The little man perked his ears up at the mention of his name.
Mother appeared, unfurling the crinkly white top to a bag of sweets. ‘What are we arguing about now?’
‘Detective Sergeant Franklin seems to think Police Scotland are going to lend us one of those old blue public call boxes, and that it’ll actually travel in space and time.’
‘That’s nice.’ Mother took hold of my arm and led me over to the window, where the outside broadcast units were still lined up, their various journalists doing pieces to camera as the sky lightened above them. ‘Listen, about this post mortem, you heard Professor Twining, we’re supposed to get a forensic anthropologist to attend.’
‘So go find one.’
‘I can’t. The woman I always use from Dundee has sodded off to Lancaster University, and everyone else is away working in godforsaken parts of the globe. Like Guildford.’
No idea why her lack of staff was my problem... But that wasn’t exactly being a team player, was it? Play nice.
‘Could always try the next-door neighbour — the pregnant one.’ Pointing through the wall and off to the right. ‘OK, she’s not qualified, but better than nothing. Maybe.’
‘Oh, God.’ Mother covered her face with her hands. ‘And it had all been going so well...’
The sun finally made it over the horizon, painting the world in shades of gold and amber as Franklin worked the pool car through Logansferry. Even the harbour looked attractive in this light. As we drove up the dual carriageway, the view between the buildings opened up, giving a clear line of sight across the river and up into the bleak horror of Kingsmeath. Not even the sunrise could make that place look like anything other than what it was: dark, depressing, and dangerous. A twisted nest of cheap council housing and brutalist tower blocks.
Should’ve bulldozed the place years ago.
The Luftwaffe had spent all their energy bombing the Logansferry docks, could they not have flattened Kingsmeath while they were at it? Was that so much to ask?
And yes, technically most of the place had only been built after the war, but that was no excuse.
I stretched out my right leg, setting the tortured ankle clicking as the bombs fell, wiping the whole area off the map.
‘You’re doing that weird evil smiling thing again.’
‘What can I say, I’m a cheery individual.’ Sometimes.
Henry nudged his nose through from the back seat, rubbing his muzzle against my arm till he got a scratch.
I gave Franklin the side-eye. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you decided to partner up with me again, today: my winning charm.’
‘Best of a bad lot, to be honest. Dotty’s lovely, but she’ll drive you insane after thirty minutes, John’s a dick, and Amanda is...’ Franklin screwed her face into a thoughtful pout.
‘Bit too earnest? Eager to please? OTT?’
‘Could say that, yes. On top of other things.’
‘Go on then: what did she do wrong to end up in Mother’s Misfit Mob?’
‘You’d have to ask her that.’ Franklin joined the queue for the roundabout, stuck behind a bread van and an eighteen-wheeler full of vegan sausage rolls — going by the branding. ‘What really matters is that I get to hang about with Henry all day. You’re just collateral damage, so—’
Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ started up in my pocket: Detective Superintendent Jacobson.
She nodded. ‘You want to answer that?’
‘Not really.’ But I pulled out my phone anyway. Swiped the button. ‘What now? I’m on secondment, remember?’
‘Ash? Sabir says you’ve still not sent him that cost code for his eight hours. And while I’ve got you: Steven Kirk.’
‘I’m sure I emailed it across.’ Which was a lie.
‘Kirk’s solicitor is threatening us with all manner of horrible things, Ash. I do not want LIRU getting sued because you roughed up a nonce. Understand?’
‘Tell Sabir to check his spam folder, maybe it ended up in there?’
‘Alice says she’s had a word with Kirk, but I need this done belt-and-braces style.’
‘I can try resending it, if you like?’
‘Yes, excellent attempt at evasion, but you’re not wriggling out of this one. You’re meeting with Kirk’s solicitor ASAP, and that’s final.’
Franklin took us around the big roundabout and onto Camburn Drive. The traffic lightening up as we hit the ring road through the woods.
‘Can’t today, we’re on our way to Fife, Glasgow, and Bute.’
‘Don’t care, as long as you stop off past HMP Oldcastle on the way. Because if you don’t — and let me make myself really clear here — if you don’t, I’m going to make it my mission in life to cut you loose, point out the “accountability for own actions” clause in your contract, and make sure Steven Kirk’s legal team nail you to the courtroom floor. By your testicles!’
The rotten bastard would as well.
‘That’s not exactly—’
‘And send Sabir that cost code! I’m not running a charity here.’
Then silence. He’d hung up.
Lovely.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Gave Franklin an apologetic smile.
She pulled her chin in. Clearly suspicious. ‘What?’
‘Slight change of plan.’
A groan. ‘Of course there is...’
21
Strange how much one prison looked like any other these days. Well, assuming it wasn’t built in the late eighteen hundreds. The new ones, though, were more community centre than penal institution. From the outside, anyway.
Inside, it didn’t matter where you were, it always smelled of too much air freshener trying to cover up the animal funk of too many people crammed into one place for too long and never allowed to go anywhere.
Out in the real world, Franklin wandered past, her shape distorted by the wall of tinted glass that fronted the main entrance, Henry trotting along at her side on the end of his leash — nose down and sniffing. Searching for interesting things to widdle on.
The officer on reception frowned at my ID for a while, porn-star moustache twitching as if he was trying not to read the words out loud. Then it twitched up at me instead. ‘And you want to see...?’
‘Kenneth Dewar.’
‘Right. Mr Dewar.’ He swivelled his chair around and called across to a beefy woman in matching white short-sleeved shirt, epaulettes, black tie and trousers. No moustache, though. ‘HOY, JESS, YOU SEEN MILKY-MILKY ANYWHERE?’
The voice that bellowed back was remarkably posh. ‘HAVING A WEEP, ROUND THE BACK OF THE BINS!’
‘CHEERS!’ A finger swung around to point at a door this side of the security scanners, X-ray machines, and conveyor belt, marked ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY’. ‘Mr Dewar will be on your left. I’ll buzz you through.’
Kenneth Dewar didn’t look the type to be having a cry behind the prison’s collection of massive wheelie bins, but there he was: broad shoulders; thinning hair, swept back from a tanned scalp; jet-black leather jacket; sitting on the kerb with his knees up against his chest, one arm wrapped around them, the other hand covering his face as he rocked back and forth. Breath coming out in sharp little jags. An untouched vending-machine cup of something frothy and brown resting on the tarmac at his booted feet.
The kind of person Alice would’ve been all over. Trying to help him through his pain, instead of leaving the poor bugger to blub in peace. Which I would’ve done, if there weren’t a million more important things to be getting on with.