‘Did they leave my wallet behind?’
‘Or, how about this?’ He grabbed something from beneath the counter and stuck it on his head then went back and fiddled a clip-on bow tie into place. ‘See? It’s a fez and bow tie. You can dress up like Doctor Who, for parties. Isn’t that fun?’
‘Have – you – got – my – wallet?’
‘No? Ah well.’ He covered the glass top with his newspaper again. ‘The young lady and gentleman concerned did have a wallet with them. A rather tatty affair, with the lining hanging out.’
Oh thank God. ‘That’s it! That’s the one.’
‘I see … Well, perhaps I can help.’ He disappeared through a door in the back.
Franklin picked the urn from its shelf. ‘Who pawns their mother’s ashes?’
‘Here we are.’ Little Mike was back, holding a shoebox. He set it down on the countertop and pulled out a couple of wallets. ‘Real leather, look at that stitching, have you ever seen anything so magnificent?’
‘What? No. I don’t want another wallet, I want the one those little sods stole from me!’
A pained smile. ‘I’m sorry, the young lady and gentleman only handed over the cards, not the wallet. But I can do you a very good deal on a new one if—’ His eyes went wide behind the little round glasses and he bustled out into the shop. ‘If I may?’ He held his hands out in front of Franklin.
She gave him the urn.
‘Thank you. Mr May would be most distressed if I allowed his mother to leave the shop without him.’ Little Mike polished a speck of dust from the urn with a hanky, then returned it to its shelf. ‘Now, is there anything else I can interest you in, while you’re here? An electric guitar, perhaps? Or how about the sensual delight that comes with an electric foot spa?’
Callum held out his hand. ‘Where are the bits of credit card?’
‘Ah, of course. You wish to make sure I haven’t indulged in anything illicit. Quite proper.’ He pulled out a carrier bag and tipped the contents of his wastepaper basket into it. ‘Don’t worry: as it’s loose items, I don’t have to charge you for the bag. Now, if I can’t tempt you with my esoteric pre-loved wares, I think I might close up for the night. So, if you don’t mind …?’ He swept a hand towards the door.
They shuffled through the maze to the exit.
Callum stopped with one hand on the handle. Frowned back into the shop. ‘The building society said they were trying to redeem something when you cut up the cards.’
‘That is correct, yes.’
‘What?’
One of Little Mike’s eyebrows made a break for freedom. ‘Ah … I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘If you’re about to invoke pawnbroker-client confidentiality, don’t bother. What did they try to redeem?’
‘Very well.’ He shook his head, then turned and led them back through the stacks and display cases to a collection of brightly coloured plastic. ‘Items F-twenty-three to F-forty-six.’
There was a sandpit, a collection of squeaky toys that looked as if they belonged in a bath, a Wendy house, a kid’s tricycle far too small for either of the little monsters to ride. An off-grey teddy bear with only one ear, scuffed button eyes, and stuffing poking out of his side. There were other bits and pieces, but nothing suitable for anyone over the age of three.
Franklin gave Little Mike one of her finest scowls. ‘You pawn wee kids’ toys?’
He sighed. ‘Some people, this is all they have. If they can’t pay their bills, their rent, if they can’t buy food for their children, what do they do? You want them to go to loan sharks?’
‘They’re kids’ toys.’
‘I know. But what can I do, turn them away hungry? Let them get thrown out on the street? So I pawn their children’s toys, and I know they’ll never come back and redeem them, and I know they’re worthless, but I do what I can.’ He took off his glasses and polished them on the frayed edge of his shirt. ‘This is what real life looks like from down here at the bottom, officers. Foodbanks and pawnshops. Who else is going to help these people?’
Callum frowned down at the collection of plastic tat.
A hand on his arm. ‘Come on, we need to get that murder board done.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘How much to redeem the toys? And I’ll need their address.’
10
Callum stuffed the multicoloured rocking-horse-shaped-like-a-fish thing in the boot with all the other toys. Closed the lid. Turned and leaned back against the car.
