by Val Penny
Tim took out his iPhone and called Hunter Wilson, then ran back to where he’d left the Fiat and drove into the car park. By the time Tim got there, the Range Rover with Ian Thomson's special number was still in the carpark, bashed into the wall, open and unlocked. The driver was long gone, but the shoes they had removed were still there.
Chapter Forty-Four
Hunter looked at Tim quizzically. “What were you doing here? Do you know something similar happened some years ago when your father put Ian Thomson away? He found a car down this way.”
“Who do think suggested that I look here, Boss?” Tim rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He shivered. “It's not rocket science. But it is bloody cold down here, isn't it?”
“Freezing.” Hunter nodded. “You better go in the ambulance and get checked over at hospital.”
“I don't think so. I don't need it.”
“That was an order, not an opinion.”
“Right, Boss.” Tim climbed into the ambulance.
The CSI team leader, George Reinbold, walked over to Hunter to give his initial findings. “Can't find a mark on it, DI Wilson, except for the bash at the front where it hit the wall just now. Samantha is taking the photos before we move the car, but I don't see us being lucky with the naked eye on this one.” He pointed to Ian Thomson's silver Range Rover. “My guess is that it has been professionally repaired: a new grill and bumper to the front, and probably a new windscreen too, before it was damaged again this evening.”
“Yes, Ian Thomson won't be best pleased about that.”
“It has also been professionally cleaned. By a guy in a space suit, looks like.” He grinned at Hunter but got no response, so he went on. “Mind you, there's no missing the recent damage to the car. We have the skid marks that bear out young Myerscough's version of events, too. We may also be able to compare those tyre tracks with the ones Jane found by Thomson's garage. Might help. But I can't see any fingerprints. Gloves? We'll check everything out at the lab.”
“Fuck! Just my bloody luck. But I'm glad Tim saw the driver, and they took off their shoes. ”
“Not difficult for Mansoor to pick it up and get it repaired and valeted, I suppose. Interesting that the pedals of the car Mansoor originally reported missing had been cleaned and polished. That is unusual,” said Reinbold.
“Yes, but why bother? Thomson can't be involved in the car crimes, can he? So why bother with all this?” Hunter shook his head.
“I'm told he loves this car,” Reinbold said. “God knows what he will say about the new damage.”
“Let's call it a day, boys,” Hunter said generally. “Briefing tomorrow at 10am.”
He waved over his shoulder and set off for home, thinking he might stop off at The Persevere for a pint before he went back to the flat.
Chapter Forty-Five
Tim left the hospital with the all-clear. Bear dropped him off in Musselburgh. Tim walked over to Sophie's little 500. Folding himself behind the wheel, he knew he would be late home. Chocolate should mollify Sophie.
He swithered between a box of chocs or chocolate ice-cream, then decided to play it safe and went with both. Armed with Ben & Jerry's Phish Food and a luxury box of Thornton's Truffles, he walked up the stairs much more sedately than usual. He unlocked the door and almost tripped over Lucy as he went in. She immediately wound between his ankles.
“Really. Not now, girl,” he said. “Where is Sophie, Lucy?”
Lucy did not seem to care. Tim moved around the cat with the deftness drawn of experience, and went into the living room. With the exception of Lucy's bed, which she had clearly overturned in a fit of pique to which only a cross cat can aspire, everything was exactly as Tim had left it that morning. Absentmindedly, he replaced the bed on the table in the bay window.
“Soph!” he shouted. “Sophie?”
Tim heard sobbing coming from the bedroom. “What's the matter, love? Do you still feel bad?” He brushed her hair off her face. “We better get you to hospital. We can't have you ill. It could harm the baby.”
Sophie wailed, and her weeping became louder as she shook her head. “Tim, I've done something awful. Too awful. I can't turn the clock back, but I have to explain.”
Tim dropped his gifts on to the bed and pulled her into his arms.
