by Marion Todd
‘Honestly, Clare,’ Diane was saying, ‘it’s beyond a joke these days. I’ve even offered to do Saturday mornings to try and clear my feet but they say there’s no money for overtime. They still want the results though.’
Clare tried to put thoughts of Gayle Crichton to the back of her mind. She gave Diane what she hoped was a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s pretty much the same with us too, Diane. It’s fine when there’s a major incident. They throw money at those. But sometimes we struggle just to keep up with the routine stuff. And don’t get me started on the paperwork.’
‘Ach, it gives us something to moan about.’
Clare suddenly remembered. ‘Diane, how’s your mum these days?’
Diane sighed. ‘Not great, Clare, to be honest. She really needs residential care now. But there are so many hoops to jump through before we get to that stage. I can probably get her into one of the local authority places. But, for all the time she has left, I’d rather she went into one of the private homes.’ Diane stood on one leg, pulling her ankle up behind her to stretch her quads. ‘I’ll probably have to sell her house to pay for it,’ she said. ‘I’ve not told her yet but it’ll break her heart.’ She let her ankle drop down and swapped to stretch the other leg.
Clare looked at Diane, unsure what to say. Diane’s eyes were bright and she seemed close to tears. ‘Oh Diane, I’m so sorry.’
Diane gave a little shrug. ‘Ach, it’ll get sorted out. One way or another. The doctor says Mum might not see another year so I’ll maybe ask the bank if they would give me a loan to cover a year’s fees. Probably better than selling up.’ She forced a smile. ‘But thanks, Clare. Thanks for asking.’
Clare gave Diane’s arm a squeeze then she felt herself jostled. The runners were moving to the start line now.
‘Shall we run together?’ Diane said. ‘I’m usually around thirty minutes.’
Clare hesitated. She wanted a fast time today. ‘Erm…’
Diane laughed. ‘It’s okay. I know you’ll be faster than me. On you go.’
‘Buy you a coffee after, then?’ Clare said.
‘I’ll hold you to it.’
They set off in a throng with Clare edging her way gradually to the front. There were a few spectators dotted around the course and volunteers at points where the course deviated. The sun was warm and she was glad when the route took them briefly into a shaded area. As she came back to the start at the end of the first circuit she checked her time. Seven minutes and two seconds. There was a ripple of applause from spectators at the start and she raised a hand in acknowledgement, digging in as she approached the short hill for the second time. As she crested the rise she looked across the park and the fuchsia-pink top caught her eye. Diane was just coming to the end of her first circuit. Clare ploughed on and, as the course levelled out her heart rate began to slow. She was neck and neck with a male runner who was obviously determined not to be beaten by a woman and she stuck on his tail. There was something familiar about him but, with his baseball cap and aviator shades, it was impossible to tell. Probably a regular.
Her second lap was quicker. Six minutes and forty seconds. She could hear the male runner’s breathing become more laboured. He glanced over his shoulder at Clare and lengthened his pace. Clare matched him and they ran together up the hill for the last time. At the straight stretch he began pulling away. Clare was tiring now and she let him put a bit of distance between them. As they began the decline Diane’s fuchsia top caught her eye again. Diane waved then punched the air. Clare looked ahead again. She could just catch him. The end of the race had a little rise and she was good on hills. She began to stretch out, closing the gap between them. He had stopped, looking over his shoulder now. Probably thought he had her beaten. Clare saw the finish post and reached in her shorts for her barcode. She was sprinting now and as the incline to the finish began she streaked past the male runner to cheers from the volunteers. She clicked her Garmin as she crossed the line and checked the time. Twenty minutes exactly.
‘Good run,’ a voice behind her said and she turned to see DCI Al Gibson, removing his sunglasses and cap. He ran a hand through his hair and squinted at his watch. ‘I thought I had you back there.’
Clare drew a hand across her brow which was damp now. ‘One second quicker and I’d have been under twenty.’ She shook her head. ‘Next time.’
They wandered up the path, out of the way of the steady stream of finishers.
‘Coffee?’ the DCI asked.