Little Mike rattled down the grille over his pawnshop’s front door. Wrestled a thick padlock into position. Then turned and lumbered away into the evening.
A shaft of sunlight broke through the heavy cloud, the low beam of golden light pulling a rainbow from the drizzle. Making the graffiti-wreathed shopping centre shine.
The car’s horn blared.
Right.
Callum peered in through the rear window and there was Franklin peering back at him, reaching over from the passenger seat to lean on the horn again.
Mouthing the words, ‘Hurry up!’
Funny how some people could start off looking extremely pretty, only to get less and less attractive the more time you had to spend with them. At this rate, by the end of the week, Detective Constable Franklin was going to resemble the underside of Quasimodo’s armpit.
He sighed and climbed in behind the wheel. Cranked the engine. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
She checked her watch. ‘DS McAdams said an hour and a half, thirty minutes ago. We’re, what, twenty minutes from DHQ. That leaves—’
‘Plenty of time.’ He navigated his way through the potholes and back onto the road. ‘Just got a little stop to make on the way.’
‘God’s sake!’
‘It’s on the way. Won’t take five, ten minutes tops.’
‘Gah!’ She swivelled in her seat to give him the full-on glower. ‘I’ve just started with this team and I am not going to let you screw it up for me.’
‘Seriously?’ Left at the junction, onto McGilvray Place with its boarded-up terrace and abandoned building site – just foundations and pipes sticking out of the ground to mark the death throes of the local construction industry. ‘What happened to, “I’m not wasting my career with you losers”? Thought you wanted nothing to do with us.’
‘Let’s get something straight, Constable, I’m out of here first chance I get. But until then, I’m going to do the job. Properly. Not whatever half-arsed version of it you think you can get away with.’
‘It’ll take five minutes.’ A right, onto Munro Place, taking the car up the hill. ‘Then we’ll hit Division HQ and I’ll do the murder board, OK? And you can feel free to clype on me anytime you like.’ After all, it wasn’t as if Mother or McAdams could hate him more than they already did.
He slowed for a moment next to the rusty Volkswagen, where Dugdale had deployed The Claw, then over the crest of the hill and down the other side.
Left at the bottom.
Callum checked the slip of paper with ‘LITTLE MIKE’S PAWNSHOP ~ PRE-LOVED GOODS & PERSONAL FINANCE SOLUTIONS’ in flowery script along the top and, ‘BROWN : 45B MANSON AVE.’ scrawled beneath it in biro.
Number 45 was on the outside edge of a set of five identical squashed grey council-issue boxes. Each one semidetached, split down the middle – A on the left, B on the right – ten homes per block. Someone probably thought arranging them into wee groups like that would foster a sense of community pride and spirit. It hadn’t. A ruptured sofa sat outside the house next door. The one beyond that had a washing machine as a garden ornament, the porthole door open to show a collection of crumpled lager tins. Knee-high weeds from the front door to the garden wall.
Callum parked out front. Hauled on the handbrake. ‘Five minutes. You can use the time to compose your formal complaint about me.’
She just scowled at him.
He slipped out of the car, turned and stuck his head in aga
in. ‘One of these days, the wind’s going to change.’ Then clunked the door shut and marched off before she could say anything back.
The garden gate was rusted solid, so he hopped over it onto a path of cracked paving slabs with grass growing in off-green Mohicans between them.
No doorbell.
He gave the chipped wood three loud hard knocks.
The light was on in the living room, shining through a pair of lace curtains. Shadows moved about inside.
Another three knocks.
And a voice came from the other side of the door. Young, female. ‘Go away.’
‘Mrs Brown?’
‘If you’re from the bailiffs, you can sod off. I don’t have to open the door!’
‘It’s not the bailiffs, it’s the police.’ He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘See?’
A groan. Then something thunked against the door at head height. ‘He doesn’t live here, OK? I kicked him out six weeks ago.’
Callum put his warrant card away. ‘Who doesn’t live here?’
Franklin was checking her watch, making a big pantomime of pointing at the thing and then pointing at him.
