He was right. That all sounded extremely suspicious.
“A passenger, then? Someone with a spare set of clothes in their bag?” My first thought.
Anderson grunted noncommittally. “CalMac has provided a full passenger list, and the wife didn’t see her man among them when they finally disembarked. As I say, Trish will send you a full report soon. Can you and your cousin get up to the airport at eight tomorrow morning? I’ll have an airbus standing by on the helipad to fly you over to Stornoway. Up to you how you present Mr Keane over there. I’ll fill Trish in on his special status, but there’s no need for it to go further than that. Your translator, maybe? Or your SOCO man?”
“Translator, Sir?”
“Well, maybe not. But your Irish won’t be much use to you if any of the locals decide to block you out by jabbering away in Scots Gaelic, will it?” No, it wouldn’t. The Scots had had over seven hundred years in which to mangle a perfectly good Irish language out of all recognition. It even looked wrong written down, with the accents slanting the wrong way. “He might catch something you’d miss… and who else knows what else might turn up?” Anderson added reasonably. “You get people from all over the place visiting the islands these days. But as I said, it’s entirely up to you two how you choose to handle it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Excellent. McKinnon will send DI Philips down to take over for you at Old Perth Road whilst you’re away, so you needn’t worry about any of that. Keep me updated, Conall, and good luck, although I doubt you’ll need it.” He rang off rather abruptly, leaving that unsubtle hint of high expectations hanging in the air.
Well, that was just lovely! Hopefully, he wasn’t expecting results as speedy as those we’d managed on the Ramsay case in March. That one had been exceptionally quick to crack. I wasn’t familiar with DI Philips either, although I suppose I must have seen him around up at HQ. DI Morgan, the man who usually filled in for me when I was on annual leave, must be away himself just now, which was a pity. Morgan was a plodder and a bit of a lazy sod too. He was always happy to let my team just get on with it under Caitlin’s more than adequate supervision.
I picked up the phone again and called Area Commander DCI James McKinnon, the man responsible for the entire Inverness area. Yes, he told me, Morgan was off in Gran Canaria, the lucky devil. McKinnon was quick to assure me that DI Philips, or ‘young Simon’ as he called him, was a decent sort, sharp and steady. I found out later that Philips was thirty-three, just over a year and a half older than I was. Yes, James assured me, of course, he knew how capable Sergeant Murray was, but no, that just wouldn’t do.
“And honestly, Conall,” he made sure to add, “Philips isn’t going to ruin your precious team for you, so stop worrying about them and get your head in the damn game, laddie.” Like Anderson, James McKinnon had plenty of more important things to occupy himself with. He hung up on me after that last little dig.
Right. I grabbed my jacket and bag. Time to break the news to Caitlin and my DCs.
They were all about as happy to hear of the arrangement as I’d expected. Nobody likes having a substitute boss sprung on them out of the blue. Well, I amended the thought. Not unless they were glad of any chance to see the back of them for a while. I’d had a couple like that myself in the past. My lot all looked reassuringly like crestfallen dogs whose owner was dumping them at the kennels. Poor Mills, our greenest DC, looked especially anxious, and it wasn’t as if any of us knew how long I’d be gone for either.
“Let’s not make a big deal of this, people, alright?” I told them reasonably, “If McKinnon says DI Philips is a good one, then he must be. The commander doesn’t mince his words when he has reservations about anyone.”
Glum nods all round. They couldn’t argue with that statement. Once they’d all shut down their workstations and I’d herded them out and locked up after us, Caitlin and I headed for my car. I knew she was planning to walk home, with it being such a nice day, but she wanted a private little chat first. We leaned companionably against the bonnet of my little Peugeot, a mild, pleasant breeze tugging at our hair.
“This is good,” she allowed. “For you, anyway. And Jackie says Philips is alright. He won’t interfere with the way you like things done.” Jackie was a DS up at HQ, one of Caitlin’s ‘girls’ night out’ group. “Well, not much anyway. “Everyone has their own preferred little ways of doing things, I suppose.”
“Just call me if he goes too far with anything, and I’ll have a word myself,” I told her. “And try to keep out of A&E while my back’s turned.”
Her cheeky little face broke into an amused smile, and her pretty blue eyes
