by Ed James
Vicky sat down next to her. ‘Nice to see you full of the joys of the season.’
‘See if I see another Noel Edmonds jumper…’ Jenny Morgan tossed the bagged-up phone onto the workbench, the cable like an umbilical cord stretching into her laptop. She snorted. ‘I was looking forward to catching up on paperwork tomorrow, but no, I’ve got saddled with a murder.’
‘Tomorrow’s Christmas Day.’
‘And Christmas can kiss my shiny arse.’
‘You’ll be on Santa’s bad list.’
‘It’d be a shit system if I was on the good list. And I’m on Satan’s good girl’s list.’
Vicky laughed. ‘You’re not seeing your family?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you—’
‘No.’
Vicky sat there for a few seconds. As close as she felt to Jenny sometimes, at others she felt like a distant stranger. And she knew not to press her buttons. ‘I’m not going to ask, okay?’ She left a gap. ‘How’s it going with that phone.’
Jenny picked it up and, yep, it was a gold Samsung A8, slightly battered and with a spiderweb of cracks at the top left of the screen. ‘Don’t even know if it’s the victim’s.’
‘You should know that you’ve got to eliminate it, regardless. Could be the killer’s, could be a witness.’
Jenny sat back, arms folded. ‘Why am I thinking that you know whose it is?’
‘It’s the victim’s. And the code is 2868.’
Jenny smirked as she tapped it into the machine. ‘Right.’ She pressed a button on the screen, then set it down, and went to her laptop. ‘Bingo.’
‘You’re in?’
‘I’m in like Flynn.’ Jenny typed on her laptop keyboard and the screen filled with a mirror of the phone, some app icons running top to bottom. ‘Usual suspects. WhatsApp, Chrome, Facebook, Instagram. Let me see…’ More typing. ‘And she’s a careful wee lassie. Deletes all her messages.’
‘Can you get them back?’
‘Nope. Recovery is bad enough on emails, but it’s impossible here.’
‘Well, that tallies with her dad’s story.’
Jenny’s eyes bulged. ‘He’s been spying on her?’
‘Mother has.’
‘Lordy. Thank God I’m never going to breed.’ Jenny looked around at Vicky. ‘How’s Bella?’
‘She’s good. With her granny tonight. I was supposed to have a girl’s night in with Karen, but—’
‘And you didn’t invite me?’
‘Would you have come?’
‘No, I’m supposed to be sacrificing a goat up Carrot Hill with my Satanist friends.’
‘I’m not even going to ask if that’s a lie.’
‘Ooooooh.’ Jenny lurched closer to the laptop.
Vicky couldn’t see what had interested her so much. ‘What is it?’
‘The wee minx has been using Poggr.’
‘Remember she’s dead, Jenny.’
‘Doesn’t stop her being a naughty wee rascal when she was alive.’
‘Okay, so what the hell is Poggr when it’s at home?’
‘Don’t be coy with me, Victoria Dodds. Single girl like you?’
‘Jen…’
‘Okay, okay. Poggr is a dating app. More like a hook-up app. Kids use it for no-strings sex these days. Log in, find a girl, find a boy, meet up for a bit of rumpy pumpy.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Sometimes I think you’ve just beamed in from Roman times.’
‘You mean this Poggr is all about swiping right to like, that kind of thing?’
‘See, you do know what I mean. You know all the—’
‘I’m not into that kind of stuff, Jenny.’
‘O-kay. And Poggr is about starring them, not swiping.’
‘Can you see who she’s starred?’
‘I need to use the phone itself.’ Jenny picked it up and eased it out of the bag, then touched it with her gloved fingers. Vicky hadn’t even seen her put them on. ‘Never, ever use Poggr, Vicks.’
‘Wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Well, I’ve been working with the Met to shut it down. Turns out teens have been using it illicitly, reversing their ages so 15 would be 51, but it would have a photo of a young kid.’
Vicky felt a lurch in her gut. ‘So paedos are on it?’
‘No, hebephiles. Different age group.’
‘Ever the pedant.’ Vicky sighed. ‘But they find young girls on it?’
