ he swept a hand across the bar, indicating the mothballed pub, ‘are the Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.’
‘… in Oldcastle today. Ross Amey is there for us now. Ross?’
A big man with long hair and a microphone appeared on the TV, the sign outside Oldcastle Force Headquarters just out of focus behind him in the dark. ‘Thank you, Jennifer. They call him “the Inside Man” …’
‘Seriously? Three separate investigations?’
‘Au contraire, Mr Henderson. Things have changed since you went inside to pleasure Her Majesty – there is no Oldcastle Police Force, there is only Police Scotland. Technically all the MITs are supposed to work together, but in real life Operation Tigerbalm is one big bun-fight between Oldcastle and the Specialist Crime Division to see who has the largest penis. Look on it as the joy of being all one big happy family now.’
‘… discovery of a woman’s body last night by ambulance services.’
‘And you lot?’
‘No, not “you lot”, Mr Henderson, “us”, “we”. You’re part of the team now.’
‘Whether I like it or not.’
A lopsided shrug. Then Huntly pointed at the TV. ‘Behold: the lies begin.’
The screen filled with a long desk. An array of officers – some in their dress uniforms, the others in suits – sat ramrod-stiff behind it. The only one with all their own hair was a woman, blonde curls raked back from her forehead, what looked like a permanent frown tattooed on her face. A caption flickered beneath her chin: ‘DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ELIZABETH NESS, OLDCASTLE CID’.
She cleared her throat. ‘First I have to say that our thoughts and prayers are with Claire Young’s family at this harrowing time. They’ve asked me to read you the following statement. “Claire was a sparkling person whose loss will haunt us forever …”’
Alice wrapped her arm around herself, one hand fiddling with her hair, eyes fixed on the TV. ‘Have you worked with Detective Superintendent Ness before, I mean is she going to be someone that’s receptive to input from other—’
‘No idea. Must be new.’
‘“… ask that you allow us the time and space to grieve for our beautiful Claire …”’
The pub’s inner door clunked open and a thickset woman in a vast padded jacket staggered in, laden down with pizza boxes. She had a woolly hat jammed down over her ears, face half-hidden by a knitted scarf. A plastic carrier-bag hung from one hand, swaying from side to side as she heeled the door shut behind her. ‘Did I miss it?’
Huntly pulled a pinstriped jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on, completing the suit. ‘Statement from the family.’
Onscreen, Ness swapped one prepared statement for another. ‘Three twenty-three yesterday morning, an ambulance responded to a nine-nine-nine call near Blackwall Hill …’
The woman in the padded jacket lurched across the room, the contents of her carrier-bag clinking against her leg. ‘It’s OK, I don’t need any help …’
‘Sheila, my dearest lady, allow me to assist.’ Huntly took the top box off the stack and carried it over to the bar. Popped it open. The heady scent of garlic, onions, and tomato fluttered out, swirling through the air like trapped starlings. His shoulders dipped a notch. ‘Oh. This one’s vegetarian.’ Then he shut the box again.
‘… pronounced dead at the scene. That’s all I’m able to say at the moment, other than investigations are ongoing with assistance from our colleagues in the Specialist Crime Division and a team of independent experts.’
Alice reached across and slid it down the bar towards herself. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
Sheila lowered the remaining pizza boxes onto one of the tables and hauled off her gloves. Slipped her hands in between two of the cartons. ‘God, it’s perishing out there …’ A shiver. The scarf drooped, revealing a pair of round shiny cheeks and a small button nose. Then she stuck a hand out at me. ‘Sheila Constantine, pathologist; you must be Henderson. Welcome aboard. You owe me twelve pounds sixty-three.’ She turned a scowl in Huntly’s direction. ‘Everyone owes me twelve pounds sixty-three.’
‘… will now take questions.’ Ness pointed at someone off camera. ‘Yes?’
A man’s voice: ‘Are you treating this as a copycat case, or is the Inside Man back again?’
Huntly opened the next box in the stack. ‘Are these all vegetarian? Because I specifically asked for a meat feast.’
Sheila struggled her way out of her coat. ‘That’s enough about your private life, Bernard, we’re about to eat. And before you ask: no, I won’t take an IOU this time.’
