I was telling him stuff he knew already, but I couldn’t help it. I was back in my old world, in full senior investigating officer mode.
He tore his eyes away from the chid. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, then looked at his sidekick. ‘PC Hoare, get something to cover the poor wee lass up.’
I countermanded him. ‘Sorry, Jack. He can’t do that. Nothing can be touched here till the CSIs say so. You know that.’
‘Ah suppose,’ Lemmon conceded, then began to speak into his radio, doing as I had told him.
‘Will you stand back from the scene too, sir, please.’ PC Hoare felt the need to show a little personal authority.
‘No,’ I replied, abruptly. ‘I’ve already contaminated it.’ I turned and looked into the Mini. The redhead stared out at me, her eyes full of questions. The elderly driver looked even more shaken than before, if that was possible; I began to worry about her well-being, and wonder where the paramedics were.
They arrived a few seconds later. ‘Tell them to attend to the old lady there,’ I instructed the constable. I felt sorry for him; I was in his boots once, thirty-something years ago, a first-timer at a death scene.
He frowned at me. ‘But what about the wee girl? Should they not look at her first?’
‘The child is dead, son,’ I said, in little more than a whisper. He flinched, and a look of distress crossed his face. A good sign, I thought. It isn’t second nature to him yet, and hopefully it never will be.
I stood guard over what was in effect an open coffin, my back to it because I wasn’t brave enough to face the accusation in the little lass’s eyes.
You let me down, they were saying. You were supposed to protect me, all of you, not lead me here.
I may not have been looking at her, but nonetheless I could hear those words in my head, and the voice that spoke them was that of my Seonaid.
A few passers-by stopped, curiosity getting the better of them, gazing at me and at the two paramedics as they took the old lady from her battered car and eased her into a wheelchair. One of the pair, a large woman with dark hair and heavy-framed spectacles, spoke to Jack Lemmon, and her message carried to me.
‘We’re taking her to A and E,’ she announced. ‘She’s not responding to our questions, and she’s not moving properly. It might just be shock, but there’s a possibility of a wee stroke. Her keys are in the car if you need to shift it.’
As the sergeant nodded assent, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, a couple of youngsters, teenage boys who looked as if they had taken a break from a busy morning’s shoplifting, were approaching.
‘What’s up, mister?’ one of them called to me. ‘Did you bash her motor?’
‘Move on, lads,’ I said.
‘Free country, pal,’ the other, a hulking, dull-eyed youth, retorted.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I growled. ‘On your way, now.’
‘Fuck you,’ the kid sneered. ‘What’s in the boot? Gaun, let’s see.’
Too stupid to read the warning in my glare, the pair closed in on me, one from either side. I was ready to restrain them, bigger one first as always, but it didn’t come to that, for PC Jules Hoare manned up and stepped between us.
‘Do what you’re told, or I’ll arrest you both.’ His uniform had more effect than my suit. The kids stopped, backing off a little.
‘Ye cannae,’ one of them protested. ‘We’re only fifteen.’
‘That’s all the more reason why I should,’ PC Jules countered. ‘You ought to be in school. Beat it, or I’ll take you there myself, in handcuffs. The girls will love that, I’ll bet.’
The pair chose the path of wisdom, muttering as they wandered off, leaving me to dwell upon how naked I had felt without a warrant card in my pocket.
As they left, two others arrived, emerging from a grey Ford Mondeo in need of a wash. Familiar faces, at last.
‘Detective Inspector Pye; Detective Sergeant Haddock,’ I exclaimed. ‘Glad to see you.’
‘Chief Inspector now,’ the young DS told me, nodding sideways at his gaffer.
My eyebrows rose; I really was out of touch, it seemed. ‘Indeed? I hadn’t heard. Congratulations, Sammy.’
I stepped aside, to allow them a clear view into the boot. ‘In other circumstances, I’d say I was pleased to see you, but this . . .’
DCI Pye’s face paled a little. He’s a father too; Ruth, his wife, used to be my secretary. ‘Oh my,’ he whispered.
Beside him, Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Bastard!’ he growled. ‘We were told that the driver of this thing ran off. Is that right, sir?’
He looked at me, sideways, with a hint of an accusation in his eyes.
‘That’s right, Sauce,’ I agreed, ‘and no, I didn’t give chase. But I hadn’t seen the child then; at that point I thought he was a joyrider, caught at it.’
‘I suppose, boss,’ he conceded. ‘Can you give us a description?’
‘Not a very good one, ’cos I only saw him full-face for a second, through a car windscreen, but I’ll be amazed if you don’t pick him up on one of the CCTV cameras they have in this place. Twenty-something, white, thin faced, grey hoodie, jeans, trainers. Slim built,’ I added, ‘and hell of a quick on his feet.’
‘Did you do a trace for the owner of the vehicle?’ Pye asked.
I sighed. ‘Sammy, I’m not a cop any more,’ I reminded him.
‘But still . . .’ He looked at me as his junior had, as if I’d betrayed him in some way. Then he nodded. ‘You’re not, are you,’ he conceded. He turned to Haddock, ‘Sauce . . .’ stopping short as he saw that the lad was on the phone already to the comms centre.
We waited for no more than a minute for him to finish the call. ‘It’s registered to Callum Oliver Sullivan,’ he announced when he had its results, ‘of nine St Anthony’s Place, North Berwick. Age thirty-seven.’
‘So he wasn’t the driver, then,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t be that wrong in my age estimate. Find out what you can about Mr Sullivan; occupation, employer, whether he’s on any criminal intelligence database, marital status and most important of all whether he has a daughter aged five or six.’
‘And you said you’re not a cop any more,’ Pye murmured.
He had me there. ‘Sorry, Sammy,’ I conceded. ‘That was me at my worst. I never needed to teach you guys your job, but I never could stop myself. My excuse this time is, I discovered this poor wee lass. Because of that I see it as my bounden duty to find the bastard who did this to her and to put him down, whether I’m a serving police officer or not.’
‘Understood, Chief,’ Haddock said.
I shook my head. ‘Don’t call me that any more, Sauce, please. Sir Andrew Martin; he’s your chief constable now. My name’s just plain Bob.’ I paused.
‘Now,’ I continued, ‘the media will be arriving soon, for sure, and it would not be good for me to be seen here when they arrive. God knows what they’d read into that. Any statement you need for the investigation, I can give you somewhere else. In the meantime, you should ask that redhead over there with Jack Lemmon to move her jeep, so that I can get the fuck out of here. I’ll be at the Saltire office for a while, if you need me. After that, well, you have my mobile number, I think.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Pye concurred. ‘And you’re right about getting out of here. I’ll have her shift the thing right now. Will she be a useful witness, do you think?’
I shrugged. ‘She might give you a more detailed description of the bloke in the hoodie, but that’s all.’
‘If he’s left his DNA in there, and he’s a known car thief,’ Sauce pointed out, ‘that’ll give us the best description of all. You didn’t touch anything inside did . . .’ He blushed slightly, as he saw my raised eyebrow. ‘No, of course you didn’t,’ he added.
‘I switched off the engine,’ I admitted, ‘but no, son, I didn’t leave any prints to confuse the CSIs.’