by Helen Forbes
‘Nothing. Sat on it for six months. She said it was nonsense and she saw no point in mentioning it to Gordon Sutherland or anyone else. I’ve got this too, Sir. It was put through Roz Sutherland’s door last night.’
There was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of the DI’s mouth as he looked at the photograph. ‘Doesn’t really look as if he’s enjoying himself, does he?’
The victim, Gordon Sutherland, did not look happy. He was seated between two attractive young women. One of them had her arm draped over his shoulders, while the other had her hand on his leg. She looked as if she was moving in for a kiss. ‘Do you think those girls are foreign?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Could be.’ Both were dark haired and tanned.
‘And did his missus suspect anything?’
‘No. He’s been his usual self.’
‘I think my missus would notice something was up, or not, if I was giving it to those two.’
Joe’s stomach turned a little at the thought. The DI’s dirty laughter followed him down the corridor.
He phoned the hospital, but they couldn’t tell him anything, except that Carla was still in. He tried her mobile, but it was switched off. He looked at his watch. Maybe he could sneak off now. The phone on his desk rang. It was the custody officer. Joe listened and sighed. ‘Not again. What is it this time?’
‘Out of his head in the Eastgate Centre. He’s better now, and he’s asking for you.’
Ali the Bampot made a habit of asking for Joe. Sometimes he had something worthwhile, a valuable wee snippet, but usually he talked a heap of shit. Living on the streets, he was regularly lifted when the drugs or the alcohol, or both, got the better of him. He didn’t really cause trouble. He just insisted on debating life’s mysteries with passers-by, to their alarm. More often than not, he was lifted for his own safety.
Ali was hunched up on the bench, the cell as fragrant as ever. He looked up and smiled. ‘Detective Sergeant Galbraith, you’re a gentleman.’
Joe nodded. ‘I’m a very busy gentleman.’
‘Surely you’ve time for a wee word?’ He shifted along the bench. ‘A wee seat?’
Though he’d rather not get too close, Joe sat. He noticed a grubby plaster cast on Ali’s right arm. ‘How did you get that?’
‘Lovely nurse up at Raigmore. She made my day. Gave me new clothes and a fiver. I can’t remember her name, but I’m sure they’ll tell you up at the hospital.’
‘I’m more interested in why you needed a plaster cast. What happened to your arm?’
Ali shook his head. ‘Sergeant, I can’t say.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘Remember? I’ll never forget. If I was twenty years younger, it wouldn’t have happened. No one messed with Ali the Bampot. Trouble is, the pots are all way more bammy these days than I ever was. Anyway, forget that. Have you found Sally?’
Joe shook his head. ‘We haven’t got much to go on, have we? No one at the council has heard of a homeless girl matching your friend’s description. No one has reported her missing. We don’t have a surname. Is there anything else you can tell me?’
Ali frowned. ‘Not really. A wee beauty she was when she first showed up. Her looks didn’t last long once she started on the smack. Last time I saw her, at least three months back, I was trying to sleep in a bin store round by the flats where the old La Scala was. I’m not a minger, mind; they’d emptied the bins that day. Anyway, I’d told her not to be offering blow…I mean, services for a couple of quid, but she wouldn’t listen. There’s some bad people out there, Sergeant. Some bad bastards.’
‘Aye, you’re right. Did you see her with someone that night?’
Ali shrugged. He avoided Joe’s eyes. ‘It was dark. I couldn’t see properly.’
‘What could you see?’
He started scratching at the top of the cast. ‘Bloody itch. Ach, I saw nothing. Just hoped you might have found her.’
Joe drove to the hospital, Ali’s missing girl on his mind. He took it seriously, but without more information, what could he do? He was certain Ali knew more than he was letting on.
***
Chapter 10
‘Duck!’ Spittle flew from Graeme Freel’s mouth as he shouted across the room.
Really? Like Lucy might not have worked that one out for herself? Graeme hadn’t. The first used incontinence pad had caught him on the chin, and Lucy had stifled a laugh as the pad clung to his designer stubble, then slid downwards over his chubby belly and his pin-striped knees, landing with a squelch on his polished brogues.
