‘Here.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out the chilled tin of Irn-Bru I’d got her in the baker’s.
‘Ooh!’ She clicked the ring-pull and gulped away.
‘Doesn’t matter, in the end, though, does it? We know it was him; Mother’s got a lookout request on the go; someone will spot him somewhere; uniform will swoop in and pick him up; and he’ll go down for life, with sod-all chance of parole. In the meantime, we’ve got a child-killer to catch. So can we please forget about Gordon Smith? It’s not our—’
A juddering belch burst out of Alice, like a lowbrow foghorn. ‘I think we should visit Rebecca this morning.’
A bus rumbled past, the steamy windows filled with unhappy faces, pale as margarine and twice as depressing.
‘Ash, did you hear me? I said, I think—’
‘Can we get on with the day, please? Enough on my plate as it is, without you—’
‘It’ll be good for you, though.’
We turned right, onto Peel Place. The elegant sandstone buildings were blighted by the manky Victorian redbrick lump of O Division Headquarters, like a big hairy wart on a supermodel’s cheek. Its narrow windows scowled out at the rainy gloom, through bars and grilles. A handful of outside broadcast vans were parked in front of the building: Sky News, BBC, ITV, Channel 4... Getting ready to hear all about the poor wee dead boy found in the woods yesterday.
The BBC lot were doing a piece to camera, the reporter huddled under his red-and-white brolly, trying to stay dry and keep the ‘POLICE SCOTLAND’ sign in shot at the same time.
‘Eat your pasty.’
‘You’re impossible, you know that, don’t you?’ She dipped back into the greasy bag, though. ‘And we still need to do something for our anniversary: celebratory meal, or something. Somewhere fancy, though, no sticky floors or plastic tablecloths.’
A figure huddled in the lee of the war memorial on the other side of the street — three soldiers in kilts and full WWI pack, bayonets fixed, charging towards the machineguns. She pushed away from the memorial and marched across the road, on an intercept course. Short grey hair plastered to her head, shoulders hunched, bloodshot eyes narrowed against the rain — the bags under them heavy and bruised. Helen MacNeil.
She looked the pair of us up and down, then ignored Alice completely. ‘I spent all night on the internet.’
‘Didn’t they assign you a Family Liaison Officer? They’ll keep you up to date on—’
‘And I’ve been googling you.’ Stepping closer. ‘Thought you were just some thug copper who liked throwing his weight about, but you know, don’t you? You know what it’s like.’
Oh Christ, not this...
‘Mrs MacNeil, it’s not—’
‘You’re telling me that Gordon killed my Sophie. That he’s killed other people. That the man I let look after my child and my grandchild was a bloody serial killer!’
I pulled on my best reassuring-police-officer voice. ‘Look, it isn’t—’
‘YOU THINK I’M STUPID?’ Bellowing it, right in my face. ‘HE KILLED HER TOO, DIDN’T HE?’
Over by the outside broadcast vans, the hyenas were looking our way. Peering out through their windscreens. Scrambling for cameras.
‘DIDN’T HE? HE KILLED MY LEAH!’
Alice put a hand on her arm. ‘Please, this isn’t—’
‘DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME!’ Helen’s right hand flashed out, a backhanded slap that sent Alice spinning, stumbling to the ground.
The two silent seconds that followed were broken by Henry growling, hackles up, four little feet set on the wet pavement.
And that was it.
I grabbed a handful of Helen’s collar and slammed her backwards into a scabby Land Rover hard enough to set the car’s alarm shrieking. Hazard lights flashing their orange warning as I bared my teeth and forced my face into hers. Rain hissing down around us like the end of days. ‘You EVER lay a finger on her again and I will FUCKING KILL YOU!’
The growling turned into barking.
Helen grinned back at me, but there was no warmth or humour in it. It was cold and vicious, like her eyes. ‘You know what it’s like.’
I bounced her off the Land Rover again. Then let go. Squatted down beside Alice. Brushed the hair from her face. Helped her sit up. ‘Are you OK?’
Her bottom lip was already swelling up. A thin crack of red bisecting it, glistening. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine...’ Clothes and jacket stained with water where she’d hit the deck.
Helen loomed over us. ‘The Birthday Boy took your daughter, didn’t he? Tortured and killed her.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Oh, I know alllll about it. Even downloaded the e-book.’
‘Come on, let’s get you up.’
The car alarm was still screaming as I helped Alice to her feet.
‘You OK? Not feeling dizzy or anything?’
She brushed my hands away. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good.’ I dropped my walking stick and Henry’s lead, turned, snatched a handful of Helen’s coat and hauled back a fist to—
‘Ash, no!’ Alice — hanging off my raised arm, pulling it back down again. ‘The TV people.’
They were hurrying across the road, getting their cameras up.
I let go and gave Helen another shove. ‘You don’t touch her again.’
‘You were never that squeaky clean, even when you were a copper. So I’ve got a deal for you: you help me find Gordon Smith before these wankers do, and I’ll make it worth your while.’
Deep breath. ‘Go home, Mrs MacNeil.’
‘I know where an armoured-car job’s hidden. Six million in jewellery, paintings, sculptures, antiques, and the like. You help me, you get a third of it.’
‘Ash, we have to go!’
The cameras were up on their shoulders now, reporters trotting alongside, microphones out, umbrellas up. Closing in for the kill.
I grabbed my walking stick, turned on my heel, and hobbled off down Peel Place, Henry trotting along beside me, Alice scrambling to catch up.
Her umbrella was all collapsed in on one side, where it had bounced off the pavement.
An idiot in a grey suit, stopped right in front of me, holding out his microphone. Eyes widening when he finally realised I wasn’t stopping. He jumped to one side, and the three of us marched past, Helen MacNeil’s voice ringing out behind us: ‘YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE!’
9
Alice shuffled up beside me. ‘She still there?’
‘Yup.’
Down on the street below, Helen MacNeil was standing in the rain, talking to the Sky News people, glaring at the camera as if it’d refused to pay protection money.
Not our case.
Not our problem.
Not our—
A sharp rapping noise came from the front of the room, followed by a pointed, ‘I’m not boring you, am I, Ash?’
When I turned, there was Detective Superintendent Jacobson, tapping the tip of his extendable pointer against one of the small room’s four whiteboards. He’d peeled off his trademark brown leather jacket, leaving it draped over the back of a chair to drip onto the scabby carpet tiles, exposing a dark red shirt that was about two sizes too big for a wee hairy bloke in tiny square glasses.
He wasn’t the only one staring at us.