‘Right. And the platform are denying all knowledge.’
‘Sickening.’
‘Ain’t it just.’
‘You getting anywhere?’
Jenny nodded over to the door. ‘Your boyfriend is here.’
Considine stood in the doorway, sniffing and snorting like he had a deep cold. ‘Erm, Sarge?’
Vicky hauled herself up to standing, and everything ached like she was in her nineties. She walked over to the door, stooped over. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just wondering where DI Forrester is.’
‘Well, he’s not down here.’
‘Aye, but DS Ennis is in the incident room and he keeps pressurising me. It’s inappropriate.’
Considine was someone who had inappropriate down as an art form.
‘What’s he asking about?’
‘Well, Sarge, I’ve been out searching for Ennis’s daughter, Teresa.’
It hit Vicky in the gut. She’d been so focused on Carly Johnson that she’d almost forgotten that another girl was missing, and the daughter of a colleague. ‘Any progress?’
‘A smidgen, likes. Got sidelined with bringing that daft wee laddie’s old man in.’ He snuffled. ‘Kid sang for it yet?’
‘Not yet. He’s not really fit for interview.’
‘Right, well, I’ve just spoken to Teresa’s boyfriend.’
‘She had a boyfriend?’
‘Aye. He works at Ashworth’s. Supposed to meet her after his work. Never showed.’
‘You believe him?’
‘We’ve got the internal CCTV. He was working in there. Got him swiping from the pick ’n’ mix too, but aye. He wasn’t there when she got taken. Or when her mate got killed.’
‘He ever meet Carly?’
‘Nope.’ Considine held out some prints. ‘Got Teresa’s car driving into the Ashworth’s car park, but obviously the car didn’t return. Carly was definitely in the passenger seat.’
‘So Teresa’s definitely been taken?’
‘Looks that way, aye.’
‘Vicks?’
She looked over at Jenny and caught red-nailed fingers beckoning her over. ‘Hold that thought.’ She paced back over to Jenny’s workbench. ‘What’s up?’
Jenny had a profile up on the screen, showing Carly’s face and looking young. ‘Well, Carly has been using Poggr since she was sweet fifteen. See her age is 21?’
‘So she’s one of the girls you’ve been looking at?’
‘Not in scope, but it’s a similar pattern. Trying to appear over the age of consent, anyway.’
‘And have you got anything?’
‘A few messages with a few daft buggers. No meetings until one of said daft sods exchanged thirty with her.’
‘She hasn’t deleted these?’
‘Nope. Can’t. And the app was hidden in a folder, presumably away from her parents’ prying eyes for that very reason.’
‘So who is this daft sod?
‘Name of Dougie McLean.’
‘Can you—’
‘Already on it.’ Jenny switched windows to the Police National Computer. ‘By the looks of things, he’s a Dundee taxi driver. Drives a silver Skoda Octavia.’
7
‘Bingo.’ Karen slid the pool car into the space almost before the previous occupant had left it. Close enough to get a worried look from the driver, not that he’d bothered to put his seatbelt on before driving off, instead wrapping it around him like he was a bank robbery getaway driver.
Still, he wasn’t driving a Skoda. A p
urple Audi A4 old enough to vote.
Vicky scanned the numbers of the addresses this side of the street. ‘Well done on getting a space on Lochee High Street on Christmas Eve.’
‘That wasn’t why I was saying “bingo”.’ Karen pointed over the road. ‘I’ve got a full house. Tattoo parlour, tanning shop, Chinese takeaway and a travel agent.’
A long row of tired sixties shops, with a haberdasher stuck in, and the sports bar at the end guarded by three mobility scooters.
‘Well done.’ Vicky got out into the cold air, merciful it was staying dry, then rounded the car.
Karen was at the buzzer, already pressing the button. ‘Barbers and cobblers on this side. I wouldn’t have got backstreet bingo with that card.’
Vicky tried to smile through the sour taste in her mouth. Not Karen’s fault, but the creepy feeling that they were outside the flat of a killer. Maybe. Still, someone who’d been in contact with their victim. Regular contact.