His client, Mary, must have been saving the pads up for some time. They’d gone to see her in New Craigs, the psychiatric hospital in Inverness. She had a Mental Health Tribunal pending, and she’d asked for a solicitor. She didn’t like what she got, and Lucy wasn’t too impressed either.
Another pad hit Graeme in the face. Was Mary aiming for him and deliberately avoiding Lucy? It seemed so. At last, two nurses restrained Mary. She laughed as they led her away. ‘Useless numpty; that’ll teach you.’
Graeme scrubbed at his face with a hankie. That was never going to work. Lucy nodded at a dispenser of hand sanitiser. ‘Try that.’
He slapped it on like aftershave. It improved the smell a little, but Lucy was certain she could still detect the lingering odour of stale urine, as Graeme told the nurse he really couldn’t be expected to take instructions from such an unwilling client. Though she didn’t know much about dealing with psychiatric patients, Lucy felt he could have tried harder. A little forethought, and he might have avoided winding the client up in the first place by asking her if she’d really tried to choke her neighbour’s cat with a set of jump leads. Or he could have waited until she calmed down. But he hadn’t, and now they were leaving, with no instructions and one very ruffled solicitor.
The nurse apologised. Mary was like that sometimes, until her medication kicked in. Maybe they could phone again when she was feeling better. Graeme looked aghast. He patted his pockets. No. He didn’t have his work phone with him, and he couldn’t remember the number off the top of his head.
Arse, Lucy thought. ‘I’ll give you my number. Just call early next week if Mary’s doing better.’
Graeme Freel looked at Lucy as if she was nuts.
*
Betty MacLaren was sitting in the corner of the communal area, wearing a coral pink twin set, and a double row of pearls. She’d seen the solicitors arrive and she’d admired the young woman’s suit and high heels, her confident, but humble, manner. She’d seen the way the woman looked around her, with kind eyes. She wasn’t judging the patients, as did so many visitors to the ward. She looked interested and interesting. She looked quite beautiful.
Betty had clocked all that went on. Mary and her flying incontinence pads, the terrified male solicitor, and the amusement of his assistant. All the while, a little bell was ringing in Betty’s head. Did she know the young woman?
And then the woman gave her name, and Betty knew. She gave her phone number, and Betty was ready. She always had a pen in her pocket for the crossword. Today, she had the Press and Journal on her lap. It was simple to write Lucy Galbraith’s phone number on her paper. And no one saw her do it.
*
Joe hated playing the cop card, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn’t wait until later. He told the nurse he was working on the shooting – not a lie – and he didn’t know when he’d get away. This was really the only time he could see Carla; he didn’t want to disappoint her. The nurse gave in, with a knowing smile. He’d have to go if the consultant came round. And it was almost lunch time.
Carla was curled up, face to the wall. He didn’t want to wake her, so he sat on a chair at the end of the bed. It wasn’t long before she moved, turned, and tried to smile. Her forehead glistened with sweat, her face was grey, her hair flat and dull, and Joe had never loved her more. He got a hankie and wiped her forehead, then he stroked her hair.
She frowned. ‘Don’t. I�
��m disgusting.’
‘You’re beautiful.’
There were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I go to the doctor? I’ve been feeling crap for ages. The glands in my neck are swollen and I didn’t even notice. And now this.’
Joe’s stomach lurched. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s something wrong with my blood count. Too many of some kind of white blood cell. They’re waiting for more results and talking about bone marrow tests. One nurse mentioned leukaemia.’
‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘No, it can’t be.’
Carla wiped at her eyes. ‘If there’s one thing we both know, it’s that crap can happen to anyone. We see it every day. And there’s nothing we can do about it.’
She was right, but he couldn’t bear to admit it. ‘I spoke to your cousin last night.’
‘Thanks. He’s sound, Ronald; we’ve always been close. I don’t suppose he said he’d come and visit?’
‘No. He didn’t say much. He sounded worried.’
