by T F Muir
‘When I accepted this position,’ she said, ‘I was well aware of your reputation. I have to confess that I came prepared for confrontation, but I’m pleased to say that I seemed to have summed you up wrongly.’ She held out her hand, a bit clumsily, he thought.
‘I owe you an apology,’ she said.
He took her hand, and shook it. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Right.’ She slid her hand free. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from Stevenson’s solicitors. Then we can decide how to proceed.’
He nodded. ‘I wouldn’t think we’d have anything to gain by counter-suing, ma’am.’
She gave his words some thought. ‘Not sure I agree with you on that. But we’ll see what they come back with.’ She walked behind her desk. ‘That’ll be all, Andy.’
He failed to keep his surprise hidden. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Diane,’ she said. ‘At least, not in front of the team.’
He thought her smile suited her. It took years off her, made her look less formidable, and gave him a fleeting glimpse of what she was like in private. He smiled in return, gave a silent nod, then turned and walked from her office.
Midday, The Central Bar
Gilchrist had just taken a sip of his pint of Deuchars, when his mobile rang. He picked it up – ID Mo – and took the call walking through the bar. ‘Hi, princess. How’s Australia?’ He pushed through the door on to Market Street, and turned his back to the wind.
‘Dad?’
Even from that one word, he knew something was wrong. An iron clamp squeezed the breath from his lungs. He pressed his mobile tight to his ear, tried to keep his voice calm, his tone level. ‘I’m here, Mo. Is everything OK?’
She sniffed. ‘Not really, I suppose.’
‘I’m listening.’
The line fell silent for a couple of beats, but when her voice returned he thought she sounded more like herself. ‘It’s Tom,’ she said. ‘He’s different.’
Hairs rose on the back of Gilchrist’s neck like hackles. ‘What’s he done, Mo. Let’s have it.’
‘It’s not like that, Dad. Settle down, for God’s sake. Why do you have to take everything I say the wrong way?’
He chuckled at that. There was nothing wrong with Mo. She was fine. ‘Well, you know me,’ he said.
‘Look, Dad, you don’t have to go off on one, you know. I’m all right. It’s just . . .’
Silent, he waited.
‘It’s just that . . . I’m not sure I want to live in Australia, after all.’
He frowned. The pieces didn’t fit. She was holding something back. ‘So how does that make Tom different?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been here less than a week, and he’s already talking in an Australian accent. Shrimps on the barbie this. Sheila that. Fridge stocked with Fosters. I mean, what does he take me for? And now he’s talking about driving all the way to the east coast and camping out under the stars.’ She let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s scary. I don’t like it.’
‘What about his new job?’ he asked. ‘How is that working out?’
‘He’s not sure he likes the company any more.’
Not good. Not good at all. Now that Tom had arrived in Australia, it seemed as if he had discovered a new sense of freedom. How Maureen fitted into that was anyone’s guess.
‘You still have a return flight, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, don’t let Tom push you into anything you don’t want to do, and don’t make any long-term decisions on a whim. Maybe best to wait until you come back to Scotland.’
‘You make it sound easy.’
‘It’s as easy or as difficult as you want it, Mo. It’s your life. It’s your decision.’
She sniffed again, let several seconds pass, then said, ‘Thanks, Dad. I love you.’
‘I love you, too, Mo. See you soon?’
She chuckled, a pleasing sound that tugged at his heart. ‘See you soon, Dad.’
He sent a kiss down the line, and ended the call.
Then returned to the bar to finish his pint.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing is a lonely affair, but this book could not have been published without help from the following: Jon Miller, former superintendent with Tayside Police; Gayle Cameron (retired), Police Scotland; and Kenny Cameron (retired), Police Scotland, for their invaluable information on police procedure. I would also like to thank Heather Holden-Brown and Cara Armstrong at hhb agency for their advice and encouragement; Joan Deitch for her professional copyediting to the nth degree; Rebecca Sheppard, Amanda Keats, Helen Upton and many others at Little, Brown who put in great effort behind the scenes to give this novel the best possible start; and especially Krystyna Green, Publishing Director, for her tough-love editorial advice and for once again placing her trust in me. And finally, Anna, for putting up with me, believing in me and loving me all the way.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
First and foremost, this book is a work of fiction. Those readers familiar with St Andrews and the East Neuk may notice that I have taken creative license with respect to some local geography and history. The North Street Police Station has closed, but its proximity to the town centre with its many pubs and restaurants would have been too sorely missed by DCI Gilchrist for me to abandon it. I’m also pleased to note that the Criterion has recovered its original name from Lafferty’s Bar. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.
Any and all mistakes are mine.
www.frankmuir.com