by Ed James
‘Aye, bollocks it is.’ Finlay twisted his face into his usual gurn, cheeks pushing out to show too much gum and teeth, as he spoke into the Airwave. ‘PC Sinclair to Sergeant Reid, over.’
‘Receiving. Safe to talk.’ Lauren Reid’s plummy voice crackled out of the handset. Always sounded that wee bit more English over the radio. ‘You finished with that missing boy yet?’
Finlay took his time lowering himself into the passenger seat, then rested his feet on the bleached pavement. ‘PC Hunter has secured Pickle and returned him to Mrs Carstairs.’
‘Hang on. Her boy was a cat?’
‘Aye, Sarge. Just heading back to the station for our piece. That okay?’
‘Suppose it’ll have to be.’
2
‘And I’m saying you’re a softy, Craig.’ Finlay was leaning back in the passenger seat, doing almost enough manspreading to block the gearstick. ‘I mean, a cat. Man alive.’
‘I notice you just foxtrotted oscar when you saw what it was.’ Hunter stopped the engine and yanked the keys out of the ignition. The underground car park was deserted, just a flickering light keeping the squad cars and unmarked detective jobs company. ‘If you were any lazier, you’d be hibernating.’
‘I’m not lazy, jabroni.’ Finlay pulled his legs together and let his seatbelt whizz up. He brushed the back of his hand up Hunter’s sleeve. ‘Looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge in all directions. Thought you’d want to keep yourself clean for your interview.’
Hunter’s own seatbelt rattled up, the buckle glinting in the low light. The fresh cuts on his hands were still welling up. ‘I tell you, it still bloody hurts.’
‘Hurts, my arse.’ Finlay ran a hand over his shaved scalp, more skin than stubble. ‘A wee cat takes a dislike to you and you need Mummy to rub some Savlon on.’
‘Don’t get any ideas.’ Hunter got out, the slamming door echoing around the car park, and set off across the concrete, his vest and equipment playing their usual rattling drum beat. The place stank of spilled diesel, stale fumes and the few cheeky buggers who couldn’t be bothered to go to the designated smoking space. ‘Do you want to sign the car back in?’
‘No point, is there?’ Finlay was practically tap-dancing to keep up with Hunter’s pace, his shoes clicking off the concrete. ‘The Princess will just have us back out after our piece.’
Hunter stopped by the stairwell door. ‘Your call, Finlay.’
‘Aye, well, maybe I’ll just sign it back in.’ Finlay snatched the Focus’s keys and pushed through to the office.
Fat Keith was slumped in front of a computer, a half-eaten Krispy Kreme doughnut hovering between his teeth. He put it back on the plate and rubbed his podgy hands together. ‘Oh, I’d better call the Chief Constable. The Brains Trust are back in the building!’
Finlay tossed the keys at him. ‘That’s Alpha six back in.’
Keith caught them and ran his other hand across his mouth. ‘Do I need to check for any scrapes to it or adjacent vehicles?’
‘Nah, you’re fine.’ Finlay picked up a glazed donut and bit into it, swallowing the mouthful without chewing. ‘Been a while since Hunter’s totalled a police vehicle.’
Hunter nudged the door further open with his boot. ‘I’ve seen you make an arse of a three-point turn, so keep your beak out of it.’
‘Brilliant.’ Keith hung the key up on a latch and peered out of the mesh-glass window. ‘In the name of the wee man! Where the hell were you?’
‘At this old farmhouse by Shawfair.’ Finlay snorted. ‘That new village out by Musselburgh, just inside the bypass. Load of new-builds going up.’
‘Musselburgh? Didn’t think that was our patch.’
Finlay thumbed upstairs. ‘We go where we’re told.’
‘Well, you could’ve… You pair of chancers.’ Keith nodded at the window. ‘Any danger you could give it a wash?’
‘Well, I would. It’s just…’ Finlay grimaced, his teeth gritting as his cheeks puffed out. ‘We’re due for a briefing with Sergeant Reid.’
‘Aye, bollocks you are.’ Keith collapsed into his chair and stabbed at the keyboard, frowning. ‘Can you pair settle a bet for us?’
Hunter rested his hand on the stairwell door. ‘Depends what it is.’
‘Does the “I” in MIT stand for Major Investigation or Major Incident Team?’
