Henry did his round-and-round dance again, as if he’d been wholly responsible for chasing McEwan away.
Watt grabbed the remote and turned the TV on, flicking through to BBC One, where the same reporter they’d had in town all week was doing his piece to camera.
‘… tragic death of Nick James from the Glasgow Tribune, prompting fierce criticism of the police presence here in Clachmara.’ He moved a pace to the side, the camera following him. ‘I’m joined now by the head of O Division, Chief Superintendent McEwan.’
And there was McEwan, turned slightly away from the camera, with Samson whispering something in his ear. He looked up, face a lot paler than it had been during his rant.
‘Chief Superintendent, how do you respond to accusations that your officers were negligent in ensuring the safety of media teams in the area?’
Watt folded his arms. ‘Negligent my arse.’
‘I’m …’ McEwan cleared his throat. Glanced back towards Samson. Then faced the camera again. ‘My team did everything it possibly could to prevent this tragic death.’ Getting into the stride of it, popping his chin up. ‘Let’s not forget that three of my officers put their own lives at great risk trying to rescue Mr James, after he ignored repeated warnings to stay away from the cliff …’
‘Well, well, well.’ Watt smiled. ‘Looks like Shouty McShoutface isn’t so shouty after all.’
‘… utmost confidence in my officers to track down Gordon Smith and bring him to justice. And we’d once again ask anyone who has any information on Smith’s whereabouts to get in touch with Police Scotland on …’
‘All right, John,’ Mother waved at the screen, ‘I don’t think we need to see any more.’
He killed the TV.
‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, assignments. Rosalind?’
Franklin opened a folder and pulled out a wodge of paper. ‘John: in light of Simpson Kinkaid appearing in one of Gordon Smith’s pantos, we need you to get together a cast list of every show Smith worked on and see if anyone else has been reported missing.’
‘Noooo …’ Watt wrapped his arms around his head and curled up in his seat. ‘Why can’t Amanda do it?’
‘Because Amanda and Dotty will be visiting Aberdeen, Fochabers, and Inverness.’ Franklin passed across two printouts: blow-ups of the ‘before’ Polaroids: the guy at a graduation ceremony, the young woman on a pony, and the bloke in the beer garden. ‘No point going to Balmedie, we know the victim there was Sophie MacNeil.’
A big smile from Dotty. ‘Girls’ road trip!’
I hobbled over to the printouts that DC Elliot and Watt had pinned up, opposite Gordon Smith’s headshot. The same thirteen blown-up Polaroids that Franklin was handing out – the ones from the ‘before’ set – made a wide-spaced grid on the fusty wallpaper. If there was a corresponding ‘after’ picture, it was stuck underneath the living one, which left four smiling people with no corresponding torture shot.
The remaining eleven unmatched ‘after’ pics formed a second grid. Where they would probably stay, unknown and unnamed. But hopefully not unrevenged.
Someone had added Sophie’s name to the bottom of her picture in blue sharpie. They’d done the same with Simpson Kinkaid. Leaving eleven unknowns on the ‘before’ grid. Well, fourteen, if you counted people, rather than pictures. The happy couple on a carousel: photographed in Glasgow, according to Sabir. The two young women hugging on the seafront: Brighton. And the older man and younger woman posing awkwardly on a putting course: Rothesay.
‘Mr Henderson and I will take—’
‘Does this look familiar to you?’
Franklin pursed her lips and lowered the chunk of paperwork in her hand. ‘I’m in the middle of—’
‘No, come look. Here.’
She rolled her eyes, groaned, then sloped over. ‘What now?’ Glanced at the photographs. ‘Yes, it’s a carousel. Wish I’d never let you—’
‘Not the carousel, this pair. On the putting course. He not remind you of someone?’
Creases appeared between her perfect eyebrows and she leaned in to stare. ‘… Maybe?’
‘Cos he reminds me of Gordon Smith’s brother: Slimy Pete.’ Only in the picture he had to be about thirty, maybe forty years younger? Instead of that swept-forwards Nero hairstyle, he had a full head of frothy brown curls, a Peter Sutcliffe beard, and a turquoise-and-red shell suit.
