‘Is it buggery. I put in a request for a helicopter and thermal-imaging camera, you know what they said? They said, “Sod off, Oldcastle, we’ve only got one helicopter and Strathclyde needs it.” How the hell am I supposed to find Toby Macmillan if they don’t give me the right kit?’
I settled on the edge of the bed and ruffled Henry’s furry head. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re on telly right now.’ After all, one of those small figures in the white suits was probably him.
‘You hear that?’ There was a moment’s silence, then what sounded like the far-off pounding whirrrrrrrrr of someone trying to beat partially-set concrete with an electric whisk. ‘Sky News have got a bloody helicopter. The BBC have got a bloody helicopter. Everyone’s got a bloody helicopter except the poor sod who actually needs one: me!’
‘Well... what about drones, then? Surely someone at the university’s got a few they can lend you. Part of a research project or something?’
‘If this was America, I could shove my badge in the pilot’s face and say, “I’m commandeering this helicopter!” And if he said no, I could shoot the bastard.’
‘No luck with your sex offenders, then?’
‘Why does everything have — to — be — so — bloody — hard? Why can’t I get an easy case for a change?’
I stood and pulled on my jacket. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m heading down for a massive hotel-breakfast fry-up.’
‘No, it doesn’t. And we’ve been through every nonce, stott, and greasy bastard in Oldcastle already. Twice.’
‘Then stop being a dick and go talk to Alice. She thinks this guy’s not on the Sex Offenders’ Register, because he’s never done anything like this before. He’s learning as he goes.’
‘Aaaaargh... How’s that supposed to help me? Instead of a finite pool of known kiddie fiddlers, I’ve got to interview every tosser in the whole place? This isn’t... God’s sake, what now?’
It went quiet for a bit, some muffled conversation barely audible in the background.
On the screen, Hugh the roving reporter marched across the car park, to the cordon. Where Chief Superintendent McEwan and his sidekick, Inspector Samson, were standing, in full dress uniform, with clipboards out and chins up. Soon as the other news crews got there, McEwan nodded and launched into a speech. No idea what he was saying, but it’d be the usual platitudes and look-at-me-being-all-in-charge bollocks he always came out with at these things. Not worth unmuting him for, anyway.
Then, Shifty was back: ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Apparently no one can find their arse with both hands unless I’m there to show them the bloody way!’ And with that, he hung up.
Say what you like about being kicked off the force, at least it meant I didn’t have to run around after tosspots like Chief Superintendent McEwan.
‘Right,’ I pointed at Henry, ‘if you stay here, and you’re a good boy, I’ll bring you back something greasy from the breakfast buffet.’
He grinned back at me.
Little sod was going to be the size of a beach ball by the time we got home.
The sun had barely cleared the horizon as Henry and I wandered along the promenade. Four big fat seals rolled in the gilded water, gulls wheeling overhead. Bit of a nip in the air, but at least it’d stopped raining. Should be a nice day, for a change.
Monday morning rush hour was in full swing. Which in Rothesay wasn’t saying much. A half dozen cars, the odd taxi. That open-topped bus again. Ten past eight — not even the carpet shops would be open yet.
I nipped across the road to a café, bought a decaf latte, then went back to the promenade to drink it. Chucking a tatty old tennis ball for Henry to fetch. The wee man scurrying about on clockwork legs, tail thumping back and forth like this was the best day of his life.
Ah, to be a daft, slightly stinky, Scottie dog.
My phone launched into a weird unfamiliar ringtone and I dragged it out, leaning against the blue railings, watching a couple of tiny fishing boats puttering out into the morning light. The words, ‘LEAH MACNEIL’ sat in the middle of the screen.
I jabbed the button. ‘Leah? It’s Ash Henderson, are you OK?’
Nothing from the other end.
‘Hello?’
A scrunching, popping noise, then a voice so muffled it was barely audible: ‘I’m frightened... He’s... I love him, but... he did something last night, something... something terrible. He’s... he’s scaring me so much...’
‘Leah?’
She didn’t sound like an eighteen-year-old, she sounded like a terrified child.
‘He’s in paying for the petrol and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Get out of there, Leah. Get out of there and run!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Is there another car at the petrol station? Someone you could go to?’
‘He’s locked the car and I can’t get out... Please help me!’
Come on, Ash, think.
‘OK, where are you?’
‘I don’t know, he... We’re... it looks like a supermarket, maybe?’
‘What kind? Can you see any road signs? Landmarks? Anything that’d help us find you?’
‘Oh God, he’s coming back!’ Her voice getting even harder to make out. As if she’d stuck her phone in a pocket, or something.
Then a clunk, a thump, and the sound of something crackling.
A man’s voice, talking at full volume. ‘Sorry, Caroline, they didn’t have any of the jelly beans you like, so I got jelly babies instead. Hope that’s OK?’
A click.
The man again: ‘What? No, I don’t think so. It’s too dangerous.’
Whoever he was talking to, not a single hint of what they said made it down to my end. Not even mumbling.
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking too. What about you, Leah?’
‘Erm...’ A pause. ‘If you think it’s a good idea?’
‘Got to trust Caroline, she knows about this kind of thing.’
‘OK...’
My phone ding-buzzed.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Target Phone Activation Detected
>>Requesting Location Data
About time too.
Ding-buzz.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Triangulating Source
>>Pending
Come on, come on...
‘Now, what shall we listen to today? How about... Götterdämmerung?’ A small laugh. ‘Remember we played it all night when we had that young woman from Dundee to stay? You remember that, Caroline? Oh, wow, did she have a great set of lungs on her. Screamed and screamed and screamed.’
Then silence. Leah had ended the call.
Ding-buzz.
ROBOSABIR:
>>Target Phone Disconnected
Damn it.
She must’ve switched the thing off as well.
I pulled up my contacts and called the real Sabir.
Took him nearly a dozen rings to answer. ‘What the bloody hell do youse want now?’ Followed by a full-mouthed yawn.
‘Did you get a location or not?’
‘Mornin’, Sabir. You’re sounding dead sexy today, Sabir. Hope yer not too shagged out from humping my ma all night, Sabir.’