by Ed James
“Thanks, Mum. Bella, say goodnight to Granny.”
“Night-night, Granny!”
Vicky led Bella back to the car, the child’s little hand tugging at her pinky, the skin soft and unblemished. She put Bella in the car seat and kissed her forehead, drinking in the sweet smell for a few seconds. She got behind the wheel and started the engine, following the loop round before heading down North Burnside Street, the tall post-war houses standing between them and home. “How was your day, Bella?”
“Good, Mummy. After playgroup, we went up to Arbroath and walked along the cliffs. Grandad saw a friend and he let me walk his dog! Can I get a doggie?”
Vicky turned right at the end, chip shop smells making her mouth water. “We’ll see when you’re a bit older, Bells. You’ve got Tinkle. You like cats.”
“I love Tinkle, Mummy, but I’d love a doggie just as much.”
“Let Mummy think about it.” Vicky drove on in silence, adjusting the mirror to keep an eye on her daughter, hoping it would be another thing she’d eventually forget. School next year — peer pressure had been bad enough in the eighties . . .
She turned left into Westfield Street, pulling up in front of her house. She got out and helped Bella from her car seat.
Bella hopped out of the car then skipped down the path. “Hello, Tinkle!” A small tabby swarmed around her feet, the purring audible from the gate.
Vicky joined her at the door, fishing around in her bag for keys. She hung Bella’s possessions on a peg, draping her own coat and bag over the top, then joined them in the kitchen. “Come on, Bells, let’s get your tea on.”
“I’m not that hungry, Mummy.” Bella perched by the cat bowl, an open sachet in her hand, stroking Tinkle as she ate. “My wee tummy’s full up.”
“Did Grandad teach you that?”
Bella closed a zip over her lips.
Vicky knelt and kissed her, holding her close for a few seconds, wishing she had a lot more time with her.
Friday
28th March 2014
Chapter Eighteen
Excuse me. I’m looking for DS Dodds. Is he around?”
Vicky looked up from her desk. A young girl, maybe sixteen at most, stood there — red hair, freckles. Glasgow accent, lilting and slightly nasal. She held out a hand. “DS Vicky Dodds.”
“Oh, sorry.” The girl blushed then shook it. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Zoë Jones.”
“How can I help?”
“I’m the IT analyst. DCI Forrester said to ask for you.”
“Okay.” Vicky examined her for a few seconds. The strap of the girl’s laptop bag scythed between her breasts and bumped off her exposed midriff. Definitely older than sixteen — despite the face, Zoë had the body of a grown woman, curves and all.
Vicky patted the empty chair next to her. “Take a seat.”
Zoë perched on the edge of the chair, barely denting the fabric, and started emptying her bag, placing the laptop and charger on the desk. She slid the desk forward to reveal the power supplies behind and leaned over to plug in her laptop. She sat back and crossed her legs before opening the machine.
Vicky tapped the computer. “Well, you’ve already done better than me. Usually takes me an hour to plug it in.”
“I’m sure you’re not that bad, ma’am.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Zoë looked around the room, one hand tugging her hair back. The four male DCs at the next desk looked back at their laptops. She smiled and shifted the seat closer to the desk. “So, what are you looking for?”
Vicky got out a sheet of paper. “This is a list of actions I think we need to do. I’ll give you an overview of the case and tell you what we’re looking for. Okay?”
“DI Forrester’s already briefed me.”
“He has, has he?” Vicky pushed the sheet of paper across the desk, crumpling the edge. “Well, I want you to trawl social media for these people. I think it’d be a good idea to do an idiot search, too.”
“A what?”
“You know, looking for the sort of idiot who posts on Facebook saying they’re going to go out and kill someone just before they go out and kill someone.”
Zoë noted it down in an app. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Vicky tapped a finger against the sheet. “We’re more likely to get something from this list of names.”
“What about the dark net?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the secret side of the internet, where all the paedophiles and pirates hide their stuff.”
“I vaguely remember that from a training course.”
“Want me to check?”
“Please.”
“Our search algorithms and access aren’t perfect, but you never know. Might turn up something.”
“So what brings you to bonny Dundee?”
“Opportunity, ma’am.”
“You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am’, okay?”
“Okay.” Zoë winked at her. “My manager in Glasgow sold me this as an opportunity. You’ve not got many experts left after the restructure. Said it’s a much better chance of getting the experience I need to progress. The North MITs are understrength in terms of IT support, or so the story goes.”
“I see.”
MacDonald appeared, eyes only for Zoë. “Miss Jones, you’re definitely stalking me.”
Zoë’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing here?”
“Transferred up. First day yesterday.”
“Oh, I see.” Zoë curled her hair round a finger. “Good to see you again, sir.”
MacDonald stood between them, his gaze shooting over to Vicky. “DS Dodds, can I have a word?”
Vicky got to her feet, smoothing down her skirt as she stood. “Certainly.”