‘There’s no “I” in MIT.’ Finlay smirked. Then coughed to mask the lack of laughter. ‘Mass Incest Team.’
‘Aye, very good, Sinclair.’ Keith’s eyes were pleading with Hunter — guy would bet on anything with anyone. God knows how much was riding on something you could look up on the intranet. ‘So, Investigation or Incident?’
‘Investigation.’
‘Ya dancer!’
Hunter opened the door, letting a clatter of descending footsteps into the room. Still a couple of floors above by the sound of things. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘Jimmy was saying it was Incident.’ Keith picked up his donut and stared deep into its eye. ‘Been a shooting up in Dumbiedykes. Way I hear it, some drug dealer got his comeuppance. Shot by a prossie.’
‘Shot?’
‘Aye, can you credit it?’ Keith frowned, his red face almost glowing in the harsh light. ‘Could be the other way round, mind.’ He chomped down on the rest of his donut. ‘Anyway, thought I’d remind you the old MIT are up on your floor.’
Hunter winced. ‘Including…?’
‘Aye, your old pal. Happy hunting…’
‘Happy hunting’s good, though, eh?’ Finlay got in front and held the canteen door open, his metal sandwich box clinking off the frame. The sort of thing you’d see in an IKEA poster of workmen up an American skyscraper. ‘Oh, in the name of the wee man…’
A long queue snaked around the canteen, way past the servery. All knuckle-draggers in cheap suits.
Hunter let out a sigh. ‘Bloody MIT are taking over the station again.’
‘Aye, and it’s pea and ham soup the day.’ Finlay scowled, like someone had put a hex on his first born. Not that anyone’d been stupid enough to breed with him. ‘They’ll have eaten the lot by the time I get to the front.’
‘Let’s just eat our sandwiches and see what’s what, okay?’ Hunter led him past the queue.
‘Miaow!’
‘Miaow!’
Hunter stopped dead by the end of the queue and looked around. Those two arseholes had the table near the front. Dave and Steve, shaved heads and scar tissue on their knuckles, like they’d come out of a vending machine for primetime TV beat cops. ‘What did you say?’
Dave looked up from his soup, steam spiralling around his hook nose. ‘Heard you got some pussy this morning, Hunter.’
‘Well, you boys have always got each other, right?’
‘Piss off, Hunter.’
‘See you lovebirds later.’ Hunter took his time walking over to a window seat, the only one free. The table was covered in at least two lunch sittings.
Dave was still scowling back at him. Hate doing that to such soft targets, but it’s the only language they understand…
Hunter sat facing the window. Outside, Leith Walk was in deadlock, stalled by the major incident of a Scottish afternoon hitting twenty-five degrees. Centigrade, too.
He glared at Finlay. ‘You had to bloody tell them, didn’t you?’
Finlay shrugged as he sat, more interested in the clasps on his sandwich box. ‘Well, you’ve got to admit—’
A tall figure obscured part of the sunlight streaming in, casting a long shadow across the table. ‘Craig Hunter.’
Terrific. Him.
Hunter shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to look at him.
Scott bloody Cullen.
Prick thought he was a male model, certainly slept around like he was one. Smooth baby’s arse face, like he shaved every hour, on the hour.
Cullen dumped his tray down and scraped a chair back, grinning at Hunter. ‘You all right, Craig?’
Hunter unclipped the top
of his sandwich box but didn’t open the lid.
‘What’s up, mate? Cat got your tongue?’
Hunter focused on him now. ‘Who told you about that, Scott?’
Cullen was frowning between Hunter and Finlay. ‘Told me what?’
Finlay raised his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me, honest.’
Cullen tapped the edge of his tray. ‘So, do you mind if I sit here?’
Hunter pulled a face and flexed out his fingers, just enough to tear open a scratch. ‘We’re kind of in the middle of something here.’
‘Right.’ Cullen snatched up his tray and looked around, giving someone a nod in the distance. ‘See you around, Craig.’
Finlay’s frown added a couple of ridges to his forehead. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘Nothing. Just don’t want to speak to that arsehole.’
‘Did he steal your cheese or something?’
‘It’s your turn to get the water.’ Hunter slouched back and watched Finlay waddle across the room towards the water fountain. Just behind it, Cullen was sitting with a pair of suits.
