‘It might be Mum…’
‘You’re round there tomorrow, aye?’
‘Christmas with the Doddses.’ Vicky picked up her mobile just as it stopped ringing.
There was a missed call and a text she hadn’t heard. From Alan. Christ – she thought she’d blocked his number. Vicky switched the bloody thing off, then picked up her glass again. Trying to focus on the here and now, not the there and then.
Karen was looking over with that nosy glint in her eyes. ‘Who’s that?’
‘My brother.’ Vicky felt the lie turn into a blush on her neck, but it was only a white one – one day, she’d be able to talk to Karen about Alan, about everything that had happened, but that wasn’t today. ‘Daft sod.’
‘You’re back in touch with him, then?’
‘Just through Mum and Dad. Well, just Mum really. He’s back living there, but he isn’t well.’
‘In a—’
Now the house phone rang.
‘Christ, I’ve got to take it, don’t I?’ Vicky got up and charged through to the hall. That retro phone seemed like a cool idea in the shop, but the practicalities of a rotary dial in the age of mobile phones wasn’t exactly as good as a cheapo cordless, though the actual bell-ringing sound was nice. She picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Doddsy, it’s David.’
DI David Forrester, and it wasn’t likely that he’d be wishing her a happy Christmas, when it comes.
‘What’s up, sir?’
Forrester coughed. ‘Just wondering if you’d heard from DS Ennis.’
‘Ryan?’ Vicky frowned. ‘Not for a couple of days since I went off on leave. Why?’
‘Well, he’s supposed to be on shift, only I can’t get hold of the bugger. A lassie’s been killed.’
Vicky shut her eyes. ‘Is this you saying you need me to come in?’
Another cough. ‘Would you be able to?’
Vicky exhaled. She wasn’t allowed to put herself first for one night, even after eighteen consecutive days at work… ‘Okay, I’ll get Mum to come round to babysit Bella.’
‘And if you know where Karen Woods is?’
2
An hour later, but it looked like a year’s worth of activity had taken place.
Vicky slowed, her window whirring down, and she held out her ID. ‘Evening, Dumpy.’
‘Sarge.’ The tall male uniformed officer manning the entrance filled out the form for her. He was a good example of why the police could do with a maximum height, as he must have to stoop to get through every doorway. ‘DS Vicky Dodds and DC Karen Woods.’ He gave a curt nod. ‘DI Forrester is in the inner locus.’
‘Thanks.’ Vicky navigated her car across the icy car park, shiny sparkles rather than the sheer hell that was black ice.
The brutal supermarket lurked in the background, a dim outline behind the bright glow of the arc lights. Even the Ashworth’s sign was dulled, probably the only time of year it would be, Christmas and New Year – even Easter was a major shopping holiday now.
She parked as near as she could, but it wasn’t exactly right by the store. A few cars were huddled closer, must be for staff. Inside the front door, more uniformed cops interviewed frustrated workers, all looking outside and no doubt asking when they could go. But maybe someone had seen something. Maybe.
‘Can still taste that wine.’ Karen ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Not like you to get good stuff in.’
‘Well, it is Christmas, isn’t it?’ Vicky opened her door and got out into the bitter night. She set off towards the crime scene, wrapping her coat tight around her.
For once, the entrance to the glowing white tent wasn’t flapping in a breeze. Even this close to the Tay, it was perfectly still.
Karen got to the inner locus first and grabbed the clipboard to sign them in. ‘DI Forrester around?’
DC Stephen Considine was all suited up, his tangerine hair bright through the translucent hood. Still had acne despite being late twenties, if a day. Not quite tall enough to be the barrier his body language made him out to be. He thumbed behind him, but he seemed more interested in the cars parked nearby, especially a white BMW. ‘Aye, the gaffer’s inside.’
Karen handed the clipboard back with a nod. ‘Thanks.’ She tossed a crime scene suit towards Vicky.
She caught it just as the tent flap opened wide.
The unmistakeable hunched figure of Forrester stomped out, shaking his head and snarling through his mask. ‘I don’t bloody care.’
Trailing behind was the source of his ire. Vampish red hair a few shades darker than Considine’s crowded Jenny Morgan’s mask, but her icy smile seemed to make the air even colder. ‘I don’t bloody care if you don’t bloody care, David. It’s Christmas Eve and—’
‘And you’ve got a teenage lassie found half-clothed and dead in a supermarket car park.’ Forrester stopped, maybe letting his point sink in. ‘I don’t give—’
‘Look, I hate Christmas as much as the next Satanist, but my staff aren’t so enlightened.’
‘Well, I don’t give a monkey’s what day it is. That lassie has parents and a killer. If I’m to tell the former that I can’t catch the latter because you can’t manage your team? Christmas is cancelled. If your lot want a job that guarantees them off tonight, I suggest they inquire at Ashworth’s.’
‘Fine.’ Jenny’s snort looked like she was anything but. Still, she followed it with a resigned sigh, then a nod. ‘Evening, Vicks. Getting your evening ruined too?’
Vicky gave a warm smile, trying to disarm Jenny on behalf of Forrester, but it didn’t seem to cut the mustard. ‘I’m hoping you’d have solved the case before I got here.’
‘Nah, that’s your job, Vicks.’ Jenny stepped aside and started tearing at her crime scene suit. Her phone rang and she answered it, trousers around her ankles.
Inside the tent, Vicky saw the familiar sight of Dr Shirley Arbuthnott’s massive backside squatting by a body, side on to Vicky in a patch of petrol almost in the middle of a parking space. Looked like a teenager dressed for clubbing. A baby-blue dress that barely touched her thighs. Matching heels, though one had been discarded.
