The major incident room hummed quietly, but not through any great activity on the part of the team at work. Earlier it had been flies buzzing against the window, but now that it was dark outside they’d given up and the task of making an irritating noise had been handed over to the dying fluorescent lights sunk into the false ceiling. Over in the far corner by the water cooler one was flickering and blinking in a manner that made Janie glad she wasn’t an epileptic. Or particularly susceptible to migraines. It was making her tetchy all the same.
‘Has anyone been on to maintenance about that bloody light?’ she asked as she cut and pasted a chunk of useless information from one window to another, putting together a background report on the man whose dead body she had seen first thing that morning.
Mr Donald Purefoy had not led the most interesting of lives, his only brush with the law a half a dozen speeding tickets spread over just enough time that he never quite lost his licence. He’d been briefly married, two kids, divorced for a couple of years now. Janie had spoken briefly with Katie English, the ex-Mrs Purefoy, who hadn’t exactly been upset by the news. Neither had she seen Purefoy in over a year, since moving to Aberystwyth to lecture at the university. Katie had doubted she’d make the trip up for any funeral, or that the children would even notice the further absence of their father. Yet another sad tale that left Janie wondering why people bothered hitching up in the first place.
Frustrated, it took her a while to notice that nobody had answered her question. True, she hadn’t been expecting anyone to actually do anything about the lights; that was something she’d have to sort out in the morning herself. A non-committal grunt from Jay at the desk opposite might have been nice, though. Only, when she looked up, DC Stringer was nowhere to be seen. Neither was anyone else for that matter. She pulled out the earbuds that didn’t actually block out any noise, but did stop people from bothering her unnecessarily, stood up and glanced around the room. Empty.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’
It struck her as she walked around the unmanned desks that asking such a question in the circumstances was a bit stupid. She pulled out her phone, swiped the screen to see if anyone had messaged her. There was nothing, but the numbers at the top told her it was past shift end. The night shift should have been in by now, though, so that didn’t explain why the room was empty.
Outside, the corridor looked like something from a horror movie. Nobody in sight, another pair of fluorescent lights blinking and buzzing at the far end. Janie was almost spooked, but then a familiar face rounded the corner.
‘You heard the news?’ Constable Amy McKay had come up through training with her, but stuck to uniform when Janie had made the switch to CID. Plain Amy, the other recruits had called her, which was unfair. But then coppers could be cruel.
‘What news?’ A slight shiver of worry ran through her at the possibilities. Something bad enough to empty the incident room, but not bad enough anyone would interrupt her.
‘The Detective Inspector. His car. There’s been a horrible crash up at Tollcross.’
The shiver turned to an icy block in the pit of her stomach. ‘DI McLean?’ she asked, although none of the other DIs would have been described by the car they drove. The car she had, in a roundabout way, helped him buy. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Paramedics are trying to save the driver, but he went through the windscreen. It’s a miracle no pedestrians were hurt.’
Janie’s mind raced. And then something occurred to her. ‘I thought the DI was at that Safe Streets do with the chief superintendent this evening.’ She pulled out her phone and checked the time again. ‘Why would he be driving through Tollcross? You sure it’s his car?’
Amy shook her head, looked at Janie as if she was daft. ‘Someone nicked it, see? Right out of the car park here. Duty sergeant’s spitting blood. Got half the station looking at CCTV and the other half being questioned about what they might have seen.’
‘So he wasn’t driving it, then?’ Janie struggled to keep up.
‘Who?’
‘DI McLean, Amy. He wasn’t driving the car when it crashed? He wasn’t anywhere near it?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘Has anyone told him?’ She didn’t much fancy the task herself.
‘The sergeant’s giving him a call, but you know what he’s like for answering his phone, aye?’
Janie gave her a weak smile. ‘Aye, you’re right enough there. Thanks, Amy.’
She went back to the major incident room, logged into her computer again, and searched for any information on the crash. There wasn’t much logged on the system, but a quick Google search brought up the news fast enough. There was no denying it was the boss’s car, although from what she could see in the shaky camera-phone footage, it wasn’t going to be his car for much longer. Christ, it must have been going at some speed.
Janie picked up her phone, tapped the screen until the number came up, then hovered her thumb over the call icon. It had been instinct to get in touch, but did she need to really? It wasn’t as if there was anything she could do right now, and by the morning they’d have more information to go on.
She switched the phone off, slipped it into her pocket, then logged out of the computer and grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. Some of the night shift were beginning to filter into the room now, Sandy Gregg bringing everyone up to speed. Not that there was a lot for them to do. Most of the chatter seemed to be about the DI’s car anyway.