‘Jenny was saying you’ve been using Poggr.’
Vicky shot her a glare. ‘Kaz, you know Jenny. She’s an even-bigger wind-up merchant than you are.’
‘Sure it’s not the actual truth?’
Vicky hit the buzzer. ‘I’m more of a Tinder girl.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Karen sighed. ‘Must be tough still being alone.’
Vicky sighed. ‘Kaz, I’m fine. Me and Bella are fine.’
‘Your mum and dad cover a lot of cracks.’
‘I don’t mind, seriously.’
Karen stuck her tongue and licked her lips. ‘Alan hasn’t been in touch, has he?’
‘Why would he?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘Kaz, I swear, if you’ve—’
‘No! I’m just wondering why you haven’t let him know he’s a father.’
Vicky shut up. The best way to stop her. Another scan of the street, but no sign of a silver Skoda. ‘He’s possibly not here.’
‘Or he’s parked—’
‘Yello?’ A deep voice came from the speakers, the long syllables of the bored or stoned.
‘Police, sir. Looking for Douglas McLean.’
‘He’s no here.’
Karen rolled her eyes. ‘Mind if we see that for ourselves?’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘This is a murder inquiry, sir. My name is DC Karen Woods, with DS Vicky Dodds.’
He paused, mouth-breathing hissing out of the speaker. ‘Right, you’ll be wanting a discount.’
The door clicked open and Karen pushed through into the ground floor of the stairwell.
Vicky followed her in. A door was hanging open, in the dull gloom just a flickering light and a heavy citrus scent.
A big man appeared, bulky chest and massive arms. Would look menacing if he wasn’t wearing acid-yellow shorts and a black Nirvana hoodie. And bare hobbit feet, thick and covered in fur. Maybe twenty-one, but already solid and one of those men with massive bulk who’d appear more muscular looking if he laid off the takeaways. Still, you wouldn’t mess with him.
Not that Karen received the memo. Warrant card out, she got in his face. ‘Where is Mr McLean?’
The big lump shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘What did you mean by discount?’
‘He’s a cabbie. You lot are always trying to get free shit off people.’
Karen snarled like she was going to do just that, inside and out, just for the sheer hell of it. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Jason Matthias.’ Despite the exotic name, he sounded local. Hands still stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Just need a word, sir.’
‘Suppose you’ll want to see his room and all that.’ Jason slouched inside, his rounded shoulders heaving.
Karen let a breath go and followed him in. The smell of fresh pizza hung in the air.
Jason tried a door on the left, but didn’t get far. ‘Locked, eh?’
Karen checked it herself. ‘Okay.’
‘When did you last see Mr McLean?’
‘Not today, like.’ Jason slouched into a living room-kitchen, with units in the same violent yellow as his shorts, and slumped on a giant bean bag. He grabbed a video game controller off a side table and ultra-loud gunshots rattled around the room. In the harsh kitchen light, Vicky saw his hair and beard were cropped to the same length, but the moustache was slightly thinner.
Vicky stood off to the side, watching the action on the screen. A lithe woman ran around a broken cityscape, lugging a preposterous shotgun, racking it and blowing off a police officer’s head in visceral detail. ‘Any chance you can pause this, sir?’
‘I’m playing online, so not really.’ Jason glanced at the headset next to the TV remote on the sofa. An online gamer just like Vicky’s brother, probably a squad of four or five big lumps pretending they were lithe women with shotguns.
What a world.
Karen was in the kitchen area, snooping around. She picked up an empty pizza box and the tubs of crust dips fell out. ‘Are you and Mr McLean close?’
‘Define close.’ Bang bang, crash.
‘Good friends.’
‘I mean, we talk.’
‘About girlfriends?’
‘Not really.’
‘Never mentioned it?’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Jason chucked the controller on the table, then pushed up to standing and stomped over to Karen, towering over her.
Vicky was halfway across the room and fumbling for her baton when she spotted him reaching behind Karen for a slice of pizza. She stopped dead. On the screen, a Game Over screen read “You Died, GIT GUD”.
Whatever that meant.
