you, just get dressed and go.’
‘Mia…’
‘Fuck off!’
It’s impossible to be dignified when someone’s glaring at you as you’re trying to get the other foot into your briefs, so I gathered up my clothes, and my overnight bag, and took them through to the bathroom. I ran the Philishave over my chin a few times, then showered quickly, and dressed, same suit and shoes but a change of everything else. I was almost ready when my phone sounded.
It was Alex. I hadn’t even looked at the time until then, but the readout told me that it was two minutes past eight. ‘Morning, Pops,’ she said, and a huge warm feeling of relief surged through me. She was my foundation, the real keystone of my entire existence. I’d lost sight of that truth for just a little while; focusing on it put everything back in balance.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
I didn’t want to tell her, but I couldn’t lie. ‘In the bathroom,’ I replied.
‘Possibly too much information, Pops. Whose bathroom?’
She was my daughter so it stood to reason that she’d be a persistent interrogator. ‘I had to go to Newcastle last night,’ I told her, irrelevantly.
‘Ah, so you stayed over?’
‘Well, no…’
She wasn’t giving up. ‘You’re at Alison’s, then?’
‘No… Alex, don’t ask, okay?’
‘You’re at Mia’s!’ she exclaimed. She sounded triumphant; she’d got me and she knew it.
‘I give up,’ I said. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Pops, be careful.’ Her sudden concern astonished me.
‘What do you mean?’ I almost stammered. ‘You’re not giving me.. . big-people advice, are you?’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant be careful with Mia. Don’t get serious or anything. She’s not right for you.’
I felt just a little huffed. ‘What do you mean? I thought you liked her.’ I wasn’t sure whether I was defending my taste in women or the woman herself.
‘I do. She’s a friendly person, and she’s good on the radio, and she went out of her way to be nice to me which meant for sure that she fancies you, but she’s different, so different from you. You don’t belong together.’
‘And what about Alison?’ I challenged.
‘I like Alison more than I like Mia, and she would be right for you, maybe, but that’s not going to happen. If it was you wouldn’t be in Mia’s bathroom at this time in the morning.’
I was comforted. She didn’t know everything, I thought, until I realised that, actually, what she didn’t get was the truth about her old man, that he was as weak as most other blokes when it came to women, as easily led by his dick.
‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ I declared. ‘Neither of those things is going to happen. No kitchen-sharing, I promise. Now bugger off to school. What are you doing today anyway? A post-grad in adulthood?’
‘Double maths, Spanish and English this morning, as it happens. See you tonight?’
‘See you tonight,’ I confirmed. ‘And you’re cooking, since you’re so bloody grown up all of a sudden… and so territorial when it comes to the kitchen.’
I slipped on my jacket and ventured out of the bathroom. I’d hoped, maybe even assumed, that Mia would be waiting outside, contrite, with tea and toast, and maybe even a full Scottish on the hob if I was lucky. But she wasn’t. The bedroom door was still closed. ‘Fuck her,’ I whispered, angry and more than a little humiliated, as I walked out, closing the door firmly so that she’d know I’d gone, but just short of slamming it like a petulant kid.
I was first into the office, but only just. Andy Martin arrived just as I was starting on my copy of that morning’s Saltire newspaper. It was my barometer; I took its journalism and its editorial line seriously, which I didn’t do always with the other blacktops. There was nothing in it about either of the murder inquiries. That pleased me in one way and worried me in another. It meant that there was no immediate public pressure on me for a result in either case, but worried me because I’d expected a harder time from them, on the Weir-McCann investigation at least. My reading was that the paper was sitting on the story, not wanting it to run out of steam, in case.. . in case there was more, in case there was a third murder. At that moment, that was my biggest fear. Two down. How many more to go?
I looked up and saw Martin standing outside my door, as if he was considering whether or not he should knock. I waved him in.
‘Hi, Andy,’ I greeted him. ‘I thought I told you not to be too sharp getting in this morning.’
‘I couldn’t sleep, boss. I didn’t see any point in hanging about the flat.’
‘Lucky you. I wish I hadn’t slept.’ I’d never been more sincere.
‘Bad dreams?’
I nodded. ‘The worst. You had breakfast?’
‘Coffee, that’s all.’
I stood. ‘Come on then, let’s go to the canteen. When I’m feeling fucked I always refuel.’
The staff catering was just as good as that in the senior officers’ dining room, and every bit as traditional. Cops need feeding properly. I filled a plate with fried egg, sausage, bacon and black pudding, then topped it off with a fried potato scone, just for luck, to be washed down with a huge mug of tea. Martin had the same, only more so. ‘It’s a training night at Raeburn Place,’ he explained.
‘Are you still serious about rugby?’ I asked.
‘The day I stop being serious about it, I’ll have played my last game. I may have dropped out of the top flight, but I’m still as committed as ever. I owe that to the other fourteen guys in the team.’
‘Think that way in CID and you’ll be fine,’ I told him.
We ripped through our breakfasts like a chainsaw through a tree, then turned our attention to the well- stewed tea. I looked at the DC over the top of my mug. I’d known him for less than a week, and we were hardly equals in rank, but I was starting to think of him as a friend. ‘Have you got a bidey-in?’
He blinked at my question. ‘A what?’
His surprise made me chuckle, and realise how far from my roots I’d travelled. ‘Sorry, I forgot that’s more of an east coast term. Have you got a live-in girlfriend?’
He shook his head. ‘No, not just now. I did have, but that went tits up about nine months ago.’
‘Whose fault?’
‘Nobody’s, really. We didn’t fall out or anything. She wanted it to go further than I did, that’s all, so we split. I still see her from time to time; we’re still good friends.’
‘Is she in the job?’ I asked.
‘Hell no. She works in PR. I would not fancy having a policewoman as a girlfriend.’
‘No?’
‘What else would you talk about over the dinner table, other than the job?’
‘Your kids, eventually. By the way,’ I added, ‘you’re not supposed to use that word any more.’
He was puzzled. ‘Which word?’
‘Policewoman. There are no more WPCs; we’re all police officers now, everybody. It’s no longer politically correct.’
He grinned. ‘Did I catch an inference there, sir, that you don’t have much time for politicians?’
‘I’ll say it out loud if you like. I can’t fucking stand the breed. There is something completely fucking phoney about them. They’ll be back soon promising us the world in exchange for our votes, and as soon as they have them they’ll fuck off for another four or five years and forget about us, until it’s time to be nice to us all again.’
‘Don’t you like any of them?’ he asked.
‘I admired the last Prime Minister… “admire” being different from “like”. Balls like grapefruits. But the present bloke? I don’t believe he really exists. I’m sure he’s made of fucking latex, like his puppet. As for the new guy, he’s all fucking bouffant and razzamatazz. He went to bloody Fettes, for Christ’s sake, that fucking
