Bye Bye Baby

by Allan Guthrie

  He clenched his fists. His right index finger looped over his thumb. He spoke, his voice soft: "Actually, I almost made the national team."

  "Not a lot of competition, I suppose," I said. "Cricket's not the most common sport in Scotland. Surprised you even managed to get a team together."

  He took a step back, put his hands by his sides. "Clare said you were coming." The softness had gone from his voice. "She didn't say you were a prick."

  "Nice." I gave him a couple of slow nods. "Ballsy."

  He looked at me.

  "And stupid, of course," I said. "Sums you up, don't you think?"

  He took a long breath through his nose. "What do you want?"

  "So you're unemployed?"

  "Self-employed," he said.

  "Making any money?"

  "Not yet."

  "You rent this place?"

  "Yes."

  "Meet the payments okay?"

  He gave me a look. "What did Clare tell you?"

  "Mrs Wilson advised me that she pays the rent for you."

  "It was her idea," he said. "She insisted on it."

  "And you just can't bring yourself to say no. Probably upset her too much and you wouldn't want to do that. Am I right?"

  "She wants to help me out. I'm not too proud to accept."

  "Right," I said. "Funny thing, you know. I got the feeling she didn't like photographs."

  "Because of Bruce?" He shook his head. "It's odd, but the more you get to know her, the more you realise how real Bruce is to her. It's Bruce who doesn't like having his photo taken. She doesn't mind."

  "All a bit confusing, isn't it?" I said. "Why didn't you get your fingers fixed, by the way?"

  "Thought I'd lose my place in the team. Wanted to keep on playing."

  "You played with broken fingers?"

  "Only one at a time."

  "Not just ballsy and stupid," I said. "But hard as well. My mistake."

  "Happens to us all," he said. "Don't be too tough on yourself."

  "And you think you're witty, too. A fine list of dangerous traits."

  "Can we get back to the subject?"

  "And impatient." I moved forward slightly. "Can I speak frankly?"

  "Like I could stop you."

  I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your personality stinks, Les. Makes me think the worst of you."

  He shrugged my hand off.

  "Okay, you're right," I said. "We should talk about Bruce. Good idea. My understanding is that you claimed he was ruining your relationship with Mrs Wilson. I can understand that. Nothing like a dead child to mess things up. Especially when they come back to life."

  He said nothing.

  "And so you and Mrs Wilson broke up," I said. "But now you're back together?"

  "We patched things up," he said. "I said I was sorry."

  "Once you heard about the kidnapping."

  "I love her." His voice went soft again. "But you've seen how she is. It's impossible to have a relationship with her. But I do love her."

  I didn't believe him. Not for a second.

  "And because you love her," I said, "you offered to take 250 grand in cash from her?"

  "She's going to throw it away."

  "And you want it for yourself."

  "No," he said. "I want to make sure she gets it back. The only way I can do that is if I'm the one who delivers it."

  "Ah." I couldn't fault his logic. It was the same as mine. "Thoughtful. I like that trait, Les. I like it so much I'm going to help you work on it. How about I give you a hand to deliver the money, eh?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'll come with you. Tag along behind in my car. Make sure everything goes smoothly."

  He looked at his hands, stretched those bent fingers. "And then what?" he asked.

  "You'll go away and tell Mrs Wilson it's done."

  "And leave you with the money?"

  "You don't trust me, Les? I'm offended."

  "What's to stop you keeping it?"

  That was a very good question.

  17.

  I'd hardly set foot back in the station when my uncle called for me.

  I walked passed Dutton's office. The door was open but it was empty. At the end of the corridor, I stopped and knocked on the door marked Detective Inspector James Fleck.

  He shouted for me to come in.

  I wondered if I'd find him crouched on the floor and we'd have to go through that foot-in-the-back business again. I really wasn't in the mood.

  But he was sitting at his desk, looking comfortable enough.

  Opposite him was DS Dutton, stroking his moustache. I caught the familiar whiff of stale smoke.

  "The hell's he doing here?" I asked my uncle.

  "Shut up and pay attention," he said. "I want you to behave. I want both of you fuckwits to behave. Any more crap and I'll come down on the pair of you so fucking hard, you'll be shiting your own fucking heads."

  His outburst caught Dutton by surprise. Poor dolt's mouth was open, the hand that had been playing with his moustache hovering in the air like it didn't know what to do with itself.

  "I didn't do anything," he said, and lowered his hand.

  "And I can knit cardigans with my cock." My uncle scratched his chin. "Look, you don't like each other, that's fine. Just shake hands and get the fuck along. I don't have the time or the fucking energy to dick about any more. Okay?"

  Dutton looked at me and shrugged.

  I held out my hand. His palm was sweaty and cold. We shook.

  "Super." My uncle clapped his hands twice. "Now get out."

  I turned to go.

  "Hang on, sunshine," he said. "You stay. I want an update on the loony mother."

  Once Dutton had gone, I said, "What about Erica? She coming back soon?"

  "I invited her to rejoin us. But she said no. She's decided to leave."

  18.

