Twelve Days of Winter: Crime at Christmas

all that shiny this morning though, not with the bags under his swollen pink eyes, and stubble on his chin and cheeks.

He’s got the radio on as I jump into the car.

‘. . .concerned for the safety of Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven following his disappearance two days ago. In other news: a service of remembrance will be held at St. Jasper’s Kirk today for drowned schoolgirl Danielle McArthur. We spoke to Danielle’s family. . .’

Richardson cranks the volume down till the news-caster’s voice disappears beneath the roar of the car’s heater.

‘Mornin’, Guv.’ His mouth droops. He sighs.

Normally I have to bash the cheerful bugger over the head with his own truncheon to make him settle down. I’m about to ask what’s up when he wrinkles his nose and stares at my lumberjack ensemble.

They call me ‘Stinky’ behind my back.

They think I don’t know, but I do. DI George ‘Stinky’ McClain. Bastards. It’s not my fault: I’ve got a glandular condition. God knows how Stephanie puts up with it. I wash three times a day, use extra-strong deodorant, but the smell always leeches through in the end. Probably why I’ve got such a crap sense of smell. Self defence.

At least this time I can blame the baby. But I don’t: just snap on my seatbelt. ‘You got that address?’

‘Yup.’ Another sigh: like he’s deflating. ‘Fourteen Denmuir Gardens, opposite the primary school.’

‘Course it is. What a surprise.’ I check the dashboard clock: eighteen minutes past seven. We’re late.

There isn’t much in the way of traffic: just a few vans making deliveries before the shops open; empty buses grumbling along dark, empty streets; one or two poor sods tramping their way to work through the falling snow.

And then we’re out of the city centre, heading over the Calderwell Bridge. The Kings River sparkles like a vast slug beneath us, oozing its way out to the North Sea.

Kingsmeath isn’t the nicest part of Oldcastle. It’s a sprawl of council semis and tenement blocks thrown up in the sixties – and that’s what they look like: concrete vomit. No wonder they’re all crooks and junkies.

PC Richardson takes a left past Douglas on the Mound. The church’s spire is covered in scaffolding, its walls covered in graffiti, its graveyard covered in snow. All the way out here and he’s barely said a word. Maybe the real Richardson’s been kidnapped by aliens and this is their half-arsed attempt at a replacement.

It takes us five minutes to find Denmuir Gardens: a dirt-streaked row of semi-detached houses with sagging roofs and satellite dishes. Halfway down, the street opens up: a mouldy playground sitting beside the single-storey concrete and rust-coloured lump that is KINGSMEATH PRIMARY SCHOOL.

Richardson parks the car and kills the engine while I pull out my handset and call control. ‘Oscar Charlie, this is Charlie Hotel Six, we’re in position.’

The speaker crackles. ‘Roger that. You have a go as soon as all other units are in position. Good luck.’

I stick it back in my pocket, then settle back in my seat, watching the house. The other unmarked CID cars and the dog handlers’ van should be here in a minute.

Another big sigh from the passenger seat.

I smack Richardson on the arm. ‘You’ve got a face like my mother-in-law’s arse. Who died?’

He looks at me, then stares out at the snowflakes drifting down from the sky like flecks of gold in the streetlights’ sulphurous glow. His eyes glisten, then a tear rolls down his cheek, his shoulders quiver, and the floodgates open. He sniffs. Wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Apologizes for being so soft.

Jesus. That’s not awkward, is it? For a moment, I just sit there. Then the man-management training kicks in and I reach over and squeeze his shoulder.

He looks at me, bottom lip quivering. ‘I got a letter from my doctor.’ He sniffs and wipes at his eyes again. ‘Shite, I’m sorry. . . I . . . I gave blood last week.’

He takes a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m HIV positive.’

And I know it’s stupid, and I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to touch him anymore. Because I’m a shitty human being. Richardson’s been on my team for years, he deserves better.

I squeeze his shoulder again. ‘Are you OK?’ It’s a stupid question, but what am I supposed to do?

‘I’ve never cheated on Sandra, I swear. It must’ve been . . . I don’t know. . .’

In our job we come into contact with all sorts of sketchy bastards and their bodily fluids. All it takes is one drop of blood and you’re screwed. Poor bastard.

‘What’s the FMO say?’

‘I. . .’ Richardson hangs his head. ‘I only found out Wednesday . . . haven’t told anyone. Not even Sandra. Oh God.’ The tears were back. ‘What am I going to tell her? What if I’ve infected her? What if I’ve given her AIDS?’

What the hell do you say to someone in that situation? ‘Cheer up, could be worse’? I try for the shoulder squeeze again, but it doesn’t help, he just cries all the harder. . .

Kilo Mike Two and Three finally arrive from the local Kingsmeath station.

Richardson takes one last shuddering breath and wipes his eyes. Trying to make out he’s all right.

I fasten the Velcro on my bulletproof vest. ‘I want you to stay here, OK? Keep an eye on the house while we go in.’

‘No. I’m OK. You need the manpower.’

I shake my head. ‘Not that much. You’ve had a shock. You. . .’ Deep breath. ‘What if something happens and you infect someone? Look, I’m sorry: I know it’s shitty, but you’ve got to stay in the car.’

‘No, I need to come with you, don’t-’

‘Believe me, I’d much rather have you with me than some of these KM Muppets, but you have to wait in the car. You know you do.’

‘But-’

‘We can talk about it when I get back, OK? Thain can take the prisoners back to FHQ, and you and me will go grab a bacon buttie and talk, OK?’

‘But-’

‘No. You’re staying put whether you like it or not.’

He goes back to staring at the falling snow. Sulking.

I can’t really blame him.

A burgundy van pulls up in front of Kilo Mike Two – the dogs are here. That’s my cue.

I climb out into the chilly morning air.

HIV. What a great end to the week. Still, after today I’m off till Tuesday. Three days of trudging around the three million relatives we never see at any other time of the year. Because ‘everyone wants to see the baby’. Hell, I’m its dad and half the time even I don’t want to see the little bugger.

DS Thain’s waiting for me by the back of the dog van, dressed in firearms team black, machine pistol cradled against his chest. ‘Morning, sir.’ He eyes my lumberjack costume. ‘Ready when you are.’ He’s one of these career policemen hot-footing it up the promotion ladder. But he’s a nice guy, good cop too: efficient, not an arse-kisser like a lot of these fast-track wankers. Which makes it all the more unfair to take the piss out of his red hair.

But I do it anyway. ‘Jesus, Thain, something horrible’s happened to your head! Oh, wait, it’s your hair.’

He smiles. ‘Bugger off, sir.’ Sounds a bit bunged up, as if he’s got a cold.

I grin back at him. After PC Richardson and his cloud of impending doom, it’s a bit of a relief.

DS Thain sniffs. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Surround the place. Half the troops round the back, everyone else round the front. Two from each team go in, the rest wait outside in case Black makes a run for it.’ I look up at the house, then back at the Canine Unit where the black nose of a police Alsatian is making snotty whorls on the glass. ‘And we’re taking one of the dogs in with us too. Just in case.’

‘Sir.’ He marches off to get everyone in place, red hair glowing in the gloom.

I give Stephanie a ring and ask if she wants anything from the shops while I’m out. Still making the effort.

Stephanie doesn’t want anything. But she almost sounds happy I called. We chat