King sat up at that. Eyes wide, eyebrows up. ‘But on the inside...?’
‘None at all. And only the presenter’s prints on the tinfoil package. Nothing on the hands themselves or the note. Our boy was bright enough to wear gloves. They’ve swabbed for DNA, but given the crime scene—’
‘Aye.’ Steel shook her head. ‘You were right the first time, Kingy: you’re screwed.’
He stared at the ceiling tiles, mouth moving as if he was swearing away inside his head.
‘But I have managed to trace the package back to the Post Office it was sent from. First class, yesterday morning.’ Hence the smugness.
‘Pfff...’ Steel had a big stretch, showing off a toad-belly pale slice of stomach. ‘Aye, but they could’ve posted it from any postbox in the collection area. There could be thousands and thousands of houses covered by the one Post Office. No’ to mention Happy Harry the Hand Hacker-Offer probably wouldn’t use his friendly neighbourhood postbox. He’d drive somewhere out of the way and use theirs.’
Heather gave Steel’s arm a little squeeze. ‘No, dear, you’re not listening: the hands were in the tinfoil palm to palm, yes?’ She put the evidence bag down and gave them a demonstration. ‘So that makes the package too thick to jam in through a postbox slot. You’d need to drop it off in person.’
Steel narrowed her eyes. ‘Nobody likes a smartarse.’
‘So I got on to a friend of mine who works at the Huntly depot and he traced the postmark for me.’ She checked her notebook. ‘Package was sent from the Westhill Post Office, yesterday, at nine twenty-three.’
King stared at her. ‘Do they have...?’
‘They’re digging out the CCTV for us now.’
‘Ha!’ He punched the air. ‘DS Steeclass="underline" get a car. Heather: get—’
‘Can it wait till I’ve given Gibbs his walk?’
‘We’re against the clock, H.’
‘Well I can’t leave him in the car, what if he has an accident?’
King screwed his face up for a breath. ‘OK, OK. You stay here and coordinate things. I’ll take Milky.’
‘But—’
‘You did great, H.’ He gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘We’re going to catch this bastard!’
Westhill shopping centre hadn’t taken well to modernisation. The bulk of it was an old-fashioned grey-beige blockwork affair, with the shopfronts nestled in behind a covered walkway, but they’d bolted a knock-off strip-mall to one end, sticking out like a broken limb to line the far end of the car park.
A car park that was nearly solid 4x4s. None of which looked as if they’d ever been further off-road than the local Costco. Every now and then, a slightly older hatchback denoted some teenager’s first car — usually complete with ‘ironic’ furry dice, oversized exhaust, and completely unnecessary ironing-board-sized spoiler. But mostly, it was 4x4s.
‘... described it as a “terrible shock”. We spoke to her soon after the grisly discovery.’
Milky pulled in next to a Range Rover Discovery, with a ‘Bugger Off Brussels!’ sticker in the rear window, as Muriel Kirk’s voice purred out of the radio, in full-on presenter mode. ‘We get a lot of fan mail at the Muriel Kirk Show, so I didn’t think anything of it until I opened the package.’
King leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring at the radio. ‘Don’t say it, please don’t say it.’
In the back seat, Steel nudged Logan. ‘She’s going to say it.’
‘Inside was a tinfoil parcel.’
‘Don’t...’
‘And inside that, was a pair of severed hands.’
‘Told you.’
The car erupted as everyone had a simultaneous rant: ‘For God’s sake!’, ‘It’s a murder investigation!’, ‘Don’t tell everyone that!’
The original newsreader made a ‘thinky’ noise. ‘And what did the police say?’
‘Clearly they’re playing it very close to their chests, but we need to make sure everyone understands how serious this is. If anyone out there has any information that could help find whoever’s responsible, please get in touch with either the police or the Muriel Kirk Show, on the air from one o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Muriel.’
Steel bared her teeth, sooking air through them. ‘Oooh, that’s no’ good. Think they’ll be dragging the Chief Superintendent out of his meeting now? He’ll want to polish his arse-kicking boots.’
‘Weather now, and this heatwave’s set to continue on to the weekend at least, with temperatures—’
Milky killed the engine. ‘I don’t normally indulge in bad language, but as Heather would say, Muriel Kirk can... “sex and travel”.’
King made a little growling noise, then hauled in a couple of deep breaths. Stuffing it down.
Couldn’t blame him. Milky was right, Muriel Kirk really could ‘sex and travel’.
Logan sighed. ‘It was going to come out eventually. At least we’ve got a lead to follow, now.’
Steel reached between the seats and patted King on the shoulder, voice soft and kind. Completely unlike her. ‘Laz is right. Come on, Frank: we can do this.’ She checked her watch. ‘Still got nearly two and a half hours: how hard can it be?’
Another deep breath, then King nodded and climbed out of the car. Stopped to look back inside. ‘So what are you all waiting for?’
The Post Office was hidden away at the back of the local Co-op, just past the tinned vegetables and baby food. A bespectacled auld mannie with a baldy head and hairy ears sat behind the safety glass, watching with baggy eyes as a dumpy wee lady in a granny cardigan and fur-lined boots counted out a big pile of loose change onto his counter.
There was a queue: another pair of wee dumpies shuffling at the front of it, while a couple of spotty teenagers brought up the rear — the two of them fiddling with their phones and piercings.
King marched straight past the lot of them and up to the counter. Making friends as usual.
‘Hoy!’ One of the old ladies waved a bag-for-life at him. ‘There’s a queue!’
‘You tell him, Babs.’ Old Lady Number Three jerked her chins up. ‘No swicking in, fatty!’
Logan squeezed past. ‘Sorry about this. Police business...’
Steel and Milky followed him to the counter.
The lady counting out change didn’t look up from her coins. Not even when King knocked on the safety glass.
‘Hmm?’ The auld mannie behind the counter blinked at them. According to his nametag — ‘HELLO, MY NAME IS ANDREW’ — they were supposed to ‘ASK ME ABOUT TRAVEL INSURANCE!’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s a queue, so can you—’
King slapped his warrant card against the glass. ‘I need to speak to the manager. Now.’
Mrs Bag-For-Life gave it another wave. ‘Bloody disgrace, that’s what this is!’
Mrs Chins nodded, setting her wattle swaying. ‘We were here first!’
Andrew peered at King’s warrant card, then over King’s shoulder at Logan, Steel, and Milky. ‘Oh. Right. I’ll get Geraldine.’
Mrs Bag-For-Life raised a walking stick and took a wee hurpley step forward — brandishing it like a cutlass. ‘Someone needs to teach you a bloody good lesson!’
‘You tell them, Babs!’
Steel turned and smiled a cold hard smile. ‘Hands up everyone whose road tax, council tax, and TV licence are up to date.’
Silence.