‘I discovered the body, you absolute muppet. My DNA and fibres are already all over the scene.’ And limped on past. ‘Which one of you is Jopson?’
The entire group had turned to gawp at me, but a figure over by the body raised a hand. ‘Ex-DI Haroldson.’
Close enough.
‘I’ve got an abduction point for you. And you’ll want to pull the CCTV from the Sainsbury’s petrol station as well.’
‘Oh, will I now?’ It sounded as if she was trying to hide the amusement in her voice, but not doing a very good job of it. ‘And would you like me to do this before or after you’ve beaten up the rest of my team?’
Shrug. ‘I’m easy.’
‘Fair enough.’ She pointed. ‘But we’re still going to need your shoes.’
‘Ah, here you are.’ DCI Jopson had changed out of her white SOC suit into something a bit less rustly: dark trousers and a black padded jacket that acted like camouflage in the graveyard’s darkness, leaving her head to float, disembodied, five feet above the ground. ‘How are the wellies?’
‘Rubbish.’ But at least it was better than being up here in nothing but my socks.
Most of Stirling was hidden from view: a wee chunk of the castle poking out on the left, a short line of houses — lights shining in their windows — the Church of the Holy Rood’s dark medieval bulk on the right, bordered by a sliver of the town that was more rooftops than streets. A band of trees rustling in the groaning wind. Headlights on a distant road.
Five o’clock and the place was dead. Which was appropriate.
‘We’ll send your shoes back to Oldcastle when Forensics have finished with them. You can keep the wellies, though — souvenir of your time in beautiful Stirling.’ Jopson turned and looked out over the graveyard, its headstones little more than indistinct lines in the gloom. ‘I used to come here every lunchtime. Take Lottie for a walk. You know what cockapoos are like — adorable ninety percent of the time, but if they get bored it’s like sharing an office with an extremely annoying toddler.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Turns out people don’t like dogs weeing on their relatives’ graves.’
‘True.’ It hadn’t stopped Henry from cocking his leg on the odd Burgess of Trade on the way up here, though.
‘If anyone asks, I gave you a proper bollocking for putting DI Erskine on his arse, back there. But, between you and me, he’s a massive tosspot, so I quite enjoyed the floorshow.’ She produced an iPad from a huge handbag and flipped open the cover. The light from its screen bloomed in the darkness, showing off another half-gum-half-tooth smile. ‘Apparently he bruised his coccyx when he hit the floor. With any luck he won’t be able to sit straight for a month.’ She logged in and brought up a video. Passed the iPad to me as she dipped back into her bag again and emerged with a pre-wrapped sandwich. Tore her way into the cardboard triangle, setting free the sulphurous scent of eggs. ‘Normally it takes hours and hours to work our way through CCTV footage, but as you had the time and date on the petrol receipt...’
The Sainsbury’s petrol station filled the screen, taken from one of the cameras mounted on the awning that covered the forecourt. ‘This is your man, here.’ Pointing her sandwich at a long-limbed bloke in jeans and a thick sweater. He finished filling up an ugly four-by-four, hung the pump up, then set off towards the shop to pay. About eight foot from the door, someone bumped into him, then both did the standard I’m-so-sorry-no-my-fault-after-you dance, and disappeared inside.
Jopson chewed her way through one triangular, overstuffed half, getting mayonnaise on her cheek. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I skipped lunch. Some antisocial sod found a tortured teenager in a warehouse, remember?’ Then she launched into the other half.
She was sooking her fingers clean by the time the man who’d bumped into Mother’s householder emerged on screen again.
Jopson tapped the screen, freezing the image, then zoomed in. Leaving twin greasy smears on the glass.
Bit grainy, but the guy did look a lot like Gordon Smith — the same high forehead and Santa beard.
‘Gets into a grey BMW and drives off towards the industrial estate next door.’
So he’d ditched the ancient Mercedes, because he knew we’d be looking for it.
She spooled the footage back to the two men bumping into each other, at the same increased magnification. ‘Smith definitely slips something into your boy’s jacket pocket.’
The phone he’d stolen from Leah.
Mother’s householder was telling the truth.
I turned to Jopson. ‘Can I ask a question?’
‘You can try.’
‘Why are you showing me this?’
A shrug. ‘You could call it my kind and generous nature, or you could call it your boss’s boss’s boss calling my boss and asking us to play nice and coordinate our inquiries. Seeing as we’re both after the same killer.’ Jopson shut that video and started another one. This time it was a narrow cobbled road, the colours turned monochrome in the streetlights. A BMW came chuntering up the street. ‘This is from a CCTV camera, outside the Old Town Jail. About a two-minute walk, that way.’ Pointing in the vague direction of the medieval steeple.
The footage was grainy and badly lit. Impossible to tell if there was anyone but the driver in the car.
‘There’s meant to be cameras in the church grounds, but they got vandalised in September and they’ve still not fixed them. But half an hour later...’
The footage jumped under her sooked finger, and there was the same BMW heading off down another cobbled street, past an old-fashioned-looking building with a saltire flag flying above its front door. Again, no way to tell if Gordon Smith had passengers or not.
‘We’ve got his car at the roundabout before Sainsbury’s, then on CCTV inside the industrial estate. Got some bodies going around to see if any of the businesses in the area caught it on the way in or out, but I’m not holding my breath.’
‘What about David Quinn?’
Jopson shook her head. ‘Too dark. There’s a few possibles, but they’re all wearing hoodies, so they could be Lord Lucan, for all we know.’ A shrug. ‘Far as we can tell, the last person to see David alive, other than Gordon Smith, was the friend he’d gone round to study with.’ She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, away from the graveyard and towards those narrow cobbled streets. ‘Shall we go pay the young man a visit?’
‘I don’t really know.’ Bailey White’s cheeks flushed even darker as he sneaked glances at Franklin’s chest. ‘It... We never... I don’t know...’ Somehow, blushing made the pimples that speckled his face look even angrier.
It was your standard teenaged boy’s bedroom, small and cramped, with piles of clothes in the corners and posters of bands you’ve never heard of on the walls. That funky feet-and-armpit smell. A carpet that would probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting under a UV lamp.
Crowded too, what with Bailey, DCI Jopson, Franklin, and me, all squeezed in here. But at least Henry had elected to stay in the car.
Jopson had draped her padded jacket over the back of a dining chair, brought through from the flat’s tiny dining kitchen, revealing a stripy red-and-blue top. ‘Think carefully, Bailey, it’s important.’
His eyes drifted to her chest, then on to Franklin’s again. He blinked a couple of times, cheeks going nuclear, before looking away. ‘I... don’t know.’
I leaned back against the built-in wardrobe. ‘Maybe it’d help if we all had a nice cup of tea? Help jog the old grey cells.’ Jerking my head towards the door. ‘Think you and the Detective Chief Inspector could sort something out, DS Franklin?’