“That I wouldn’t be able to guarantee their safety. That as a father, I couldn’t swear on our lives that my kids would be safe. Perk of the job,” I quipped sarcastically, thinking it was anything but. “Do you remember the case of Sarah Carling?”
McCall barely paused to think. “Of course, I do. I never forgot. But what’s that got to do with us now?”
The case had struck a chord with us, even back then in our earlier years. It showed me how parents could be responsible for their child in more ways than one. It hit home just how dependent children are on their parents to keep them safe whilst simultaneously letting them live their youth to the fullest.
“That’s when I started thinking about kids of my own and the influence I’d have on them as a father,” I explained. “My dad wasn’t exactly a role model for me, so I’d been pretty clueless about children and functional families for most of my life. Before the case, I was just a young man myself with barely any responsibilities apart from work and a girlfriend.”
“Go ahead. Elaborate, I’m intrigued.” McCall gestured and settled in her seat to listen intently.
“Okay.” I let out a shaky breath. “It was round about the same time as DCI Reid’s funeral.”
1
“You alright?” McCall asked with concern evident in her voice as we plodded along, step in step, her shocking ginger waves scraped back into a neat bun. Any flyaways were firmly secured with an entire can of hairspray, something I could smell from arm’s length. She had quelled and covered her scattered freckles with an abundance of subtle makeup, whilst those plucked eyebrows furrowed in concern at the sight of my gaunt body.
I’d struggled to eat for the past few weeks, and it was beginning to show.
“Just peachy,” I snapped bluntly and stared at the gravel underfoot. It was soothing to watch the various stones and loose pebbles crunch from the weight of my shoes. “Sorry for that. I didn’t mean to snap. I was just deep in thought, that’s all.” Messing with my slicked-back hair, I was nervous that it wasn’t perfect enough and it wouldn’t do the event justice.
“It looks fine,” McCall assured me, aware of my sweaty palms and itching nerves. “But your tie is skewiff.” She stopped us in our tracks. “Come here.” When I stopped, she tugged at the silken material around my neck. I couldn’t muster any words, so I nodded as if to say a simple thanks. “How are you feeling about today? I know it can’t be easy.”
“I’m fine. We’re all here for the same reason,” I said sullenly.
“Yes.” McCall nodded and kicked a stone out of the way. “But none of us was there for DCI Reid’s final moments,” she reminded us both.
“No, but this is our job, and we’ve seen plenty of deaths before now,” I retorted gently, my eyes firmly towards the ground.
Witnessing the suicide of our superior wasn’t entirely different from a few cases we’d worked on previously, the only difference being that we knew him personally. It seemed stupidly sympathetic to be fussed over. Instead of moping around and acting out of character, I’d expected to feel different by now. To feel normal again.
McCall was clearly thinking along a similar wavelength. “Did you drink again last night?”
“I’m perfectly entitled to have a few drinks on the weekend,” I sighed, “but yes, for a straight answer.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “And how did Abbey feel about that?”
“She’s worried about me,” I explained. “But it’s difficult to think about too much at once, what with work and all the preparation for the funeral today.” My mind had been overloaded from far too many intrusive memories of DCI Reid. Haunting tidbits and ghostly whispers of the final words we shared before the building went up in an explosion of flames. It was all I’d dreamt about since, and I couldn’t tear my thoughts away from that night easily.
“I know,” McCall hummed. “It’s alright, Finlay.” She patted my shoulder with care. “This is a confusing situation to be in, like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, he was a corrupt officer, and no one can deny that. Then, on the other hand, he was our DCI.”
It was easier to stay silent than muster a coherent response.
A smidgen of water fell from the heavens, which threatened to open up and literally rain on our parade. Hordes of people were already convening by the towering church in the distance, and a few of the CID team smoked cigarettes outside. Women in huge fascinators flocked through the wooden doors, and everyone held glum, sombre expressions. It reminded me of some twisted performance where people were either gulping or crying, whilst the rest had pursed their lips into thin lines. All of our matching black suits or dresses looked like a group of crows flocking into a farmer’s field. Or ravens. Whichever birds signified death. The church itself had almost become a mirage before us.
