‘How do you know what I’m smiling about, Detective Constable Singh?’ she replied, deadpan. ‘For all you know. .’
‘True,’ he conceded, quickly. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘No, thanks; one promise I’ve made to myself is that this time around I’m going to drink a hell of a lot less of that stuff. Stains your teeth, rots your guts. What incidents have you got on the go?’
‘Traffic passed on a hit-and-run from last night,’ he told her. ‘That’s the most urgent. The victim’s a nineteen-year-old student, a lassie. She was making her way home from not one but several pubs, along Gorgie Road, when she was hit by a car, probably blue, heading westward, out of the city.’
‘Jesus,’ Neville muttered, ‘kids and alcohol; nothing changes. Did she survive?’
‘So far, but nobody’s making any promises. She’s in the Royal Infirmary with serious head injuries.’
‘I take it we don’t have a number for the van, since it’s been tossed our way.’
The Sikh shook his head. ‘No, and no chance of getting one. The uniforms who took statements at the scene said that the three witnesses, the girl’s boyfriend and another couple, were all pretty well pished, as was the victim herself. They’re emailing everything across, but the picture seemed to be that the girl stumbled out into the roadway, right in front of the driver.’
‘Is it possible he didn’t know he’d hit her?’
‘No, because he stopped, immediately afterwards, for a few seconds. Then he drove away.’
‘And still nobody got the number?’
‘No. One of the lads thought it might have been a zero-eight registration, and the other girl said it began with S, but that’s the lot.’
‘What’s the camera coverage like in that area?’
‘Patchy, but there is some; not at the scene of the accident, but we can check around the time. I’ve asked Traffic to get all the footage they can on to DVD and send it over to us.’
‘Thanks, Talvin. Have we got addresses for the witnesses?’
‘Address. They all share a flat in Denholm Crescent.’
‘Handy,’ she said. ‘In that case, let’s get ourselves up there sharpish, and re-interview them. The booze should have worn off by now, and we might get some sense out of them.’
They were heading for the door when the phone rang, a direct call, not a front desk reference. Singh swore softly, but turned back and picked it up. ‘Western CID’, he announced.
‘Who’s that?’ a brusque voice asked.
‘DC Singh. Now it’s your turn.’
‘This is Detective Superintendent Mackenzie, smart-arse. You may have heard of me; I’m your boss.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the DC replied evenly, ‘I’ve heard of Mr Mackenzie, and I know what he is. But how do I know that you’re him?’
He heard a deep breath being taken. ‘You could take my word for it, Singh, or you could hang up and ask the comms centre to raise me on my home number. Which is it to be?’
Smart-arse, the big man thought; but he liked CID and so he chose to risk his tenure there no further. ‘What can we do for you, sir?’
‘That’s better. I’ve just had a message passed to me by uniform. It came from Scottish Power. They had to gain entrance to a flat this morning to read the gas meter. They’d been unable to raise the occupant and had to make an arrangement with the owner. A lawyer looks after the place on his behalf, ’cos he’s away. Anyway, a girl from the lawyer’s office met the meter reader with a key, at nine o’clock. They couldn’t find the meter at the front door, where you might expect to, so they went into the kitchen. There was blood all over the place, more than a cut finger would leave. Who’s your senior officer there?’
‘Detective Sergeant Neville.’
‘Right, you and he. .’
‘That would be she, sir.’
‘Of course it would, wouldn’t it. How could I forget? Okay, you and she drop whatever you’re doing and get round there, now. The address is one forty-two Caledonian Crescent. Check it out and report back to me.’ There was a pause. ‘Through the communications centre,’ Mackenzie added, heavily.
As Singh replaced the phone, Karen whistled.
‘You were pushing your luck, Talvin, were you not?’
He shrugged his vast shoulders. ‘He called me “smart-arse”,’ he grumbled.
‘Could be he was right.’
Eight
‘I like this plan of yours.’
Her smile said that she wasn’t kidding. It was warmer than I’d seen it since the early days of our marriage, and it seemed to come from deeper within her. I couldn’t remember Sarah ever looking more relaxed. I hoped I looked the same, for that was how I felt.
We’d spent a whole week in L’Escala, and never left town; we’d walked, we’d swum, we’d eaten, we’d loved, we’d caught up with some friends, British and Catalan, but most of all we’d talked. We’d talked about us as a couple, we’d talked about Sarah’s career and we’d talked about mine. Yes, we’d talked about the kids too, but less and less as the time went on. More and more we’d found ourselves talking about me; about what I wanted, and how I wanted the rest of my life to be.
And at the end of it all, I’d made a decision.
That plan that Sarah mentioned? Oh yes, that was a good one. We’d have an early lunch in La Clota, then take the train to Barcelona Passeig de Gracia, check into a gastronomic hotel in Placa Reial and explore the city for all of Sunday, before getting back to Scotland and the family that we’d made, split asunder, but, thank God, reunited.
Everything was good, even the calamares. I’ve found that squid can be a risky choice in a restaurant, because not every chef knows how to cook it properly, but I’ve rarely had better than I did that day. I didn’t have anything else, as I wanted to keep space for dinner, but it hit the spot.
‘That okay?’ John, the ever-solicitous proprietor, asked, as I finished.
‘It’ll do,’ I replied: I like to keep him on his toes.
‘Good. My father-in-law caught it; I’ll tell him to fish in that place again.’
‘In that case I’m not going to ask where your beef comes from.’
He grinned. ‘Hah, funny man. You be back soon?’ he asked Sarah.
‘Yup,’ she told him. ‘We’re bringing the kids for the October school holiday.’
‘That’s good; we’ll still be here. Maybe you can help carve the meat. .’ he laughed, ‘. . or would that be too much like your work?’
I looked around; the terrace tables were fully occupied, and a few diners had been seated indoors. The staff were bustling around, doing their best to keep everyone happy.
‘You flying one short?’ I asked John.
‘What you mean?’
‘The kid who was here last weekend; I don’t see him.’
‘Nacho? No, he left. He said he had to go back to Cordoba. He’s a good waiter even though he doesn’t speak Catalan. He say he come back next year, but with kids, you never know.’
‘Tell me about it! We have our dropouts in the police force too. It’s a bugger when you’ve spent serious money training them, only for them to piss off and join private security firms.’
Sod it! He’d got me talking about work, and I had forsworn that for the rest of the break.
‘Gimme a bill, please,’ I asked. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’ To speed the process, I handed him a fifty euro note.
‘Thanks,’ I said as he left. Sarah looked at me, puzzled.
‘Thanks for what?’
‘Thanks for making my life complete again. For having faith in me. For showing me the way forward when I was uncertain and confused. For loving me. Come on, let’s go to Barcelona and have the time of our lives.’
We stood and I waved farewell to John, stopping him as he headed back with around twelve euro in change. Sarah took my arm and we walked off, towards Club Nautic, where our car, the one I keep out there, was parked, looking at the ranks of moored boats, and feeling the comfort of the early afternoon warmth, rather than full-on heat. In the days that we had been there the season had begun to change, as summer morphed into autumn.