Between chews, Jason smacked his lips. ‘Dougie never mentioned any girlfriends, no.’
‘What about a Carly?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re not really friends, then?’
‘Dougie just pays me rent.’
‘You own this place?’
‘Oma’s old place.’
‘Oma?’
‘Erm, my grandmother. She was German. Moved here in the sixties. My granddad worked at the Timex factory. Long story, but she died a couple years back, left it to me in her will.’ Jason grabbed a tub of dip and tore off the lid, then jammed his pizza crust in a creamy sauce. ‘But Dougie is absolutely radge with the ladies.’
‘What do you mean by radge?’
‘Well, you know. Always got at least one on the go. Number of times I got up, ready for work on a Saturday, and there’s a lassie putting on her heels as she goes for a sharp exit.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘DC Energy.’
‘Down in Carnoustie?’
‘Well, aye, but our office is just round the corner from here.’
‘Is it normal that you wouldn’t see Mr McLean for a while?’
‘Aye. Sometimes he’ll get a fare to Glasgow or Aberdeen, maybe Newcastle, and be gone for like a day.’ Jason sniffed out a laugh. ‘I mean, Dougie’s the kind of guy who’ll pull the full Travis Bickle.’
Vicky spotted a Taxi Driver poster out in the dim hallway, the famous shot of the mohawked Robert De Niro tilting his head and his gun. She looked round at Jason, just in time to catch him staring right at her. ‘I hope you mean working all night, and not getting obsessed with underage prostitutes?’
Jason smiled. ‘Aye, I mean so long as he doesn’t shoot anyone, right?’
‘But seriously?’
‘Right, no. Dougie’s just a shagger. That’s it.’
‘So he prowls nightclubs?’
‘No, he’s always picking lassies up in the cab and hitting on them.’
‘And sometimes he picks them up on the rank when they’ve been to a nightclub, aye?’
‘No, Dougie’s not like that. He’s got the patter, eh?’
‘Did he ever talk about Poggr?’
Jason looked at Vicky like she’d just had a stroke. ‘Eh?’
‘It’s an app. Meet wo
men and arrange hook-ups.’
‘Nope.’
‘But he has a smartphone?’
‘One of them crappy ones.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘You know, the ones with the adverts.’
Vicky didn’t. ‘You got a number for him?’
‘Aye, sure.’ Jason tossed his empty tub into the sink and picked up his phone, then flipped open a black leather case. ‘Here.’
Karen wrote in her notebook. ‘Cheers.’ She walked away, tapping at her phone and putting it to her ear.
Jason looked right at Vicky, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, what’s he done?’
‘Can’t say, sir.’
‘I’m not daft. It’s something connected to a Carly. And you think he’s done it.’
‘Right.’
Karen came back with a grim look. ‘No answer.’
So Douglas McLean could’ve gone to ground after killing Carly.
Vicky looked at Jason. ‘What car does he drive?’
‘A silver Skoda.’
‘He own it?’
Jason shook his head. ‘All he owns are his phone and his clothes.’
‘You know who does own the car?’
8
Vicky got out of the car onto the long stretch between Dundee and Broughty Ferry. The two roads were named by their target, splitting at a roundabout, with a third route heading up Strips of Craigie Road into deepest, darkest Dundee.
The taxi firm was an old cottage, extended at least twice out the back, and just on the city side, a small entrance that surely caused havoc with taxis slipping out just after the roundabout.
The circle, as the locals would call it.
And the bus route between Carnoustie, her hometown, and the city centre in Dundee. Her regular pilgrimage every Saturday, that first taste of freedom. A lot of the shops were closed now, with all of that stuff moving online. Maybe Bella would never go up there, or maybe the city centre would be all cafes and museums by then.
Aye, right.
Vicky walked across the pebbles to the office, shivering against the biting wind.
The ever-present oil rigs were sitting in the dark river. Someone had arranged lights on the nearest into a Christmas tree, a solid green wash dotted with whites and reds. No sign of the angel on top, though.
Only one car, a top-end Mercedes without the wear and tear you’d get from taking fares.
