‘The media have been very clear that—’
‘So what if the press are crawling up your backside? So what if they’re screaming for scapegoats?’
‘This isn’t—’
‘Your job isn’t to help them, your job is to stand behind your bloody officers! No, you know what: it’s to stand in front of your officers and take the flack so they can keep on DOING THEIR BLOODY JOBS!’ Another poke, hard enough to send him flinching back a step. ‘SO GROW A PAIR OF BALLS, GO OUT THERE, AND DO YOURS!’
His eyes bulged, white teeth bared, moustache twitching.
Then Inspector Samson cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir, but we’re live on the BBC in two minutes.’
Some more twitching and glowering.
Henry barked at him.
‘Sir?’
McEwan’s nostrils flared as he stuck his nose in the air, then he turned and marched from the room, snatching his hat out of Samson’s hands as he went.
The inspector shook his head. Hissed out a long slow breath. ‘Between you and me? That probably wasn’t a great idea.’
I gave him the benefit of a cold shark smile. ‘You can tell your boss: he briefs against the Misfit Mob, I’ll go straight to the press and tell them all about Deborah Stalker.’
That got a frown from Samson. ‘Who’s—’
‘You’ll find out tomorrow, when it’s all over the front pages.’
‘Right. Well. Yes.’ He backed from the room. ‘I’d better...’ Samson turned and hurried away down the corridor. ‘Sir? Chief Superintendent? Sir, I need to talk to you!’
The front door clunked shut and silence settled into the gloomy mildewed house.
Dotty blew out a long, hard breath. ‘Bloody hell. Ash Henderson, you absolute monster!’ Clapping her hands and mugging at me. It built into a slightly embarrassed round of applause from the team that ended with a wee hug from Mother.
Nice to be appreciated for a change.
Henry did his round-and-round dance again, as if he’d been wholly responsible for chasing McEwan away.
Watt grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, flicking through to BBC One, where the same reporter they’d had in town all week was doing his piece to camera.
‘... tragic death of Nick James from the Glasgow Tribune, prompting fierce criticism of the police presence here in Clachmara.’ He moved a pace to the side, the camera following him. ‘I’m joined now by the head of O Division, Chief Superintendent McEwan.’
And there was McEwan, turned slightly away from the camera, with Samson whispering something in his ear. He looked up, face a lot paler than it had been during his rant.
‘Chief Superintendent, how do you respond to accusations that your officers were negligent in ensuring the safety of media teams in the area?’
Watt folded his arms. ‘Negligent my arse.’
‘I’m...’ McEwan cleared his throat. Glanced back towards Samson. Then faced the camera again. ‘My team did everything it possibly could to prevent this tragic death.’ Getting into the stride of it, popping his chin up. ‘Let’s not forget that three of my officers put their own lives at great risk trying to rescue Mr James, after he ignored repeated warnings to stay away from the cliff...’
‘Well, well, well.’ Watt smiled. ‘Looks like Shouty McShoutface isn’t so shouty after all.’
‘... utmost confidence in my officers to track down Gordon Smith and bring him to justice. And we’d once again ask anyone who has any information on Smith’s whereabouts to get in touch with Police Scotland on...’
‘All right, John,’ Mother waved at the screen, ‘I don’t think we need to see any more.’
He killed the TV.
‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, assignments. Rosalind?’
Franklin opened a folder and pulled out a wodge of paper. ‘John: in light of Simpson Kinkaid appearing in one of Gordon Smith’s pantos, we need you to get together a cast list of every show Smith worked on and see if anyone else has been reported missing.’
‘Noooo...’ Watt wrapped his arms around his head and curled up in his seat. ‘Why can’t Amanda do it?’
‘Because Amanda and Dotty will be visiting Aberdeen, Fochabers, and Inverness.’ Franklin passed across two printouts: blow-ups of the ‘before’ Polaroids: the guy at a graduation ceremony, the young woman on a pony, and the bloke in the beer garden. ‘No point going to Balmedie, we know the victim there was Sophie MacNeil.’
A big smile from Dotty. ‘Girls’ road trip!’
I hobbled over to the printouts that DC Elliot and Watt had pinned up, opposite Gordon Smith’s headshot. The same thirteen blown-up Polaroids that Franklin was handing out — the ones from the ‘before’ set — made a wide-spaced grid on the fusty wallpaper. If there was a corresponding ‘after’ picture, it was stuck underneath the living one, which left four smiling people with no corresponding torture shot.
The remaining eleven unmatched ‘after’ pics formed a second grid. Where they would probably stay, unknown and unnamed. But hopefully not unrevenged.
Someone had added Sophie’s name to the bottom of her picture in blue sharpie. They’d done the same with Simpson Kinkaid. Leaving eleven unknowns on the ‘before’ grid. Well, fourteen, if you counted people, rather than pictures. The happy couple on a carouseclass="underline" photographed in Glasgow, according to Sabir. The two young women hugging on the seafront: Brighton. And the older man and younger woman posing awkwardly on a putting course: Rothesay.
‘Mr Henderson and I will take—’
‘Does this look familiar to you?’
Franklin pursed her lips and lowered the chunk of paperwork in her hand. ‘I’m in the middle of—’
‘No, come look. Here.’
She rolled her eyes, groaned, then sloped over. ‘What now?’ Glanced at the photographs. ‘Yes, it’s a carousel. Wish I’d never let you—’
‘Not the carousel, this pair. On the putting course. He not remind you of someone?’
Creases appeared between her perfect eyebrows and she leaned in to stare. ‘... Maybe?’
‘Cos he reminds me of Gordon Smith’s brother: Slimy Pete.’ Only in the picture he had to be about thirty, maybe forty years younger? Instead of that swept-forwards Nero hairstyle, he had a full head of frothy brown curls, a Peter Sutcliffe beard, and a turquoise-and-red shell suit.
‘Now you’ve said it? Yeah... Kind of.’ She poked the picture. ‘Same piggy eyes.’
‘Think we should go pay Bute a visit?’
Franklin held up her paperwork again. ‘Way ahead of you. We’re down for Cupar, Glasgow, and Rothesay.’
‘In one day, are you off your head? Do you have any idea how long that’ll take?’
She poked at her phone, then held the screen out in front of me. A map of Scotland with a wiggly blue line stretching nearly all the way across it with a narrow loop on the right-hand side. ‘Seven hours, fifty-five minutes. Should be back here by... twenty to four?’
‘Assuming we don’t actually stop the car, or do any police work when we get where we’re going, or pause for two minutes every now and then so Henry can have a wee!’