‘… not willing to be drawn into speculation about who’s responsible before we’ve investigated …’
I stuck my hand in my pocket. Looked at the boxes, then at Alice, then at the boxes again.
A little line appeared between her eyebrows. She nodded. ‘I’ll pay for Ash, as I’m his sponsor, or maybe we should all chip in as a sort of welcome to the team and—’
‘Ah, yes of course.’ Huntly slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘Mr Henderson is just out of prison. He’s financially embarrassed. How very insensitive of you, Sheila. We shouldn’t be speaking of money at a time like this!’
‘Detective Superintendent, who’s running the investigation here, you or Superintendent Knight? Doesn’t the Scottish Chief Constable trust Oldcastle to—’
‘It’s standard operating procedure to have multiple Major Investigation Teams working together on a case like this, and I for one welcome any assistance offered when young women’s lives are at stake. Do you think we should refuse SCD’s help out of some twisted sense of pride?’
‘I … Well, no, but—’
‘I will pursue and exploit every avenue available to me if I think it will help catch the person responsible for Claire Young’s death. Next?’
Huntly moved on to another pizza. ‘Ah, finally. Something with salami on it.’ He dumped the box on one of the pub tables and settled into a chair. He pulled a triangle of dough, cheese, and greasy meat from the carton and pointed at Ness with it. ‘Good, isn’t she? Promoted and transferred up from Tayside. Giving the local bumpkins a shake-up by all accounts.’ He stuffed a mouthful in and chewed. Eating with his eyes fixed on the screen. Then dabbed at the corner of his lips with a handkerchief. ‘I did a case with her, back when she was a DS. Serial rape, very nasty … You wouldn’t think it, but she’s quite the femme fatale when she’s not wearing her game face.’
‘Has the Inside Man sent another letter?’
‘Let me repeat myself: we’re not speculating about who’s responsible. Next?’
‘Yes, but has a letter—’
‘Next?’
Dr Constantine pulled out a chair and sank into it. The thick layers of her padded jacket ballooned out around her. ‘I’ve checked with Ness and Knight – we can have the deposition scene first thing tomorrow morning, and the body any time after two.’
‘What kind of doll was it?’
‘We’re not releasing that information. Next?’
Huntly took another bite. ‘When do I get at the physical evidence?’
Sheila scowled at him. ‘Not till you pay for that pizza.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake …’
‘Was it a Tiny Tears, or a Baby Bunty doll?’
‘I’ve already answered that question. Next?’
‘These independent experts, do they report to you, or SCD?’
Ness looked off to the side. ‘Detective Superintendent Jacobson?’
‘Ah.’ Huntly plucked the remote from my fingers. ‘Here we go.’ He turned up the volume.
The briefing room smeared across the screen as the camera turned, and there was Jacobson, standing off to the side, staring out into the pub. He’d put on a brown tie, but hadn’t bothered with a suit, sticking with the tan leather jacket instead. ‘My team are all at the very top of their field, each one hand-picked for their ability to bring decades of experience and a unique perspective to any case.’
A moment’s silence. Then whoever asked the question in the first place tried again. ‘Yes, but do you report to Oldcastle CID, or the Specialist Crime Division?’
‘An excellent question.’
More silence.
‘Er … Would you like to answer it?’
‘The Lateral Investigative and Review Unit will feed its results, through me, to whichever Major Investigation Team is best suited to act upon them.’
Alice sooked the grease from her fingers. ‘And now everyone thinks we’re in charge.’
Sheila nodded. ‘You were right. Good suggestion.’ The camera swung back for a reaction shot from the top brass: cue coughing and spluttering.
Then Ness pulled on a hard smile. ‘Having worked with Detective Superintendent Jacobson on several investigations, I’m pleased to welcome his LIRU team onboard.’
The Superintendent sitting next to her stuck his chest out. It was covered in silver buttons, a row of multi-coloured ribbons above his left pocket: Golden Jubilee medal, Diamond Jubilee, and a Long Service & Good Conduct. All of them awarded for nothing braver than just being in the job long enough, but there he was, wearing them with pride. That would be Superintendent Knight, then. He jerked his chin up, the strip-lights flashed off his bald head. ‘The Specialist Crime Division is also pleased to work with Detective Superintendent Jacobson’s team.’