MacDonald led them out into the corridor. Coffee and bacon smells wafted down from the canteen. “Zoë’s good, by the way. Trained in Strathclyde the proper way. Used her a couple of times over the last year.”
“That’s a relief. The last guy we had was an idiot once he stopped looking down my top.”
MacDonald laughed then waited for a uniform to pass by. “Knackered. First day ended with a sixteen-hour shift supervising the street teams in Dryburgh and Invergowrie.”
Vicky nodded as she leaned against the wall. “How was it?”
“Confirmed the sighting of the black car in all three locations now. Had the phone call information verified by our Forensic Support Unit — the call used to lure Paul Joyce to that building came from a burner. Dead end.”
“So they are targeting him.”
“Correct. Just got off the phone to the National Crime Agency. Nothing so far but they’re checking for me.”
Vicky tugged at her ponytail. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“Got a few minutes before I head back to Dryburgh. How about that coffee?”
Chapter Nineteen
MacDonald held open the door to the Old Mill Café, which nestled in the bowels of one of Dundee’s long-dead jute mills just across the Marketgait from the station. The icy wind blew his tie around. “After you.”
“Thanks.” Vicky entered the café and made for the counter, the morning rush now cleared. The mirrors filling the walls were covered in steam from the espresso machine.
MacDonald rested his hands on the counter, raising a finger to attract a barista. “What can I get you —” He laughed. “Can I call you Vicky?”
“Vicky’s fine. Vicks I’ll tolerate. Never Victoria.”
“What can I get you, Vicky?”
“A Diet Coke.”
MacDonald scowled. “With all those sweeteners?”
“Got to be better than sugar.”
MacDonald nodded to the server, a skinny man in jeans and a black turtleneck. “Diet C
oke. Glass with ice, please. And an Americano, black with cold milk on the side. Cheers.” He turned back to Vicky. “Don’t drink coffee?”
“It totally breaks me. If I have a coffee, I just won’t sleep. I can manage a cup of tea if forced, but I’m fine on the Diet Coke.”
MacDonald took his change from the barista then winked at Vicky. “I’ll bring them over.”
“Thanks.” Vicky sat in a table by the window, staring out to avoid looking at MacDonald as he fiddled with his phone.
What was she playing at? Acting like she was fifteen again, blouse pulled tight, flirting with Craig Norrie in the year above.
Play it cool, girl.
MacDonald sat opposite, laying their drinks on the wooden surface. “Don’t want to make a habit of sitting around, drinking coffee. Usually quite a grafter, don’t take many breaks. You’ve probably gathered that, though?”
“I have.”
“Just wanted to spend some time getting to know you, really. We’ll probably be working closely together.”
“No worries. What do you want to know?”
MacDonald smiled as he wrapped his fingers around his coffee. “Think I’m after inside gen, do you?”
“Well, you paid.”
MacDonald leaned back, a wide grin on his face. He rubbed at his nose. “That’s pretty perceptive, DS Dodds.”
“I like to think I am. Might make detective one of these days.”
MacDonald tore open a sachet of sugar and tipped it into his coffee, before stirring in just enough milk to alter the colour. “What’s Forrester like?”
Hands wrapped around her can, Vicky took a few seconds to choose how to answer. Brutal honesty — why not? “I like David, but he can be officious at times. Bureaucratic. He’s very by the book, if you know what I mean.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing?”
“Didn’t say it was.” Vicky poured her can into the glass, the ice cubes bouncing to the top and clinking off the edges. “He’s good at politics, unlike me. I’m shi — really bad at that side of things. He’s very well connected in the force.”
MacDonald took an experimental sip before reaching for another sachet. “You like working for him?”
“I do. I’ve had some really bad bosses and some okay ones. He’s good.”
“What’s the team like?”
“The team?” Vicky took a drink as she thought. “DC Woods is the best.”
“Karen, right?”
“Right. She’s been a DC ten years. She’s not going anywhere but she knows what she’s doing and she’s reliable.”
“And Considine?”
Vicky licked her lips. “He’ll be good once I’ve kicked him into shape.”
“So Forrester tells me. Bit up himself, that one, right?”
“He solved a taxi murder recently. Thinks he caught Jack the Ripper.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” MacDonald blew on his coffee before taking another sip. “What about the others?”
“Summers, Buchan and Kirk?” Vicky ran a hand through her hair. “I try and keep away from the Three Amigos. They’re thick as thieves. Decent officers, but they don’t exactly respect a female boss.”
MacDonald rubbed his smooth chin, his finger catching in the cleft. “Let me get my feet under the table then we’ll see about divvying the team up a bit.”
“I’d take Karen any day.”
“If she’s the only good one then we’ll need to sort something out.”
“I’ll arm-wrestle you for her.”
MacDonald smirked. “Don’t want to lose.”
“You look like you work out.”
“Like to keep in shape. Helps with the job if nothing else.”
Vicky crushed an ice cube with her teeth. A filling jolted out pain. “I haven’t been to the gym in years.”
He gave a curt nod. “What about this Ennis guy?”
“What about him?”
