She looked at him now with professional interest. Kai was short and slight with blond hair and a hard face. He had blue, watchful eyes and walked with a fighter’s swagger. It was the kind of walk that said, Look at me, do you want to have a go? Hanlon had arrested a fair few Kais in her time.
‘Here’s your coffee,’ he said. ‘I’m Kai, by the way…’ Their eyes met. He looked at her suggestively. With a shock she realised he was flirting with her. She smiled. I’m so out of your league, she thought. She noticed a faint scar, about the length of a finger, three to four centimetres, that ran down the left side of his forehead, finishing at the corner of his eye. She doubted it was the result of an accident.
Kai had seen her smile and misinterpreted it. ‘If you need anything… just see me.’ His voice lingered on the ‘anything’. His accent was different from the west coast lilt; it was harsh Glaswegian.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
The bald guy got up and went to the bar. He rapped his knuckles on it loudly for attention. The barman caught Hanlon’s eye and rolled his own heavenwards. Some people, he seemed to be saying. He went back to the bar, spoke to the man and disappeared out the back, returning with a couple more bottles of champagne.
Harriet appeared in the bar carrying a small plate. She walked up to Hanlon.
‘I’ve brought you some complimentary petits fours, courtesy of the hotel,’ she said, placing them reverently on Hanlon’s table. Another gale of loud laughter from the far table. Harriet winced and closed her eyes as if wishing they would go away. The things I have to put up with, her expression said. Despite her instinctive dislike of Harriet – maybe it was the short hair, the short sleeves and the brusque attitude that was reminiscent of an in-your-face gym mistress – she felt a twinge of sympathy for her. She knew what it was like to have to be polite to people you hated. Except when you weren’t. Except when you drove your elbow into their faces.
‘Thank you,’ said Hanlon.
‘Breakfast is from seven until nine thirty,’ Harriet said. ‘I do hope you have enjoyed your dinner tonight.’
Hanlon nodded and watched as she disappeared. She didn’t want the petits fours but she ate them anyway. They were delicious.
Hanlon suddenly felt a sense of unease, the kind of feeling she got sometimes just before she went into action at work when she realised that things could go terribly wrong. What was it? What was wrong?
She checked her e-mails on her phone – the hotel did have Wi-Fi, she’d discovered – nothing of any importance. The bar was starting to fill up – locals, judging by their accents. But the feeling that something wasn’t right wouldn’t leave her.
A dozen couples, ages ranging from mid-thirties to late fifties. Nothing unusual, but a sense of strained anticipation. Kai laughing and joking behind the bar. He’d done jail time, she was sure of it now. His ready smile now seemed sinister. In the mirror she caught a glimpse of Big Jim as he ambled past the bar door in the corridor. Their eyes met and he gave her a self-satisfied, hungry smile as he went past. The smile reminded her of the boar on his sign, violent, piggy and self-satisfied.
The yacht party were guzzling their champagne as if it were water, with cocaine-induced thirst. The ageing men and their child-girl prostitutes.
Hanlon drank some coffee. It tasted good. She shook her head. Maybe she had gotten it all wrong. Christ alone knew, her perception of reality was skewed at the best of times. Twenty years of dealing with low lifes, stupidity, cupidity and violence. Not everyone was a criminal. Maybe she was becoming paranoid.
She felt herself sweating. She really did feel peculiar. What the fuck is going on? she thought. She stood up and left the bar and followed the sign to the toilets.
She closed the door behind her and, leaning against it, breathed deeply. Calm down, she told herself. She was feeling odd – was this some kind of panic attack? First paranoid delusions, now this. Stress from all that unresolved business in London?
To take her mind off things she forced herself to concentrate on her surroundings. She looked around the bathroom. Harriet was doing a good job; they were spotless. There were several framed pictures on the wall to entertain the customer: a couple of old photos of crofters on Jura, one of Orwell (inevitably), a framed front page from a local paper, the Argyllshire Advertiser, from the 1950s, about the hotel. There was a vase of fresh flowers artfully arranged; it was very tasteful. Again, the odd contrast in the Mackinnon Arms between the ultra-professional and the amateur.
She walked over to a sink, ran the tap and splashed water over her face. She began to feel marginally better. I’m just paranoid, she thought. There’s nothing wrong. Everything is fine. They are all just normal people, having a normal night out. You’re the crazy one.
She heard women’s voices and drunken laughter from down the stone-flagged passageway. Almost certainly the girls from the yacht. Her heart sank.
She was in no mood to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. She had taken a rooted dislike to them, particularly nose-stud girl, the one who had insulted her.
‘…uncontrollably violent…anger issues.’ Comments made during the IOPC hearing. All the shit that she had seen over the years, domestic incidents that