“Whatever is wrong, we will face it together. You know that's true. Sophie, I love you so much. You know that. I would do anything for you and the baby. If you're still not well, we need to get you taken care of. Okay?”
Sophie started crying again, burying her face in Tim's shoulder.
“Sophie, what's wrong?”
He listened with growing horror as she explained her ambitions, her decision: the whole story. Tears rolled down Tim's cheeks. Swift. Silent. Sad. Tim loved Sophie and thought she loved him enough to bear his child. He realised now that he was wrong.
He spoke evenly and furiously. “So you killed our baby so you could get experience of a new field of law? Really? Well, I hope you will find that field fulfilling, and worth the sacrifice we made.”
Tim picked Lucy up gently, put her into her basket, covered it with his jacket and left the flat.
***
“You are soaked to the skin! What on earth are you two doing here?”
“I'm not sure. But we can't stay there.”
“Come on.” His father stood aside and waved him in. “Whatever it is, it must be bad to bring you to my door at this time. But I'm glad to see you. I'm glad you still felt you could, and wanted to.” He smiled. “Grab a beer from the fridge, I will pour myself a sherry and tell Janet to set another place for dinner. I'm afraid Lucy will have to make do with roast chicken left over from lunch. I keep no cat food nowadays.”
“Thanks Dad.” Tim opened Lucy's basket. She began making herself at home as the men made their way upstairs to the living room. Lucy trotted behind them, tale erect, straight as a flagpole. Tim threw himself on to the couch. His father laughed.
“You always used to lie on the sofa that way when you were miserable. You know the kind of thing, losing a rugby match, losing to Ailsa at Scrabble, losing to Bear on Nintendo FIFA, whatever year it was.” His father took a sip of his sherry and looked carefully at his son. “None of those things happened very often, but when they did your body language was always the same. Neither of us has ever been good losers. Nor good at sharing our thoughts.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“So what is it this time, son?”
“Dinner is ready, Sir Peter. An extra place is set for young Mr Myerscough.”
“Thank you, Janet. Lucky I wasn't having a chop! Come on, son, let's go and eat.”
Tim followed his father downstairs to the dining rom.
“How is life without Monika?” he asked.
“Peaceful, inexpensive, dull. And with Sophie?”
“Hmm. What's for dinner?”
“That bad? Okay. We'll talk over dinner. Janet, please just bring the dishes through. We will serve ourselves.”
“Of course, Sir Peter.”
They served themselves in silence. As Tim put slices of lamb onto his plate, he could not help but think that his father's view of “inexpensive” was not the same as other people.
Tim sat down and looked at his plate. He would have to confide in his father – something he did not relish. A headache was spreading across the top of his head and threatened to reach his eyes. Tim had never had a migraine, but he recognised the pain for what it was.
“I think I'll just have water with my meal,” he said, declining the decanted claret. “Do you have any paracetamol?”
Without comment, his father rose from the table and brought back a jug of iced water and two painkillers.
***
Sir Peter looked at his son sadly. He knew the charges he was facing must be adding to any stress Tim was having to deal with, although he never said anything about that.
He thought that it must be so much easier for Ailsa. She was in a different
country and worked in a different world from his. Harder for Tim trying to make his way in the force. He would have to bring Tim up to speed on the charges against him. It would not be an easy conversation. Sir Peter decided to listen to Tim first.
***
They ate quietly, commenting on the flavour of the meat, the joy of butter on carrots and the perennial appeal of peas. The elephants in the room were left in the shadows. After apple and blackberry crumble and custard, Tim declined cheese and biscuits. It would not do his headache any good. His father cut himself a generous slice of brie.
“Your room is ready for you, should you feel too unwell to go home tonight,” he suggested with uncharacteristic diplomacy.
“Thank you. I think that might be best. I will go up now, although I know it's early, if you don't mind, Dad. Good night.” Tim rose and walked slowly from the room.