‘I’m waiting for Diane Wallace.’ She put a hand up to shade the sun from her eyes. ‘I think she’s just gone through the second lap.’
‘Diane Wallace?’ There was no mistaking the warning note in his voice.
Clare smiled. ‘I didn’t know she was coming here today. Matter of fact, I didn’t know you were coming either.’
He had the grace to blush. ‘Well – it’s good to vary it sometimes. And, as I’m moving to Fife…’
Clare didn’t press the point. ‘Diane’s a friend,’ she said suddenly.
‘I know. Just remember what Gayle Crichton said.’
‘I will. All the same…’
‘What?’
Clare shivered. She was starting to feel cold now. She unwrapped the top from round her waist and pulled it on over her head. Across the park she could see a fuchsia-pink figure moving along the flat stretch. ‘She’s not daft, Diane. She knows more about computers and networks than anyone I’ve ever met. What if she realises there’s something going on? In my station? If she starts to ask questions, well I’m honestly not sure I’d know what to say.’
The DCI steered Clare over to a park bench. ‘Clare, I’m not suggesting for a minute that Diane’s involved in any leaks. But it could be someone she works with. Someone she knows really well. If you tell her about it, she might find it difficult to keep quiet.’
Clare thought of Diane and what she had said about her new member of staff but she said nothing about this. She could see the fuchsia top heading for the finish.
‘It won’t help either of you,’ the DCI went on, ‘if you blab to Diane. As an IT person she’d be in an impossible situation.’ He touched her arm, softly. ‘It won’t be for ever. Maybe a week or so. Two at the most.’
The sun had gone behind a cloud now and the sky, so blue just an hour ago, was dotted with clouds, some threatening rain. They’d had the best of the day. Clare looked down at the DCI’s hand on her arm, suddenly nervous. It was months now since she’d had any physical contact. Not since Geoffrey had left for Boston. Oh, she’d had hugs from her sister, even occasionally from her nephew James. But this was different. This was a work colleague – a senior one at that – and she wasn’t at all sure about it. There was nothing sexual; nothing invasive. It was just a friendly gesture. So why did it feel unsettling?
And then, as quickly as he had touched her, he withdrew his arm and the moment passed. She looked across the park and scanned the throng, heading doggedly towards the finish. She rose from the bench. ‘Come on. Let’s cheer Diane along the last few steps.’
The fuchsia top was coming nearer. Clare cupped her hands and yelled to Diane who raised a weary hand in acknowledgement.
As she emerged from the finish cordon, Diane’s face was the colour of her T-shirt. She was grinning. ‘Twenty-nine minutes, forty, according to my watch,’ she said, between breaths. ‘First time under thirty minutes.’
‘Well done you,’ Clare said, slapping her on the back.
Diane stared at the DCI for a moment, her brow creased, and then a look of recognition crossed her face. She shot a glance at Clare, seeking an explanation.
The DCI saw this and he shifted awkwardly on his feet. ‘Hello, Diane,’ he said, meeting her eye and forcing his lips into a smile. ‘It’s er… good to see you again.’
Diane looked from Clare to the DCI then back at Clare again.
‘Oh, he’s just here to buy the coffees,’ she said. ‘Come on. I could murder a bacon roll.’
Sunday, 17 May
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Jude. I’m looking forward to it.’
Benjy was running around in circles, chasing his tail, and Clare looked for something to distract him.
‘Are you sure, Clare? I mean – James. He’s not like other toddlers…’
Clare’s eyes rested on a tennis ball and she picked it up. Opening the kitchen door, she fired it down the garden into a patch of – well, she wasn’t quite sure what it was a patch of, to be honest. Benjy tore after it and Clare turned her attention back to her sister. ‘I do know that, Jude. Just tell me what he likes to eat and do, and I’ll take care of it. It’s high time you and Frank had a break; and it is just the one night.’
‘Oh Clare, I’m so looking forward to it.’
‘And so you should.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Jude – can I ask, I mean, has James – does he speak yet?’
There was a pause. Then Jude said, ‘He may never speak, Clare. We keep trying but I’ve accepted now that it may not happen.’
