The man himself disappeared from the screen, replaced by the newsreader again.
‘Sport now, and the Scottish Premier League doping scandal has claimed another three clubs—’
I killed the TV. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. You shouldn’t have had to... I’m going to take care of it. I promise.’ Gave her a hug. ‘Still thinking about retiring?’
‘Actually,’ she let her head fall onto my shoulder, ‘I’ve been thinking about Gordon Smith.’
‘Because maybe going off and doing something else wouldn’t be a bad idea?’
‘The boy he killed in Stirling. I think he left the body in that warehouse because he didn’t have access to his usual disposal methods. Couldn’t bury him somewhere private. Somewhere... intimate. Couldn’t start a new collection.’
‘We could get ourselves a wee hotel on the west coast, with a cosy bar and a view of the sea.’ Or we could if I took Helen MacNeil’s two million.
‘What worries me is that he couldn’t wait. If he’d waited till he was somewhere he could safely kill and dispose of the body, we’d never have found out, would we? Everyone would’ve thought David Quinn had disappeared.’
‘Would you like that? Just you, me, and Henry? No more murderers and thugs and dead bodies.’
Alice gave my ribs a squeeze, sending icy knives slicing through the muscles. But the tramadol blunted their blades a bit. ‘I’d like that very, very, very much indeed.’ She huffed out a breath, then rested her head against my shoulder. ‘Gordon Smith’s been murdering people without a single slip-up for fifty-six years — we only discovered what he’s been up to because his garden fell into the sea. He knows he doesn’t have to hide it any more. Time’s running out, we’ll catch him eventually, so why not go out with a bang?’
God, that was comforting. ‘Maybe you’re the one who should stay home? Get some proper sleep instead of passing out after too much booze?’
‘He’s escalating.’
‘I know.’ I kissed her on the head again. And this time my brain didn’t quite feel as if it was about to burst out through my shattered skull. ‘Stay here. Keep Henry company.’
‘You’ve got Leah MacNeil to save, I’ve got Toby Macmillan.’ Another deep breath. ‘Anyway: better get going, that pretty DS will be waiting for you.’
‘Ten minutes, my arse. I’ve been waiting here for...’ Franklin stared, mouth hanging open, as I grimaced my way into the passenger seat. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
The streetlight’s jaundiced glow probably wasn’t helping any. ‘Henry’s spending the day with Alice.’
‘No, seriously, you look like someone threw you off the top of a tower block!’
Felt like it too.
‘Are we going or not?’
She shook her head. ‘What kind of person beats up an old man with a walking stick?’
An old man? I slumped back in my seat. Oh, today had got off to a flying start. ‘Just... drive.’
35
Mother stared at me in much the same way Franklin had. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean—’
‘I mean no! “N”, “O”, spells “no”.’ She pulled her chin up and in, eyebrows raised. ‘Bad enough you look more like a violent criminal than a police officer at the best of times, but now? There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you loose on the public like that.’
The front room she’d commandeered to run the investigation had earned itself five or six more desks since Sunday morning, complete with cheap office chairs. The mildewed wallpaper almost completely hidden behind a plethora of printouts, maps, and actions. Including a brand-new section devoted to what was left of David Quinn. It was a safe bet that the team had grown too, but right now, it was only the three of us in here: Mother, Franklin, and me. So at least someone was out there getting on with catching Gordon Smith.
‘We’re supposed to be—’
‘How many different ways do I have to say this? No. Nein. Not in this life or the next.’ She folded her arms beneath her bosom and hiked it up about six inches. ‘And Rosalind, what were you thinking? You were meant to be in charge!’
Franklin shrugged. ‘Not my fault. He was like that when I picked him up this morning.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. This is—’
‘Well you should’ve thought of that before you did whatever it was you did to end up looking like Mr Blobby’s punchbag. And you’re hereby banned from taking a public-facing role till you stop looking like it. End — of — argument.’ She pointed at a subset of actions, pinned up on their own as if they’d got something infectious. ‘You can pick a task off the background-work list, and like it.’
Bloody hell.
‘Sorry.’ Franklin shrugged. ‘I’d fight your corner, but you don’t have Henry with you, so...’ And with that she swept out of the room.
‘I bought you a sausage and a go on the carousel!’ But the door closed without an answer.
Mother was staring at me again.
‘What?’
‘I really hope that wasn’t a euphemism...’
I limped over to the crap-jobs list. A bunch of them involved grubbing about in the Oldcastle Police archives, so no thank you. I’d been down there often enough and the entire system was a shambles. Another was chasing up every cast member who’d ever done a pantomime with a set designed by Gordon Smith — which I’m fairly certain was supposed to be DC Watt’s job. Another couple would mean spending the day chasing up other forces and lab results. And last but not least: ‘CHECK ON PETER SMITH’S FARM ~ BLACK ISLE (LEEAZE N DIVISION).’
What on earth did, ‘Leeaze’ mean?
And then it dawned — Watt’s spelling really was atrocious.
I ripped the sheet of paper from its thumbtacks, folded it, and stuck it in my pocket. Then turned to Mother. ‘OK, make-work it is. But I’ll need a pool car.’
It wasn’t a bad car. And at least it was an automatic. But the Misfit Mob’s ancient Ford Mondeo had the same funky smell that all pool cars got after a few years. The upholstery absorbing the kebab, burger, fish-and-chips, KFC, coffee, and BO of so many thousand hours of stakeouts and general wear — the rubbish and discarded wrappers only shovelled out when it officially constituted a public health hazard, or no one could see out the windscreen any more. The carpet mats were stickier than the Monk and Casket’s floorboards.
Alice’s voice crackled out through the car’s speakers. ‘Wait, you’re going where?’
‘Well, I didn’t have any choice, did I? It was this or sit on the phone all day, talking to morons.’
‘You could’ve stayed at home!’
‘So could you.’
‘Urgh...’
I took the turning for Tomintoul, abandoning the throbbing highway that was the A93 for the even more backwater A939 — according to the road sign, anyway. Scenery wasn’t bad. Nothing special, but there were hills and fields and trees and things, glowing in the morning light. A big green tractor thundered along the road ahead of me, great gobbets of mud flying from its oversized wheels. Might as well live dangerously...