shuffled in, stepped to one side, and there was Len.
He was about a head taller than his escort, a fringe of neatly trimmed grey hair around a big bald crown, round glasses, and a grey goatee with a handlebar moustache. He d lost a bit of weight, broadened out a bit. Probably been spending a lot of time in the prison gym.
Len settled into the seat opposite and nodded, as if we hadn t seen each other since the morning briefing, instead of two and a bit years. Ash.
Chief.
A smile. Not any more. His voice was deep enough to make my plastic cup of water tremble on the tabletop. Or shall we play yesteryear: I ll be Detective Superintendent Murray, and you ll be DI Henderson?
I need to know who the Birthday Boy suspects were. All of them.
I m fine, thanks. A lot better now they ve taken the stitches out. Talk about itchy.
Len, I m serious.
Still, ex-Constable Evans will be taking his food through a tube for the next six months, so I suppose I win. He took hold of the bottom of his sweatshirt. Want to see the scar? It s pretty spectacular?
I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. He s got Katie.
Came at me in the library with a razor blade stuck in the end of a toothbrush. A frown. Ever seen your own innards, Ash? They re not as pretty as you might think.
The Birthday Boy s got Katie and they re locking me out of the investigation!
Len sighed, tilted his head to one side. Two years, eight months, three weeks, and fifteen days. That s how long I ve been in here, and you haven t visited once. Not until you want something.
He s got Katie
You said that already. He picked up my water and sipped at it. I thought we were friends, Ash.
He s got my little girl.
Len leaned back in his chair. You got a slap on the wrists. I got eighteen years. I think I m due a little conversation first, don t you? He pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling. Who do you fancy this afternoon: Warriors or Aberdeen?
For God s sake, Len. I checked the clock on the wall. I ve only got twelve minutes till they kick me out.
Like I said: I ve got eighteen years. He smiled.
Fine. Aberdeen.
Really? I think we re in with a chance this time. Bob Eason s bought a couple of good players this season might look like Gollum in a tracksuit, but the little sod knows his football.
I curled my hands into fists. Len, he s going to kill her!
See, that s what I ve been trying to figure out: why her? Why you? He teased the end of his goatee into a point. Why target someone on the investigation? Why make it personal? It s too risky, too flashy, like something out of a movie. Doesn t happen in real life.
I saw the birthday card. He s got her.
Hmmm Silence. Then, Maybe you ve spooked him? Maybe you ve been running your sticky fingers through his dirty laundry, and he needs you distracted?
Who was a suspect?
Philip Skinner s mum writes to me, did you know that? Every month I get this big wodge of paper through the post telling me what she s been up to, and what s happening on Coronation Street, and what her grandchildren are doing. Course she s not really writing to me, she s writing to Skinner
Len, please.
He put the water down. Sighed. Well, there was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, but I think he hanged himself Turned out he was into kiddie porn I m pretty sure they found the bin in his study full of crumpled up printouts of the birthday cards, covered in spunk. We thought it was part of a ring, but you know what the Tartan and Shortbread Brigade are like. Then there was that journalist with the Aberdeen Examiner Frown. Tolbert? Talbert? Talbert but we couldn t get anything to stick. Or Harriet Woods? She was a private investigator in Dundee. Ended up moving to Dubai.
I scribbled names and details in my notebook.
Len sat forwards, huge hands on the tabletop. As if he was the only thing holding it down. Skinner confessed: how was I supposed to know?
Anyone else?
The profile was a perfect fit. Henry Forrester was in on the interview, he said Skinner was our man.
I know.
Those little boys: raped and cut up into little bits
Len was there anyone else?
He stared at the table for a while, mouth pinched, a deep crease between his eyebrows. Couple of nut-jobs: Ahmed Moghadam, Danny Crawford, some woman who thought Jesus lived in her basement He tapped his finger on the tabletop: tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. Some nights I can still hear him screaming.
Chapter 37
Get out the way! I jammed the mobile between my ear and shoulder and leaned on the horn again, but the prick in the Subaru refused to budge from the outside lane. Come on, Henry, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!
Finally the prick drifted into the other lane, and I could put my foot down again. Kidding on I didn t see him give me the finger in my rear-view mirror.
Voicemail. Henry, where the fuck are you? Call me back.
I tried Rhona.
Fields ribbed with poly tunnels whipped by on either side. A green sign: A90, Dundee 9, Forfar 23, Oldcastle 34, Aberdeen 75.
Guv? Jesus, I heard about Katie, are you OK?
Finally someone answers the bloody phone!
The speedometer needle edged up to eighty-five.
I didn t
I need you to run some PNC checks for me, but you can t tell anyone, OK? I pulled out my notebook, pinned it against the steering wheel, and flipped through the pages. Then read her the list of names Len gave me. Made her repeat them back. I mean it you tell no one about this. Not Weber, not Dickie, not even Shifty Dave.
Nothing.
Rhona?
Why didn t you call me first? You said no one was answering their phone, why didn t you call me? I would ve helped. I always help. I ironed your shirts!
As if I didn t have enough to worry about Rhona, the Birthday Boy s going to kill my little girl on Monday, OK? I ve got other things on my mind.
The needle hit ninety and my foot was flat to the floor that was it, the Renault didn t have any more. I tossed the notebook onto the passenger seat. Roared past an eighteen-wheeler with
SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEY RE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC! on the side.
On the other end of the phone, Rhona cleared her throat. Sorry. I didn t mean
It s OK. I m Deep breath.
I appreciate your help. It s not a great day.
PC Julie Wilson spun around on one of the swivel chairs, pointing at the ceiling tiles, long blonde hair trailing out behind her.
Twoooo ni-ill, twoooo ni-ill She stopped. Closed her mouth. Shifted on her seat. Sorry, Guv.
The CID office was half empty. A little radio sat on the table by the kettle, crackling out the Warriors Aberdeen match.
And it s Morrison to Chepski, Chepski to Woods The roar of the crowd chanting, You re going home in a tasty casserole