‘Now you’ve said it? Yeah … Kind of.’ She poked the picture. ‘Same piggy eyes.’
‘Think we should go pay Bute a visit?’
Franklin held up her paperwork again. ‘Way ahead of you. We’re down for Cupar, Glasgow, and Rothesay.’
‘In one day, are you off your head? Do you have any idea how long that’ll take?’
She poked at her phone, then held the screen out in front of me. A map of Scotland with a wiggly blue line stretching nearly all the way across it with a narrow loop on the right-hand side. ‘Seven hours, fifty-five minutes. Should be back here by … twenty to four?’
‘Assuming we don’t actually stop the car, or do any police work when we get where we’re going, or pause for two minutes every now and then so Henry can have a wee!’
The little man perked his ears up at the mention of his name.
Mother appeared, unfurling the crinkly white top to a bag of sweets. ‘What are we arguing about now?’
‘Detective Sergeant Franklin seems to think Police Scotland are going to lend us one of those old blue public call boxes, and that it’ll actually travel in space and time.’
‘That’s nice.’ Mother took hold of my arm and led me over to the window, where the outside broadcast units were still lined up, their various journalists doing pieces to camera as the sky lightened above them. ‘Listen, about this post mortem, you heard Professor Twining, we’re supposed to get a forensic anthropologist to attend.’
‘So go find one.’
‘I can’t. The woman I always use from Dundee has sodded off to Lancaster University, and everyone else is away working in godforsaken parts of the globe. Like Guildford.’
No idea why her lack of staff was my problem … But that wasn’t exactly being a team player, was it? Play nice.
‘Could always try the next-door neighbour – the pregnant one.’ Pointing through the wall and off to the right. ‘OK, she’s not qualified, but better than nothing. Maybe.’
‘Oh, God.’ Mother covered her face with her hands. ‘And it had all been going so well …’
The sun finally made it over the horizon, painting the world in shades of gold and amber as Franklin worked the pool car through Logansferry. Even the harbour looked attractive in this light. As we drove up the dual carriageway, the view between the buildings opened up, giving a clear line of sight across the river and up into the bleak horror of Kingsmeath. Not even the sunrise could make that place look like anything other than what it was: dark, depressing, and dangerous. A twisted nest of cheap council housing and brutalist tower blocks.
Should’ve bulldozed the place years ago.
The Luftwaffe had spent all their energy bombing the Logansferry docks, could they not have flattened Kingsmeath while they were at it? Was that so much to ask?
And yes, technically most of the place had only been built after the war, but that was no excuse.
I stretched out my right leg, setting the tortured ankle clicking as the bombs fell, wiping the whole area off the map.
‘You’re doing that weird evil smiling thing again.’
‘What can I say, I’m a cheery individual.’ Sometimes.
Henry nudged his nose through from the back seat, rubbing his muzzle against my arm till he got a scratch.
I gave Franklin the side-eye. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you decided to partner up with me again, today: my winning charm.’
‘Best of a bad lot, to be honest. Dotty’s lovely, but she’ll drive you insane after thirty minutes, John’s a dick, and Amanda is …’ Franklin screwed her face into a thoughtful pout.
&n
bsp; ‘Bit too earnest? Eager to please? OTT?’
‘Could say that, yes. On top of other things.’
‘Go on then: what did she do wrong to end up in Mother’s Misfit Mob?’
‘You’d have to ask her that.’ Franklin joined the queue for the roundabout, stuck behind a bread van and an eighteen-wheeler full of vegan sausage rolls – going by the branding. ‘What really matters is that I get to hang about with Henry all day. You’re just collateral damage, so—’
Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ started up in my pocket: Detective Superintendent Jacobson.
She nodded. ‘You want to answer that?’
‘Not really.’ But I pulled out my phone anyway. Swiped the button. ‘What now? I’m on secondment, remember?’
‘Ash? Sabir says you’ve still not sent him that cost code for his eight hours. And while I’ve got you: Steven Kirk.’
‘I’m sure I emailed it across.’ Which was a lie.
‘Kirk’s solicitor is threatening us with all manner of horrible things, Ash. I do not want LIRU getting sued because you roughed up a nonce. Understand?’
