‘If there’s another photograph, I want to see it!’
All that blood and pain and horror, captured in one horrible three-inch by three-inch square.
‘No.’ I stood. Put my phone back in my pocket. ‘Trust me, you really don’t.’
— happy deathday to you —
8
‘... statement that the Justice Secretary, Mark Stalker, has the First Minister’s complete support.’
And we all knew what that meant.
‘Thank you, Janet.’ On the TV screen, a greasy wee man in a too-tight suit pulled on his serious face for the camera. ‘Police Scotland are expected to confirm, later today, that remains of a small boy, found in woods to the south of Oldcastle, are those of missing four-year-old, Lewis Talbot. Our crime correspondent Hugh Brimmond is live at the scene for us now. Hugh?’
Outside, it was still dark, the city’s lights twinkling in the inky black, as I scooped up another spoonful of porridge. With salt, not sugar. Washed down with a sip of decaf tea.
Rock and roll.
A broad-shouldered rugby type appeared on screen, standing in the dark with some trees behind him, lit up by the headlights of passing cars, rain thrumming down on a red-and-white golf brolly. ‘That’s right, Bob. We’re here in a large stretch of woodland known locally as “The Murders”, a name from the sixteenth century that’s been horribly prescient...’
‘Urgh...’ Alice slumped her way in from the kitchen, clanked a big mug of coffee down on the dining table, and collapsed into a chair. Folded over forwards and rested her forehead against the cool glass surface as I finished off the last of my breakfast.
‘... bringing the tragic death toll to three young boys, all under the age of six.’
‘Morning.’
‘I said, “Urrrrrrgh!”’ Not looking up.
The greasy guy in the suit was back. ‘Sport now, and Inverurie Loco Works are looking to make it a hat-trick today as they go up against favourites, Buckie Thistle...’
‘Well, whose fault is that, then?’ Downed the last dregs of tea, picked up my bowl and stood. ‘Briefing’s at quarter to, so better get your bumhole in gear.’
‘URGH!’
‘Don’t “Urgh” me. You know what Jacobson’s like when people are late.’ Putting on a fairly decent impersonation of the man, even if I say so myself: ‘“I’d like to remind everyone that LIRU also stands for ‘Late Is Really Unprofessional’.”’ Back to normal. ‘Hairy wee tosspot that he is.’
A tad harsh, maybe, but what did you expect at quarter past seven on a Saturday morning?
Alice folded her hands over her head. ‘Urgh...’
‘Don’t care. Go get ready.’ The flat’s kitchen wasn’t bad: enough space to throw together a decent meal, if you actually had the time. The clunk-scuff of my limping echoed back from slate tiles and shiny white flat-panel kitchen units.
‘... opening games of the new season. And now here’s Valerie with the weather.’
I stuck the porridge pot and my bowl in to soak. Rinsed out my mug. Raised my voice so it would carry through into the living room. ‘You’ll be shocked to hear there’s been nothing on the news about Gordon Smith and his basement of horrors.’
‘Thanks, Bob. We’ve got an unsettled couple of days ahead as Storm Trevor continues to track north...’
‘Alice?’ Back through the kitchen door.
She’d barely moved. Slumped there, arms dangling, face screwed shut. Groaning.
Oh, for God’s sake.
My old walking stick wasn’t exactly pristine — the varnish worn off the handle, the rubber tip blackened and cracked — but it was perfect for poking people, so I did. Right in the shoulder. Putting some weight behind the thing. ‘You: wretch. Arse in gear. I want your teeth brushed, face washed, hair combed, and ready to go in five minutes.’
Alice’s response was barely audible, ‘Urgh...’
We followed the curling cobbled sweep of Shand Street, down the hill, moving from one yellowy patch of streetlight to the next — Henry trotting along at my side, Alice’s folding umbrella drumming in the rain that pummelled down from a coal-grey sky. Tiny rivers gurgling in the gutters. Past darkened shops with ‘TO LET / MAY SELL’ in the windows. Boarded-up newsagents, tea shops, and empty banks. A couple of charity shops and a bookies still held on, the grilles down over their grimy windows, waiting for the day to begin, but the baker’s was open.
‘Wait here.’ I handed her Henry’s lead, ducked out from under the brolly and limped inside. Came back out again with a mince bridie, a beetroot-and-stovies pie, and a cheese-and-onion pasty, all three turning the paper bag they shared semi-transparent with grease. Handed them over. ‘Get those down you.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Eat.’
She passed me the umbrella and Henry, then grimaced at the bag’s contents. ‘Don’t feel well.’
‘Trust me: nothing better for a hangover than baked stuff in pastry.’
‘Why do you have to be so mean to me?’ But Alice pulled out the bridie, steaming in the cold morning air, bringing with it the rich savoury scent of hot meat and butter, scrunched her eyes closed, and ripped out a big bite. Getting wee golden flakes all down the front of her parka.
Henry bounded along beside her, nose up, sniffing the pastry-scented air. Making hopeful noises as we headed downhill towards St Jasper’s Lane.
‘Right, soon as the team briefing’s over, I want to go jangle Steven Kirk again.’
‘Mmmmngghnnphff, mnngnnn mnnnfff?’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’ A four-by-four rattled up the hill, splashing through the lake formed by an overflowing drain and sending out a spray of grimy water that only missed us by an inch. Tosser. ‘Kirk was in Kingsmeath when Andrew Brennan went missing, I’d put money on it. The only reason he’d lie about that is because he knows we’re onto him.’
‘Still don’t see why we couldn’t have taken the car. It’s cold and it’s raining and my head hurts.’ Whine, moan, whinge. But she polished off the bridie anyway, then started on the pie.
‘We should speak to his mother’s care home: double-check his alibi.’
St Jasper’s Lane thickened with traffic — cars and vans heading off to work. An ambulance crawled past with its blue-and-whites off, the driver and passenger looking about as cheerful as a biopsy. More shops here. A young man in turban and leathers, hauling the shutters up outside a vaping shop. A slouch of people, hunched into themselves as they tromped along the uneven pavement. A young woman huddling outside a newsagent’s, puffing away on a cigarette as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. A figure, lying on their side in the doorway of a boarded-up nail salon, bundled in a filthy-grey sleeping bag, their back to the road.
The pedestrian crossing bleeped and we followed a knot of women dressed in identical black suits across the road.
Alice looked up from her pie. ‘I’ve been thinking about that profile of Gordon Smith.’
‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, it’s not like we don’t know who he is.’
Past the King James Theatre — its gaudy billboards advertising the Christmas panto — a droopy old man in a high-viz jacket hosing vomit off the top step.
‘That’s the point, though,’ pastry flakes going flying, ‘no one did. Well, except his wife. And his victims, of course. Everyone else will tell you what a lovely man he was and he’d never hurt a fly and he was always such a considerate neighbour who’d give you the shirt off his back and other assorted clichés and actually you might be right about baked goods and hangovers.’ Munching down the last mouthful of pie. ‘Could really go something to drink, though, I’m—’