Plink. The golf ball trundled across the carpet tiles, then up into the little horseshoe-shaped thing with a hole in it, sitting on the floor by the far wall. He held the putter above his head and made fake crowd noises. And it s in! The young officer from Oldcastle is romping home at Gleneagles today.
He handed me the club, then settled into his office chair and ran a hand across his head, making sure the dyed brown comb-over was still in place. A splodge of what looked like brown sauce stained the breast pocket of his white shirt, black uniform jacket hanging over the back of his seat, its superintendent s epaulettes in need of a good clean.
The horseshoe thing spat the ball out again.
Charlie stuck out a finger and traced an invisible path around the cluttered office. It s a par three with a dogleg around the wastepaper basket. Another mouthful of bacon buttie.
Outside the tiny office window, the station car park was nearly empty. The occasional sweep of headlights broke the gloom, illuminating a high brick wall topped with razor wire. Twenty past seven: the sun wouldn t be up for nearly an hour yet.
I rolled the ball onto the tee a Tennent s Lager beer mat and lined up the shot. Nice and casual. Nothing out of the ordinary here Well, Rhona did get a bit bladdered last night.
You know I m supposed to give you a kicking, don t you?
Yup.
Plink. The ball rolled under the desk and bounced off the skirting board.
Oh, good shot. Can we take the bollocking as read, then? I really can t be arsed, and you re not going to give a toss anyway.
Yup. I lined up the next shot. Any progress on the door-to-doors?
But come on, Ash: the Assistant Chief Constable? Could you not have picked a bigger toss-pot to accuse of being the Birthday Boy?
Plink The ball clanged into the wastepaper basket.
And telling our beloved MSP to bugger off? Really?
Lucky I didn t knee the greasy little bastard in the balls. So: door-to-doors?
They not talking to you, eh? Join the club no one tells us poor sods in Professional Standards anything. I have to guess what the soup is most days.
No one likes a clype.
Charlie checked his comb-over again. Ash, I m really sorry about Katie.
I need to be in on the investigation.
It s such a horrible thing Sigh.
I need to know what s happening.
This isn t the movies, Ash: you can t get twenty-four hours to crack the case not with the media camped out on our doorstep. You should be at home with Michelle Everyone s doing their best.
Plink. Bloody ball went wide, ended up in the gap between the filing cabinets and the visitor s chair.
I tightened my grip on the club, knuckles going white. So I m out. Not exactly a surprise, but still
He s got my daughter.
I know, Ash, I know. Charlie pulled a sheet of paper from his pending-tray and held it out. I m sorry. The ACC wants you taken off active duty for the duration of the investigation, and the Chief Constable agrees.
Suspended.
With pay.
As if that bloody mattered.
He looked down at the makeshift office golf course, the piles of paperwork on his desk, the remains of his bacon buttie everywhere but at me. I m truly sorry, Ash. But we don t have any choice.
The CID office printer groaned and creaked in the corner churning out reams of reports. The only other noise was the clink and thump of me hurling the contents of my desk drawers into a cardboard box.
Are you OK? Dr McDonald sidled in from the corridor outside. Her hair was different: flatter, and darker too. The usually stripy grey top had been replaced with a black long-sleeved one with a red and black striped T-shirt over the top. A cross hung around her neck on what looked like a string of rosary beads. Black jeans. But the shoes were still bright-red Converse Hi-tops, the toecaps unnaturally white. What, did she put on a new pair every morning?
I dumped a stapler and a two-hole punch in with the assorted crap.
Everyone fucked off soon as I produced the cardboard box.
More honour among thieves than police officers?
Suspended till the investigation s over. Eight years and they ve got nowhere. Eight years I jammed the desk tidy in on top of all the half-used pads of Post-it notes. Her birthday s tomorrow.
Maybe we don t need a warrant to question Steven Wallace, maybe we could
I told you last night: it s not Steven Wallace. A knot of black cables, attached to a variety of plugs, lurked at the back of the bottom drawer rechargers for phones I hadn t had for years. I packed them anyway. He s got an alibi.
She perched herself on the edge of a desk, little red shoes dangling two feet above the carpet tiles. We need to work out why he s targeted Katie, I mean perhaps Henry was wrong and the Birthday Boy didn t take someone else before Megan Taylor, perhaps Katie s number thirteen Unless he really did take a year off, which would make her number twelve A crease formed between her eyebrows. She stared at her hands, clasped in her lap. I m sorry, I m trying to help, but I know I can be a bit
It s not your fault.
