‘Hold this.’ I thrust the coffees and cakes at him, then pushed past, heading for the narrow passageway through to the other seating area.
Rows of angled seats, a couple of small tables, lots of bored-looking people, and a handful of screaming children running in circles. Piles of luggage against the bulkheads — wheelie cases and cardboard boxes of things.
Where the hell was...
There: by the window, staring out at the darkening sky.
I limped straight over, thumped a hand down on her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter, couldn’t get your car on the boat?’
Helen MacNeil froze for a moment, then turned and scowled at me. ‘It’s a free country.’
‘I told you I’d chase up that lookout request, and I did. They’re looking for her.’
Franklin burst into the passenger area, dragging Henry with her, making a beeline for me. ‘Ash: you’ll never guess who owns that yellow...’ She stopped and stared at Helen.
‘You’re too late. I already know.’ Pointing.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Franklin stepped closer. ‘What are you doing here, Mrs MacNeil?’
Wait.
I looked at Franklin. ‘It’s her car.’
‘No, it belongs to Nick James, the journalist who got washed away yesterday.’
Great. Of course it did.
‘You stole a dead reporter’s car?’
Helen opened her mouth, but a voice behind me got there first, ‘Technically, we borrowed it.’ No need to turn around to know who that was: Jennifer Bloody Prentice.
I turned on my heel, and limped off. Pausing only to retrieve my coffees and cakes from the confused-looking bearded bloke.
Jennifer’s voice brayed out behind me. ‘Oh come on, Ash, don’t be like that!’
‘... all drivers return to their vehicles...’ The nasal announcement echoed through the metal stairwell as I hobbled down to the car deck, the air thick with the scent of diesel. Walking stick clanging on the steps.
Franklin was waiting for me, leaning on the roof of our manky Ford Focus, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. Voice hard and clipped. ‘Like to tell me what that was all about?’
‘No.’
She climbed inside. Pulled on her seatbelt as I settled into the passenger seat. Radiated Arctic cold at me. ‘So, according to Ms Prentice, she had an arrangement with Nick James, where she could use his car if she needed to go incognito.’
‘And you believed her? That woman could lie for Scotland. If they ever make it an Olympic sport, she’d beat Donald Trump.’
Henry scrabbled his way between the front seats, covering the handbrake and grinning up at me with his tongue hanging out. That was the trouble with Vera giving the greedy wee sod a sausage.
Muscles rippled along Franklin’s jaw. ‘Prentice says you’re helping her write a book about Gordon Smith: “The Coffinmaker ~ hunting the world’s most dangerous serial killer”.’
‘Hmmph.’ She’d changed the title then.
The car thrummed as the ferry’s engines changed tone — a loud growl you could feel in your chest.
Franklin’s voice rose over it, spitting out the words as she bashed a hand off the steering wheel. ‘What the hell were you thinking? We’re in the middle of an investigation and you’re passing info to a journalist?’
‘Of course I’m not.’
A grating siren blared out, orange lights flashing as we bumped to a halt.
Franklin started the engine. Glared at me. ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, writing about a case we’re still working on! You two-faced—’
‘I’m not writing anything! I want sod all to do with Jennifer... Pain-In-The-Arse Prentice, and I told her that. But she won’t take no for a bloody answer.’
‘Then why did she tell me—’
‘Because she’s a liar!’ My hands ached into tight fists. ‘I told you that already. You really think I’m going to slip her information? After what she did?’
Franklin’s mouth opened. Then closed again. ‘What did she do?’
‘None of your sodding business.’
The sirens got louder as a flap in the stern hinged down, a fat bloke in high-viz and a hardhat directing the cars and lorries out through it into the cold grey light of the afternoon.
Two minutes later we were rattling off the ferry and up onto dry land again, in a fug of angry silence.
Rothesay curved around the water, a marina full of yachts sitting between the ferry terminal and a line of old brown brick buildings. A three-sided town square straight ahead. And more bland buildings to the right. Someone had painted the last lot in faded shades of pastel yellow, pink and blue, presumably in an effort to distract tourists from their uninspired façades.
But in front of them sat the flat green carpet of a putting course. Three couples slowly whacking their way around it in jumpers and woolly hats.
Franklin jerked her chin at them, forcing a hint of jolly into her voice, as if that would make everything all right. ‘Looks like we found our photo location.’ Turned right, onto the main road. ‘God’s sake, is there nowhere to park?’
A weird end-of-the-pier-style building sat alongside the putting green — a big domed middle, fronted by a pair of red-roofed pagodas. Then another putting course on the other side. Another group of idiots out braving the wind.
I pointed. ‘Pull in there.’
‘It’s a bus stop.’
‘You’re a police officer. We’re hunting a serial killer!’
‘It’s still a bus stop.’
‘I’ve got a blue badge. Stop the damn car.’
‘Right!’ She slammed on the brakes, getting an angry fusillade of horn blasts from the Transit van behind us. ‘Out. You get out here and I’ll go find somewhere to park.’
And just like that, we were back at war again.
‘Fine.’ I clipped on Henry’s lead as the Transit launched into another barrage. ‘Come on, wee man.’
He followed me out onto the road, and as soon as I’d closed the door, Franklin roared off.
God save us from unreasonable detective bloody sergeants.
Henry and I crossed over to the other side, stomping along the pavement that skirted the putting course. Then took the tarmac path into it and did a lap of an ornamental fountain — its sprays of water jerking and twisting away in the wind. Definitely a lot colder than it’d been back home.
We followed a line of blue railings, up a long ramp, and out onto the promenade.
Had to admit, the view wasn’t half bad. Green-and-grey hills, buffeted by fast-moving clouds, light and shadow moving across the concrete-coloured sea. Probably was quite something in summer.
In November, it was freezing, though.
Henry sniffed at pretty much everything we passed, widdling on half of it as we hunched our way along the waterfront. Seals bobbing in the troubled water. Herring gulls scrawking as they scudded past, sideways.
Might not be a bad place to retire, this.
‘There you are.’ Franklin, hands on her hips, padded jacket zipped up to her neck. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you and this Prentice woman had a history. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Like I was a sulky toddler.
A sigh rattled out to be whipped away by the wind.
Maybe I was? Barging about, whingeing and moaning...
Yeah.
I nodded. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Good. Thank you.’ Franklin stomped her feet on the tarmac. ‘Now we’re all friends again, can we get this over with, please? Losing all feeling in my toes here.’