The police station’s car park was quiet when I arrived, and I sucked in a deep breath of crisp morning air to try to wake myself up further as I hurried across the pavement to the wide front doors. It didn’t work, but thankfully, that was what coffee was for.
The moment I stepped through the doors, I made my way over to the small kitchen by the break room and found the largest mug in the cabinet, filling it up so much that it was in danger of spilling over as I walked toward my desk. Dunnel was already in his office, he’d probably never left, and he gave me a wave as he spotted me through his door. There was a mound of paperwork waiting for me, and I sighed as I looked it over. I would love another big case to focus on rather than all these files. But there was nothing else to do but settle down and try to make a little headway on the enormous pile before it tipped over and buried me completely. I sat down, clicked my pen, and dragged the first page toward me. It was a wonder I hadn’t developed carpal tunnel syndrome yet.
Fletcher ambled in maybe an hour later and dropped into her chair with a sigh, her desk directly beside mine. “You look tired,” she said, and I shrugged one shoulder. I hadn’t told her about my nighttime wanderings, not wanting to get her involved in it, though she’d kill me if she knew that. Fletcher didn’t like being left out of things.
“Trouble sleeping,” I answered, and she squinted at me. She definitely suspected something and kept trying to get me to admit it as sneakily as she could, though I was just as stubborn as she was, perhaps more, and I knew I could beat her in this standoff.
“You’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping,” she hedged.
“Seasonal allergies,” I said, and gave a fake sneeze for emphasis.
Fletcher pursed her lips but dropped it, and we settled into our paperwork. The morning passed slowly, my hand cramped against the pen, and I kept checking the clock, waiting rather desperately for lunchtime.
Right around noon, a set of knuckles rapped against the corner of my desk, startling me out of the sleepy half-stupor I’d fallen into. Blinking, I glanced up, and a smile broke across my face when I saw my old partner, Reilly, standing there. He was nearing sixty, though his hair was still more black than grey, his beard showing off more of his age than the top of his head did. He was a short man, easily half a head shorter than me, and his slim frame belied the whipcord strength he held beneath his navy jacket.
“Reilly,” I said as I stood, and we clasped hands, and Reilly pulled me closer so he could clap me on the shoulder in a half-hug. “It’s good to see you, man. Though would it kill you to answer your phone every once in a while?”
“Probably,” Reilly answered. His beard crinkled as he grinned.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, motioning for him to pull up a chair and sit.
“I came to check in on your arse,” Reilly said with a laugh. “And to see if you want to grab lunch and catch up.”
“I would love to. Reilly, I want you to meet DI Tara Fletcher.”
Fletcher had been waiting awkwardly to be introduced, watching the conversation while also pretending to continue her paperwork, and she perked up as I gestured toward her, stretching out her hand to Reilly.
He sized her up for a moment before he took it, one eyebrow cocked. “My replacement, eh? You’ve had some pretty big shoes to fill if I don’t say so myself.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes as Fletcher and Reilly had a little competition to see who could squeeze the other’s hand the hardest.
“Really?” Fletcher replied. “I thought they were actually rather dainty.”
Reilly bellowed a laugh and released Fletcher’s hand, sitting down in the extra chair before my desk, one ankle propped up on his knee. “This one’s funny. I like her.”
“I’m so glad she meets with your approval,” I said blandly. “Your opinion simply means so much to me.”
“So lunch?” Reilly asked. “I could go for some fish and chips.” He glanced at Fletcher again. “You’re welcome to come, too.”
“I’ve got plans already,” she said, and I gave her a faint, grateful nod. I hadn’t seen Reilly in a while and was looking forward to the chance to catch up with him alone.
“Another time, then. Come on, mate.” Reilly slapped his thighs and hopped to his feet. I stuffed some papers back into a file before I followed him up. “Did he get you with the Rabbit yet?” he asked Fletcher, smirking.
Fletcher groaned and tipped back his head. “Please don’t remind me. I had nightmares for weeks. I think I’m permanently traumatised.”
