The cafe was in a tired-looking shopping centre next to the bus station, all strip lighting and bargain bins. Teresa Collins had dark rings under her eyes, and he reckoned the stains on her clothes were blood from a few days earlier. He’d actually gone back to her street, sitting in the Mondeo for a time. Smears on her living-room window – blood again. He hadn’t gone to see her, though. Instead he had pushed a note through her door with his phone number and request, then waited for her to get back to him.
‘I’m starving,’ she said, pushing the matted hair out of her eyes. There were faded home-made tattoos on the backs of her hands, and one wrist was bandaged, the other needing nothing more than a large sticking plaster. He pushed the menu towards her.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said.
She ordered a banana split and a mug of hot chocolate.
‘I wanted to apologise about the other day,’ he said, once the order had been placed.
‘And it’s true about Paul Carter? He’s been done for murder?’
Kaye nodded, seeing little harm in the lie. ‘So he won’t be bothering you again.’
‘Poor man,’ she muttered.
‘Paul, you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘The one he killed.’
He could see she was itching for a cigarette. The pack was on the table in front of her, and her fingers played with a cheap plastic lighter. But when the dessert arrived, she tucked in. Three sachets of sugar were added to the accompanying drink. There was something almost childlike about the way her face softened as she ate, as though she were remembering past pleasures.
‘Good?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ But as soon as she’d finished, she asked if they could leave. He paid the bill, leaving his own coffee untouched, and she led him out on to the high street, lighting the needed cigarette and inhaling deeply.
‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.
She shrugged and kept walking. They crossed at some lights. He knew they were headed in the vague direction of the football park.
‘Town’s seen better days,’ he speculated.
‘Seen worse ones, too.’
‘You’ve always lived here?’
‘I went to London once – hated it.’
‘How long were you there for?’
‘Until the money ran out. Took me nearly three days to hitch home.’
The shops thinned out, many of them looking closed permanently. A few high-rises separated them from the seafront. She walked towards one of them and in through a broken set of doors, stopping at the lift.
‘Want to show you something,’ she told him. The lift jolted them upwards to the top floor. When they stepped out on to the walkway, the wind hit them hard. She stretched her arms wide, facing the onslaught of air.
‘Loved coming here as a kid,’ she explained. ‘Always expected to be lifted clean off my feet and taken somewhere else.’
Kaye stared at the drop, and felt a moment’s giddiness. Instead, he focused on the view across the water towards Edinburgh.
‘I had an auntie lived here,’ Teresa Collins was saying. ‘She wasn’t really an auntie, just my mum’s pal. I got to stay with her when my dad was home.’ She saw that Kaye didn’t quite understand. ‘He was in the army – lots of time away. When he came back, there was always booze and shagging and then maybe a few slaps.’
‘Your mum didn’t want you to see it?’
Collins shrugged. ‘Either that or she didn’t want him starting on me.’ She paused, fixing him with a look. ‘All the places he went… stories he told… he never brought me back a present. Not once. Men are right bastards, eh? Never met one that wasn’t.’
‘That makes me a bastard, then.’
She didn’t deny it, but tried lighting a fresh cigarette instead. He held his coat open to shelter the lighter’s flame.
‘Thanks,’ she said, leaning over the wall of the walkway, exhaling a stream of smoke.
‘What happened to your auntie?’ he asked.
‘Moved away. Then I heard she’d died.’
‘Your mum and dad?’
‘Mum had a stroke. Died a year later. No idea where my dad is.’
‘Do you want to know?’
She shook her head.
‘No man in your life at the moment, Teresa?’
‘Now and again,’ she admitted. ‘But only when I’m short of cash.’ The smile was rueful. ‘You got any cash to spare?’
‘I could lend you twenty.’
She looked at him. ‘And why would you do that, Mr Policeman?’
He shrugged, pushing his hands deep into his coat pockets.
‘What is it you want?’ she asked, struggling to push the hair out of her eyes.
‘I’m just curious.’ She waited for him to go on. ‘You didn’t take your original complaint against Paul Carter very far. But then later on you did. What changed your mind?’
‘I couldn’t let him get away with it.’
‘That line sounds rehearsed.’
‘So what? I’ve said it often enough. You think somebody paid me – is that it?’
His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Hadn’t crossed my mind,’ he said quietly.
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself, cigarette tightly held between thumb and forefinger.
‘Nobody needed to pay me,’ she said. ‘I did it because it had to be done.’
‘But did you talk to anybody? Is that what you’re getting at?’ He took a step closer, remembering what she’d said back in the cafe – poor man… ‘Paul’s uncle? Alan Carter?’
She was staring up at the sky. The wind had caught her hair again, wrapping it around her face, so that it seemed to be muffling her.
‘Alan Carter?’ Kaye persisted.
She pushed up on to her toes and flung out her arms again. For a second he thought she was going to launch herself into the void. He went as far as stretching out a hand towards her. She had her eyes squeezed shut, a child readying to fly.
‘Teresa?’ Kaye said. ‘All that stuff about Paul Carter – was it true?’
‘He deserved what he got,’ she recited. ‘He’s a disgrace to the service.’
Not her words – but Kaye could imagine a fellow officer saying them; or a retired one.
‘Can’t let him get away with it – wouldn’t just be me… there’d be others.’ Her eyes were still closed. ‘Deserved what he got.’ Kaye’s fingers had closed around her thin forearm.
‘Let’s get you back to the lift,’ he said.
‘Can’t I stay here for a bit?’
‘Not on your own, no.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I need you to be safe, Teresa.’
‘They all say things like that,’ she told him. ‘They all want to look after you.’ Kaye wondered if it was just the breeze forcing a tear from her eye. ‘But they all change,’ she said quietly, allowing him to lead her away from the dream of escape.
Joe Naysmith took one look at the desk sergeant and thought better of it. Ever since the Murder Squad had arrived, the man had looked ready to explode. His station, his fiefdom – not any more. Detectives and uniforms swarmed through reception, toting equipment or with questions and demands. They needed chairs, desks and electrical adaptors for their incident room. They hardly acknowledged him or gave him the time of day.
No, Naysmith doubted he’d get anything from Sergeant Robinson. But that didn’t matter: he had another plan. The CID rooms were chaotic, but he found Cheryl Forrester in a corner, watching the activity with excited eyes. She saw him and he gestured towards the corridor. By the time she reached him, he was loading coins into the drinks machine.
‘Buy you a can of something?’ he offered.
‘Sprite,’ she said, squeezing closer to him as two detectives jogged past.
‘How are you bearing up?’ he asked, handing her the chilled drink.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Do you need me for more questions?’
‘Sort of.’ He realised they were going to get no peace in the corridor, so led her towards the stairwell. She asked him if he didn’t want anything to drink for himself.
‘I ran out of change,’ he admitted. She smiled and offered him her opened can. He took a sip and handed it back.
‘All very mysterious,’ she said, studying her surroundings.
‘I’m after a favour,’ he conceded. ‘You won’t remember a detective called Gavin Willis?’