Jimmy shook his head regarding the inside of his flat cap as though it were the font of all knowledge, which it maybe was. “I’ve no seen hide nor hair of him son. There’s no been any sign of the lights anyway. The sister’s back at vet school and faither’s away his holidays.”
“Aye, ah ken that,” Davie replied, feeling a pang of what he was worried might be guilt, an emotion he found inconvenient at the best of times.
“Well, he’ll no be happy if he gets back and the young yin hasnae pulled his weight.”
Davie nodded his agreement as he placed a foot up on the gate and lit a fag. The pair of them stared off into the frozen stock yard.
“What you been up to?” Jimmy asked, knowing full well that all was not as it seemed.
“Nothing too bad.”
“Yir an awfa boy tae be yin boy,” the old man said, shaking his head as though he had seen it all before and doubtless would again.
They stood for a while longer, contemplating nothing very much before Davie made his excuses, got back in the Peugeot and headed back to the ranch.
He could only think of one other possibility and that was one he didn’t want to acknowledge just yet. He had to clear out his head in the time honoured fashion before he could do that.
After a couple of Stellas and half a packet of Benson and Hedges he got the bit between his teeth and dialled the number. She seemed brighter than the last time they’d spoken, but that was only until she heard his name. The cloud had quickly spread over the conversation at that point. Her hackles were well and truly up after those two syllables.
He’d never totally gotten on with Andy’s girlfriend, and that was before they’d split up. Now he was most definitely persona non grata, the devil incarnate. No, she hadn’t seen him and wouldn’t, if she happened to have the misfortune to lay eyes on the philandering bastard, approach him for fear of what she might actually do. He didn’t like to ask what she might do but imagined it probably involved sharp objects and his friend’s eyes or worse. He didn’t want to picture worse, so he thanked her for her time, which going on the snorting sound she made, was likely taken as sarcasm, and said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why but she seemed to blame him somehow. He’d been blamed by a few ex-girlfriends in his time, but then that was what guys did, blamed any kind of wild irrational or inexcusable behaviour they could on a best mate. Better to be innocent and led astray than an actual bastard.
This all seemed to be leading down one road. If it was even possible.
Burke called by the flat on the way back to the station. He had a fair idea Rachel might have something to stem the flow of the bleeding, which stubbornly refused to let up.
“Oh I have,” she said with a knowing look. “Some advice. Go to A and E.”
“I haven’t got time,” he pleaded.
“No,” was all she said, before digging out a collection of cotton wool, sticking plasters and a bottle of Dettol.
He gritted his teeth as she applied an antiseptic soaked pad to the gaping wound on his hand and the pain shot up to his elbow. By rights, he felt it ought to have cauterised the wound, given the searing nature of the sting. No matter. It would offer some kind of protection for the time being.
He turned to thank her and noticed the bags piled high in the bedroom door.
“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, knowing that it was the only answer. “It’s not…”
“No, I know,” she said. It never is. “You’ve got to do what needs to be done.”
“But…”
“I’ve seen the letters James.”
“Letters?”
“Did you think they’d only sent one? Oh no. There have been a few now,” she said, smiling coldly.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a lift to the station?” he asked, searching for something, anything to say.
“There’s a taxi on the way,” she said, folding her arms tight across the top of her substantial bump, as though bracing against a cold wind. “We’ll talk later.”
He made his way back to the car where Jones was waiting, arguing with someone on the phone by the looks of it. Was this a common theme in their line?
“Other half?” he asked, reading her pensive expression.
“For now,” came the response.
He dumped a bag at her feet. “There’s food in there if you’re desperate,” he said feeling guilty that he should allow anyone else to eat the pasta his wife had made for him only a couple of days before, when everything had seemed so much more normal.
Jones must have got the hint as she seemed to steer around his dinner, settling instead on another package in the bag. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a rolled up newspaper. It was bound in brown paper and hand addressed with the requisite amount of stamps on the other side.
“Local rag from back home. My gran sends it to me once a week, thinks it keeps me grounded up here in the big smoke.”
“It’s good to stay grounded I suppose.”
On arrival at the station it turned out “Your Mother” had secured legal representation in the jelly like form of Dougie Jamieson, the duty solicitor who was on call to the criminals of the parish at the most inconvenient of hours. Burke often wondered what Jamieson had done to deserve such a fate, something sinister? Or perhaps some kind of faux pas at a law society dinner that now saw him reduced to the rank of social leper for the rest of his days. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was a fat tub of lard with chronic BO, a suit that was so cheap it crackled with static when he walked and all the social skills of a sewer rat.
His attacker was technically called Stuart McColm, according to his birth certificate and ID. Although there being no law of deed poll in Scotland he could be addressed as whatever he liked.
Interview room two was cold and Burke thought it was best to leave the lardy lawyer and the teenage cat burglar to relax and acclimatise to the conditions for a while. The cold would doubtless make them both that bit more jumpy, though Jamieson was considerably better insulated than the sylph like McColm. Having checked his record, the kid had form; a caution for possession of cannabis and a fine for breach of the peace a year before. Nothing serious on the surface but reading a bit further he discovered the breach of the peace was related to his occupation of the time, that of rent boy and suspected drug pusher.
Burke cut straight to the chase. “Who was with you?” he demanded, only to be rebuffed with an uncooperative response. No one liked a grass, especially those of a more professional criminal persuasion. “I suppose they had the laptop,” he continued.
“I don’t know fuck all about the laptop,” the boy answered wrinkling his brow and folding his arms, succeeding only in looking more teenage.
“But there was a laptop. You don’t deny that,”
“No, well maybe, so what. I’m telling you nothing piggy.”
“There’s no need to be like that,” Jones cut in as Burke tried his best to look offended. “You sliced Inspector Burke’s hand open. It’s doubtful he’ll ever be able to knit again.”
McColm looked confused for a second and then let out a snigger.
“He’s been pretty understanding about this all Stuart. It isn’t like we want much in return.”
Stuart looked at his fingernails which were in need of a good clean, before shifting his gaze to Jones who gave him her best I’m a reasonable woman look back. “What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked in a voice that had a pitch to match his whingey demeanour.