‘Tell Sabir to check his spam folder, maybe it ended up in there?’
‘Alice says she’s had a word with Kirk, but I need this done belt-and-braces style.’
‘I can try resending it, if you like?’
‘Yes, excellent attempt at evasion, but you’re not wriggling out of this one. You’re meeting with Kirk’s solicitor ASAP, and that’s final.’
Franklin took us around the big roundabout and onto Camburn Drive. The traffic lightening up as we hit the ring road through the woods.
‘Can’t today, we’re on our way to Fife, Glasgow, and Bute.’
‘Don’t care, as long as you stop off past HMP Oldcastle on the way. Because if you don’t – and let me make myself really clear here – if you don’t, I’m going to make it my mission in life to cut you loose, point out the “accountability for own actions” clause in your contract, and make sure Steven Kirk’s legal team nail you to the courtroom floor. By your testicles!’
The rotten bastard would as well.
‘That’s not exactly—’
‘And send Sabir that cost code! I’m not running a charity here.’
Then silence. He’d hung up.
Lovely.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Gave Franklin an apologetic smile.
She pulled her chin in. Clearly suspicious. ‘What?’
‘Slight change of plan.’
A groan. ‘Of course there is …’
21
Strange how much one prison looked like any other these days. Well, assuming it wasn’t built in the late eighteen hundreds. The new ones, though, were more community centre than penal institution. From the outside, anyway.
Inside, it didn’t matter where you were, it always smelled of too much air freshener trying to cover up the animal funk of too many people crammed into one place for too long and never allowed to go anywhere.
Out in the real world, Franklin wandered past, her shape distorted by the wall of tinted glass that fronted the main entrance, Henry trotting along at her side on the end of his leash – nose down and sniffing. Searching for interesting things to widdle on.
The officer on reception frowned at my ID for a while, porn-star moustache twitching as if he was trying not to read the words out loud. Then it twitched up at me instead. ‘And you want to see …?’
‘Kenneth Dewar.’
‘Right. Mr Dewar.’ He swivelled his chair around and called across to a beefy woman in matching white short-sleeved shirt, epaulettes, black tie and trousers. No moustache, though. ‘HOY, JESS, YOU SEEN MILKY-MILKY ANYWHERE?’
The voice that bellowed back was remarkably posh. ‘HAVING A WEEP, ROUND THE BACK OF THE BINS!’
‘CHEERS!’ A finger swung around to point at a door this side of the security scanners, X-ray machines, and conveyor belt, marked ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY’. ‘Mr Dewar will be on your left. I’ll buzz you through.’
Kenneth Dewar didn’t look the type to be having a cry behind the prison’s collection of massive wheelie bins, but there he was: broad shoulders; thinning hair, swept back from a tanned scalp; jet-black leather jacket; sitting on the kerb with his knees up against his chest, one arm wrapped around them, the other hand covering his face as he rocked back and forth. Breath coming out in sharp little jags. An untouched vending-machine cup of something frothy and brown resting on the tarmac at his booted feet.
The kind of person Alice would’ve been all over. Trying to help him through his pain, instead of leaving the poor bugger to blub in peace. Which I would’ve done, if there weren’t a million more important things to be getting on with.
‘Mr Dewar?’ I flashed my ID, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘My name’s Ash Henderson, Lateral Investigative and Review Unit. I believe we need to talk?’
He blinked at me between his fingers. Hauled in a deep wobbly breath. Then scrubbed at his face. Sniffed. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. Sorry.’ Stood, wiping his hand down the leg of his blue jeans. Then held it out for shaking. ‘Kenny.’
All covered in tears and snot? Don’t think so.
I limped over to the opposite wall instead, where a tiny sliver of sunlight had made it through the chain-link and barbed wire. ‘So, Kenny, I hear you represent Steven Kirk.’
He stooped and picked up his cup of brown. Gave himself a shake. His eyes might’ve been bloodshot, but they were still bright sapphire with a dark border. Wolf’s eyes. A strong jaw and muscular neck. Large hands at the end of brawny forearms. Exactly Shifty’s type. But then Shifty always had terrible taste in men.