Half of the crowds were made up of news reporters, who clearly didn’t know the meaning of basic human decency. They were only interested in getting another headline regarding the corruption allegations against DCI Reid. Even a funeral couldn’t deter the flashes of their cameras or their clamouring of insensitive questions.
“Have this before we go in,” McCall urged as she fished in a bag for a breakfast bar that made me retch from simply spotting the wrapper.
I couldn’t do it.
“I’m afraid you’re going to faint on us otherwise,” she expressed her vivid concerns as many people had recently.
“I’d never eat that organic crap normally, so I’m certainly not going to start today.” I faked a wry chuckle. “It tastes worse than the tea Rebecca makes us.”
“I wish you’d try to get some proper fuel into your body rather than liqueur. Your blood at the moment is probably flammable,” she tutted quietly but didn’t force the food upon me. “I wish I was there with you the night that DCI Reid--” She faltered against her better judgement. “Maybe then I’d understand how this must feel for you.”
As we stalked up the grit pathway, a few sparse branches protected us from the impending rain, and a cloud of smog filled our lungs. Even though we kept our heads bowed low and mouths firmly shut, the abundance of cameras pointed towards us when we neared the journalists.
They were missing their silken clad leader, Georgina Ryder, a razor-tongued woman with a tendency to write callous articles about where we fell short on policing. A couple of uniformed officers attempted to hold them back, to no real avail.
“DI Cooper?” the rest of them called. “Why are you here at the funeral of Alec Reid when he caused the fire that killed him and could have severely injured you?”
Another joined in, pen poised to scribble down a bunch of hurried notes. “Now that the Bay knows you failed to find a corrupt officer in your midst, therefore leading to the loss of innocent lives, are you in a hurry to stand down anytime soon?”
Shielding and pushing past the cameras, we did our best to ignore their wretched cries.
“Do they have to get so bloody personal all the time?” I gritted my teeth irritably.
McCall blocked the flashes with her outstretched palm. “That’s their job. Pillage and plunder. At least, that’s how I heard someone put it once. On the bright side, Georgina Ryder won't be tearing us to shreds over tomorrow's lunchtime edition. That makes a pleasant change.”
“She’ll find a way.” I managed a lopsided grin. “Either that or she’s found a shred of a heart inside that chest of hers and is being respectful by giving this whole debacle a miss.”
Smokers coughed and dragged on their cigarettes, something that seemed entirely appetising at that particular moment.
“Sir. Sarge,” DC Cillian Murphy greeted us as one of the many guys congregating outside for a final puff of relief. He wasn’t the smartest dressed of the bunch, with rumples in his jacket and a mop of unruly locks. Messy scruffs of stubble adorned his pointed chin in alternative directions, and there were crumbs all over his front. “I’ve got a spare ciggie somewhere if you’d like?”
“Cillian,�
� I acknowledged and nodded gratefully at the offer. Lighting the tobacco with a shaking hand that I tried to disguise, I inhaled the addictive smoke that washed over my brain in a foggy haze. “Cheers.”
“Nothing’s been done by halves,” McCall conversationally noted the officers decked out in full uniform. Since the fateful night at Seafield house, our team had become tighter knit than before. Even Cillian had knuckled down helpfully and finally accepted our authority.
“Most of the team are already settled inside. We’ve been allocated the second two rows to the left. The superintendent is near the front with his wife. You missed the journalists giving them hell when they arrived,” he informed us and stamped his cigarette into the mud. It churned up the sodden ground.
Although I heard, I forgot to answer. The normal repertoire of a conversation seemed alien to me as I studied the graves that resided nearby.
“I think DI Cooper is struggling a bit,” McCall revealed quietly, as though I wasn’t right next to them, and adjusted her smart jacket.