Lucy followed him upstairs and curled up at his feet. At least for one soul in the house, things had improved immeasurably since that morning.
Tim woke late. He took a moment to remember where he was. At least he didn't have to go into the station today. This morning he was going to a funeral, and he was just in the right frame of mind for it.
He rolled out of bed, opened the curtains and shut them again. The rain being thrust onto the window by a whistling wind made him feel cold. A long, hot shower and a strong coffee was as good a way as any to start the day.
His father was in the kitchen re-filling the coffee maker when Tim wandered in to complete the second of his morning goals.
“Something to eat, Tim?”
“No, thanks, Dad. Just coffee.”
“Then I think we should talk.”
Tim nodded and bent down to pat Lucy. She wound her body around his legs then went to show her appreciation of the roast chicken that had been served for her.
“Lucy seems to think she is the only girl in your life.” His father smiled. “She will never find a problem with that!”
“True. But sadly that's not my main issue. Sophie has betrayed my trust in the worst possible way.”
“Like I did?”
“Worse than that. Not even your actions were as wicked. Yours were just illegal.”
Sir Peter nodded at his son. “I have a couple of calls to make. Come through to the office when you have enough caffeine in your veins and are ready to talk.”
Chapter Forty-Six
When the phone rang, Edna put down her vodka and tonic, wiped her mouth on her wrist and in her most convincing weeping widow voice said, “Hello?”
The recorded message came down the line. “This call is from Her Majesty's Prison, Saughton. If you do not want to accept this call, please hang up.”
“It's your pop, Jamie,” she called as the message played. “I hope he has that permission to come to Uncle Billy's funeral.”
“Hello, sis. How you bearing up?” She heard Ian's cheerful voice.
“Fine, bro, fine. Getting by. Sometimes by the skin of my teeth. It's not easy.”
“No, but old Billy wasn't exactly your dream lover, was he?”
“Bobby Darin, not Billy anybody.”
“Ha ha! Well done.” They always had fun batting song titles and artists between them as they chatted. “But I get your point. In fact, he was unfaithful....”
“Rhianna?”
“Correct. He was unfaithful in the worst possible way.”
“Well, maybe you're better off without him. Anyway, I can make the funeral. I have been given permission. Old Holier-Than-Thou Hamish Harris will be with me and I doubt I can stay for the bean feast. Holy Hamish has other plans.”
“Hmmm, things to do and people to see?”
“You know the drill, sis. Thanks for taking Jamie in, while he's got his leg.”
“No bother, bro; for you, I'd do anything.”
“Artful Dodger in Oliver. If the boy had been a bit more artful, he wouldn't have broke his leg!”
“All true. Want to speak to him?”
“Aye, go on if he's there.”
“Your pop, Jamie,” she said.
Leg or not, Jamie had to get up to take the phone from his aunt. No way was she going to move from her new leather recliner. It was a fine, comfortable chair.
“Hi, Pop. Aye, Auntie Eddie's been a star. I'm on bail here, but to be fair, I wasn't going far with my leg anyway. So you'll be at Uncle Billy's funeral, aye?”
“Aye, but just the service to pay my respects, son.”
“Will you have time for a chat, or that?”
“Maybe a few minutes, but not much, Jamie. Remember, I'll be cuffed to a screw.”
“Oh aye. I was forgetting. Do you know the police have taken the Range Rover?”
“Aye. Arjun told me. I'll get whoever slammed it. But not for discussion on this recorded line, anyway. Look I'll catch you tomorrow, if I can. Don't you be causing your auntie any trouble now.”
“No way, Pop. See you.” Jamie took the phone back over to his aunt. “Good he can come, isn't it?”
“Aye, Jamie. It'll no be that long till he's out, now.”
Frankie came into the house quietly. Edna was already upstairs in bed, but Jamie liked to watch Match of the Day.
