Condensation pewtered the windows, greasy with the scent of hot chip fat and generations-worth of fried bacon. The twin red lights atop Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator chimneys glowing like a pair of eyes through the misty glass. Small square tables draped with red-and-white checked plastic cloths; the squeezy kind of condiment containers that no one ever had in their home; and a TV on a shelf, up above the counter, the picture as indistinct as the outside world, obscured by its own patina of grease.
An old-fashioned bell tinkled, announcing our arrival to the gathered masses. Which, this evening, consisted of a fat man frowning away at the Castle News and Post’s crossword, a uniformed PC with a squint face and a side parting, and Alice.
She looked up as I closed the door behind us, a large mug cradled in her hands. Smiled a thin, sad smile. Then she caught sight of Henry and scooted out of her chair, dropping to one knee and holding her arms out towards him. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you!’
‘Thanks a bunch.’ But I let go of the wee lad’s lead anyway and he scurried across the scarred lino to her, tail whumping away so hard his back end wasn’t really under control.
Sitting in the corner, the PC raised an eyebrow and his tea in salute, the crime-scene smears of a long-dead fry-up on the empty plate in front of him. Fiddling one-handed with his phone. He’d dumped his stabproof vest on the seat next to him, like a hollow companion keeping him company while he finished his dinner and wanked about on Facebook. What was his name again: MacAskill? MacAllister? Something like that. He hadn’t been around when I’d been a DI, anyway. Or even after they demoted me. Maybe he was one of Shifty’s team?
I gave him a nod in return and settled into the seat opposite Alice as she finished giving Henry the prodigal Scottie dog’s reception. Which genuinely took about five minutes — oohing and aahing over him while I sat there ignored like a boiled jobbie.
Finally, she surfaced from beneath the table. ‘Sorry, but I really have missed him.’
Her mug was warm to the touch, and when I gave it a sniff: coffee, without even a whiff of booze. It went back on the table. ‘And sober too?’
‘I listened to what you said, and I’m giving it a go.’ That sad smile again. ‘It’s that or retire. Pack in the behavioural evidence analysis game and go be...’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know what I could be. I’ve never done anything else.’
A woman scuffed out from the back, her face as lined and saggy as an elephant’s scrotum, thin white hairs poking out from her chin and cheeks. A headscarf with wisps of grey escaping from underneath to stick to her shiny forehead. She thumped a mug down in front of me then cleared her throat — like someone rattling a tin can half-full of gravel. Her voice wasn’t much better. ‘Decaf tea, milk, no sugar.’
‘Thanks, Effie.’
‘You wanting food? Course you are, look at you, you need feeding up. I’ll do you some chips.’ Then turned and scuffed off back the way she’d come.
The tea was hot and bland and milky. ‘So how did you get on with your child-killer?’
Alice pulled a face. ‘Profiling sober isn’t the same at all. I miss the feeling of... I don’t know, invulnerability? Omnipotence? Instead I spent half the time second-guessing everything I’d done. Urgh...’
‘Couples who kill.’
‘And Bear’s still convinced that Gòrach’s someone on the Sex Offenders’ Register, so what’s the point of me even bothering? Could’ve spent the day reading a book instead.’
‘Say you weren’t very bright, and you fell in with a dominant personality who wanted to go out murdering people. And wanted you to go with him.’
‘Doesn’t matter how many ways I twist it, I can’t get the profile to match someone who’s already offended. It doesn’t fit. This is him trying things out, he’s never done that before, I know he hasn’t.’
‘How long would it take before you started wanting to join in?’
‘A little boy’s life is at stake and they’re not listening to me, Ash. No one’s listening to me!’ Alice sagged a bit, then took a slurp of her un-Irish coffee. ‘And it’s not so much “wanting” to kill people as it is wanting to please your new partner. The subservient one in the relationship usually has very low self-esteem, which makes it much easier for the dominant one to... let’s call it shape them. After a while you might think you were really into it, but if the dominant partner goes to prison, or gets ill, or dies, the subservient one soon gives up offending. They don’t crave the kill, they crave the approval it gets them.’
Which would make sod-all difference to anyone unlucky enough to come across them in the meantime.
Alice looked at me over the rim of her mug. ‘You think Leah MacNeil helped Smith kill your young man in Stirling?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe. Difficult to tell when we can only communicate via the odd text, but she’s certainly not telling us everything. She’s hiding stuff.’
‘Wouldn’t you? Imagine being an eighteen-year-old girl and the man you’ve called “Grandad” your entire life — the man who raised you, because your mum’s dead and your real gran’s in prison — makes you watch him torture a sixteen-year-old boy to death. How much would you tell the police after that?’
‘Fair enough. But the—’
‘Here you go.’ A heaped plate of chips appeared in front of me, and when I looked up, there was Effie. ‘Did you some fish fingers as well. Eat. Eat.’
Soon as she was gone, I slipped Henry one of Captain Birds Eye’s finest breadcrumbed digits.
Over in the corner PC MacAskill / McAllister was looking over my shoulder as he dug about in his Police Scotland fleece pocket. Dumping a clattering handful of change on the chequered tablecloth. Stood. And wriggled his way into his stabproof vest. Going at a fair clip, too. As if he’d suddenly realised he was due back on patrol five minutes ago.
Then the door dinged behind me, letting in a howl of cold air.
He hurried past our table, not making eye contact — because why be normal when you could be a freak? — then clunk, the door shut again.
I nodded at Alice and squirted a dollop of mayonnaise onto the side of my plate. ‘You can help yourself to a chip, if you like.’
She didn’t move. Just sat there, staring over my shoulder, like the PC had. Eyes getting wider. Mouth trembling.
Then a high-pitched breathy voice scratched through the café’s muggy air. ‘A most generous offer, Mr Henderson, and one I shall be delighted to profit from.’
Oh. Cock.
I slid my right hand across the sticky plastic tablecloth, making for the knife and fork that had arrived with my chips.
‘Now, now, Mr Henderson. I assure you that any attempt to deploy cutlery as a weapon at this juncture would be counterproductive to the good doctor’s wellbeing. And I’m sure none of us would want that.’ He made his way around the table till he was standing behind Alice. Put his hands on her shoulders.
She flinched.
Beneath the table, Henry growled.
I stayed perfectly still. ‘Joseph. Get your hands off her. Now.’
He did, then smiled. He’d had his teeth done since we’d last met — veneers, crowns, and implants replacing the damage I’d caused. It didn’t help any, though, he was still an ugly wee bastard. Short; ears sticking out like the handles on a funeral urn; Neanderthal forehead; jutting chin; hair shorn to barely more than stubble, showing off the extensive collection of scars that crowned his misshapen head. A blue DIY tattoo of a swallow staining his wrist where it jutted out of his shirt sleeve. Black suit. Leather gloves. ‘How delightful to make your acquaintance again, Mr Henderson, though I’m despondent that it couldn’t be under more opportune circumstances.’