“That may be, but I bet he’s doing better than these poor sods,” Cillian chortled awkwardly, unsure of what to say, and motioned towards the headstones. He had a tendency to put his foot in it sometimes, without intending to be heartless. We’d gotten used to it, almost immune to Cillian’s… unique ways.
“Sorry,” he apologised upon noticing our lack of response. “I didn’t know what else to say. I’m not a dab hand when it comes to funerals or saying comforting things in general.”
McCall pulled an ironic face. “Thanks for trying. It’s an unusual situation for all of us. Usually, we’re on the opposite side of these sorts of things.”
We weren’t the types of people to attend funerals, having to deal with the wounded bodies rather than the ceremonial aspects involved. Our wristwatches signified that the service was due to start any minute now.
“Anyway,” I noted, “we should really head in unless we want to be the centre of attention when the coffin comes through. All of which I’d rather avoid.”
“Gotcha.” Cillian attempted to smooth out his slacks and straightened the adorning belt wrapped tightly around his waist to hold them up. We gradually entered the interior of the oaken church, where no expense had been spared for the occasion.
More than a dozen officers roamed or decorated the wooden pews and were having muted conversations out of respect. Our superintendent proudly wore his impressive plethora of badges pinned to the breast of his jacket.
We, as a station, had collectively put money towards the funeral to help Iona Reid afford the funds. Even though DCI Reid had been dishonourable to both the department and what we stood for, his wife didn’t deserve to lose a husband that she’d given up an entire lifestyle for all those years ago when they first married. We still had a conscience for those who weren’t at fault here. I spotted her immediately, for she wasn’t exactly hard to miss with a huge hat and the distasteful noise she made when sniffling into a rumpled tissue.
Every guest had been notified ahead of today that the colour scheme was going to be in the station's flagship shades as a nod to DCI Reid’s ranking. Navy blue, dove white and black. To adhere to that, we each had a motif or ties that corresponded with those colours.
“We have to sit over there.” McCall pointed towards our team, who was already seated, and nudged Cillian over too, acting as a mother hen. They stared at me when we entered, all with upset etched into their concerned features.
“There’s someone looking for you,” she added and pointed towards the front. I eventually spotted who McCall was referring to.
“Abbey.” I sighed under my breath and unhunched my shoulders in relief, staring at the beautiful woman amidst the crowds. With these friends and her by my side, I knew I’d be able to get through this entire ordeal and remain a semi-conscious man. A few guests stared at us pacing down the aisle, most of them a part of the Reid family that we hadn’t met. If anything, it made it even more apparent that none of us knew the real DCI Reid at all.
“I was getting worried about you,” Abbey told me calmly and pecked one cheek in a brisk greeting. “You were nearly late.”
“Sorry,” I apologised glumly and stiffened up at the sight of a large picture that showcased a youthful DCI Reid. He came across as stern, serious, and so lifelike… too alive. It was almost unsettling. “I had to find a suit that didn’t look like it was swallowing me whole. I presume your boss let you leave on time?”
“Don’t apologise,” Abbey begged and slipped her manicured hand into mine, squeezing it gently as a sign of unwavering support. “Yeah, I came straight from my office. It was a nightmare to get changed in the bathroom, and they must’ve thought I was crazy when I left with this thing on my head.” She pointed to her own fascinator, making light of an otherwise dire event. I knew she was trying to act as a distraction, but it wasn’t going to work that easily.
The last of the mismatched congregation of CID constables waved somberly: Rebecca, Tony and DC Taylor. Neither of them looked like they belonged together, for they were all of different heights and had separate ideas of how to dress for a formal gathering.
“This is a lot of effort for a corrupt officer,” Tony remarked sourly. CID had a tough time forgetting the deceit we’d all felt as a result of DCI Reid’s actions. “I don’t know how you could be here, despite everything you went through, sir. And sarge, of course,” Tony said in slight admiration. His legs were stuffed as best as they could be into the small space, and both knees were bundled into his stocky chest. Presumably, he was one of those people that would always struggle to find appropriate seating on aeroplanes too.