Clare’s heart ached for her sister. It was so difficult to know what to say. James’s autism was new territory for them all. ‘Oh Jude,’ she said, at last. ‘It must be so hard for you.’
Benjy reappeared and dropped the ball at her feet. Automatically, she bent, picked it up and threw it back down the garden again. He charged out the door, knocking over the kitchen bin as he went.
‘Dammit. Look, Jude, I’ll have to go. The dog’s driving me crazy.’
‘See you Friday, then,’ Jude said.
Clare put down her phone and began clearing up the contents of the bin. Her phone rang again. Moira, her neighbour and dog walker.
‘You know you mentioned needing a gardener, Clare?’
‘You know someone?’
‘My husband. Bill. He wouldn’t want paying though. He just loves gardening and ours isn’t big enough for him.’
Moira seemed set for a chat and Clare wandered through to her sitting room and parked herself on the sofa. Benjy had kicked the rug across the room and, as Clare stretched out her legs, she felt the familiar draught coming up from the gap in the floorboards.
‘You don’t know a joiner, do you?’ Clare asked.
Moira said Bill usually did most of the jobs in their house but she would ask around. After a few more minutes of chat, Clare ended the call and pulled the rug back over the gap.
Her text message to Tamsin had elicited a simple I’m fine in response. Clare sent a similar message to Wendy who replied saying she had called in to see Tamsin that morning and would be back again late afternoon. Clare mulled that over. If she’d been running the operation she’d have had someone stationed with Tamsin, day and night. But Serious Organised Crime were in charge. She wondered if they’d have told her about Tamsin if she hadn’t happened to be with the DCI on Friday morning. She also wondered how long that flat had been a safe house. Had there been witnesses living there before? With the SOC parked outside keeping an eye on them? What else went on in the town that she knew nothing about?
She snatched up her car keys and, giving Benjy a quick ruffle behind the ears, headed out to drive the short distance into town. With such a powerful car, it was tempting to put her foot down and take the country road at sixty but it was a lovely day and she took time to glance left and right as she drove. The trees were in full leaf now and the landscape was peppered with fields of oilseed rape, a gaudy splash of yellow among the usual green and brown. The sky was dotted with clouds but it was dry and the temperature dial on the car was climbing steadily. She slowed for the roundabout at the south end of St Andrews, taking a right into Bogward Road. A few minutes later she drew into the police station car park, choosing a space well away from other cars.
She resisted the temptation to call into the station to check on things, choosing instead to walk along Pipeland Road past the bowling club. She stopped for a moment to watch the progress of a match. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see over the hedge so she stood up on a low wall bordering the car park. She couldn’t tell who was winning but it scarcely seemed to matter. The gentle sound of wood knocking into wood was followed by good-natured groans and laughs, and she thought there were definitely worse ways to pass a Sunday morning. Somewhere in the distance church bells began to sound, prompting Clare to step off the wall and carry on her way.
Passing along Kinnessburn Road something nagged at her. But she couldn’t put a finger on it. The burn that had given the road its name was fast flowing today, the water level high after a recent rainy spell. She walked alongside it for a few minutes then took the footbridge over the burn and carried on, threading through the streets until she emerged into South Street. A stiff breeze was blowing and a carelessly discarded plastic sandwich box rattled along the pavement. Clare bent to pick it up, meaning to find a bin, but it was whipped away before she could reach it. Overhead the breeze was sending clouds scurrying across the sky, allowing shafts of sunlight to break through, warming the grey sandstone buildings. She walked on towards the zebra crossing, ducking out from the shade provided by the lime trees that were dotted along either side of the street.
A group of teenagers in school uniform was standing a little back from the pavement in Church Square. They were surrounded by half a dozen large black music cases and were in the process of setting up metal stands, securing their flimsy sheets of music with clothes pegs. Clare saw one of them remove a trumpet from a case. He smiled at her and she made a mental note to give them a few quid on her way back from Market Street.