“What's up, Frankie? That's a cold blast as you came in, man. Must be freezing outside. Want a beer? It's all fucking Celtic tonight. Aberdeen and the Tarts drew.”
“Fuck, Jamie. Don't you ever stop talking?”
“What's up with you?” Jamie asked indignantly. “I don't think I deserved that, Frankie.”
“Maybe no', Jamie. But I'm a dad now and it freaks me out to think that. The bairns are so tiny.”
“Fuck, aye. That's amazing. Birth today, funeral tomorrow.”
“Piss off. I can't think of that just now.”
“Well it's no' my fault, is it, if your pop died?”
“No. It's not. But nobody seems to know whose fault it is. A car park full of people, even a copper, and nobody saw anything?” Frankie shook his head.
“They'll get the bastard, man.”
“They turned off Annie's life support today. She didn't deserve to die neither. For that matter, even my pop didn't deserve to die. He was an arse, but he didn't deserve to die.” Frankie looked at Jamie. Tears in his eyes. “Annie. That'll be another funeral. Fuck!”
“Aye. With a copper witness, it's funny they can't find who killed your pop. And Annie? Who ran her over? Makes you wonder if they even try, really, doesn't it?”
“Aye.”
Jamie stared at Frankie. Even with all the teasing his cousin had got at school, he had never seen him cry before. “But Annie isn't dead yet, man,” he said.
“Aye, she is.”
“What?”
“Aye. They had to get the twins out.”
“Gross.”
“Then they switched off the machines. I was with her when she died. So was Joe. I've never seen someone die before and I hope never to see it again.”
“Gross.”
“Aye. If they didn't do it, all three might have died.”
“Grim.”
“Aye. But the babies are lovely. They will do blood tests to see if Annie and I had the same pop or no. If yes, then they'll keep a check on the twins in case there's problems.”
“Yugh. Doing it with your sister!”
“I didn't know. We didn't know. Pop just told me to keep away from Annie.”
“Aye, and when did anybody do anything your pop said?”
“Right enough; even Mam was the boss of him. Annie was nice to me. I loved her. She loved me too.”
“Don't be soft, Frankie.”
“Anyway, Annie got bumped off in the middle of the day, and still nobody knows even what car hit her or who or why. Don't I have a right to be cross?”
“Aye. What did you and Joe call the babies?”
“Kylie Ann and Dannii Ann. I named them. Want to see pictures?”
Jamie knew better than to say that he didn't really care whether he saw pictures
or not. To him all babies looked like Wayne Rooney before his hair transplant.
“Nice. They look nothing like you. That's got to be a bonus!” He handed the phone back to Frankie. “My pop phoned. He can come to your pop's funeral.”
“Good. It'll mean a lot to Mam.”
“He can't stay for the bean feast though. He'll be with a minder.”
“Of course. Makes sense.”
“Want a beer, Frankie?”
“That'd be good.”
“They're in the fridge. Get me one too, will you?” Jamie laughed as Frankie wandered through to the kitchen for the cans. The cousins sat, and drank and watched back-to-back episodes of The Big Bang Theory. They woke up with stiff muscles, dry mouths and sore heads.
It was the perfect day for a funeral. A thick blanket of grey cloud covered the earth; a biting wind gnawed its way through coats and scarves; a smir of rain soaked the mourners gathered around Billy Hope's grave. Genuine and crocodile tears traced tracks down their cheeks.
Cremation had been disallowed because of the violent nature of Billy's death. For that same reason, Hunter and Tim attended. They watched from the edges of the group. Tim was glad he had picked up his fleece-lined leather gloves. It was cold. Hunter stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Murderers often want to watch the results of their crime,” he murmured. “Watching to see if any of the family and friends betray themselves is useful. Alternatively, someone unexpected may show their face. I want backup for your statement, Tim. So far the driver you saw is not putting a foot wrong today. Damn! It would have made things so much easier if we could tie them to the other crimes. I hope George Reinbold's team can find something.”