Dewar pulled his head up and nodded. Bit his lip. Then looked away again. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like having to represent people like Steven Kirk, day in, day out? Because no one else will even be in the same room as them?’
I shrugged. ‘You don’t have to do it.’
A short, bitter laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter what they’ve done: everyone has the right to legal representation. Even Steven Kirk. Because if we don’t, what’s next? Maybe we should do away with the judicial process altogether? Instead of judges and juries we should give police officers guns and you can execute anyone you think’s broken the law?’ Dewar shook his head. ‘There’s enough fascist regimes in the world without us joining them.’ The breath that rattled out of him was long and sad. ‘So this is how I spend my days.’ One hand sweeping up to indicate the prison. ‘Wading through the child abusers, rapists, and everyone else you wouldn’t touch with a cattle prod.’
Oh, I would – especially if it was fully charged.
I settled back against the wall. ‘What does Kirk want?’
‘You know what the rest of my morning looks like? Helping a man who murdered his wife and two daughters rehearse for a “diminished-responsibility” plea, on the grounds that he thought one of the girls wasn’t his, so they all had to die. Then prepare some sort of argument so a complete animal can get visiting rights to his toddler, even though he beat the living crap out of its mother. Short break for lunch. Followed by a woman who filmed herself abusing and killing a wee boy. She wants to sue the prison for not letting her publish the slash-fic novel she’s written about Jimmy Bloody Savile granting wishes at Hogwarts …’ Dewar’s shoulders slumped, head thrown back to stare up at the cold blue sky. ‘Should’ve listened to my mother and gone into the priesthood.’
A seagull screeched by, overhead.
‘Nah.’ I gave him a small smile. ‘If you did that, you’d still have to deal with paedos, rapists, and freaks, only you’d have to absolve them of their sins, then send them off on their merry way, safe in the knowledge they were going to do it all over again. Imagine having that on your conscience.’
He let his head fall forward, staring at his cup of vending-machine brown as he nodded. ‘True.’ Took a sip. ‘Steven wanted to press charges for assault, even though Dr … McDonald is it?’
I nodded.
&nb
sp; ‘Even though Dr McDonald claims he assaulted her and you were only trying to save her.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Which you and I know is utter bollocks. You gave Steven Kirk a good kicking, because he deserved one.’ Dewar took a deep breath. ‘So here’s what I’m going to propose: you make a full and sincere apology. Police Scotland – or your LIRU lot, don’t care which – make a modest financial settlement to acknowledge his pain and distress. Somewhere in the ballpark of eight to ten grand should do it. And I talk Steven into dropping the charges. Mary Brennan’s screaming for his head on a spike now she knows he was cosying up to her in church. That should give us some leverage.’
Eight to ten grand. Not sure if Detective Superintendent Jacobson would go for that, but you never knew …
‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah.’ Dewar took another sip. ‘And in return, I need you do me a favour, OK?’
The silence stretched.
That gull soared past once more, bringing a couple of squawking friends with it.
Outside the high fences, a car horn brayed.
‘You’re supposed to ask what the favour is.’
‘OK … What is it?’
Kenneth Dewar downed the last of his drink and flipped the empty wax-paper cup into the nearest bin. ‘Steven Kirk didn’t kill Andrew Brennan, or any of those other wee boys – he’s got an alibi that I can’t tell you about. A proper one. Nothing to do with looking after his dying mother.’
‘Something that violates his SRO?’ AKA: something that could get him wheeched right back to prison for being a sketchy child-molesting bastard.
‘That would be one possible interpretation, but I can’t confirm or deny it, because even a perverted monster like Steven Kirk is covered by client confidentiality.’ Deep breath. ‘But I want something in return.’
‘What, in addition to your cut of the eight grand?’ I took out one of Alice’s business cards, scored out her mobile number and printed my own in its place. Held it out. ‘In case you change your mind about that client confidentiality. Off the record, of course. Anonymously, if you like?’
‘I want you to promise me you’ll find the man who killed those wee boys.’ Dewar bit his bottom lip and nodded. ‘You find him, and you make him pay.’
The Coffinmaker's Garden Page 20