‘Mr Dewar?’ I flashed my ID, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘My name’s Ash Henderson, Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. I believe we need to talk?’
He blinked at me between his fingers. Hauled in a deep wobbly breath. Then scrubbed at his face. Sniffed. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. Sorry.’ Stood, wiping his hand down the leg of his blue jeans. Then held it out for shaking. ‘Kenny.’
All covered in tears and snot? Don’t think so.
I limped over to the opposite wall instead, where a tiny sliver of sunlight had made it through the chain-link and barbed wire. ‘So, Kenny, I hear you represent Steven Kirk.’
He stooped and picked up his cup of brown. Gave himself a shake. His eyes might’ve been bloodshot, but they were still bright sapphire with a dark border. Wolf’s eyes. A strong jaw and muscular neck. Large hands at the end of brawny forearms. Exactly Shifty’s type. But then Shifty always had terrible taste in men.
Dewar pulled his head up and nodded. Bit his lip. Then looked away again. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like having to represent people like Steven Kirk, day in, day out? Because no one else will even be in the same room as them?’
I shrugged. ‘You don’t have to do it.’
A short, bitter laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter what they’ve done: everyone has the right to legal representation. Even Steven Kirk. Because if we don’t, what’s next? Maybe we should do away with the judicial process altogether? Instead of judges and juries we should give police officers guns and you can execute anyone you think’s broken the law?’ Dewar shook his head. ‘There’s enough fascist regimes in the world without us joining them.’ The breath that rattled out of him was long and sad. ‘So this is how I spend my days.’ One hand sweeping up to indicate the prison. ‘Wading through the child abusers, rapists, and everyone else you wouldn’t touch with a cattle prod.’
Oh, I would — especially if it was fully charged.
I settled back against the wall. ‘What does Kirk want?’
‘You know what the rest of my morning looks like? Helping a man who murdered his wife and two daughters rehearse for a “diminished-responsibility” plea, on the grounds that he thought one of the girls wasn’t his, so they all had to die. Then prepare some sort of argument so a complete animal can get visiting rights to his toddler, even though he beat the living crap out of its mother. Short break for lunch. Followed by a woman who filmed herself abusing and killing a wee boy. She wants to sue the prison for not letting her publish the slash-fic novel she’s written about Jimmy Bloody Savile granting wishes at Hogwarts...’ Dewar’s shoulders slumped, head thrown back to stare up at the cold blue sky. ‘Should’ve listened to my mother and gone into the priesthood.’
A seagull screeched by, overhead.
‘Nah.’ I gave him a small smile. ‘If you did that, you’d still have to deal with paedos, rapists, and freaks, only you’d have to absolve them of their sins, then send them off on their merry way, safe in the knowledge they were going to do it all over again. Imagine having that on your conscience.’
He let his head fall forward, staring at his cup of vending-machine brown as he nodded. ‘True.’ Took a sip. ‘Steven wanted to press charges for assault, even though Dr... McDonald is it?’
I nodded.
‘Even though Dr McDonald claims he assaulted her and you were only trying to save her.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Which you and I know is utter bollocks. You gave Steven Kirk a good kicking, because he deserved one.’ Dewar took a deep breath. ‘So here’s what I’m going to propose: you make a full and sincere apology. Police Scotland — or your LIRU lot, don’t care which — make a modest financial settlement to acknowledge his pain and distress. Somewhere in the ballpark of eight to ten grand should do it. And I talk Steven into dropping the charges. Mary Brennan’s screaming for his head on a spike now she knows he was cosying up to her in church. That should give us some leverage.’
Eight to ten grand. Not sure if Detective Superintendent Jacobson would go for that, but you never knew...
‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah.’ Dewar took another sip. ‘And in return, I need you do me a favour, OK?’
The silence stretched.
That gull soared past once more, bringing a couple of squawking friends with it.
Outside the high fences, a car horn brayed.
‘You’re supposed to ask what the favour is.’
‘OK... What is it?’
Kenneth Dewar downed the last of his drink and flipped the empty wax-paper cup into the nearest bin. ‘Steven Kirk didn’t kill Andrew Brennan, or any of those other wee boys — he’s got an alibi that I can’t tell you about. A proper one. Nothing to do with looking after his dying mother.’
‘Something that violates his SRO?’ AKA: something that could get him wheeched right back to prison for being a sketchy child-molesting bastard.
‘That would be one possible interpretation, but I can’t confirm or deny it, because even a perverted monster like Steven Kirk is covered by client confidentiality.’ Deep breath. ‘But I want something in return.’
‘What, in addition to your cut of the eight grand?’ I took out one of Alice’s business cards, scored out her mobile number and printed my own in its place. Held it out. ‘In case you change your mind about that client confidentiality. Off the record, of course. Anonymously, if you like?’
‘I want you to promise me you’ll find the man who killed those wee boys.’ Dewar bit his bottom lip and nodded. ‘You find him, and you make him pay.’
‘How much?’ Jacobson sounded as if I’d just stabbed him.
‘Eight. Well, eight to ten.’ I shifted the phone to the other ear as the pool car thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thumped its way across the Tay Road Bridge. The river sparkled in the sunlight, a massive slab of slate grey, scarred by the passage of an RNLI lifeboat. A handful of Jackup rigs reaching their latticework ladders into a dull-blue sky.
‘Thousand pounds?’
‘No, jelly babies.’
A smile played at the edge of Franklin’s mouth, but she kept her face front, following a wee sandwich van with ‘BINGO BRENDA’S BAPS, BUTTERIES, & BRIDIES!’ on it, at a stately fifty miles per hour.
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be sarcastic, do you?’
‘Kenny Dewar is adamant Steven Kirk isn’t our boy. He was doing something else at the time. Something that breaches his Sexual Risk Order.’
‘Ten thousand pounds! Do you have any idea what that’ll do to my budget?’
‘Kirk’s not going to make something like that up, is he? Well, maybe to get away with abduction and murder...’
‘How can you not take this seriously?’
Thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump-thrummmm-thump.
‘Look, it happened, and I’m sorry, but it happened.’ I sagged back in my seat. ‘Kirk weaselled his way into Saint Damon’s, got himself a nice little volunteer job where he could slither up to Mary Brennan. It all kind of... happened.’
‘Thought you said you went for him because he attacked Alice?’
‘That happened after.’ Almost. From my slouched position, the road behind us was dead centre in the rear-view mirror. A wee open-topped sports car, driven by a wrinkly old lady with wild grey hair. A dumpy Mini the colour of dung. A dull-yellow Volkswagen Golf clarted in rust. And behind them the grey swathe of Dundee as it faded into the distance behind us.