Allan Guthrie
Bye Bye Baby
TUESDAY
1
I was on my way downstairs to grab a can of something fizzy from the drinks machine when I passed Detective Sergeant Dutton's office. I made the mistake of looking up. He saw me and waved me over.
His room was tiny. The desk took up most of the space and it wasn't a big desk. I wondered how Dutton managed to pull the chair out far enough to squeeze himself in. He was a beefy guy with a porn-star moustache, which he was stroking as he listened to the caller on the other end of the phone.
I stood in the doorway catching the faint smell of tobacco smoke from Dutton's clothes.
He scribbled a few notes, grunted something, then said goodbye and hung up.
"You can have this one, Collins," he said to me. "Missing kid."
"You serious?"
Dutton didn't like me. Few people did, mainly because of my uncle. But with Dutton it was personal.
I'd told his wife she should leave him and she'd told him what I said.
Yeah, I know, I should mind my own business. But I'd heard the way he spoke to her and it was ugly. I'd happily do the same again.
"Why wouldn't I be serious?" He pulled a face. An attempt to look hurt. "Well, if you don't think you can handle it…"
"How old's the kid?"
"Seven."
"Where's the mother right now?"
"At home."
"You have the address?"
"Right here." He tapped a scrap of paper on his desk with his pen. "You sure about this now?"
"You think I'm not up to the job?" I held out my hand.
But he just chewed the inside of his cheek and peered at me. "Maybe it needs someone more senior at the helm," he said. "I think I should take it."
He knew I'd been after a high-profile case for ages. I'd decided a couple of months ago that if I didn't get promoted in the next year, I was going to get out of the police force. Too much paperwork and overtime and arseholes like Dutton for me to stay a constable forever. I had bills to pay, or I'd have left already.
I said, "You decided yet?" If Dutton was waiting for me to beg, he'd have a long wait.
We stared at each other for a while. Then he said, "Don't make me regret this," and handed over the address. "The mother's spoken to Uniform. I'll get her statement. Fill you in over the radio."
"I can speak to them when I get there."
"I've already sent them door to door. Need all the bodies we can get out looking for the kid." He pointed his pen at me. "One other thing. Won't be a Family Liaison officer free for about an hour. You better take a female passenger with you."
"You left the mother on her own?"
"She picked a bad day to lose her son," he said. "But she knows we're on the way. She'll be fine." He pushed his chair back, gave himself just enough leg-room to get to his feet. "Now bugger off and show me what you can do."
2
The Scottish police do almost everything in pairs. You'd think we'd have partners like on the TV cop shows, but no, you find whoever's available and invite them along. In our office, we called them passengers.
The office where us lowly constables worked was open plan, blonde wood desks with foot-high partitions on legs that we all kept moving when nobody was looking. Everybody wanted that extra inch or two of desk space.
I glanced around, hoping to spot one of the female officers.
Hell, I didn't need to drag a woman along. I'd be fine with a bloke. Mother's lost her kid, we could deal with that. The mother would be upset, of course, and it'd be hard to begin with, but we'd manage.
Two of my male colleagues, detectives Moore and Temple, were in the kitchen area in the corner, making coffee.
I caught Moore's gaze and nodded towards him. He ignored me, turned to Temple.
I wasn't surprised.
God knows what I'd been thinking when I joined up. I used to be a bus driver, enjoyed that more than any other job I'd ever done. Then Holly got pregnant and we got by for a few years. Then she got pregnant again and we knew we were going to struggle so I applied for the police. No big deal. I don't deny that my uncle was a big help.
After I'd been in uniform for seven years, I applied for CID. They turned me down, despite my uncle. And the next time they turned me down too. Third time, I was accepted. Thanks to my uncle, so I heard.
Becoming a detective was a major step up in the career of Frank Collins. Didn't take long to see that I wasn't going to get any further though.
My uncle told me I had to keep my mouth shut and learn to kiss some arse.
Two skills I didn't possess.
I scanned the office again, still looking for a passenger. A detective I hardly knew was sitting at his desk, making a call. The only other officer around was DC Erica Mason.
I hadn't worked on a case with her in a while. I'd been avoiding her. Or she'd been avoiding me. Maybe a bit of both.
I walked over to her desk and cleared my throat.
She looked up from her computer screen, her olive-green eyes unblinking. She reached behind her head, tightened her pony tail. Her hair was dyed, russet. Her fingernails matched her hair.
"Why do I feel as if I'm not going to want to hear this, Collins?" she asked.
"Might have a missing kid."
She nodded. "And you want me as a passenger?"
"For the mother's sake," I said. "She'll feel a lot more comfortable with a female officer there."
"That's total pants."
"Just grab your jacket," I told her.
"I didn't say I was coming."
"Erica, the boy's only seven."
She took a deep breath and said, "What's his name?"
3
The boy, Bruce Wilson, lived in a three-bedroomed detached house on a quiet street in the Blackhall area of Edinburgh. I noted the well-tended garden. The burglar alarm. The brand new Range Rover parked in the driveway.
There was no sign of the uniformed officers Dutton had sent to canvass the neighbours. I wondered where they'd parked. At least one patrol car should be touring the area too, using a megaphone to ask if anyone had seen the boy. We hadn't passed it on the way but it would be out there, driving around. Standard procedure. Dutton would have seen to it. No matter how much I despised him, I couldn't deny that he knew his job.
The boy's mother answered the door before we reached the end of the path.
"Are you the police?" Mrs Wilson was 31 years old, according to the information Dutton passed along. But you'd have guessed at 40. She wore a light sweater, jeans, sandals. Her face looked as if the skin was being stretched in different directions. Her eyes were wet and red. She winked at me, which was odd. I wasn't sure whether to wink back or ignore it. Then she winked again and I realised it was a twitch.
I introduced myself. Erica did the same.
Mrs Wilson looked into Erica's eyes and said, "I'm so glad to see you."
She led us inside.
The sitting room had red walls. And a red ceiling. Ought to have been too much but it was a big room and the colour scheme worked. Lot of light, too, from the bay windows. Picked up the shine from the varnished floorboards, which was maybe why the room smelled faintly of floor polish. An enormous expensive-looking rug lay in front of a green-and-silver marble fireplace. The sofa and armchairs were white. And spotless. I was impressed she managed to keep them so spic and span with a kid around. Probably had a cleaner in a couple of times a week to give her a hand. No question she could afford it.
Mrs Wilson invited us to sit down on the settee. We did, to make her comfortable. She sat down too, crossed her ankles and uncrossed them again.
Erica perched on the edge of the settee, opened her notebook and said, "In your own time, Mrs Wilson. Would you mind running through what happened once again?"