‘Do you have his number?’
Joe took the piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the locker.
‘Cheers. I’ll call him later. Try a bit of emotional blackmail; might get him off the croft and onto the ferry. I’m likely to be off work for a while. How’s the investigation?’
When he repeated DI Black’s comments about the girls in the photo, Carla groaned and asked for the sick bucket. Joe jumped up. ‘Where is it?’ He looked under the bed, in the locker, at Carla. She was smiling. ‘Ah, you’re joking.’
‘Only just. The nausea is never far away, and thinking about DI Black in flagrante…’ She shivered. ‘Anyway, you have to get back.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do – not that I don’t appreciate the visit, and the fact that you haven’t looked at your watch once.’
He nodded at the clock on the wall beside the bed. ‘Didn’t have to.’
Joe kissed her and held her. But he didn’t tell her. He wanted to. He wanted to say the words that echoed in his head, in his heart, whenever he held her, made love to her, even just watched her. Why was it so hard to say he loved her? Because she’d never said it? Idiot. Someone else would say it to her one day, and he’d lose her. And he knew then why he couldn’t say it. He was just a staging post, temporary. She was way too good for him.
As he drove back to the station, Joe thought of a colleague he’d had in traffic. He was only thirty two when he died of bowel cancer. Nice guy. Couldn’t remember his name. He’d gone to see him in the hospice with a couple of the boys. He’d been a big guy, played football, didn’t drink. Joe shook his head, trying to clear the image of the nameless cop in the hospice bed, but it wouldn’t go. Cancer had turned him into a shadow, wrinkled and grey, his hair gone and his arms like twigs. That couldn’t happen to Carla. He wouldn’t let it.
Fool, he told himself; as if he could stop it from happening. No wonder Jimmy Jackson thought him a conceited git. He’d overheard Jackson saying as much to someone in the locker room the previous week. He hadn’t let on he’d heard – if there was one thing Jackson wanted, it was a reaction. He’d not forget it, though. Just add it to the list of things he had on Jackson, and take his subtle revenge whenever he could.
***
Chapter 11
Drew Easter nodded, his face serious as he commiserated with Graeme Freel over his treatment at New Craigs. He told Graeme not to worry about it; he’d tried his best, couldn’t have done any more. Why not go home and get changed? Maybe have a shower? Graeme wiped his sweaty brow with a hand that was still shaking, and thanked Drew. He’d do that, and he’d be back soon.
As Graeme’s fat footsteps stamped down the stairs, Drew looked at Lucy. He put his hand over his mouth and shook his head. With his other hand, he clutched at a filing cabinet as if to steady himself, as a strange strangled sound tried to force its way out.
Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, and Drew erupted. The noise he was making, two of the secretaries came from the main office to check that everything was all right. He waved his hand at them, but he couldn’t speak.
Before she started at the law centre, Lucy had envisaged the boss as an older man, someone with peppered grey hair, a beard and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the law. Drew certainly had a good grasp of the law, and there was a touch of grey in his dark hair. He was older than her, but not as old as her imagination had imagined. He was tall and slim, with laughing eyes, and a way of looking at Lucy that made butterflies dance in her stomach. Not that he was looking too cool right now. Yes, it had been funny, but really?
He straightened up and wiped at his eyes. ‘I’m sorry; I’ve waited such a long time.’
She didn’t have to ask him what he’d waited for. Anyone that knew Graeme Freel would be gagging to see the tosser brought down. She smiled. He swallowed and straightened his face. ‘I’m going up to see two clients in the prison this afternoon. Do you want to come?’
‘Definitely.’ Lucy tried not to look too keen.
He nodded. ‘Great. About ten to two? There’ll be no dirty protests, I promise.’ He went into his room and closed the door, and she could still hear him laughing.
*
The clients in prison couldn’t have been more different. Donny had learning difficulties and he was in for an assault on his wife, perpetrated in front of his two children. He and his wife had significant support to enable them to parent. Lucy watched in awe as Drew calmed his client down. He had to stop worrying. Settle down and wait for the court case. Drew would speak to Social Work, find out how the children were.
