A chill wind blew off the Pentland Hills, shaking the high branches of the wych elms on the Meadows and tumbling dead brown leaves to the grass. Janie Harrison regretted suggesting to DC Blane that they walk over from the station, her normal stride being about half the length of his. She could have cadged a lift in a squad car, although she had to admit she missed riding in DCI McLean’s Alfa Romeo. Even if there was something ever so slightly disturbing about its absurdly powerful engine under that long bonnet, its deep red leather interior.
‘So how’s it feel to be a detective sergeant then?’ Lofty asked.
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed much difference, to be honest. Still the same amount of work to do as ever. See when we get those new DCs we’ve been promised, I can maybe shunt some of it on to them, aye?’
‘Know what you mean. Seems daft being sent off to do this. Talking to some bloke about a harassment case, verbal abuse or something? Shouldn’t that be uniform’s job? I mean, I’m happy to get out of the station for a bit of fresh air, but we’re short enough on detectives as it is. Should be concentrating on that poor old wifey up in the woods, shouldn’t we?’
Janie shrugged, then shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched herself against the cold. ‘If the chief super says jump, I ask how high, OK? And besides, I get the feeling this isn’t a simple case of public nuisance. You’ve heard of Tommy Fielding, right?’
Lofty stopped walking, which at least gave Janie a chance to catch her breath.
‘The Dad’s Army guy?’
‘That’s him. Although I’m not sure that’s what he’s really about.’
‘How do you mean? He gets dads visiting rights when they’re divorced or separated. Someone’s got to fight their corner, haven’t they?’
Janie took a deep breath. How to approach this delicately? Decided she couldn’t be bothered. ‘He’s on the wrong side, aye? Defends the monsters who beat their girlfriends black and blue, gets serial rapists back out on the street when we’ve done everything we can to lock them up.’
‘Everyone’s entitled to their day in court, remember? Someone’s got to defend the bad ones.’
‘Aye, but they’re no’ supposed to enjoy it. And they’re no’ supposed to win.’
Blane shrugged, set off walking again so that Janie had to hurry to catch up. ‘So why are we going to talk to him and no’ some uniformed sergeant then?’ he asked.
‘Because he’s on first-name terms with the chief constable is why. He’s one of his golfing buddies or something. And his complaint’s been passed down to our new chief super, who’s keen as you like to make a good impression. End result, you and me get to tramp over to Fountainbridge for the morning, look serious while he rants at us, then do sod all about it. With a bit of luck, then we can get back to finding out who murdered that old wifey out in the hills.’
Lofty paused a moment, apparently considering this information. Then he shrugged again, said ‘OK,’ and set off once more in the direction of Tollcross.
They heard the noise of the crowd long before reaching the Scotston Hotel and conference centre. A group of people clustered around the side entrance, some bearing placards with such insightful comments as ‘Piss Off Tommy’ and ‘Leave The Kids Out Of It’. Most of them were simply shouting and waving fists. And getting in the way, at least until the looming presence of DC Blane made itself felt.
Janie tucked herself in behind him, and he pushed through the demonstration as if it wasn’t there. She glanced from side to side, doing her best to note faces as she went, just in case. All of them were women, as far as she could tell. They spanned all ages, from teenagers with buzzcut hairdos and multiple piercings to a couple who looked like they might be someone’s great-nan and her best friend out for a day’s shopping in the big toon. One face caught her attention as they reached the corner of the square. Glanced out of the corner of her eye, she thought she recognised the bright red hair, the quickest glimpse of a familiar profile. But when she turned, the figure had gone. There wasn’t time to stop, let alone work her way back through the crowd for a better look. And besides, there was no way the person she thought it was would be there. She’d be down in London, surely.
‘Come on, Janie. Let’s get this over with.’ Lofty tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘Or should I call you Sarge?’
‘Only if you want all the shitty assignments.’ Harrison turned from the noisy crowd, still puzzled by the face she had seen, sparking a memory that couldn’t be right. She shook the thoughts away. It wasn’t important, unless things got out of hand and people started being arrested.
A nervous-looking day manager approached them as they entered the smart foyer of the hotel, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
‘Are you the police?’ he asked, only just managing to stop himself from pronouncing it ‘polis’. For all his smart suit and neat appearance, he had to work hard to keep the Muirhouse out of his accent.
‘Detective Con— Sergeant Harrison. This is my colleague Detective Constable Blane.’ Janie let Blane show his warrant card. ‘I understand Mr Fielding has a complaint.’
‘Indeed.’ The manager glanced in the direction of the front door, although he looked less annoyed at the noisy protest than might be expected. Now that they were inside, it wasn’t really all that noisy anyway, the front door doing an effective job of blocking much of the sound from outside. ‘Please, follow me.’
He led them along a corridor and into a large conference room. By the look of things it had been set up for a presentation, with rows of seats all facing a small dais and lectern. A projector screen behind the lectern showed a slide, presumably part of the presentation. It disappeared almost before Janie could take anything in, but not before she’d seen the ‘Dad’s Army’ logo and what looked like a pie chart claiming the vast majority of rape allegations were made up.
