‘What is it you want?’ she asked, struggling to push the hair out of her eyes.
‘I’m just curious.’ She waited for him to go on. ‘You didn’t take your original complaint against Paul Carter very far. But then later on you did. What changed your mind?’
‘I couldn’t let him get away with it.’
‘That line sounds rehearsed.’
‘So what? I’ve said it often enough. You think somebody paid me – is that it?’
His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Hadn’t crossed my mind,’ he said quietly.
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself, cigarette tightly held between thumb and forefinger.
‘Nobody needed to pay me,’ she said. ‘I did it because it had to be done.’
‘But did you talk to anybody? Is that what you’re getting at?’ He took a step closer, remembering what she’d said back in the cafe – poor man… ‘Paul’s uncle? Alan Carter?’
She was staring up at the sky. The wind had caught her hair again, wrapping it around her face, so that it seemed to be muffling her.
‘Alan Carter?’ Kaye persisted.
She pushed up on to her toes and flung out her arms again. For a second he thought she was going to launch herself into the void. He went as far as stretching out a hand towards her. She had her eyes squeezed shut, a child readying to fly.
‘Teresa?’ Kaye said. ‘All that stuff about Paul Carter – was it true?’
‘He deserved what he got,’ she recited. ‘He’s a disgrace to the service.’
Not her words – but Kaye could imagine a fellow officer saying them; or a retired one.
‘Can’t let him get away with it – wouldn’t just be me… there’d be others.’ Her eyes were still closed. ‘Deserved what he got.’ Kaye’s fingers had closed around her thin forearm.
‘Let’s get you back to the lift,’ he said.
‘Can’t I stay here for a bit?’
‘Not on your own, no.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I need you to be safe, Teresa.’
‘They all say things like that,’ she told him. ‘They all want to look after you.’ Kaye wondered if it was just the breeze forcing a tear from her eye. ‘But they all change,’ she said quietly, allowing him to lead her away from the dream of escape.
Joe Naysmith took one look at the desk sergeant and thought better of it. Ever since the Murder Squad had arrived, the man had looked ready to explode. His station, his fiefdom – not any more. Detectives and uniforms swarmed through reception, toting equipment or with questions and demands. They needed chairs, desks and electrical adaptors for their incident room. They hardly acknowledged him or gave him the time of day.
No, Naysmith doubted he’d get anything from Sergeant Robinson. But that didn’t matter: he had another plan. The CID rooms were chaotic, but he found Cheryl Forrester in a corner, watching the activity with excited eyes. She saw him and he gestured towards the corridor. By the time she reached him, he was loading coins into the drinks machine.
‘Buy you a can of something?’ he offered.
‘Sprite,’ she said, squeezing closer to him as two detectives jogged past.
‘How are you bearing up?’ he asked, handing her the chilled drink.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Do you need me for more questions?’
‘Sort of.’ He realised they were going to get no peace in the corridor, so led her towards the stairwell. She asked him if he didn’t want anything to drink for himself.
‘I ran out of change,’ he admitted. She smiled and offered him her opened can. He took a sip and handed it back.
‘All very mysterious,’ she said, studying her surroundings.
‘I’m after a favour,’ he conceded. ‘You won’t remember a detective called Gavin Willis?’
‘I’ve heard the name.’
‘Died a long time back,’ Naysmith told her. ‘But presumably you knew Superintendent Hendryson?’
‘Of course.’ She took a slurp from the rim of the can.
‘I was wondering if there was any way of contacting him.’
‘He’s retired.’
‘Does he never look in?’
She shook her head. ‘Bit of a hike from Portugal.’
‘He moved to Portugal?’
‘I think it was his wife’s idea. He sends us a postcard now and then – always makes sure to mention how warm the sea is.’
‘Someone must have an address, then, eh?’
Forrester stared at him. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘No idea,’ he dissembled. ‘I’m just running an errand for my boss.’
‘I know that feeling.’ She paused and tilted her head a little to the side. ‘You doing anything this evening?’
‘Why?’
‘Just thought you could buy me a drink – dinner too, if you like. I might have something for you by then.’
Naysmith thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure, Cheryl.’
‘Because you’re the Complaints?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m not under investigation, am I?’
‘You’ll still figure in the final report.’
‘So?’
‘It’s an ethical thing.’
‘We’ll be eating dinner, that’s all. And I’ll be giving you the address your boss needs.’
Naysmith pretended to be weighing up the options. ‘Okay then,’ he told her.
‘If you’re not too busy.’ She was teasing him now.
‘Somewhere local?’ he guessed.
She shook her head again. ‘Smashing wee place in North Queensferry.’
‘Why there?’
‘It’s where I live.’
‘Is it now?’
When she broke into a smile, he couldn’t help smiling back.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, why the hell not?’
25
Professor John Martin – JDM to friends and colleagues – lived in a chic new-build apartment block behind Edinburgh Zoo. Although the evening temperature had dropped, he was happy to allow Fox a few moments on the balcony.
‘Can you hear them?’ he asked.
Fox nodded. Animals: snuffles and bellows and squawks.
‘You can smell them sometimes, too,’ the professor said. ‘Anyone round here with a garden is prone to pester the zoo for manure. Amongst other things, it has certain rebarbative qualities.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Scares domestic cats – stops them crapping in your flower beds.’
The third-floor flat didn’t quite have a view into the zoo itself, but Fox could see the outline of the Pentland Hills to the south, and hear the traffic on Corstorphine Road. Professor Martin had moved indoors again, so Fox followed suit, sliding the door shut. Classical music was playing, but just barely audible: it sounded modern and