  I was at home when the call came through. I'd been thinking about heading off to bed, where Holly had gone a couple of hours earlier. The boys had disappeared to their rooms to play video games after dinner and left me alone.

  I hadn't been able to sit around doing nothing, so I'd gone out for a drive. It helped me think. Although by the time I got back home, I wasn't sure what I'd been thinking about.

  Right now it was just me and late-night TV and that ringing phone.

  I didn't recognise the caller's number, so I let it ring out.

  A minute later it started again.

  This time I checked my phone for messages.

  "Detective Collins." Les Green's voice. The last person I expected to hear from. "Something's happened. Can you call me back?"

  I thought about it and called him back. "What is it?"

  "Well," he said. "Well, it's a finger."

  19.

  "I don't get it," Les said.

  We were in Mrs Wilson's kitchen, me and Les standing by the worktops. Mrs Wilson was sitting at an enormous dinner table, necking a bottle of single malt.

  "Why would someone send a finger?" Les asked. "Some kind of warning?"

  "That's possible. It's standard in kidnappings," I said.

  "Only if the family doesn't pay up, though. Clare was going to pay up."

  Which was true. And there was no note to explain. No demands, nothing. Just a finger in a clear plastic bag. It had been dropped through the letter box within the last couple of hours.

  I'd checked the neighbours who still had their lights on. Nobody had seen or heard anything.

  "It's a sick joke," I said. "This whole thing is."

  The finger was fake, of course. It looked realistic at first glance. Your eyes were drawn to the blood, and only then did you notice the colour and texture of the finger was wrong.

  It was something you could pick up in a joke shop. Something Mrs Wilson could have picked up in a joke shop. Also something Les could have got hold of. But what I couldn't figure out was why either of them would do such a thing. There was nothing to gain. And, I couldn't d
eny it, Les really did look baffled.

  "This finger," I said to Mrs Wilson.

  She wiped her eyes. Took a sip of whisky. Nodded.

  "You know it's not Bruce's," I said.

  "Course I do. I'm not stupid. It's made of rubber and it's far too big."

  "Yeah," I said. "That's why it's not Bruce's."

  "Don't."

  I looked at Les.

  "Just don't, please," he said, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears. He walked round the table and sat next to Mrs Wilson. He put his arm around her.

  I wanted to think it was for show, but I was beginning to believe Les Green wasn't such a scumbag after all.

  20.

  I called Erica on the way home.

  "You woke me up," she said.

  "Yeah, but listen—"

  "You sodding well woke me up."

  "You should come back to work," I said.

  "What's it to you?"

  "You can't let Dutton win."

  "That's not why you rang," she said. "What do you want?"

  "I need your advice. I've nobody else to talk to."

  "Jesus, Collins, I'm not a cop any more."

  "Course you are. You can't just walk away."

  "Watch me."

  "But you know the situation," I said. "You know the background. You've met Mrs Wilson. I just want to talk it through. It's not making any sense."

  "Talk it through with your uncle."

  "Come on," I said. "I can't wake him up at two in the morning."

  She yelled down the phone and hung up.

  I gave it five minutes and called again. But the phone rang out. I got the answering machine. "Hey," I said. "I miss you. Come back."

  She didn't return the call.

  I drove home with the fake finger inside an evidence bag on the passenger seat.

  FRIDAY

  21.

  It was about nine-thirty when I drove to Mrs Wilson's. The sun was out and it felt like the wrong kind of weather.

  I'd swung by the station at seven. Dropped off the fake finger, wrote up a brief report.

  I hadn't slept much. I suspected Mrs Wilson wouldn't have slept much either. I was right. She answered the door wearing the same clothes she'd had on last night. Most likely she hadn't even gone to bed.

  She looked rough, but then I'd never seen her look anything but.

  "Have a few things to check out," I said. "Can't stay."

  "Who is it?" Les's voice in the distance.

  "Heard anything from the kidnapper?" I asked Mrs Wilson.

  She winked at me, then shook her head.

  "When you do, call me," I said. "Right away."

  "Okay."

  "It's important. That business with the finger," I said. "We can't be too careful."

  Les appeared behind her. He was dressed too, twirling his keys on the end of his crooked index finger. He gave me a look and said, "Still don't trust me?"

  I wasn't sure what he meant.

  "Then tag along," he said.

  22.

  I followed them to the bank. One of those private banks in the West End. Went inside with them and had a seat in a posh waiting room. Then got taken to a private room the size of our CID office where we were offered tea and coffee.

  We all refused.

  The manager arrived and shook hands with everyone. His face was scrubbed clean and he stank of aftershave. Reminded me of a pimp I'd once arrested.

  "Is my money ready?" Mrs Wilson asked.

  "On its way." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, are you sure I can't invite you to take a cheque instead?"

  "Don't bother," I said and showed him my warrant card.

  "Ah, okay." He took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, opened it, and gave Mrs Wilson a form to fill in.

  We tried to make small-talk while we waited for the cash. But nobody felt like saying much and after a bit the conversation stopped and we sat in silence.