‘The police are here, sir.’ The manager approached no closer than twenty feet from the dais, announcing their presence a little more loudly than necessary. He gave Janie a strained smile as he turned away and hurried out the door. Clearly not a fan, although whether of her or the man at the lectern Janie couldn’t be sure.
‘About bloody time.’
Janie had never met Tommy Fielding before, but she had seen photographs and knew him by reputation. In real life he was shorter than she’d imagined, but then that was so often the way with self-important men. He wore a tailored suit that must have cost a fortune, and yet somehow he managed to look scruffy in it. Perhaps it was his scrappy, receding hair, or maybe the slight jowliness about his face. Whatever it was, it gave him the air of a man going to seed. He stepped off the dais and walked up the narrow aisle between the rows of seats to meet them, his gaze flicking only briefly on her, then focusing on DC Blane.
‘Detective Sergeant Harrison,’ Janie said, before Fielding could assume the male officer was the most senior. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Blane. I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with the protesters outside, sir.’
‘A bit of trouble?’ Fielding hardly glanced at her, and the sneer in his voice was plain enough. ‘Those witches have been camped outside for days now, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into the hotel. I’m trying to run a conference here and half my delegates have been scared off already.’
Janie doubted any of it was true, apart from the bit about running a conference. As far as she was aware, no one at the hotel had lodged a complaint so far, and the women were loud at times, but mostly peaceful. More to the point, the place where they were holding their vigil, or hurling abuse, was a public square. Moving them on would be tricky even if she wanted to, and so far Fielding had given her little reason.
‘I’ll go and speak to them, sir. Ask them to disperse, or at the very least to stop harassing people.’ She took out her notebook and opened it to a blank page, fully intending it remain that way. ‘When does your conference begin? I’m sure we can arrange for a few officers to be on hand.’
Fielding finally stopped staring at Lofty and fixed her with a glare that might have been frightening had she not faced down far worse on football match duty back in her uniform days. Nothing quite like an Old Firm derby to bring out the feral beast in a man, and Janie knew how to deal with it. She smiled sweetly, until he broke the stare.
‘The conference programme starts tomorrow morning, but folk have already started arriving. Those . . .’ he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of outside ‘. . . had better not cause any more trouble. The chief constable will hear of it. Mark my words, Detective Sergeant Harrison.’
The threat in naming her was about as subtle as herpes. Janie closed up her notebook and slipped it into her pocket, never once taking her eyes off the loathsome man, nor the condescending smile from her face. ‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Mr Fielding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better have a word with the ladies outside.’
The side entrance to the Scotston Hotel took them back out to the small square that some optimistic city planner had shoehorned into the redevelopment strategy for the area. Perhaps in high summer it was pleasant enough to sit on the concrete benches, under the struggling plane trees, and eat a quick sandwich before heading back to the office. As autumn merged into winter, it was a grey and unforgiving expanse, all dark whinstone paving and brutally hard landscaping, what little light there was blocked out by the glass-fronted high-rise office and apartment blocks all around it. Into this forbidding space, a band of women had descended to make their protest at the event being held in the hotel.
They were an odd bunch. Janie scanned the crowd, again looking for the familiar flash of red hair, not finding it. The old grannies seemed to have left, and the whole assembly had the feel of breaking up about it, apart from a core of women who clustered around one of the concrete benches. She approached, expecting hostility, but as she neared the group, one of the women turned and smiled.
‘It’s Janie Harrison, isn’t it? Well, this is a surprise.’
Caught on the back foot, Janie stared at the woman. She was vaguely familiar, but the name remained elusive. Taller than Janie, she carried herself with an easy elegance, and wore clothing that managed to be fashionable in a grungy kind of way, while at the same time being perfectly suited to the cold weather. It was her face that caught Janie’s attention though, or more specifically her eyes. They had a strange, purple tint to them that had to be contact lenses, surely.
‘I’m being unfair.’ The woman held out a slender hand, wrist wrapped in bangles. ‘Meghan Turner. I’m Hattie’s wife. We met briefly at the dig site up in the hills this summer, I think.’
‘I thought you were in Africa.’ Janie took the proffered hand, feeling the warmth and strength in the other woman’s grip. She was an artist, wasn’t she? A sculptor? Something like that.
‘Heavens, no. Hattie wanted me to go, but I’ve had quite enough of Africa for now. And this is so much more important.’ Meghan waved at the crowd, the square, the hotel in one all-encompassing expansive gesture.
‘About that.’ Janie reminded herself that this was police business. ‘We’ve had quite a few complaints, you know? And you’re pushing the boundaries of breaching the peace.’
Meghan stared at her for a while, not unfriendly so much as sizing her up. ‘You know what’s going on in there, right?’
‘A perfectly legal seminar on men’s rights. Morally repugnant as it is, what Mr Fielding is doing isn’t against the law. This, however . . .’ Janie nodded towards the crowd, but said no more.
‘Morally repugnant. I like that.’ The older woman smiled.
‘He called you witches. I take that as a personal insult. Still have to do my job, mind.’
Meghan’s smile grew even wider, and was it just a trick of the light, or did the purple of her eyes seem to deepen? ‘Oh, but we are witches, Janie. That’s the whole point.’