endless series of roundabouts. She was steering the car around one of these when her phone sounded.
“I got your message,” the female voice said.
“Thanks for calling back. As it happens, I’m on the outskirts of town.”
“Christ, it must be serious.”
“Maybe I just fancied a Friday night in Dundee.”
“In which case, delete ‘serious’ and add ‘desperate.’ ”
Siobhan knew she was going to like DS Hetherington. “My name’s Siobhan, by the way,” she said.
“Mine’s Liz.”
“Are you just about ready to shut up shop, Liz? Only, I know the pubs in this city better than I do your HQ.”
Hetherington laughed. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”
“Great.” Siobhan named a pub, and Hetherington said she knew it.
“Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes,” Hetherington agreed.
“How will we know one another?”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, Siobhan. Single women in that place tend to be an endangered species.”
She was right.
Siobhan only knew the place from Saturday afternoons, drinking in safety, a pack of Hibs fans around her. But as people clocked off, the weekend stretching ahead of them, the pub took on a very different character. There were office parties, loud laughter. The only people drinking alone were sour-faced men at the bar. Couples were meeting up after work, bringing their day’s gossip with them. Supermarket shopping bags held the evening meal. There was thumping dance music, and a TV sports channel playing silently. The interior was spacious, but Siobhan was having trouble finding somewhere to stand, somewhere she’d be conspicuous to anyone coming in. There were two doors into the place, which didn’t help. Every time she thought she’d found a spot, drinkers would gather nearby, camouflaging her. And Hetherington was late. Siobhan’s glass was empty. She went to the bar for a refill.
“Lime and soda?” the barman remembered. She nodded, quietly impressed. She turned to watch the door and saw that it had opened. A woman was standing there. Something Liz Hetherington had forgotten to mention: she had to be six feet tall or thereabouts. Unlike a lot of tall women, she made no attempt to make herself seem shorter, holding her back straight and wearing shoes with heels. Siobhan waved, and Hetherington joined her.
“Liz?” Siobhan said. Hetherington nodded. “What’re you having?”
“Just a dry ginger . . .” She paused. “No, the hell with it. It’s Friday, right?”
“Right.”
“So make it a Bloody Mary.”
There were no tables left, but they found a ledge by the far wall and placed their drinks there. Siobhan realized that she didn’t want to stand next to Hetherington for too long: she might get a crick in her neck. She fetched two stools from the bar and they sat down.
“Cheers,” she said.
“Cheers.”
Liz Hetherington was in her mid-thirties. Thick shoulder-length black hair, which she kept trimmed without spending a fortune on new styles. Her slender frame thickened considerably at the hips, but her height helped her carry it. No rings on her left hand.
“How long have you been a DS?” Siobhan asked.
Hetherington puffed out her cheeks. “Three years . . . Three and a half actually. You?”
“Nearer three weeks.”
“Congratulations. How’s Lothian and Borders?”
“Much the same as up here, I’d expect. I’ve got a female DCS.”
Hetherington raised an eyebrow. “Good for you.”
“She’s okay,” Siobhan said thoughtfully. “I mean, she’s not the kind to give favors . . .”
“They never are,” Hetherington stated. “Too much to prove.”
Siobhan nodded agreement. Hetherington was savoring a mouthful of her drink.
“Ages since I had one of these,” she explained, swirling the ice in her glass. “So what brings you to the city of the three Js?”
Siobhan smiled. The three Js: jute, jam and journalism, of which, as far as she knew, only the third still provided much in the way of local jobs. “I wanted to thank you for sending me that stuff I asked for.”
“A phone call would have sufficed.”
Siobhan nodded. “There was a name mentioned . . . one of your colleagues. I may have to ask him a few questions.”
“And?”
Siobhan shrugged. “And I was just wondering what he was like. His name’s James McCullough. He’s a DI. Maybe you know someone who can give me a bit of background?”
Hetherington studied Siobhan over her glass. Siobhan wasn’t sure she was falling for the line she’d just spun. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.
“You want to know about Jazz McCullough?”
Meaning Hetherington knew him. “I just want to know how he’ll react if I ask him some questions. Forewarned is forearmed and all that . . .”
“And knowledge is power?” She watched Siobhan shrug again, then gestured towards her drink. “You need a refill.”
Siobhan knew Hetherington was giving herself time. “Lime and soda,” she said.
“Want a gin or anything in that?”
“I’m driving.” Siobhan stared down at her near-empty glass. “Go on then,” she said.
Hetherington smiled and headed for the bar.
When she came back, she’d made her decision. She’d also bought two packets of dry-roasted peanuts.
“Sustenance,” she said, placing them on the ledge. Then, as she sat down again: “The hunters are out.”
Siobhan nodded. She’d seen them: men’s eyes assessing her. Men from the office parties, but also men at the bar. They did, after all, appear to be two women at the start of a night out, making them possible prey . . .
“Good luck to them,” Siobhan said.
“Here’s to professional women,” Hetherington said, chinking glasses. Then she paused. “You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, maybe it isn’t luck. Could be it’s instinct or kismet or something.” She paused to sip her drink. “There are plenty of people in CID who know Jazz McCullough, and some of them might even be willing to talk to you. But not many would say very much.”
“He has a lot of friends?”
“He’s
“But you’re not one of them?”
“I’ve worked with him a couple of times in the past. He acted like I was invisible, which, as you can imagine, is quite a feat.”
Siobhan could well imagine it: she reckoned Hetherington was probably a good half-inch taller than McCullough, maybe more.
“He didn’t like you?”
Hetherington shook her head. “I don’t think it went that far. He just didn’t think I was
“Because you’re a woman?”
Hetherington shrugged. “Maybe.” She lifted her glass again. “So don’t expect him to welcome you with open arms.”
“I won’t.” Siobhan thought back to the scene in Leith and had to suppress a shiver. The alcohol seemed to