  The money arrived in a charcoal-grey briefcase with the bank's logo stamped in gold on the front. A couple of security guards flanked the clerk who brought the money.

  "Thanks." Mrs Wilson got to her feet. "Can we leave now?"

  "Goodness, no," the manager said. "We have to count it to show you it's all there."

  "That's not necessary." Mrs Wilson turned to the clerk and held out her hand.

  "I'm afraid it is." He took the briefcase from the clerk. "With a sum this large, we have to insist on it. Mistakes can easily be made."

  "I suppose that's going to take a little while," Les said.

  "I'll get some help." The manager opened the case and started taking out bricks of fifty-pound notes. "But, yes, we're probably talking thirty minutes or so."

  "See that coffee we were offered?" Les said, steering Mrs Wilson back to her seat. "We'll maybe have some after all."

  23.

  As it happened, the coffee no sooner arrived than I had my uncle on the radio.

  "Sounds like you had a wild night," he said.

  I gave him a quick run-down of recent events.

  "You on top of it, sunshine? Need any help?"

  "Don't suppose Erica's changed her mind and come back?"

  "She's gone. Forget about her."

  "Then I'm fine," I said.

  "Super. That's what I like to fucking hear."

  "I'd planned on checking a few things out." I was flattered he trusted me to handle this on my own. "Don't want to leave the boyfriend alone with Mrs Wilson, though. Not when he could just walk off with the money."

  "Think he will?"

  "Actually, no. I don't think so."

  "Then go check out the things you wanted to check out. If he fucks off with the money, we've got our man. I kind of hope he does. See how far he gets before we nail his hairy hole."

  "But … " But my uncle was right. I could leave them for a few hours. The drop wasn't taking place till this evening. And if Les was behind all this, then I couldn't read people at all. "Any chance you could get some uniforms to ask around, see if any of the neighbours saw someone hanging about Mrs Wilson's last night?"

  "Who would be hanging about?"

  "The guy who put the finger through the letterbox."

  "Surely he'd have dumped it and buggered off."

  "Maybe, but it's worth checking, don't you think?" I said.

  "Thought you already did, sunshine. Last night."

  "Nah, just dropped by a couple of houses where the lights were still on."

  "So you definitely think someone stuck this finger through Mrs Wilson's letterbox? You don't think she bought the finger herself and made all this shit up?"

  "It's possible," I said. "We won't know that till we find out who picks up the money. If anybody."

  "Tonight's going to be fun," my uncle said. "Want some company?"

  24.

  I spent the morning checking out the local joke shops to see if anyone sold the type of fake finger Mrs Wilson had received. Turned out they all did. None had sold any recently, though. I'd need to widen the search.

  I was on my way to grab a sandwich when my mobile rang. It was Les.

  "Clare's gone," he said.

  "The hell do you mean?"

  "She told me she was hungry, wanted some beans on toast with cheese. About all I can cook. So I went to make it. When I came back, she wasn't here."

  I waited a second. "And the money?"

  "Gone too. She's taken it with her."

  25.

  I was staring at the plate of toasted cheese and beans on Mrs Wilson's sitting room table, wondering if it was too cold to eat, when Control called to tell me Mrs Wilson's Range Rover had been found. Abandoned, less than five minutes drive away. No sign of Mrs Wilson yet but Uniform was checking door-to-door.

  I gave Les the news.

  He gazed into his hands. "What do you think that means?"

  "The kidnapper probably told her to leave the car. Get on a bus. Grab a taxi, who knows. He must have known we'd try to locate the car an
d follow her."

  "I never expected this." He started to walk over to the window. "When she said she was hungry, I believed her. She hadn't eaten properly since … I don't know when."

  "Don't blame yourself," I said. "This guy's smart."

  "Maybe we're just stupid."

  "That's always possible."

  "What can we do?"

  It was a good question, but one I didn't have an answer for. "I'm going to get out there and help look for her."

  He stared out of the window. "She could be anywhere by now."

  "We have officers all over the place," I said. "Someone will find her."

  He turned. "I'll grab my coat."

  "No," I said. "You stay here."

  "I want this guy." His eyes shone. "I want to see what kind of person would do this to Clare. I want to break my fingers on his chin."

  "And I need you to wait here," I said. "In case she comes back."

  26.

  I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but my eyes were struggling to stay open so I'd pulled into the side of the road just in case.

  The news on the radio must have woken me. Control repeated it and what I heard was like a pint of iced water down the back of my neck.

  They'd found her.

  27.

  Mrs Wilson was standing in front of the primary school gates. Bruce's teacher, Mrs Lennox, was with her. And so was someone I didn't think I'd see again. Not at work, anyway.

  I parked and got out of the car.

  "I don't want to talk to anyone," Mrs Wilson was saying. "Leave me alone."

  Erica looked at me and shrugged.

  "Miss me?" I asked her.

  "No, just decided you were right. I couldn't let Dutton win."

  "Good to have you with us again." I said hello to Bruce's teacher, then turned to Mrs Wilson. "Where's the money?"

  "Leave me alone," she said.