Reilly cackled, pleased by the tradition that he and I started. “Let’s check in with Dunnel before we go. I haven’t seen that bastard in a while. Does he still have a stick up his arse?”
“Yes,” I said bluntly as Fletcher shrugged.
I grabbed my coat, and we swung past Dunnel’s office, Reilly rapping on the doorframe. “What’s the crack, old man?” he asked.
Dunnel raised a single eyebrow, dropping his pen. “I’m younger than you, Reilly,” he reminded the old inspector, and then he rounded his desk so he could clasp Reilly’s hand. “It’s good to see you again. Are you in town long?”
“As long as the muse takes me,” Reilly replied with a shrug.
“Let’s grab a pint before you go,” Dunnel said.
Reilly shot a finger gun at him. “You got it.”
We said goodbye to Dunnel, and Reilly followed me outside to my car. He wasn’t much of a driver. He’d gotten into a bad crash a couple of decades back, and it had kind of put him off the whole thing.
I took him to the Blackbird, one of my mother’s favourite restaurants, and a waiter in black led us to a small table in the corner. Reilly immediately ordered a pint, claiming that it was five o’clock somewhere, which I supposed was true, and he gave me a faintly mocking look when I ordered a sparkling water. I was on duty, after all.
We talked shite until the food arrived, and Reilly ate a few chips before he set down his half-empty pint and fixed me with a serious look.
“So I’m not just here for a friendly visit,” he began.
I put down my fork and leaned back in my chair to give him my full attention.
“I need your help with something,” he continued. His face grew serious, his blue eyes dark above his beard as he drummed his fingers against the table. “One of my friends has dropped off the radar.” He held up one hand before I could open my mouth to shoot off a witty retort. “Yes, I know I’m well known for that. But Charles isn’t like me. He’s the type that replies within ten minutes every time, but now…” Reilly shook his head. “I haven’t heard from him in a week.”
“You’ve never mentioned a Charles before,” I said.
“I met him after I retired,” Reilly explained. “He’s a good guy, but he’s got, well, a few issues. I just want to check in on him. I was hoping you could come along in case something’s up.”
I picked up my fork and began to eat again, my stomach grumbling. “What kind of issues?”
Reilly sighed. It was a heavy sort of sigh, full of tension and worry. “Charles is an addict. He’s been sober for a year now, but I’m worried something happened that made him fall off the wagon.”
“He lives in town, I take it?” I said, and Reilly nodded.
“I know you’ve probably got a lot on your plate, but would you mind heading over there with me after lunch?” Reilly swallowed, his throat bobbing, and he cast his gaze toward his plate as he asked me that question. His thumb and index finger drummed against the table, and I could sense the worry and concern for his friend coming off him in waves.
“Of course, I will,” I said. “Anything you need.”
Reilly nodded, pleased by my answer, and then he went back to his fish and chips, digging in while it was still hot. “So, how are things going without me? What have you been up to? Getting yourself into trouble, I bet.”
“You could say that,” I said with a laugh. I told him about the Finn Wair case and the triple murder we
had just closed, and Reilly listened intently, a faint grin on his face. I didn’t tell him about my ongoing investigation into my father’s disappearance. After everything that had happened, I’d decided that it was best not to bring in anyone new, just in case there was still danger lingering around me.
“How are you doing? Seriously?” he asked once I’d finished. “You look exhausted.” He waved two fingers in front of his eyes, no doubt indicating the dark bags on my own face.
I shrugged, looking to play it off as nothing serious. “Some weeks are just like that. You know how it goes with this job.”
Reilly didn’t look fully convinced. He studied my face, eyes turning to lasers like they always did when he was fully invested in a case. I’d only been on the receiving end of that stare one other time, and it was just as uncomfortable now as it had been back then. It was like being speared through the face by a giant wooden plank.
I shifted in my seat and glanced away, unable to hold his gaze any longer, though that didn’t mean his eyes left my face.
