We spent a few minutes moaning about the Warriors chances against Aberdeen Football Club on Saturday, what a cock Sergeant Smith was, and the weekend s weather forecast; then she caught me up on the Cameron Park investigation. Which didn t seem to be achieving much more than produ-cing a small rainforest s worth of paperwork.
The band s Jimmy-Shand-style interpretation of Smells Like Teen Spirit got louder for a couple of seconds, then a door clunked and Henry s voice cut through the snow s feathery silence. Wondered where you d got to.
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. Checking in with the station.
Henry turned up his collar and squinted out into the slow-motion blizzard. He didn t look that great even for someone slowly pickling themselves into oblivion. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, skin the colour of parchment. He sniffed. Held out his arms, voice a gravelly monotone.
Then winter s icy claws dig deep into the hearts of men pulling forth the long dark nights, the pale bone touch of death again
Poetry? God, you re a cheery bastard.
A shrug. My clown suit s been in the wash since Ellie passed. He wiped a finger under his nose catching a drip. You know the funny thing about Albert Pearson s funeral? The only person I knew there was dead. What was the point? We re all dead now, even me. I just haven t stopped moving yet.
Thursday 17th November
The kitchen clock ticked quietly on the wall, Sheba groaned and twitched on a hairy tartan beanbag, and the muffled sound of snoring came from the master and spare bedrooms. I sat at the breakfast bar, looking out at the back garden. All the sharp edges were gone, softened by eight inches of snow, more of it drifting down from the pale sky. A puffed-up robin perched on top of the washing line, shouting territorial abuse at anyone within listening distance.
No sign of Henry or Dr McDonald, so I d let myself in and taken over the kitchen. Flicking through the case files, brooding about Michelle, Katie, and Rebecca, listening to the clock carving the day into thin sharp slices.
And my coffee was cold.
What to do about Ethan Baxter? The vicious little bastard never learned Well, tomorrow morning he was going to get a telling he wouldn t forget.
Maybe it was time for Ethan to have an accident? Drag him out into the middle of nowhere and put a bullet through his head. Put an end to his crap once and for all
Well, it was worth thinking about.
And once I d taken care of Ethan Baxter, there d be Mrs Kerrigan to deal with. Four grand by lunchtime today. Even if I had four grand, which I didn t, there was no way I could get it to her not from here. Never mind the other fifteen.
Where the hell was I supposed to get nineteen thousand pounds from?
It was like a weight, sitting on my chest, forcing me back into the chair.
Focus on the do-able first, then worry about the rest.
Four grand by today was impossible: the ferry wouldn t get back to Aberdeen till seven tomorrow morning. OK, I could blag a flight from Sumburgh Airport flash my warrant card and pretend it was urgent police business but what would be the point? Rush home so I could be in time to get my legs broken? Bugger that.
The house was a wreck, my car wasn t worth the duct tape holding the rear bumper on, and I had nothing left to sell. Nothing: it was all gone. And shaking a few perverts and drug dealers by the ankles would only net a couple of grand tops, so how the hell was I going to get my hands on nineteen thousand pounds?
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ethan Baxter wasn t exactly scraping along the poverty line, was he? No: Ethan drove a Mercedes; Ethan lived in a nice big house in Castleview; Ethan was due a battering anyway, why not throw in a bit of demanding money with menaces too?
Wasn t as if the bastard didn t deserve it. And I m sure given the choice of a shallow grave or making a donation he d jump at the chance to help out an old friend.
I d be doing him a favour really.
Rationalization that good deserved a fresh cup of coffee.
I got as far as filling the kettle when someone banged on the front door.
OK, OK, I m coming.
More banging.
I hauled the door open.
Winter had claimed Scalloway. The rooftops were laden with thick crusts of white, the gardens nearly buried. Arnold Burges stood on the path, scuffed yellow wellingtons ankle-deep in snow, dressed in a scabby pair of orange overalls with a quilted jacket over the top and a woolly hat. His eyes were thin and dark, beard bristling.
I blocked the doorway. Arnold.
He bit his top lip, flexed his hands into fists. She was alive. His breath hung in the cold air around his head. It stank of stale booze.
Did you drive here? Because
She was our little girl, and we loved her.
Mr Burges, I know it s