“Stepping into dead man’s shoes here. Want to know what I’m facing up to.”
Vicky took a sip. “I don’t know what it’s like in the old Strathclyde but since they formed Police Scotland it’s got worse up here.”
“In what way?”
“It’s all stats, stats, stats. They want to report on everything all of the time. Now. That’s why Forrester does so well. His bureaucratic streak means he’s perfect for it.”
“That not just knowing what’s happening?”
“Maybe. I think it’s been worse than that, though. With Ennis, it just got really bad. He’s old school — likes his snouts and his scrotes.”
“Was he in The Bill?”
“Exactly. He couldn’t cope with being out in Stonehaven one minute and in deepest, darkest Perthshire the next, then getting flung down to Fife or up to Inverness at a moment’s notice. He was Dundee through and through.”
“How do you cope?”
“Not sure I do.”
MacDonald took another drink of coffee. “Good coffee in here.”
“Beats the canteen, that’s for sure.”
“You work in Tayside before the reorg, Vicky?”
“I did.” Vicky finished the drink, leaving ice cubes at the bottom. “Had a fairly standard career, to be honest. Two years in uniform before applying for CID. Did three years as a DC then I got my DS position. Eight years later I’m still there.”
“Like I said earlier, dead man’s shoes?”
“I’m not a particularly ambitious officer.”
“Really? DS within five years is impressive, especially in a small force like Tayside. Guys I know in the old Lothian and Borders and Strathclyde managed it but there’s more opportunity there. You’ve done well.”
“Thanks.” Vicky pushed the glass away, trying to avoid the temptation of crunching more ice. “So, why’ve you come here, Euan?”
“From Coupar Angus originally. Just want to settle down, really. Sold the flat in Glasgow. Renting a place just now but a house would be ideal.”
“What does your wife do?”
“Not married.” He finished his coffee. “All part of the plan, I suppose. Looking to make DI in the next eighteen months.”
“Sounds ambitious.”
MacDonald leaned towards her and spoke quietly. “Working in Glasgow was tough. Lot of murders, assaults and brutal rapes. Scars you. Don’t want to become one of those embittered old cops, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Was that the MIT you worked in?”
“Glasgow North, aye. That said, we were all over the place, supporting other MITs. Had that shooting in Edinburgh, a murder in the Highlands, all over and above our usual caseload.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Absolutely.” MacDonald pushed the coffee away. “How can I help you with this case?”
“Getting the information from the NCA would be useful. That sort of thing can seriously eat up time. Layers of bureaucracy and all that.”
“Sensing a trend here.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like to do things properly but I’m just not the sort to go filling out forms for the sake of it.”
“Me neither.” MacDonald picked up a sugar sachet and pulled at the opposing edges. “What about that case in Cupar a few months ago?”
“Which one?”
“Woman shoved in a bin?”
“I don’t remember it.”
“Was all over the papers at the time.”
“I don’t really read the papers.” Vicky tugged at her ponytail, trying to flatten her hair down. “Anyway, what about it?”
“Maybe nothing, but it’s got vague similarities to our case.” MacDonald pushed his empty cup to the side. “Remember that woman who shut a cat inside a wheelie bin down south somewhere?”
“Worked for a bank, right?”
“Ay
e. Woman in Fife did the same thing a few years back. Got dredged up in the local press last summer, don’t know why. Few months ago, she turns up in a rubbish bin herself.”
Vicky thought about it for a few seconds before crushing her can. “We need to speak to her.”
Chapter Twenty
Considine slowed as they entered Cupar, his dark grey Subaru hitting heavy traffic. “I still think you should have spoken to the boss about us going to see these boys.”
“He was away.” Vicky cleared her throat. “What’s the point in having sergeants if you don’t let them get on with it?”
“Your grave.”
Considine drove past the council buildings, the new home of the police station, turning left onto what passed for a main shopping area in the town, parking outside a bakery.
Vicky got out and raced ahead to the station.
Considine caught up with her. “That baker’s back there looks amazing. I’m getting a sausage roll for my piece today. Maybe get a pie as well.”
“It’s your cholesterol.”
“Hey, I work out.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Hulk’s Gym in Forfar. Free weights three nights a week.”
“I didn’t know that.” Vicky opened the door to the station, eyes sweeping around the waiting room.
A large man got to his feet. Shaved head, dark suit filled by his bulk. “Sergeant Dodds?”
Vicky nodded. “DC Reed?”
“Aye.” Reed motioned to the security door. “Got us a room through the back.” He led them through the station. The wallpaper was already torn and frayed beside fist-sized holes in the plaster. He opened the door to an interview room and collapsed into the nearest chair. “Take a seat.”
Vicky sat opposite. “You came up from Glenrothes?”
“Aye, the least I could do given you’re coming down from Scumdee.”
“Says a man from Glenrothes.”
“Aye, but I live in Anstruther.”
“Must eat a lot of fish suppers.”
Reed scowled at her. “Are you wanting me to help or what?”
“Tell us about the case.”