“You’re sure,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a question. It was more a demand that I rethink my answer and try again.
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” I said.
Reilly nodded a couple of times, chewing over my answer. “You shot someone in your last case,” he said, returning to the tale I had just told him.
I nodded as my stomach squirmed, remembering the crack of the gun and the thud of bullet against bone, that slow-motion fall as Kingston tipped to the ground, face down in the dark tunnel. “He was about to kill Fletcher. I had to.”
“I know,” Reilly said. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”
That was certainly true. The dreams were growing less and less frequent, but I still saw Kingston at night, his eyes blank and white, blood a dark smear against his black shirt. Mostly, he just stared at me from the corner of whatever dream he was in, but sometimes, I saw what would have happened if I hadn’t acted. Some nights, I saw that shiny, silver blade carve a gaping, red mouth in Fletcher’s exposed neck. I saw her blood spray, arcing through the silver moonlight. I saw her fall, crumpling to the ground in the same way Kingston had when I shot him.
“Have you talked to your mum about it?” Reilly continued when I didn’t offer anything up. “She knows what it’s like, doesn’t she?”
That was true. Eleanor MacBain, former Chief Inspector of the Inverness police, had shot two people in the time on her force and still carried both of them with her, but I had been avoiding her ever since I had found the underground lab. She could spot a hidden truth from all the way across the city, and if I told her everything, she would demand to get involved. I’d already lost my father to this organisation. I couldn’t risk losing my mother, too.
Of course, avoiding Eleanor, especially for so many months, was also incredibly suspicious. I’d claimed work and illness and other plans, but I was fast running out of excuses to get out of seeing her.
“There’s just… a lot going on,” I said and hoped Reilly would leave it at that.
Unfortunately, Reilly didn’t know how to take a hint. His fingers were sticky. He was incapable of dropping things. “Like what?”
Like a vast, probably criminal, organisation that had stolen my father away and was now threatening one of my loved ones and me with the same fate.
“Like work,” I said in what was the single lamest excuse ever created. “Anyway, I thought you were here to check up on your friend, not me.”
“Can’t I do both?” Reilly pointed out. “I’m making sure you’re alright. That’s what friendship is.”
“So let’s go and make sure your friend, Charles, is alright.”
I stood and paid our bill at the bar, giving Reilly no choice but to drop the subject and follow me. There was a chill in the air as we stepped outside, denying the sun’s attempt to warm things up.
“Where are we headed?” I asked, clicking the button on my key fob as we walked toward my car.
Reilly fed me the address. It was disturbingly close to where the Kraken’s houseboat had once been docked. I struggled to keep my paranoia under lock and key as I drove us in that direction so Reilly wouldn’t pick up any weird vibes off me, but it grew harder and harder to keep my face and hands impassive as an itch mounted beneath my skin. What if someone somewhere recognised my car as having been there that night? What if the people who had shot at me were still out watching the area? I took a slightly roundabout way to reach Charles’ flat, so we wouldn’t cut too close to the Kraken’s old dock, but if Reilly noticed the detour, he didn’t say anything about it, just stared out the window and watched the old stone structures go by.
I found a place to park directly across from Charles's flat. We found ourselves in a quiet, mostly empty neighbourhood, the buildings made of worn brick with rubbish tucked in the corners of the alleys. A stray cat wound its way along the low wall separating the pavement from the street. It froze as we climbed from the car and then leapt down from its perch and disappeared up an alley.
I stood by my open car door for a heavy moment, staring through the buildings toward the unseen ocean and the now crispy and abandoned dock where the Kraken’s houseboat had once sat tethered. If I strained my ears, I thought I could hear the lap of the waves against a stony shore, and then the crackle of flames overtook it, interspersed with the sharp retort of a gun. I caught a whiff of smoke on the breeze and sneezed.
“Are you coming?” Reilly asked. He’d crossed the street and made it halfway up the steps to Charles's building before he realised that I wasn’t with him.