Donny was grateful. ‘I’ll just ignore the others when they laugh at me. And I’ll not let them spit in my food again. They’re just jealous, these guys; they don’t have kids like mine.’
The next client was probably the one spitting in Donny’s food. Rough as. He’d been convicted of growing cannabis in his loft, he was two thousand pounds in arrears of rent, and the council had raised a court action to have him evicted. He wanted to know if there was any chance of keeping his tenancy while he was inside.
Drew shook his head. ‘That’ll be a no. You’ll not get Housing Benefit now you’re off remand, so you’ve no chance.’
Fair enough, the guy said. He stood and shook Drew’s hand. He hadn’t expected there’d be anything Drew could do, but there was no harm in asking.
As they walked down the hill back to the office, it was the second guy Drew talked about. He’d get out of jail eventually and have nowhere to go but a B&B or an HMO in the town, with access to every drug you could imagine. Not that Drew thought the Council should keep his tenancy for him. How could they, when no one was paying the rent? Even if the rent was paid, they’d probably evict him for the drug dealing. It was just the revolving door that got Drew down. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, the guy would be back inside before long. ‘Still, it’s people like him that keep me in work, I guess.’
*
It was shite being back home in this tip. And Sharon was a shite mother, wishing Ryan had been kept in longer. And he was a shite son, giving her nothing more than a grunt when she tried to speak to him. She should have sent him to school, even though there wasn’t much of the afternoon left. Instead, he was sitting in his room, gabbing to his pals. But how was he able to speak to anyone when the police still had his phone?
Sharon hesitated at the bedroom door, and then she lifted her hand to knock. What was she doing? It wasn’t a hotel. As she reached for the handle, she heard Ryan raise his voice, and she knew he was terrified. ‘I told them fuck all. Honest. Fuck all.’ In the silence that followed, she knew every line and frown on his worried face. She wanted to kiss them away, to hold him and rock him. It was a long time since he’d let her do that. ‘I’m not a grass, and my clothes were clean; they found nothing.’ Another pause. ‘Okay.’ Trepidation in his voice. ‘See you there.’
Back in the living room, Sharon remembered the sock. It wasn’t clean. As far as
she was aware, Ryan didn’t know he’d dropped it. She hadn’t wanted to worry him, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Had Christopher really got rid of it? Maybe she should have done it herself, made absolutely sure.
Shit. What kind of monster was she, tampering with evidence to protect her son, when a man was dead? Her shaking hands reached for the e-cig. She pulled on it, desperate for some calm. All she got was the taste of blueberries. Useless. Fucking useless. The e-cig bounced off the small coffee table, before hitting the TV and falling to the floor. She heard the bedroom door open, and Ryan’s feet thundering down the hall. As the front door slammed, she grabbed her jacket.
Ryan’s head was down as he hurried along Thornbush Road. On Grant Street, he met a group of youths. He nodded at them and carried on, but they called him back. Sharon ducked into a doorway and wiped sweat off her brow. The youths were jostling and shoving each other like little kids. Were they the Glendoe Gadgies that Ryan was hanging about with last year? She’d pulled Ryan’s leg about them so many times. Gadgies in Inverness? Gadgies were from Dingwall. She knew nothing, Ryan had told her; the gang leader was a gadgie. His family were evicted from their house in Dingwall, and came to live in Glendoe Terrace in the Carse.
Gadgies or not, they were a shower of wee shites, laughing at a disabled man with a stick on the other side of the road. Ryan didn’t join in, but Sharon wasn’t about to congratulate herself for that. It wasn’t his good upbringing that stopped him; it was fear of whoever he was meeting.
He left the boys and hurried on. Sharon followed him half way across the Black Bridge. When he crossed over to Portland Place car park, and got into a car, she stopped. Although she couldn’t make the driver out, he looked big and bald. She didn’t think she knew him. She wanted to run across the road and pull her son from the car, but he wouldn’t thank her for it. Besides, it was almost time to collect Liam from school.