Janie slipped away unnoticed, let herself out the back door and walked through the car park to the road. Glancing up, she saw the CCTV cameras covering every inch of parking space and marvelled at the balls of a thief who could stride in as bold as brass and steal the nicest car in the place. Cheeky sod. Not that it had done him much good.
A light squall of rain kicked up out of nowhere as she made the walk to Nicolson Street for a bus. Janie pulled her collar up, wishing she’d brought a hat. Winter was coming, as that mad telly series Manda went on about kept saying. Still, it would be nice to get home to the flat, have a bite to eat and curl up on the sofa for some mindless viewing. If she could get her mind to switch off for a moment, that was.
She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, Janie almost didn’t notice the footsteps behind her. They weren’t heavy or threatening, but they were coming closer. Not quite a run. She shoved her hand deep into her pocket, made a fist around her bunch of keys. Not tonight. Not any night. She didn’t need this shit.
Whirling around at the last moment, she pulled her hand out of her pocket, swinging down and back in readiness to land a punch. The figure hurrying towards her wasn’t a mugger though. Quite the opposite. She looked like someone had attacked her already. And she was familiar.
‘Janie? Janie Harrison? Thank fuck for that.’ The young woman’s English accent was the final clue.
‘Izzy?’ Janie shoved her keys back in her pocket and went to grab the young woman before she fell down. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’
The Southsider wasn’t Janie’s favourite pub, but it had the benefit of being close. She led Izzy inside, a wave of warm air washing over them and bringing with it the familiar pub smell of stale beer and body odour.
‘You look like you need a stiff drink,’ she said, as she guided the young woman to a seat in the corner, miraculously free of punters at this early stage of the night’s drinking. ‘Sit there and I’ll get you something, aye?’
Izzy did as she was told, but didn’t say what she wanted. Janie went to the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. Whisky might have been better, but it was still a bit early for that, and the pay rise that came with her promotion wouldn’t hit her bank until the end of the month. It occurred to her as she carried the glasses back to the table that Izzy – Isobel DeVilliers – was probably one of the richest people in the country. Hadn’t she inherited a share of her dad’s billions?
‘There you go. Get that down you. Should settle your nerves.’
Izzy seemed to be coming back to her senses now, the shock of whatever had happened beginning to wear off. In the poor light of the pub, she looked a mess. Of course, she’d looked a mess the first time Janie had seen her – wasn’t that part of the whole hippy chick grunge look? – but Janie was fairly sure that didn’t include scrapes and bruises on the face and hands, and certainly not a cracked and swollen lip.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then winced as she tried to take a sip of her wine. She paused for a moment before going for it again, taking a decent gulp this time and grimacing as she swallowed. ‘Ugh, maybe not. What is that?’
‘You’re welcome.’ Janie ignored the comment and took a sip from her own glass. It was horribly sour, but the alcohol would numb her tastebuds soon enough. ‘So tell me. What happened to you?’
Izzy shuddered slightly, then pulled herself together. ‘There were two of them,’ she said, after another gulp of the foul wine had disappeared down her throat. ‘Jumped me as I was walking up the Royal Mile. I’d been down at Holyrood trying to get a chance to speak with someone about that bloody man, Fielding.’
As she spoke, Janie studied the young woman’s face, trying to get an idea of her injuries. She was bruised, shaken, but also angry, which suggested any physical harm was superficial.
‘Did you get a look at them?’ she asked.
‘They had their faces covered with those stupid bandana things.’ Izzy shook her head. ‘One of them’s got at least three broken fingers and I’m pretty sure I broke his nose. The other’s going to need surgery on his right knee. Oh, and he’s probably got a ruptured testicle too.’
Something about the way she said it, her delivery perfectly deadpan, utterly serious, made Janie burst out laughing.
‘I meant it,’ Izzy said, a faint hint of annoyance in her voice.
‘Sorry.’ Janie pulled herself together, chugged back too much of the wine to help give her a little time. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe because that’s what I’ve wanted to do to Fielding every time I’ve been in the same room as the wee scrote.’
‘Scrote?’ Izzy’s puzzled frown lasted for a few seconds, then realisation dawned. ‘Ah. Apt.’
‘Seriously though, Izzy. You really inflicted serious injury on them? Your attackers? You fought back?’
‘Of course I did. I’m not going to let any man push me around like that. They had it coming.’
Janie heard the defensiveness in the young woman’s voice, back-pedalled as quickly as she could. ‘Not trying to suggest you should have done anything different. Honest. They deserved it, like you say. I meant you seemed, I don’t know, frightened when you caught up with me out on the street. And your injuries . . .’ She raised a hand tentatively towards Izzy’s face, but didn’t touch her.
