The pool car passed under a raised walkway, and the landscape opened out to the right — the wide River Clyde a choppy blue smear with hills and mountains disappearing into the lowering sky on the other side — while we roared along the dual carriageway.
‘Tell you, it’s an absolute nightmare.’ Rhona gave a disgusted grunt. ‘Soon as Toby Macmillan was reported missing: total media feeding frenzy. “Is missing five-year-old the latest Oldcastle Child-Strangler victim?” Second editions are all “picture exclusive, pages four to nine”, and opinion pieces from every mouth-breathing halfwit who ever wanked into a sock. Shifty looks like his head’s going to pop like an over-ripe pluke any second now. Doesn’t help that your wee friend’s hungover as hell. Been sick three times already this morning.’
‘Do me a favour and keep an eye on Alice, OK?’
Rhona groaned. Then, ‘OK, OK. But if she pukes all over me, you’re for it.’
Franklin overtook a big green articulated lorry with the ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens logo down the side, and, ‘ONLY A CLUCKING IDIOT WOULDN’T LOVE SCOTIABRAND CHICKEN MACSPORRANS!’ Someone had finger-painted, ‘VEGAN REVOLUTIONARY ARMY!!!’ and ‘MEAT IS MURDER!!!’ underneath, in the grime.
‘And while you’re there, chase up Edinburgh plod for me, will you? Supposed to have a lookout request on the go for Leah MacNeil. Make sure they’re not sat on their arses twiddling their thumbs.’
‘Yeah. You’ll have to wait till I’m done here, though. Got a media briefing in five. Hopefully I won’t be spending most of it holding Her Ladyship’s hair back as she barfs all over the front row.’ The smile in Rhona’s voice was loud and clear. ‘Not that most of them wouldn’t deserve it, mind. Then it’s back to interviewing nonces for the rest of the day. Which is about as—’
‘Thanks, Rhona.’ I hung up. Tapped the phone against my palm. Might be worth tuning in to listen. Then again, if Alice really was in that bad a state, maybe better not.
We passed a minibus full of grumpy-faced pensioners. A taxi with a sobbing man in the back. A Transit with two blokes singing along to something in the front. An ancient Ford towing a trailer full of logs.
Then a wide stretch of nothing but us and the river and the hills.
Franklin risked a glance back over her shoulder, even though there was a perfectly good rear-view mirror, right there. ‘They still following us?’
‘Will you keep your eyes on the road?’
‘I can’t see them, maybe they’ve... No. Rusty yellow Volkswagen Golf at twelve o’clock.’
I tried not to grimace, I really did. ‘Of course they’re at twelve o’clock, they’re following us.’ Poked at the screen on my phone, bringing up the web browser and scrolling down the Calmac timetable. ‘OK, we’ve missed the twelve fifteen, and the next ferry’s not till one.’
She glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘Plenty of time.’
‘Ah... According to this, we need to be there twenty minutes before it sails.’
‘Going to be tight, then.’ The car’s engine changed pitch as she put her foot down and the needle crept up to eighty. ‘Can’t believe we didn’t make the Golf, back in Glasgow.’
I slithered down in my seat. Three cars back, the Volkswagen accelerated to match our speed, pulling out to overtake the red van in front of it.
Gotcha.
Sat up straight again, turned in my seat and pointed my phone’s camera at the rear windscreen.
And immediately, Henry popped up like a gopher, big happy head filling the picture. ‘Get down, you daft lump.’
He stayed where he was, but his expression got even more glaikit.
Took hold of his collar and pulled him into the footwell. ‘Stay!’ Then took the shot. Turned and faced the front again.
‘You get them?’
‘Find out soon enough.’ Calling up the photo showed it wasn’t great, but there was just enough grainy detail when I zoomed in to make out the number plate. Right. Rhona was already doing me a favour, so I texted the pic to Shifty instead.
Run this through the PNC for me.
I need an ID, address, and anything else
you can get on the driver.
They’ve been following us.
SEND.
The response was surprisingly prompt, given he was meant to be giving a media briefing.
SHIFTY:
I am not your bloody skivvy! I’m running a
bloody murder inquiry here! I’ve got three
dead kids and one missing!!!!!!!
Which was actually a fair point. He really did have more important things to do.
I smiled across the car at Franklin. ‘You haven’t got DC Watt’s mobile number, have you?’
23
Franklin stood at the front rail, peering down into the ferry’s loading bay. The huge metal prow was raised, like the open beak of a vast blue-and-white metal parrot, banging and clanging coming from below as the last of the vehicles was driven on board. ‘Any sign of it?’
Wind grabbed at her hair, making it stream out to the side, water breaking in spumes of white against the dock’s pilings. Henry scuttered up and down on the end of his leash, ears flapping.
‘Over there.’ I raised a finger and pointed, past the apron with its twelve lines reserved for vehicles waiting to board — two of which were already full, ready for the next sailing — to the parking area away to the right, down by the pebbly shore. Where that rusty yellow Golf now lurked. ‘Must’ve missed the loading cut-off, so they either abandon the car, or abandon the chase.’
‘Hmmm...’ She narrowed her eyes at it. ‘So they’re definitely on board.’
‘Came a hell of a long way to give up now.’
Franklin turned, resting her back against the rail instead, looking up at the wheelhouse as it towered over us. Picking the hair out of her mouth and setting it free to writhe in the wind again. ‘Still nothing from John?’
‘Useless as he is ugly.’ I tried to flex out the knots in my right leg. ‘You want to run the PNC check instead?’
‘I’m not your—’
‘Do it myself, but they tend to frown on members of the public hacking into the Police National Computer.’
She made a pained expression, then slumped. ‘Fine, but you owe me a sausage butty, remember?’
‘Deal.’ I handed her Henry’s lead and sodded off inside.
‘Thanks.’ I pocketed my change, picked up the cardboard coffee-holder thing and the wee paper bag with the not-sausage-butties in it.
The ferry was busier than you’d think, for the one o’clock sailing on a blustery Sunday in November. The outside seating area at the stern was virtually empty, though. Instead people were clustered inside, on the rows of vinyl seats or around the puggy machines — feeding in their money and pressing buttons to a soundtrack of dings, tweedles, and flashing lights.
A couple of fake-tan tourists in neon hiking gear were going pale and sweaty as the ferry forged its way against the wind. Deck rising and falling, wallowing from side to side. Making limping anywhere with two decaf lattes and a pair of pre-packaged cake slices even more difficult than usual.
Should’ve been paying more attention to where I was going, but I was more concerned with not falling on my backside, and thumped sideways into a fat bearded bloke in a stripy top. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry.’ An apologetic shrug, even though I was the one who’d barged into him.
Still, at least...
‘Are you all right?’ He put a hand on my arm. ‘Only, you look like you’ve seen a—’