With a sigh, Hunter inspected his latest creation. A sourdough he’d baked the previous night, with Goat’s cheese, beetroot and walnut, fronds of rocket reaching out the sides. Pretty much all still intact despite the rocky transport.
Finlay plonked two cups of water down and nudged one across the table, scowling like he’d stepped in dog shit. ‘Hey, jabroni, is that food?’
Just a bloody toothpick away from a villain in a buddy cop film…
‘No, Finlay, it’s nuclear waste material.’ Hunter picked up the first half of the sandwich. Didn’t feel like eating it any more so just held it there. ‘Want me to enlighten you on its contents?’
‘No, just keep it well away from my nose, all right?’ Finlay opened his box and a rancid stench wafted out, his eyes closing in bliss. ‘Now this is a sandwich.’
Hunter winced at it, felt even less like eating his own now. ‘Your egg mayonnaise still on the UN’s official munitions list?’
Finlay chewed on his first morning roll — neon-yellow egg stuffed into a flap of flour, yeast and air — and beamed wide. ‘Beautiful.’
Hunter opened his mouth to finally get started on his own lunch but didn’t. ‘My brother, Murray, got another couple of hens at the weekend. Lovely eggs.’
Finlay raised his half-eaten roll, the eggy mush dribbling out of the corners. ‘Can’t beat Farmfoods’ cheapest.’
‘If those were from my hens, I’d take them to the Vets. You do know about free-range and all that?’
‘Aye, I just don’t care.’ Finlay finished chewing and slurped down some water, giving Hunter’s sandwich a little nod. ‘What’s the deal with you and that Cullen boy? Look like you shat yourself.’
‘Used to work with him at St Leonards.’ Hunter didn’t look up, just nibbled at the crust, the rocket burning his tongue. ‘I was Detective Constable and he was Acting.’ He tried a full bite, chewing slowly. ‘Guy thinks he’s a hot shot.’
‘Caught a serial killer a few years back.’ Half-chewed mush coated Finlay’s tongue and teeth. ‘Heard he’s a DS now.’
Hunter dumped his sandwich back in the box.
His Airwave chimed. ‘Sergeant Reid to PC Hunter, over.’
Hunter stabbed the button. ‘Safe to talk.’
‘Need a word with you in my office when you’ve got a minute.’
Hunter knocked on the door and stood back. Someone had stuck a handwritten sign under the names of PS Lauren Reid and PS Adrian McKay saying “Strictly NO Detectives after the hours of darkness”.
Maybe that someone found it funny.
He checked his phone for messages — nothing, as per — then knocked again. Gave it a few seconds and cleared his throat, loud enough to get a decent echo in the corridor.
Feels like I’m fourteen years old again, waiting to go into the Headmaster’s room.
Through the door, a phone slammed into its cradle. ‘Yes?’
Hunter yanked the handle and pulled it open. ‘You wanted a word, Sarge?’
Sergeant Lauren Reid sat at a computer, gymnast posture and a thousand-yard stare, her left hand resting on the keyboard, purple nails and a giant diamond on her ring finger. Expensive-looking watch on her wrist, the kind that hadn’t seen a single day’s active service on the streets. Black fleece zipped up, even in summer. ‘Craig, right.’ She focused on Hunter and sat back, resetting her dark-blonde ponytail, loose and frayed. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Thanks for coming down.’ She waved at the seat in front of her. ‘Sit.’
‘Do I get walkies after?’
‘Just sit.’
Hunter did as he was told, slouching on the creaking wood and resting his left shoe on his right knee. Scuffed half the leather off climbing that tree. ‘What’s up?’
She crossed her arms and sat back, shivering. ‘It’s freezing in here.’
Hunter stood up tall, hands in pockets. ‘It’s a lovely summer’s day out there.’
‘There’s no such thing as summer in Scotland.’
‘Well, I spoke to Facilities.’ Hunter propped himself on the backrest of the seat in front of her desk. ‘They’d kept the heating at Winter levels. That’s why it’s been so bloody hot.’
‘Hot?’ Lauren took a printed email out of a lime-green document folder and slid it across the table. ‘Have a look at that.’
Don’t cops just love their files?
Hunter scanned through it, picking out the words “PC Craig Hunter” and “Interview”. ‘What’s this?’
