Still, at least the footage was in colour, which would help with identifying ex-DC Malcolm Louden.
Mr Cartwright’s finger poked the keyboard again and the footage lurched into fast forward, little people whizzing about their business. ‘If I’d told my mum and dad I was turning vegan, they’d’ve tanned my hide with a belt. Now, all of a sudden, it’s a “lifestyle choice”, “everyone’s doing it”, and you can’t eat prawn cocktail crisps any more.’
The screen got darker, then the station lights came on and a sea of humanity pulsed in and out of the station doors, every arrival or departure bringing a fresh wave with it. Until finally the last pulse broke on the pavement, spreading out and evaporating as a dumpy woman in her blue ScotRail uniform and yellow high-vis locked up. Then it was just the occasional drunk staggering past.
‘And don’t get me started on bacon.’
The night flickered by.
It was still dark when another ScotRail high-vis unlocked the doors, and a fresh wave of commuters broke against the station entrance.
Lucy pointed at the screen. ‘Slow it down a bit. Don’t want to miss him.’
‘Anyway, yes, those guys coming up from Dundee.’ Another swig of Diet Coke. ‘We caught one of them selling drugs outside the gents. Can you believe that? Bold as brass, right there. Bet it’s one of those county lines things you’re always hearing about.’
During one low tide, between throngs, a lone figure appeared at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Hanging about for a loiter that only took a couple of seconds, but probably lasted fifteen minutes in real not-speeded-up time. He was pinched-in, thin, with shoulder-length greasy brown hair, a sharp face, grubby baseball cap, and a scabby jacket that had some sort of horrible brown stain all down the back. A bundle under one arm, a big wodge of cardboard under the other, a backpack over his shoulder. Then he glanced up at the camera.
‘Can you pause it there?’
Mr Cartwright did. ‘Someone’s making a fortune, that’s for certain. All those people, coming up here, selling drugs on our streets while we give them spare change for a cup of tea!’
The image was nice and sharp: that was definitely Malcolm Louden, looking pretty much identical to his final mugshot.
‘OK, fast forward. We’re looking for a little girl.’
The footage jumped to warp speed again — people whizzing by as Louden took up position just to one side of the entrance, laying out his cardboard and sleeping bag. He took off his hat, put it down for donations, and sat there, begging, until the timestamp hit 12:24:37.
‘Freeze it!’
A child stood right in front of Malcolm Louden. Long red hair, held in a pair of Pippi Longstocking braids. Maybe ten or eleven years old. She was wearing a blue school uniform: not the normal red-and-grey ones that state-school kids wore, this was a blazer-and-tartan-skirt combo. There was even some sort of crest on the breast pocket.
The girl had a big brown-paper shopping bag with her, a smudge of turquoise on it that might have been writing. Maybe ‘PRIMARK’?
‘OK: play.’
Mr Cartwright poked the keyboard, and the footage started again.
The little girl said something to Louden, then gave him the bag. He reached in and pulled out a padded jacket, holding it up and staring as she put something in his baseball cap.
‘Can we zoom in?’
‘Let’s see...’ Mr Cartwright fiddled with the keyboard and the screen clunked into a partial close-up. Then again, and again, and again. The picture didn’t start getting pixelated until the fifth or sixth go. ‘That any good?’
The footage might’ve been in full colour, but it wasn’t exactly great. There was a cold blue tinge to it, making the jacket look like old blood.
Lucy turned to the Dunk. ‘Recognize the uniform?’
He squinted at the screen, moving in till his nose was less than a foot away. ‘Oh, yeah. That’s Bellside School for Girls, Castleview. Very swanky. Exclusive.’ His bottom lip jutted out. ‘Hang on: four and a bit weeks ago, wasn’t that still school holidays?’
‘Our Denise was on holidays.’ Mr Cartwright glugged down some more room-temperature Diet Coke. ‘But then she doesn’t go to a posh girls’ school.’
As if it mattered.
A nod from the Dunk. ‘Bet this one wears it as a status symbol.’ Putting on a posh accent for: ‘“Look how precocious and special I am!”, “I’m so much more important than you little people!”, “My daddy drives a Bentley!”’
Lucy thumped him on the shoulder. ‘All right, Leon Trotsky. Less social commentary, more policework.’ She pointed at Mr Cartwright. ‘Keep going.’
The footage whizzed forward till the shabby, hairy figure of Dr Rayner turned up to collect Louden for their shoplifting expedition, 13:09:23. And that was it; neither of them came back to the train station.
‘OK. We need to see the same time period, every morning for the rest of the week.’
A confused look from the Dunk. ‘Sarge?’
‘You heard Dr Rayner: this was Malcolm Louden’s morning spot, regular as clockwork. It took Rayner a week to notice Louden was missing, but soon as we can’t find him on the footage...?’
‘We’ll know when he really disappeared.’ The Dunk nodded. ‘Got you.’
They ran through the other two days on the hard drive, then moved on to: ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 10 AUG ➔ 12 AUG’, ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 13 AUG ➔ 15 AUG’, and ‘MAIN ENTRANCE, 16 AUG ➔ 18 AUG’ just to be sure. But Malcolm Louden never appeared again.
Which meant the Bloodsmith probably abducted Louden on the same day the little girl gave him his nice new coat, sometime after the shoplifting trip to M&S.
Now all they had to do was work out where and when. And, with any luck, that would be on CCTV as well, because if it was: the Bloodsmith was screwed.
Back at DHQ, the only member of Operation Maypole not out searching the woods was DC Stan Talladale — though, to be honest, what with the baggy bloodshot eyes, pale grey-green face, and trembling hands, it looked as if he would’ve been better off in the mortuary. Awaiting his turn on the cutting table.
Waves of Irn-Bru and extra-strong mint spilled out of him like chemical warfare, wafted on a gurgling burp. Clearly turning fifty didn’t bring a whole heap of wisdom with it, if you couldn’t tell you were too old to be getting wankered down the pub with your colleagues on a school night.
He blinked up at Lucy and burped again. Grimaced. Rubbed at his chest. ‘Must’ve been something I ate.’
‘Yes, Stan, I’m sure that’s what it is. Nothing to do with several rounds of tequila, sambuca, Jägermeister, and whisky-Red-Bulls.’ She perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Should’ve taken today off.’
‘Can’t. Janet wants to spend a month in Australia with the grandkids. Going to max out my holiday allowance as it is.’ He shuddered, then took another scoof from his tin. ‘Now, would you mind sodding off, Sarge, so I can die in peace?’
‘Before you expire, I’ve got a job for you.’
He groaned and slumped that bit further into himself.
Lucy pulled out Malcolm Louden’s final mugshot and slapped it down on the desk. ‘This is our body in the woods. He’s one of ours: ex-detective constable.’
Stan hissed out an Irn-Bru-and-mint breath. ‘Poor sod...’
‘I need you to comb the city centre CCTV. Last seen on camera outside the train station: eighth of August, ten past one. That’s PM, not AM. I need to know where he went and who he talked to.’