‘But then your team has a habit of covering up for paedophiles, doesn’t it? Move them on to a different parish, quash the rumours, silence the victims.’
Those baggy eyes widened as he stared at me, then turned to Kirk. ‘He’s... What’s he talking about, Steven?’
‘It’dss nuuunt mai fowwwt!’
‘Steven Kirk, former physical therapist, convicted in 1998 of making and distributing indecent images of children, abusing eleven minors at Blackwall Hospital, and the abduction and rape of a seven-year-old boy. On the Sex Offenders’ Register for life, aren’t you, Steven?’
And now, everyone was staring at him and his wodge of bloody tissues. Not looking quite so sympathetic any more.
The first-aider stepped away from Kirk, wiping her fingers down the front of her cardigan, as if trying to remove the taint of actually touching him.
‘Hhh azzolded mei! Thigggh isssnuunt mai fowwwt!’
‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND!’ Mary Brennan snatched up one of those manky Bibles and hurled it at him. Face contorted and flushed, spittle flying from her curled lips. ‘YOU DIRTY BASTARD!’
He turned and the book bounced off his shoulder, leaves flapping as it fell, like a dying bird.
‘I’M GLAD HE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!’ She sent another one winging Kirk’s way — it battered off the top of his bowed head — then another. ‘I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!’
He’d have a lot of company.
12
‘Well, that was... unedifying.’ Huntly settled himself down on the bench next to me. Dipped into his inside pocket and came out with a silver hip flask. Unscrewed the top and took a swig. Wiped the neck and proffered it to me. ‘You really are somewhat... volatile today, aren’t you? I mean, even more so than usual.’
High up above, the thick lid of grey had lifted, revealing a cold blue sky with wisps of white, travelling fast. No more rain. The sun was even shining, though none of it made its way down here. A graveyard permanently shrouded in gloom.
Knew how it felt...
Huntly waggled the hip flask.
‘Can’t.’ I pushed it away. ‘Pills.’
‘Ah yes, the dreaded medication.’ He knocked back another swig, then put the flask away again. ‘Alice is talking to your friend, Mr Kirk, but it seems he’s determined to press charges.’
Course he was.
‘Apparently you’ve knocked out three of his teeth, broken his nose, and cost him his volunteer position at the church.’ A frown. ‘Difficult to tell which one hurt him the most, to be honest. Seems Father Lucas isn’t so keen on a convicted sex offender hanging around with the choirboys and youth groups.’
At least that was something.
‘Will you permit me to proffer a tiny morsel of advice, Ash?’ Huntly’s hand settled onto my shoulder. ‘Make yourself scarce. Soon as Bear finds out you’ve battered the living bejesus out of a suspect — no matter how well deserved that battering was — he’s going to be less than amused.’
I leaned forward, put my arms on my knees and groaned. ‘He was here, Bernard. He knew Andrew’s mother.’
‘And now we can’t drag him in and grill him about it, without his lawyer bringing up the aforementioned battering. Which rather undermines our ability to prove he did anything.’
‘Yeah.’ Head down, hands covering my face. Squeezing.
Stupid Ash Henderson.
‘And, as if by magic, here comes a chopper to chop off your head...’ The bench shifted as he got to his feet. ‘Dr McDonald, don’t be too hard on Mr Henderson, he’s—’
‘A BLOODY IDIOT!’
I stayed where I was, face still covered. ‘He was about to punch you in the mouth. Remember that?’
‘YOU COULD’VE KILLED HIM!’ Gravel crunched as she marched away, then back again. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why does everything have to be—’
‘No!’ I dropped my hands. Stood. ‘You always do this. Every time there’s some poor bastard whose child’s been killed, you point at me.’ Jabbing a thumb at my own chest. ‘Enough!’
Alice set her jaw. ‘You can’t attack every—’
‘Rebecca’s death isn’t some lever you can pull, like it’s a bloody one-armed bandit, to make victims pay out in fucking sympathy tokens! HER DEATH MATTERS!’ Deep breath. I uncurled my fists. The ground beneath my feet a trembling sea of filthy gravel. ‘It matters to me.’
‘Wow...’ Huntly backed off, both hands up. ‘Maybe I should give you two a moment.’
Alice closed her mouth. Bit her bottom lip. Looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’
Yeah, well, sometimes ‘sorry’ didn’t cut it.
‘Come on, Ash, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m really, really sorry...’ Shuffling along beside me as I limped down Denholm Road. ‘Ash, please talk to me.’
No.
Dragged out my phone and called Shifty instead.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
The rain might have stopped, but the drains were still overflowing, the gutters making their own rapids where the water hit logjams of filth and rubbish.
Alice lurched in front of me, walking backwards, trying to make eye contact. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I know Rebecca’s death must be painful, I was only trying to—’
‘DI Morrow?’
‘Shifty? It’s Ash. I need a lift.’
‘Don’t be like that, I’ll drive you wherever you need to go, it’s not a—’
‘Oh, Christ, what have you done now?’
‘It’s important.’
‘Ash, please!’
‘You do realise I’m a detective inspector, right? A detective inspector who’s got a murder investigation on the go. I can’t—’
‘Can you give me a lift, or not?’
A long-suffering sigh. ‘All right, all right.’ Some scrunching came down the line, then a muffled, ‘Rhona? I’ve got to go out for a while. Keep an eye on things, and for God’s sake, don’t let the Chief Super put out any more half-arsed statements.’ Then Shifty was back to full volume again. ‘Where are you?’
Alice tried blocking my path. ‘Don’t do this. I said I’m sorry and I meant it.’
I sidestepped her. ‘Heading down Denholm, I’ll be on Montrose Road, going back towards town.’
‘Ash, please!’ Her voice ringing out behind me as I kept going. ‘Ash?’
‘OK, I’ll be there soon as I can...’
‘Ash! Please, we can talk about this!’
Not this time.
‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Shifty was probably going for casual and nonchalant, but it wasn’t working.
I kept my face turned to the passenger window as the manky pool car headed back across Calderwell Bridge. The traffic had eased up a lot since rush hour, sunlight sparking off Kings River like shards of hot glass. Windy enough out there to whip up white horses as the tide tried to fight against it.
‘OK.’ He pointed at the windscreen as we made landfall on the other side. ‘Can you at least tell me where we’re going?’
‘Steven Kirk’s been hanging round the church that leads onto the waste ground where Andrew Brennan was killed. Has been for months.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake...’ Shifty’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles standing out like ball bearings. ‘Blakey interviewed him! No mention of it.’
‘I cocked up, Shifty.’
He eyed me across the car. ‘Do I want to know? Actually, scrap that — I don’t. Especially with Professional Bloody Standards poking torches up my fundament.’