“It’s done now,” I muttered, and we settled upon the oaken bench. “Once this is over, we can all move on with our lives. God knows we need to.” I winced at blaspheming in church without meaning to and shuffled to let McCall squeeze past us.
Her slim frame easily slipped through and eventually flopped next to DC Taylor on the pew. They exchanged a brief hug and a subtle kiss, not wanting to embarrass themselves in front of the crowds of officers by flaunting their relationship. Rebecca passed along the order of proceedings, lips set into a thin line.
“It’s a long ceremony,” she noted. “I suggest we strap ourselves in for the long haul.” Complete with cat-like eyes and a demure dress, she was a very classy woman to grace our department. The exact opposite of the rest of us, who were a bit of a ragamuffin crew of pirates at times.
“This is just awful.” Abbey flicked through the coloured paper pamphlet straight away. “I don’t know how Iona could do all of this alone. If it was you that died, I’d--” She broke off in a sniffle. “Anyway.”
I stared at her dimples, which only showed when she smiled. Albeit it was a fake one, but I appreciated the gesture greatly, even if I couldn’t exactly communicate that very well. A netted veil was tilted jauntily over one eyebrow, disguising some of her natural expressions.
“Not giving you too much grief, is he, Abbey?” McCall coughed purposely to put an end to our depressing discussion.
“No,” Abbey disagreed politely.
“You’re lucky. He’s been hard work all morning. I had to drag him out of your house by his ear.” McCall tried to lighten the mood, for our sakes.
That same notion extended to DC Taylor, too, as he attempted to create a breezy conversation. In comparison to most of the disgruntled CID team, barely a single hair on his head was astray, and the suit combination had been immaculately pressed. Though youthful, he displayed the countenance of a wizened man, flooded with knowledge and experience that only comes with age.
“A big turnout,” DC Taylor noted duly and nodded towards the plethora of guests who sobbed in hushed tones.
Cillian got involved then. “I’m surprised that people would spend time with DCI Reid when they weren’t forced to. I’m sorry, but he could be a bit much at times. A bit intense.” He lacked a severe amount of empathy, but often blamed it on the sights we’d seen and hardshi
ps we’d endured.
“Pipe down, Cillian,” McCall begged, sensing my disapproval of his loudness when all the Reid family could hear. “I’m going to tape your damn mouth shut one of these days. You always put your foot in it.”
Rebecca was forced to agree, whispering polite apologies to the people that had overheard. “There’s a time and a place. Wait until we’re at the office for that sort of talk.”
He bowed his head like a wounded animal at the telling off, and our two rows allocated for the team descended into frivolous chatter plus a small amount of bickering. The exception was Abbey and me, who focused our attentiveness towards the stained windows, which let ethereal sunbeams dance through their painted glass. The images portrayed holy stories of ages past, the foundations upon which entire religions were based upon. Reflections from the variety of colours rippled onto our entwined hands, which were freezing from the very tips of our thumbs. Abbey’s decorative rings dug into my thumb, their own glass sharp on one end as they pinched the skin taut.
“I’m proud of you for showing up,” she whispered supportively, trapped in a world of our own where everyone else’s murmurs blended into a concoction of sound. “It’s nearly over. When he’s finally been buried, then we can get back to normal. I’m ready for this dreadful business to be done for good.” It was wishful thinking, but something about Abbey’s determination made it believable.
We paused our soft exchange when the dreadful organ music began, bellowing its tuneless noise into our ears. The music was just one of the many reasons I couldn’t stand being at churches. Staring at the paper, I tried to follow along with the lyrics, but struggled with their tuneless rhythm. I wasn’t a church-goer, so I had no idea how these were supposed to sound.
“Shhh,” DC Taylor brazenly urged the rest of the guys to pipe down, and I wished we could tell the organ player the same thing. If he carried on for much longer, I vowed to rip out one of the pipes and shove it so far up his ar--
Abduction in Dalgety Bay Page 2