I shook my head, knocking away the memories, and then slammed the car door shut, glancing both ways before I jogged over to join him. “Sorry.”.
Reilly eyed me as if weighing whether or not he wanted to ask where I’d gone, but I pushed past him to try the door into the building, finding the lock broken, and with a shove of my shoulder, I forced my way in. The entrance hall was narrow and dark, the overhead bulb in need of changing, but it was clean and had clearly been recently swept, though there was still one spiderweb clinging to a corner by the ceiling.
“Charles is upstairs,” Reilly said, and took the lead again.
We trekked up several flights of stairs to a hall that looked almost exactly the same as the one below. The wooden floor was deeply scratched in places, and the paint on the walls was in need of a touch-up. I scuffed my foot along one of the gouges as we made our way down the corridor, willing to bet that a heavy piece of furniture had scraped it during a move-in. We came to a stop before a door marked with the numbers ‘37.’
“Here we are,” Reilly said, eyeing the dim glint of the letters in the overhead light. He seemed nervous, tugging at his shirt cuffs even though they were already straight and then adjusting the front of his jacket.
I laid my hand on his shoulder and offered up a smile when he glanced back at me. “I’m sure your friend is fine.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed and knocked on the door.
There was no answer, no call for us to wait, no clunk of footsteps against the floor. “Maybe he’s at work,” I suggested, but something about the silence felt dead, vacant.
Reilly tried the knob, and it turned beneath his hand. He looked back at me with surprise written across his face, the edges of his face tinged with worry. I nodded for him to open it, and he carefully pushed on it, edging it only halfway open before he poked his head inside. “Charles?” he called softly.
There was still no answer, so we let ourselves into the flat. It was a studio, the bed set up across from an old, boxy television, and the small kitchenette had a few dishes piled in the sink. There was only one decoration on the wall, a watercolour painting that looked like it belonged on the back shelf of a charity shop, not in someone’s home. The duvet was rumpled, the curtains pulled back from the single window, and there was a water glass with three swallows left sitting on the bedside table.
“He’s been here recent
ly,” I said.
We moved deeper into the flat. There were no shoes by the door and only one coat on the hook. I went to investigate the kitchenette as Reilly stepped into the square living space. He picked up a stack of envelopes on the dining table, glanced through them, and then replaced them face down. I opened the fridge, half expecting a wave of stink to roll out, but it was surprisingly neat if a little sparse. The dishes in the sink were dirty, but not egregiously so. There was a bowl still spotted with milk and a battered spoon that looked like it had seen better days.
This didn’t look like the living space of a person who had gone on a bender, though I supposed he could have done that somewhere else.
“Anything?” I asked, turning around in time to see Reilly head into the tiny bathroom.
“Maybe. Come look at this.”
There wasn’t enough space for me to fully join him in the bathroom, so I stood in the doorway, and he held up a prescription bottle, the label peeled off but for a few bits of sticky fluff.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I said, but Reilly’s face bore the sombre worry of a man who had seen this sort of thing before. “What’s his usual drug of choice?”
“Oxy, I think. Unless he’s expanded his repertoire.”
“Where would he go to get high? Would he stay home, or does he have other haunts?”
Reilly turned the pill bottle over in his hands, studying it as if its surface might offer up some answers. “He’s been clean for a year. I’m not sure where he would go if he’s slipped.”
“Maybe we could talk to the neighbours,” I suggested. “They might have heard something, seen something.”
Charles may have been a friend, but it was still best to treat this like any other case, though Reilly looked hesitant, the corner of his mouth shifting to one side.
“They’re probably all at work,” he pointed out.
I was sure there had to be at least one person still around this time of day. A student, perhaps, or some unemployed bloke. “Well, what else do you suggest? I assume you’ve tried calling him? Have you tried tracking his phone? Do you know who his other friends are in town?”
Fatal Transaction: A DCI MacBain Scottish Crime Thriller Page 2