‘One day,’ I murmured, ‘we’re going to spend more time here. Seonaid hardly knows this place, and the boys haven’t seen nearly enough of it. That’s my fault; if I hadn’t messed us up. .’
She squeezed my bicep. ‘We’re done talking about that. We messed us up, not just you, and now we’ve put us back together again.’
I kissed the top of her head as I clicked the remote to unlock the car. ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘I’ve never looked forward to growing old before, but I do now, knowing I’ll do it with you.’
It was a beautiful moment, one of those you wish you could encase in plastic and keep for ever.
And then, with timing that could have come from the pits of hell, the phone rang, and I took the call that started a chain of events that changed everything that I was, and might have been.
Nine
‘How far along is it?’ Karen Neville asked as Singh turned their unmarked police car into Caledonian Crescent.
‘I can see one of our vehicles right at the far end,’ he replied, ‘so I guess that’s it.’
The street was less curved than its name implied. On either side, grey four-storey tenement blocks rose above them. ‘I should know, I suppose,’ he added. ‘I lived here when I was a kid; number ninety-eight. It’s changed a lot since then. We didn’t have door buzzers in the streets; all the stairwells smelled like prisons.’
‘Prisons?’
‘Aye. You know; boiled cabbage and pish.’
He drove slowly between the ranks of cars; Saturday, so the resident parking bays were all full. There was a disabled space opposite their destination; he took it and put a ‘CID on business’ card in the window.
The police car that he had seen was unoccupied, and the entry door to one forty-two was closed.
‘Did Mackenzie give you a flat number?’ the sergeant asked.
‘No, he was too busy giving me a hard time. Smart-arse, indeed,’ he growled.
‘Live with it,’ she said. ‘Push some buttons till we get the right one.’
Singh was about to begin the process of elimination when, to his surprise, the door clicked and opened an inch or two. The two detectives stepped into the hallway, and came face to face with an elderly lady, standing at the entrance to what they guessed was her home.
‘I took you for police,’ she announced.
The DC beamed. ‘So much for plain-clothes duty.’
The householder smiled, gently. ‘You, son, could not be anything else.’ Then she frowned. ‘Here, did you not live in the Crescent, what, oh, twenty years ago?’
‘That’s right’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Talvin.’
‘That’s right. I used to talk to your mother. How is she?’
Unlike quite a few other neighbours, Singh recalled. ‘She’s fine,’ he told her. ‘My dad died a few years ago, though.’
‘Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, son. You tell your mum that Greta McConnochie was asking for her.’
‘I will indeed.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know. .’
‘Where the other police are? Yes, they’re one floor up, flat one. What is it? No’ a burglary, I hope.’
‘We’re not sure yet. But it’s nothing for you to worry yourself about. Thanks, Mrs McConnochie.’
They left the neighbour on guard duty and headed for the stone staircase. Flat one faced them on the landing; they knew that not by the number but by the black-clad woman constable guarding the door. She recognised Singh, one of those ‘once seen, never forgotten’ people. ‘Hi, Talvin,’ she greeted him. ‘You got the short straw?’
‘Nah, Whitney. I’m popular, that’s all. This is DS Neville, she’s new to the division.’
The two women exchanged nods, then the constable stepped to one side. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘Forrest, my oppo’s with the girl from the law firm and the meter reader. He’s seriously pissed off with us, by the way, for makin’ him hang on.’
‘Tough luck on him,’ Singh observed. ‘We’d be pissed off with you if you hadn’t.’
He stood aside to make way for his sergeant, but she nodded to him to take the lead. The windowless hallway was lit by a halogen ceiling fitment, and there were four doors leading off it. Only one was open, so he headed for it, to find himself in a sitting room.
‘About fuckin’ time,’ the meter reader barked as the DC’s shadow fell on the floor; he fell silent as he saw what had cast it.
‘Sorry sir,’ the man-mountain said. ‘But from what we’ve been told this might be a crime scene. You’re standing in it, so if we decide that it is, you’re not leaving without giving us a statement and a DNA sample.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ the man protested.
‘No, sir.’ Neville cut him off. ‘You wait, please, for as many minutes as it takes.’ She turned to the room’s other occupants, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties, and the second uniform, a stocky man whose tunic namebadge identified him as PC Wood. She blinked. ‘Whitney called you Forrest. That is a nickname, isn’t it?’
‘No such luck,’ he replied. ‘It’s for reaclass="underline" my nickname’s “Plank”. My dad was a comedian, but at least he put a second “r” in Forrest. Great name for a Woodentop, eh?’
‘You are blessed.’ She turned to the girl. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
‘Tilda Trotter, from the Lesser and Syme property department.’
‘Lesser and Syme?’
‘Solicitors. The owner’s our client.’
‘But he’s not the occupant?’
‘No. He lives somewhere else.’
‘So who is the occupant?’
‘I don’t actually know. This isn’t one of my files usually, but I’m the junior staff member. My boss told me to come along and let this man in, that was all.’
Singh looked at the meter reader. ‘Who pays the bill?’ he asked.
‘Search me, mate. Ah just read them.’
‘We pay it,’ Tilda Trotter volunteered. ‘Or rather we pay it on the client’s behalf. He picks up all the utility bills, and the rates.’
As she spoke, Neville glanced around the room. The flat had central heating, and a log-effect gas fire for back-up. There was a vase on the sideboard; it held flowers but they were withered and drooping. Copies of the Daily Record and Hello magazine lay on a coffee table positioned between a wall-mounted television and a cream fabric sofa, which was matched by a single armchair.
She picked up the newspaper and saw that it was three weeks and one day old. She dropped it and her eye moved on to a small side table. It was placed on the far side of the chair from where she was standing, and on it there lay an ashtray, a pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter that could have been taken for gold, but for the pale patches where use had worn away the plating. She stepped round and peered into the ashtray; it held half a dozen white filter-tipped butts, each with traces of lipstick.
‘Whoever lived here left in a hurry,’ she said. ‘She didn’t take her fags or lighter.’
‘Not good,’ Tarvil murmured. ‘Where is it?’ he asked PC Wood.
‘The door facing you in the hall.’
He nodded and headed for it.
‘Hold on,’ his DS called out. ‘We don’t want to piss off the CSIs, if they need to come in here. You got overshoes and gloves?’
‘You’re right, boss,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, I always carry them.’
Since he seemed to take up much of the available space, Neville waited until he had donned the sterile coverings before putting hers on. When she was ready, she opened the door and led the way into the kitchen.
‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed, as she saw what was inside.
‘I couldn’t have put it better,’ Singh agreed.
The fitted units were modern and expensive, and the walls were tiled, white with a yellow flower motif. Above the sink, which faced the door, a rusty red fan shape spread out.
‘Tell me someone’s been shaking a ketchup bottle with a dodgy top,’ the DC murmured.