‘Like I said, they jumped me. Stupid, really. I should have been paying more attention, but I was that pissed off with the bloody politicians refusing to see me. If I’d been thinking straight those two would never have got anywhere near.’ Izzy clenched her hands into tight fists, the grazes on her knuckles beginning to ooze a little fresh blood. ‘I legged it while they were down. Knew the police station you worked out of was close by and hoped you’d still be at work. Saw you just leaving, didn’t I? Had to run to catch you up.’
Janie reached into her pocket and pulled out her trusty notebook. Most policing was done with electronic PDAs these days, but technically she was off duty, and the batteries were always flat when you most needed them not to be. Flicking forward to an empty page, she opened it up on the table.
‘These two men who attacked you. I know you said you couldn’t identify them, but can you give me a few more details?’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Don’t know if it’ll be easy to press charges, mind you. Men like that . . .’ Izzy tailed off, her eyes going to a faraway place Janie couldn’t even imagine. She took another swig of her wine to fill the silence, and something of the motion must have brought the young woman back to the here and now.
‘Maybe not. But if you can give us a detailed description of the injuries you inflicted, then that might be interesting if any of Fielding’s associates turn up limping, or with a bandaged hand, wouldn’t you say?’
Izzy’s face brightened at the thought. ‘That would be something, wouldn’t it? Yes. That’s a great idea.’
It took the best part of an hour, going back and forth over the details. Janie knew that she should really have walked Izzy back to the station, lodged a formal incident report and taken a statement from her there. But she also knew the connection with Fielding was entirely conjecture, and that an attempted attack on a young woman wouldn’t get the full attention it deserved. If they’d found her body in one of the narrow closes off the Royal Mile, then there would have been a full investigation, but Izzy had escaped relatively unharmed. Any search for her assailants would be cursory at best.
‘Where are you staying at the moment?’ Janie asked as they picked at the remains of their fourth packet of crisps and second glass of wine. As she’d expected, once you’d had one, the next didn’t taste so bad. Or, indeed, of anything much at all. Still, she was aware that the time was marching on, her night in front of the telly disappearing rapidly.
‘That’s the thing. I was staying with Con’s friend, Rose? You know her?’
‘Aye, I know Rose. You want me to arrange someone to take you back there?’
‘Christ, no. I don’t think I can bear to stay in that house any longer. It’s too weird. She’s too weird. And all those cats, always watching you. Swear they’re all reporting back to her the whole time.’
Janie wanted to laugh again, except that everything Izzy said was true.
‘Do you not think she’ll worry, if you’re not there?’
‘Nah. I left a note. Half expect to see one of the cats sitting on a wall outside keeping an eye on me anyway. Told her I’d find digs somewhere else, but that was before all this happened.’ Izzy indicated the notebook, the wine, the packets of crisps. ‘I’m not really in a position to turn up at the North British and get myself a room for the night.’
‘Really? I thought you were loaded. What with . . .’ Janie left the sentence unfinished, suddenly embarrassed.
‘I wish.’ Izzy didn’t seem to have taken offence at the statement. ‘Maybe someday. Right now all the DeVilliers money is locked down tight in all manner of legal cases. Charlotte, my half-sister, she’s doing her best to sort it all out, and she’s way better at it than I’d have ever believed possible. Mum’s moved in with Con’s dad, which is all kinds of awkward, let me tell you. Long and short of it is I used to be a trust fund kid in a posh private school and now I’ve barely two beans to rub together.’
Far from being upset by it, Janie could see that Izzy was happy at the freedom not being one of the country’s wealthy elite brought to her. Perhaps it was the folly of youth, although she wasn’t that much younger than Janie. Not really. If you squinted. Maybe it was the certain knowledge that she’d be rich again soon enough. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem bitter about it, which given all the things that had happened in her life showed a remarkably wise head on those young shoulders. Christ, she was beginning to sound like her mum.
‘Don’t suppose you know anywhere I can crash?’ Izzy asked. ‘Sure I’ll find somewhere tomorrow, but it’s getting kind of late now.’
For a moment Janie thought about the boss, with his big old house and all its spare rooms. He’d put up waifs and strays before. She’d almost reached for her phone to give him a call, but then she remembered what had happened to his car. He’d either be out dealing with that, or home and pissed off. She’d check in with him tomorrow.
‘Come on then.’ She made up her mind as she stood and reached for her coat. ‘It’s only a couch in the living room, but you can crash at my place for the night.’