She flicked up her eyebrows. ‘And you used to be a detective…’
‘No, I get what it is.’ Hunter handed the page back, heart thudding in his chest. His mouth was so dry, it was like he’d eaten Finlay’s sandwich. ‘I just don’t get why.’
‘Because I put you forward for it after our one-to-one last month. You might remember it, as you were badgering me to get you out of uniform and “back doing something important”.’
‘I’d had a strong coffee, Sarge. I can only apologise.’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘A “thank you” would be appreciated.’
‘Cheers. I don’t know what to—’ Hunter stood up straight again. ‘It’s not because you want rid of me? New broom and all that.’
She shook her head, that cheeky little grin flashing across her lips. ‘No, Craig. It’s because the MIT are looking for an Acting DC and you want to be one.’
‘I want to be a full DC again, not an Acting one.’ Hunter gripped the chair arms tight. ‘I didn’t spend six years—’
‘—in CID only to be rescuing cats.’ She rolled her eyes, the grin puckering to a pout. ‘Yeah, I know, Craig. You should know what it’s like in Police Scotland. I’ve only been here three months and I’ve already got the message, loud and clear.’ She handed him the paper. ‘Anything coming your way, you need to grab with both hands.’
Hunter loosened his grip on the chair arms, his tongue rolling around his mouth, trying to get some moisture back. He coughed again. ‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow, at two o’clock.’
Hunter folded the sheet in half, then again. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’
‘The rest’s up to you, Craig. There are a lot of people going for it.’
‘I’ll try not to let you down.’ Hunter got up and stuck the page in his pocket next to his notebook. ‘That all?’
‘Not quite.’ She leaned back and crossed her arms, a fresh shiver working its way up her spine, judging by the expression on her face. ‘Afraid you and laughing boy need to attend a domestic in Restalrig.’
3
‘Such a wee princess, you.’ Finlay spun the wheel round, turning left into Mountcastle Green. ‘Just get it out of your system.’
‘Wish I hadn’t bloody told you now.’ Hunter turned away from the idiot, his knuckles white around the grab handle over the door.
The street was a load of boxy houses arranged in a grey court. No matter how sh
abby they were, though, they’d still cost three or four times what he could afford. The car trundled past the modern graveyard’s wide expanse, regimented rows and columns of bling gravestones, like a spreadsheet of death.
‘Should I really have to be interviewed for an Acting DC position?’
‘It’s a joke. Think it’ll be worth the bother?’
‘Doing something important would be a start.’ Hunter reached into his pocket for his notebook, getting the folded-up interview email instead. He stashed it again and pulled out his pocket book, flicking through the pages. ‘Number six.’ He waved at a white-harled house covered in ivy. Triangular sixties detached thing, strips of painted wood at the front, grimy white everywhere else. A giant blue six was painted on the garage door. ‘That one there.’
‘The one with the private plates?’ Finlay pulled in behind a Citroën Berlingo van in the drive. H185 DFF. ‘HIBS DFF… What’s that mean?’
‘Well, other than being a Hibs fan...’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Usually initials, right?’
‘Guess so. Boy must be doing okay for himself.’ Diesel fumes filled the cabin as the squad car’s engine clattered to a stop. ‘Only had this thing two months and it’s knackered already. I tell you, the way Dave rides that clutch, it’ll soon be as clapped-out as his missus at the end of a week in Magaluf.’ Finlay slapped his cap on, covering the fine-grain stubble. ‘Anyway, got anything on this family?’
‘You know I did a PNC check when we were driving over here. Don’t you bloody listen? All three Fergusons are clean as a whistle.’ Hunter got out of the car and stuck his own cap on.
‘Just let me in! Pauline!’ A man was thumping against the front door, wiry like an ex-boxer gone to seed but still clinging onto his Popeye forearms. An old purple Hibs away shirt lurked underneath paint-spattered navy dungaree overalls, “FERGY” poking through the straps at the back. Probably Mr Ferguson, but you never could be sure. ‘Come on, Pauline! She’s bloody lying!’
‘Bit early in the day for this sort of malarkey.’ Finlay stomped over the pavement and marched up to the man, swerving past a fresh lump of dog mess. He flicked on his Body-Worn Video, nodding at Hunter to follow suit. ‘What seems to be the matter, sir?’