Still, he wasn’t driving a Skoda. A purple Audi A4 old enough to vote.
Vicky scanned the numbers of the addresses this side of the street. ‘Well done on getting a space on Lochee High Street on Christmas Eve.’
‘That wasn’t why I was saying “bingo”.’ Karen pointed over the road. ‘I’ve got a full house. Tattoo parlour, tanning shop, Chinese takeaway and a travel agent.’
A long row of tired sixties shops, with a haberdasher stuck in, and the sports bar at the end guarded by three mobility scooters.
‘Well done.’ Vicky got out into the cold air, merciful it was staying dry, then rounded the car.
Karen was at the buzzer, already pressing the button. ‘Barbers and cobblers on this side. I wouldn’t have got backstreet bingo with that card.’
Vicky tried to smile through the sour taste in her mouth. Not Karen’s fault, but the creepy feeling that they were outside the flat of a killer. Maybe. Still, someone who’d been in contact with their victim. Regular contact.
‘Jenny was saying you’ve been using Poggr.’
Vicky shot her a glare. ‘Kaz, you know Jenny. She’s an even-bigger wind-up merchant than you are.’
‘Sure it’s not the actual truth?’
Vicky hit the buzzer. ‘I’m more of a Tinder girl.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Karen sighed. ‘Must be tough still being alone.’
Vicky sighed. ‘Kaz, I’m fine. Me and Bella are fine.’
‘Your mum and dad cover a lot of cracks.’
‘I don’t mind, seriously.’
Karen stuck her tongue and licked her lips. ‘Alan hasn’t been in touch, has he?’
‘Why would he?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘Kaz, I swear, if you’ve—’
‘No! I’m just wondering why you haven’t let him know he’s a father.’
Vicky shut up. The best way to stop her. Another scan of the street, but no sign of a silver Skoda. ‘He’s possibly not here.’
‘Or he’s parked—’
‘Yello?’ A deep voice came from the speakers, the long syllables of the bored or stoned.
‘Police, sir. Looking for Douglas McLean.’
‘He’s no here.’
Karen rolled her eyes. ‘Mind if we see that for ourselves?’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘This is a murder inquiry, sir. My name is DC Karen Woods, with DS Vicky Dodds.’
He paused, mouth-breathing hissing out of the speaker. ‘Right, you’ll be wanting a discount.’
The door clicked open and Karen pushed through into the ground floor of the stairwell.
Vicky followed her in. A door was hanging open, in the dull gloom just a flickering light and a heavy citrus scent.
A big man appeared, bulky chest and massive arms. Would look menacing if he wasn’t wearing acid-yellow shorts and a black Nirvana hoodie. And bare hobbit feet, thick and covered in fur. Maybe twenty-one, but already solid and one of those men with massive bulk who’d appear more muscular looking if he laid off the takeaways. Still, you wouldn’t mess with him.
Not that Karen received the memo. Warrant card out, she got in his face. ‘Where is Mr McLean?’
The big lump shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘What did you mean by discount?’
‘He’s a cabbie. You lot are always trying to get free shit off people.’
Karen snarled like she was going to do just that, inside and out, just for the sheer hell of it. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Jason Matthias.’ Despite the exotic name, he sounded local. Hands still stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Just need a word, sir.’
‘Suppose you’ll want to see his room and all that.’ Jason slouched inside, his rounded shoulders heaving.
Karen let a breath go and followed him in. The smell of fresh pizza hung in the air.
Jason tried a door on the left, but didn’t get far. ‘Locked, eh?’
Karen checked it herself. ‘Okay.’
‘When did you last see Mr McLean?’
‘Not today, like.’ Jason slouched into a living room-kitchen, with units in the same violent yellow as his shorts, and slumped on a giant bean bag. He grabbed a video game controller off a side table and ultra-loud gunshots rattled around the room. In the harsh kitchen light, Vicky saw his hair and beard were cropped to the same length, but the moustache was slightly thinner.
Vicky stood off to the side, watching the action on the screen. A lithe woman ran around a broken cityscape, lugging a preposterous shotgun, racking it and blowing off a police officer’s head in visceral detail. ‘Any chance you can pause this, sir?’
‘I’m playing online, so not really.’ Jason glanced at the headset next to the TV remote on the sofa. An online gamer just like Vicky’s brother, probably a squad of four or five big lumps pretending they were lithe women with shotguns.
What a world.
Karen was in the kitchen area, snooping around. She picked up an empty pizza box and the tubs of crust dips fell out. ‘Are you and Mr McLean close?’
‘Define close.’ Bang bang, crash.
‘Good friends.’
‘I mean, we talk.’
‘About girlfriends?’
‘Not really.’
‘Never mentioned it?’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Jason chucked the controller on the table, then pushed up to standing and stomped over to Karen, towering over her.
Vicky was halfway across the room and fumbling for her baton when she spotted him reaching behind Karen for a slice of pizza. She stopped dead. On the screen, a Game Over screen read “You Died, GIT GUD”.
Whatever that meant.
Between chews, Jason smacked his lips. ‘Dougie never mentioned any girlfriends, no.’
‘What about a Carly?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re not really friends, then?’
‘Dougie just pays me rent.’
‘You own this place?’
‘Oma’s old place.’
‘Oma?’
‘Erm, my grandmother. She was German. Moved here in the sixties. My granddad worked at the Timex factory. Long story, but she died a couple years back, left it to me in her will.’ Jason grabbed a tub of dip and tore off the lid, then jammed his pizza crust in a creamy sauce. ‘But Dougie is absolutely radge with the ladies.’
‘What do you mean by radge?’
‘Well, you know. Always got at least one on the go. Number of times I got up, ready for work on a Saturday, and there’s a lassie putting on her heels as she goes for a sharp exit.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘DC Energy.’
‘Down in Carnoustie?’
‘Well, aye, but our office is just round the corner from here.’
‘Is it normal that you wouldn’t see Mr McLean for a while?’
‘Aye.
