Tchaikovsky’s ‘Danse des Mirlitons’ burst out of my pocket. That would be Alice calling. Again.
‘You going to get that?’
‘Nope.’
We passed a couple of bookies and a charity shop. Pulled up at the traffic lights outside the boarded-up remains of Oldcastle’s newest multiplex cinema — still advertising a superhero blockbuster from three years ago, the posters’ colours faded away to a yellow-and-black duotone.
‘Still need to know where we’re going, though.’
Good question.
Tchaikovsky faded off into silence as Alice’s call went to voicemail.
Maybe it was time?
Wasn’t as if the day could get any worse, was it?
‘Take a right.’
Soon as the lights changed, he hit the indicators, setting a slew of angry horns honking behind us.
I clicked on the radio, jabbing the buttons till something suitably unhappy groaned out of the car’s speakers. We drifted along Nelson Street to the sound of someone else’s misery.
Then Tchaikovsky joined in again.
This time I didn’t even let it go to voicemaiclass="underline" hit the ‘reject call’ icon instead.
Shifty shook his head. ‘You’re going to have to talk to her eventually.’
Maybe. But not right now.
Grey buildings slid by the car windows, grey people slumping past in front of them. Oldcastle in November. The whole bloody city needed a Valium.
On the radio, the song gloomed its way to a depressing finale, replaced by a gravel-voiced woman sitting far too close to the microphone in an attempt to sound sultry and intimate. ‘Four Mechanical Mice there, and “Dear Dinosaur”. You’re listening to Midmorning Madness with me, Barbara Chapman, standing in for Annette Peterson. It’s half ten and we’ve got the news coming up, but first, here’s a word from our lovely sponsors...’
‘You going back to the flat tonight, or do you need somewhere to crash as well?’
‘Don’t know, yet.’ The way things were going, once Steven Kirk’s lawyer got his hooks into me, I’d probably be sleeping in a cell for the weekend, waiting till they got me up in front of a sheriff on Monday.
‘... ahar mateys, cos at Blisterin’ Barnacles Chip Shop, you landlubbers and salty seadogs can get two fish suppers and a poke of onion rings for the price of one!...’
Tchaikovsky had another go. Didn’t make it past the first bar before I hung up on him.
‘Look, Ash, it’s—’
‘Just... don’t, OK?’
‘Cluckity cluck, cluck, cluck! Mummy, can we have Chicken MacSporrans for tea tonight? They’re new and improved!’
‘Of course you can, Timmy, because I know I can trust ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens to deliver on nutrition and taste. They’re fan-chicken-tastic!’
I pointed through the grubby windscreen. ‘Right at the roundabout.’
We joined the queue of traffic, Shifty shaking his head. ‘Only, every time you pair fall out it’s me gets stuck in the middle.’
‘... and feel the magic of pantomime as Sherlock Holmes and the Curse of Tutankhamun’s Tomb comes to the King James Theatre, this December! Fun for all the family! Tickets on sale now!’
‘Well, what am I supposed to do? It’s—’
My phone launched into something else for a change: Radiohead’s ‘Creep’, the words ‘DSUPT. JACOBSON’ glowing in the middle of the screen. To be honest, that took longer than expected. Thought he’d be on the phone yelling at me ages ago.
Ah well.
Nice while it lasted.
Shifty took us out and round onto Castle Drive, the multi-building lumps of Castle Hill Infirmary looming over the houses on our left, the twin towers of its incinerators sending out clouds of white steam to be ripped apart by the wind.
I turned down the radio and took the call. ‘Go on then, get it over with.’
‘Ash, Ash, Ash...’ A disappointed noise. Sounding sad, rather than angry. ‘You don’t make things easy for me, do you? Or yourself. You silly bugger.’
‘It’s—’
‘Alice told me what happened and why. And, while I don’t approve of people beating the hairy snot out of suspects, I appreciate it’s not been easy for you. Not today, anyway.’
Great: sympathy. The perfect way to make anyone feel even worse about themselves.
‘But that’s still no excuse, you complete and utter, total arsehole! You’re supposed to be helping us catch Gòrach, not buggering any chance we have of convicting him!’
‘Yeah.’
‘Now I have to spend the next hour pacifying Steven Kirk’s lawyer; do you have any idea how hard it’ll be getting a warrant to search his house after this? The Procurator Fiscal is going to do her nut.’
The road curved around a patch of woods on the right, the sharp blade of granite towering on the left, with the crumbling remains of the Old Castle on top.
‘Well? Have you got anything to say for yourself?’
‘Yes: I resign.’ Might as well, before he fired me.
‘On no, you’re not getting away with it that easily. I need you off the Gòrach investigation till this blows over, but if you think I’m giving you gardening leave, you’ve got another think coming. I’m not paying you to sit about doing sod alclass="underline" you can go be a massive pain in someone else’s backside for a change. I’m sure DI Malcolmson would be delighted to have you muck up her caseload for a change.’
No...
That dragged my shoulders down. ‘In that case, I’m definitely resigning.’
‘Have fun in Mother’s Misfit Mob, Ash. Try not to cock anything else up, eh?’ And with that, Jacobson was gone.
Wonderful. Just. Sodding. Wonderful.
When I opened my eyes, Shifty was squinting at me.
‘You look like someone’s slapped a cold jobbie in your Pot Noodle.’
To be honest, that would’ve been an improvement.
Never liked Tarbeth Park.
Saint Bartholomew’s Episcopal Cathedral dominated the semi-manicured grassland, rearing up in all its jagged granite glory, the copper-coated spire scratching at the sky in shades of greeny-brown. All buttresses and lancet windows. Like Saint Damon’s on steroids, only out in the sunlight, rather than down in a dank rainswept hollow. God knew what kind of sins Oldcastle had to atone for in the sixteenth century, but going by the size of Saint Bartholomew’s, they were many and heinous.
Shifty stuck the pool car in one of the parking spots reserved for emergency vehicles. Cleared his throat. ‘Want me to come with you?’
‘Not really.’
He nodded, but clambered out after me, anyway. Scuffing along at my side as I limp-hobbled my way past the retractable metal bollards and onto the slick cobbled road that jinked in towards the cathedral’s nave end. Gusts of frigid air shoved us along, making our coattails flap out in front of us as we followed the road, heading for the biggest graveyard in the city. Well, if you didn’t count the plague pits in Shortstaine.
Shifty stuck his hands deep in his pockets, good eye narrowed as he squinted out into the sunshine. Raised his voice over the howling wind. ‘Least it’s stopped raining.’
From here, the view stretched down, across the park, to the river’s glittering grey ribbon, then across to Cowskillin — with its rows of pre-war terraced houses and the abandoned hulk of City Stadium. Lots of browns and greys, because who wouldn’t want to live somewhere completely devoid of charm or life?