Vicky spotted a Taxi Driver poster out in the dim hallway, the famous shot of the mohawked Robert De Niro tilting his head and his gun. She looked round at Jason, just in time to catch him staring right at her. ‘I hope you mean working all night, and not getting obsessed with underage prostitutes?’
Jason smiled. ‘Aye, I mean so long as he doesn’t shoot anyone, right?’
‘But seriously?’
‘Right, no. Dougie’s just a shagger. That’s it.’
‘So he prowls nightclubs?’
‘No, he’s always picking lassies up in the cab and hitting on them.’
‘And sometimes he picks them up on the rank when they’ve been to a nightclub, aye?’
‘No, Dougie’s not like that. He’s got the patter, eh?’
‘Did he ever talk about Poggr?’
Jason looked at Vicky like she’d just had a stroke. ‘Eh?’
‘It’s an app. Meet women and arrange hook-ups.’
‘Nope.’
‘But he has a smartphone?’
‘One of them crappy ones.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘You know, the ones with the adverts.’
Vicky didn’t. ‘You got a number for him?’
‘Aye, sure.’ Jason tossed his empty tub into the sink and picked up his phone, then flipped open a black leather case. ‘Here.’
Karen wrote in her notebook. ‘Cheers.’ She walked away, tapping at her phone and putting it to her ear.
Jason looked right at Vicky, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, what’s he done?’
‘Can’t say, sir.’
‘I’m not daft. It’s something connected to a Carly. And you think he’s done it.’
‘Right.’
Karen came back with a grim look. ‘No answer.’
So Douglas McLean could’ve gone to ground after killing Carly.
Vicky looked at Jason. ‘What car does he drive?’
‘A silver Skoda.’
‘He own it?’
Jason shook his head. ‘All he owns are his phone and his clothes.’
‘You know who does own the car?’
8
Vicky got out of the car onto the long stretch between Dundee and Broughty Ferry. The two roads were named by their target, splitting at a roundabout, with a third route heading up Strips of Craigie Road into deepest, darkest Dundee.
The taxi firm was an old cottage, extended at least twice out the back, and just on the city side, a small entrance that surely caused havoc with taxis slipping out just after the roundabout.
The circle, as the locals would call it.
And the bus route between Carnoustie, her hometown, and the city centre in Dundee. Her regular pilgrimage every Saturday, that first taste of freedom. A lot of the shops were closed now, with all of that stuff moving online. Maybe Bella would never go up there, or maybe the city centre would be all cafes and museums by then.
Aye, right.
Vicky walked across the pebbles to the office, shivering against the biting wind.
The ever-present oil rigs were sitting in the dark river. Someone had arranged lights on the nearest into a Christmas tree, a solid green wash dotted with whites and reds. No sign of the angel on top, though.
Only one car, a top-end Mercedes without the wear and tear you’d get from taking fares.
The office door flew open and a skinny man in his forties stomped out, shaking his head, holding a phone at arm’s reach. ‘What do you mean? Eh?’
Vicky and Karen got into formation, blocking his path.
He stopped dead and squinted at them, mouth open with a sour twist to his nose. ‘Bungle, I’d better go.’ He stabbed a bony finger off the screen and pocketed it, but gave them a pout. ‘Cops, aye?’
‘How did you know?’
He sniffed. ‘Got a sense for it, you know?’ He held out a hand and put on a car salesman smile. ‘Alan Kettles.’
‘Kettles?’
‘It’s an old Norse name, I’ll have you know.’ He was now smiling like he was chatting her up at the bar and had found his in. ‘And you are?’
‘DS Vicky Dodds.’ She held out her warrant card. ‘This is DC Karen Woods.’
‘Right, and how can I help you ladies?’ He was all charm now, hands rubbing together.
‘Looking to speak to Dougie McLean.’
‘Right.’ Just like that, the pout was back. ‘Come on in, then.’ He strolled off back into the office.
Vicky led them inside and it was like they’d slipped through a portal to another time.
The office was done up like a posh Scottish hotel, all tasteful tartans and bare stone walls. Chunky wooden furniture.
Alan Kettles took a seat behind a massive oak desk covered in computers and phones. ‘So, what’s he done?’
‘Just need to speak to him, sir.’
‘Well, good luck with that.’ Kettles sighed. ‘You’d think it’d be Hogmanay, but no. Christmas Eve is our busiest night of the year. And that cheeky sod McLean isn’t working.’
‘He’s not clocked on?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘Happens. We’re not a fancy firm like Uber or that Travis one. Old school, keeping it real. I pride myself on operating my business like my old man did. Car radios, not some daft app thing. What the hell even is an app, eh?’ His pout was back. ‘Trouble is, it’s a bit too easy to turn off those radios.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that a lot of my lads run wild and pick up fares off-meter at a flat rate. “Ten quid to the Hilltown, madam, thank you. Oh, my card machine’s broken, have you got cash? Well, I know a cash machine we can stop at on the way.” And on my diesel and in my bloody car. Cheeky sods inflate their mileage when working legitimately, and then make up the difference when they call in “sick” and go off the bloody meter.’
‘Sounds bad.’
‘Och, it’s the cost of doing business, isn’t it? I make good coin from this. It’s just the dishonesty, you know? They think I don’t know. And it’s not like I didn’t do it when my old boy owned this place. But Dougie is the worst at it. Thinks he’s getting one over on me all the time. Thinks I don’t know. And lies to my face when I ask him. Cheeky sod.’
‘So if we wanted