‘Go away.’
‘I’ve got some stuff for you, OK?’
‘I’m not in.’
Why bother?
Callum marched back to the car, popped open the boot and hauled out an armful of kid’s plastic toys. Dumped them just over the garden wall and went back for another load. Adding to the pile until the boot was empty.
The last thing was the raggedy teddy bear, with its missing ear and herniated stuffing. Plastic tat was one thing, a well-loved teddy bear was another. No way it was getting dumped in the weed-ridden grass.
He returned to the front door. Knocked. Held Teddy up to the spyhole.
Some muttered conversation inside, then the door opened a crack, the chain glinting in the hall light. A thin face peered out at him, blonde hair pulled back tight. She didn’t look old enough to leave school, let alone have two small kids. There was a huge bruise on her cheek, dark and angry against the pale skin. She blinked at the bear. ‘Mr Lumpylump?’
She shifted, and there was child number three – a baby cradled in her arms, wrapped in a tatty Power Rangers blanket. Face a rounded pink blob, making snuffling noises.
A small child wailed somewhere behind her, sounding as if someone was removing its fingers with a blowtorch. Child number four.
The woman didn’t even flinch. ‘Shut up, Pinky.’
‘I redeemed the rest of the kid’s toys. They’re in the garden.’
Her hand reached through the gap between the door and the frame, fingers trembling. ‘Can I have him. Please?’ She licked her lips.
‘Look, all I want is my wallet back, OK? There’s no money in it anyway, it’s just a tatty old wallet that’s falling apart. Like the bear.’ He gave Mr Lumpylump a wee shoogle, making him dance. ‘It’s important to me.’
She blinked up at him. ‘I don’t have it. I don’t have any wallet.’
‘You could check, though? Ask your children?’
Behind her, the toddler wailed some more, as whoever it was turned the blowtorch on their toes.
‘They’re not here.’ She reached out until the frame and door dug into her arm. Straining for the manky teddy bear. ‘Please …?’
What was he going to do, hold a kid’s teddy to ransom?
Callum passed her the bear and she snatched it from him, yanking it back inside the house and slamming the door.
He knocked again. ‘Hello?’ Rested his forehead against the door. ‘Hello?’
Silence. Not even the wailing.
Great.
What was the point of trying to help people? Why did everyone have to be so … so selfish. And nasty. And horrible?
One last try.
He pulled an official Police Scotland business card from his pocket wrote, ‘IF YOU FIND MY WALLET, PLEASE LET ME KNOW’ on the back, and slipped it through the letterbox.
Probably be sod-all use, but what other option did he have?
Callum trudged back along the path. Clambered over the rusted gate.
‘Hoy, mister?’ A young girl’s voice, hard with defiance and a broad Oldcastle accent.
He turned.
The little monster from this morning. The one who’d swigged cider from a can. The one Dugdale had used as a human shield. The rotten wee sod who’d stolen his wallet.
She’d ditched the baseball cap and tracksuit top for a T-shirt with a vampire Womble on it, but not the attitude. ‘What you doing here, Piggy?’
He nodded at the pile of plastic things.
Her eyes widened. ‘Whoa! You got Pinky’s toys back?’ Then her internal coolometer must have kicked in, her grin turned into a bored expression and a shrug. ‘Yeah, so?’
‘Swap you for my wallet.’
‘Ain’t got no wallet, do I? Chucked it.’
His whole face crumpled. ‘Oh for …’ What was the point? Of course she chucked it, with the credit cards cut up, why would she hold onto it? Wasn’t as if there was any cash in there. His shoulders drooped. ‘Sodding hell.’
‘Don’t know what you’re greetin’ about. Just a crappy old wallet, innit?’
‘It was my father’s. Only thing I’ve got of his.’
‘Yeah?’ She spat into the weeds. ‘Well, my dad broke my arm then ran off with one of mum’s friends.’
‘Mine disappeared when I was five.’
‘I was four.’ Always had to have the last word, didn’t she? A competition for who had the crappiest childhood.
