‘I put the money on the counter.’
‘Oh, I know, thanks. No, you left this behind.’ Holding out the printout of Peter Smith and the young woman. ‘I asked Elsie, but she doesn’t recognise either of them, so I showed it round all the staff and customers.’ Her mouth made a creased zigzag. ‘Sorry. Maybe someone else knows who they are though?’ She pointed across the square, at a narrow street between a jewellery shop and a red-painted bar with a couple of Tennent’s ‘T’s hanging outside. ‘You could try the Black Bull? The library’s got a book group, meets there on Sunday evenings: seven for half seven. Mostly gossipy auld wifies and nosy auld mannies, but that’s maybe what you’re after, son?’
Worth a go.
Till then, probably better make myself useful.
25
Thick, muggy air followed me out into the cold and wind. Lingering for a second as the pub door shut behind me, before the wind snatched it away.
Streetlights gleamed against the raven darkness, illuminating the curling seafront, headlights sweeping their way along the road as the occasional figure hurried somewhere warmer.
Henry cocked his leg against a downpipe, then we headed off along the pavement, following the map on my phone to the next location. Past shuttered cafés and antique shops.
The scent of hot fat and sharp vinegar drifted after us — the siren call of an empty chippy — as my phone launched into its default ringtone, the words, ‘DS FRANKLIN’ replacing the map. ‘Hello?’
‘This is an absolute nightmare. There’s a huge stack of boxes left, and we’ve only got as far as 1970!’
‘You’re having fun then?’
She sounded muffled and distant, as if she had the phone on the table and her head in her hands. ‘Only upside is Sergeant Campbell clocked off at five, on the dot, so I don’t have to put up with his sleazy gitbaggery any more.’
‘Mother wants to know if you’ll be done in time for us to catch the nine o’clock ferry from Rhubodach.’
‘Nine tonight? Not a chance in hell.’
Bed-and-breakfast in sunny Rothesay for us, then.
‘I’m going to be stuck here for hours.’ A groan rumbled down the phone. ‘And while I’m slogging my way through three tons of missing person reports, what are you—’
‘Pub crawl. Well, technically it’s a “pub limp”, but you get the picture.’
Franklin’s voice got a lot louder. ‘Oh for God’s—’
‘Teetotal, remember? Pills. I’m showing that photo of Peter Smith and the girl to anyone old enough to remember shell suits being a thing. Every bar and hotel I can find. And failing that, there’s a book club meets in one of the bars at half seven. Meant to be full of oldies.’
‘Worth a try, I suppose.’
Henry and I kept going.
‘You were right in the first place: when we were on the putting course. This is a complete waste of time.’
‘Yup.’ I paused outside a little place advertising Karaoke and Tennent’s Lager. The muffled sound of someone slaughtering a country-and-western tune oozed out through the pub windows, rising to a horrible blare as the door banged open and a couple of middle-aged women scurried out in a fit of the shrieking giggles. They huddled in the lee of a parked Transit van and lit a couple of cigarettes, eyeing me as they smoked — like I was a piece of meat, found at the back of the fridge, with a dodgy sell-by date.
‘You know what we should’ve done? We should’ve gone back to HMP Edinburgh and shoved that photo in Peter Smith’s face. Demanded to know who she was.’
‘Yeah. But he’d just sit there and deny everything, wouldn’t he? All we’d achieve is giving him something else to wank about after lights out.’
‘Thanks for that image.’
‘Give me a shout when you’re ready to pack it in for the night.’ I put the phone away and pushed through into yet another noisy crowded bar.
It would’ve been classified as a ‘light drizzle’, if it hadn’t been jabbed in like needles on a howling wind, as Henry and I struggled our way back along Argyle Street. The warmth of tea and a Jaffa Cake at the Robertson Hotel a swiftly fading memory.
Which meant we’d tried every hotel on the seafront, every bed-and-breakfast, and every bar. Except one.
The gale slammed itself against my chest, stabbing its needles deeper into my face, making the streetlights sway in the darkness. Misty shadows dancing around them. Henry more out for a drag than a walk, whimpering on the end of his leash like a petulant wee hairy anchor.
Past old stone buildings with bay windows, their lights on, showing off warm domestic scenes as the sensible people stayed inside, out of the horrible night. Jammy bastards.
On the other side of the road, waves smashed themselves against the seawall, white spray curling over the metal railings to spatter down against the pavement.
Should’ve made Franklin hand over the keys to the pool car, sore foot or not. Couldn’t hurt more than it did right now, anyway. It was as if someone was taking a cordless drill to the bloody thing, screeching hole after ragged hole into the bones every time my right foot hit the paving slabs. If I’d been driving, it’d still hurt, but at least I’d be dry.
I dug the hand with Henry’s lead deeper into my pocket, the one clutching my walking stick aching and numb all at the same time.
So much for retiring to sunny Rothesay. They could—
Oh, for God’s sake.
My phone, doing its basic ringtone again.
I limped across the road, into a car park outside what looked like a cross between an art deco swimming pool and a car showroom, all concrete and glass, lights blazing in its windows, kept going till I was under the overhanging portico and out of the wind and rain. Hauled out my mobile and stabbed the button. ‘What?’
The sound of a band rehearsing boomed out from the floor above.
‘Not the friendliest of welcomes I’ve had, Ash.’ Mother. ‘I was calling to say I’ve got you and Rosalind rooms at the Hotel Sokoloff, but maybe you’d rather sleep in the car instead?’
‘It’s blowing a gale, I’m cold, I’m soaked through, and my foot’s killing me because I’ve been hobbling all over Rothesay for the last four and a half hours, trying to ID your murder victim!’ Adding an extra scoop of sarcasm to my voice. ‘So excuse me if I’m not in the most sociable of bloody moods.’
The band launched into a grating cover of an old Foo Fighters song, even though the drummer really wasn’t up to it.
They’d staggered their way to the chorus before Mother came back on the line. ‘And has your sore foot discovered anything?’
‘Yes. That it hates sodding about in the buggering wind and rain.’ I leaned back against the steel pillar holding up the concrete portico. Huffed out a breath. ‘No one knows who she is. Got one place left to try.’
‘Dotty and Amanda have IDed our graduating student. According to Aberdeen University, he’s Alex Yates. Got a two-one in Law, 1978. Parents reported him missing three days after the ceremony.’
‘Anyone told them yet?’
‘The Chief Super still doesn’t want any of this getting out till we’ve got Gordon Smith in custody. And before you say anything: no, I don’t think it’s fair either.’ Mother’s voice sagged. ‘Dotty couldn’t get an ID for the girl on the horse in Fochabers, or the young man in the Inverness beer garden. And we’re still no nearer to laying our hands on Smith.’