The holiday season was in full swing, little groups of tourists perusing the shops and buildings at a leisurely pace. Across the road a steady stream of red-gowned university students was heading west and Clare realised they must be on their way back from the traditional Sunday Pier Walk. She stepped out of the way of the dawdling tourists and onto the road, opposite Tamsin’s flat. She screwed up her eyes and scrutinised the windows for any sign of life. The blinds were closed and she supposed Tamsin was watching TV. There was precious little else for her to do. She must be bored out of her skull. Clare looked left and right, along the pavement below the flat for a sign of anyone hanging about. She had memorised Paddy Grant’s face from his photo and she knew that he was tall and broad-shouldered with a head like a bullet. There was no one around who resembled him. But then she told herself he would be keeping a low profile – if he was still in the country. No. If Paddy Grant knew where Tamsin was, he’d have a couple of his men go after her.
A peep from a car alerted her that she was blocking a parking space. She stepped to the side and made her way across the cobbled street, taking up position a few doors along from the entrance to the flat. She took out her phone, tapped it then put it to her ear, pretending to take a call. Making the odd ‘Yeah’ into it, she scanned the opposite side of the road. As far as she could tell there was no one looking across at the flat, but she deliberately turned her head from left to right so that, wherever the SOC team were, they could see her face. There were cars parked in the diagonal spaces. Some had driven in but others, including two vans, had reversed in and were facing towards Tamsin’s windows. The vans were both unmarked, one white, the other dark blue.
Dark blue.
Clare’s mind went back to her journey from Perth, the DCI driving, Tamsin in the back. There had been a dark blue Transit van behind them for a couple of miles. But then it had peeled off, crossing Queen’s Bridge over the River Tay as they had carried on ahead. She tried to recall how the van had looked in the rear-view mirror. Could this be the same vehicle? Admittedly there were plenty of blue Transits on the road but, all the same, it was quite a coincidence. And, if it was the same van, had Paddy ordered it to follow them from Perth? Had another car taken over when it had turned away from them to cross the river? Or could it even have been an unmarked Serious Organised Crime squad van? She had never heard of the SOC cops using unmarked vehicles to follow witnesses who were under protection but then Tamsin Quinn wasn’t just an ordinary
witness. She was the sole witness who stood between Phil Quinn and a heavy prison sentence and Clare knew the prosecution couldn’t afford to lose her. And, if it was an undercover SOC van, had the DCI known about it? Or was she getting carried away again? Rattled by their Friday morning meeting with Gayle Crichton.
She cursed herself for not getting the registration at the time. Suddenly, the sun appeared above the buildings opposite and Clare had to shade her eyes to see across the road. There were no occupants in either van, as far as she could see, but that didn’t mean there was no one inside. In fact, she hoped at least one of the vans did belong to the SOC cops.
She decided to check the numbers. With a quick glance for traffic, she began strolling across the road, pretending to tap at her phone. When she was close enough she took a photo of the front of the two vans and carried on her way, turning down Church Street, as she continued her pretend text message.
The brass players had set up on the corner of South Street now and were playing a rousing version of Puttin’ On the Ritz, their sheet music flapping in the wind against the clothes pegs. Clare felt in her pocket and dropped a handful of coins into their open case. The trumpet player nodded in acknowledgement and she walked on past a restaurant with tables out on the pavement. A whiff of cigarette smoke reached her nostrils and she wondered –not for the first time – why it had taken her so long to give the habit up.
She strolled on along South Street and, as she approached the neo-Jacobean Madras College building, she heard singing. The buskers were certainly out in force today. A small crowd had gathered to listen and a pull-up banner proclaimed this was the university Gilbert and Sullivan Society. Clare knew little about music but, to her uneducated ear, they sounded very good. Especially for students.
And then she remembered why Kinnessburn Road had nagged away at her. That student Jim had been dealing with on Friday – Marek something. He had a flat in Kinnessburn. She wondered idly if his friend had turned up. Maybe it was something Jim could check with the university. She moved away from the singing students and headed down one of the many lanes that peppered South Street, back towards Kinnessburn Road. As she walked she dialled the station number. It went to the answering machine and she left a message instructing whoever picked it up to check on the two van registration numbers. Then she added a note on her phone to ask Jim on Monday to check on that student. She arrived at the station car park and, again, elected not to go in.