‘Well I grew up in a care home. Beat that.’
Aha, she couldn’t, could she. At least she had a mother. Though going by the bruised face, her mum’s taste in men hadn’t improved any.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s Willow, isn’t it?’ At least, that was what her wee brother had called her when she was kicking three shades out of Dugdale’s head. ‘Any idea who’s been hitting your mum?’
Willow’s back stiffened. ‘I ain’t no snitch, Piggy.’
‘Course not.’ He produced another business card, stuck his mobile number on the back, and laid it on top of the wall. ‘But if you’re worried about her or anything …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’
The lace curtains twitched open, and there was Willow’s mum, standing with a toddler on one hip. She had the tatty old teddy bear clutched to her chest like a bible.
Not the kid’s bear, hers. Pawned to pay for food, or rent.
How depressing was that?
Callum climbed in behind the wheel. Frowned. Shook his head. Then started the car.
Franklin stared at him. ‘Well?’
‘No idea.’ He pulled away from the kerb, keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror.
The little girl stood and watched them all the way to the corner, then disappeared from view.
‘This was all for your stupid wallet, wasn’t it?’
He pulled out his Airwave, poking at the buttons with one hand as they navigated their way back towards the real world. ‘Control? Can you do a PNC on a Ms Brown, forty-five B Manson Avenue, Kingsmeath? See if anyone’s been bothering her.’
‘Aye, will do. Hang on.’
‘Thanks.’ He stuck the handset on the dashboard, took them out past a dilapidated community centre – doors and windows boarded up with damp-swollen chipboard – and onto Montrose Road. Pottering along behind a Fiat Punto barely doing twenty miles an hour.
‘For God’s sake, at least put the blues-and-twos on.’ Franklin reached for the button mounted on the dashboard, marked, ‘999’.
Callum slapped her hand away. ‘Are you off your head?’
‘We’re going to be late!’
‘You press that button and the dashboard camera comes on.’ He pointed at the little rectangle of plastic mounted against the windscreen, hidden by the rear-view mirror. ‘And the GPS starts recording. And it all gets stored
for the courts, or in case there’s an accident while you’re wheeching through traffic. Lights and sirens are for emergencies only, not because you’re in a hurry.’
She curled her hand against her chest, as if he’d stabbed it with a fork and scowled at him. ‘Where is it then? This magical wallet?’
A stone settled in his stomach, cold and heavy. ‘They threw it away.’
‘Waste of sodding time.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Thirty-six minutes to get back to Division Headquarters and make up a murder board.’
‘Will you stop moaning on about—’
‘DC MacGregor from Control, safe to talk?’
He picked up the handset and pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Aye, right: your woman’s a Miss Irene Brown, twenty-three years old. Done for possession four years ago, got off with a caution … Hmm … Looks like that’s the last known address for one Jeremy Barron, Jezza to his mates, AKA: Jerome Barton, James Broughton, and Jimmy Bishop. Bit of a scummer from the look of it. Assault, robbery, assault, aggravated assault, possession with intent, serious assault, two counts of sodding about in public with a knife.’ A clicking keyboard rattled out of the speaker. ‘Looks like she’s got a bit of a history with violent scumbags. Poor woman couldn’t pick a nice bloke out of an empty room if you Sellotaped a balloon to his forehead.’
Twenty-three years old, with four kids.
And a dirty big bruise on her face.
No wonder she clung onto her teddy bear like that.
Her daughter, the horrible Willow, had to be at least seven years old, so that meant Miss Irene Brown must have been about sixteen when she’d had her.
What a life: trapped beneath a landslide of pregnancy and violence.
Callum tapped his fingers on the handset’s plastic case. ‘Do me a favour: put a grade one flag on the house, OK? Just in case this Jerome Barton comes back again.’
‘Pfff, can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’ Callum slipped his Airwave back in his jacket. Took a left at the roundabout and onto the Calderwell Bridge.
Halfway across the river, Franklin sighed. ‘OK, now can we go do this sodding murder board?’
A Dark So Deadly Page 8