McBride felt like a stalker – or a pervert. He sat in his car wearing running shorts and a T-shirt that was torn at the shoulder. At his right hand was a pair of binoculars which he raised to his eyes every time he detected a distant new arrival at the Monifieth end of the Esplanade.
It was the second successive morning he had sat waiting for Petra Novak to appear. He did not know if she would show that day either but every athletic instinct in his body told him she would not be able to resist routing at least some of her training runs along the river’s edge where her only companions would be seagulls and dog walkers. She would be attracted to the solitude just as he was, especially on fresh mornings which were so clear that the only thing in the sapphire sky was the high vapour trail of a jet airliner bound for North America.
His conviction that she would pass that way was not entirely intuitive. From the moment he had driven away from her father’s house, he had resolved to be reunited with her as quickly as he could. There was the attraction he felt for her, of course – half the men in Dundee probably felt that way – but he also needed her police mind and her access to the information available only to police officers.
Once he learned where she lived, it had been easy to work out where she might run. His people-tracer website revealed that she lived in Monifieth, the upmarket suburb that ran along the coastline from the east end of Broughty Ferry. Her home was 200 yards from the high-tide mark and, when she ran, she had a choice of three directions: east, on the cycle path skirting the perimeter of the army camp, which was safe but uninteresting; north, which was more appealing but hilly; and west, which would take her over the soft sand of the beach where there were the kinds of views they put on picture postcards. He reckoned it was odds-on she’d be running over the scenic route. So he waited. And, whenever a running figure came out of the distance, he watched with raised glasses, like someone awaiting the arrival on the shore of a rare seabird.
When she appeared as a distant speck, he could not distinguish her features but he knew instantly that it was her. Two slender legs stretched easily across the sand where it appeared from the river’s edge and she moved gracefully, making good progress over the firm surface. There was no hint of effort and her relaxed shoulders swung lightly whenever she turned her head to take in the vista of the waves breaking gently ahead of her on her left side. The occasional flash of crimson showed she was wearing the same ribbon that had held her hair back on the day she appeared at her father’s home.
McBride watched longer than necessary to establish her identity. He refocused for a sharper image and, when her face filled the eyeglasses, he noted that, although she was moving at an impressive pace, her breathing appeared to be perfectly normal. It was more than might have been said about his own.
After a last lingering look, he started up the Mondeo, turned it and drove away from her. Half a mile down the Esplanade, he drew to a halt in a car park. He left the vehicle, crossed over a bank of sand dunes on to the beach and started to run towards the advancing figure of Petra Novak. Their paths crossed less than a minute later.
McBride had mentally rehearsed his performance. He would raise a friendly, fellow-jogger hand but show no recognition – at first. He would allow her to pass then belatedly and uncertainly call her name with a question in his voice. But his doubtful acting abilities were not required – when he was over fifty feet away, the lithe legs he had observed a short time earlier through a pair of binoculars suddenly changed direction and came straight at him. Their owner started to wave a delicate hand.
‘Campbell, hi, it’s me – Petra. What a small world.’ She seemed excited at the coincidence. She drew to a halt in front of him. ‘I’d heard you were a runner – a bit of a regular by the look of it.’
McBride felt a surge of guilt at his deception. Her enthusiasm reminded him of her visit to his newspaper office in London. He cleared his throat and wondered why she always produced that reaction from him. ‘Hi, small world indeed.’ He tried to sound casual. ‘Been doing it for years but it never feels like it. You look pretty useful yourself. Going far? Been far?’
She lifted a hand and pointed past McBride’s shoulder. ‘I’ll go to the castle and then retrace my steps back to Monifieth. That’s where I stay. What about you. Are you out for long?’
‘Just started. I’ll probably do about five miles.’ He appeared to have a sudden thought. ‘Actually, if I go to the castle then head out your way, that would give me my distance. Do you mind if I join you? A bit of company always helps when your fitness is as dodgy as mine.’
She beamed. ‘Great. But I’ll be too slow for you. You’ll have to do all the speaking if I’m to have any hope of keeping up.’
McBride protested modestly. ‘From what I’ve seen it will be the other way round. Anyway, you’ll be the one talking. I want to hear all about this police career of yours.’
He turned and moved slowly off and, together, they strode out along the shoreline, McBride allowing her to set the pace.
She may have been one of the most feminine women he had encountered since returning to Dundee but she was deceptively fast, better than most men he’d run with. She was also infuriatingly relaxed.
‘So, how’s life as a detective inspector?’ he asked, doing his best to appear to breathe easily. ‘Do the guys give you a tough time? What are you working on? Any good murders on the go?’
She laughed quickly. ‘You’d never know you were a reporter. Which question would you like answered first?’ She laughed again.
McBride felt foolish. ‘Sorry – old habits … OK, in your own time. Tell me about being a woman cop.’
For the next five minutes, Detective Inspector Petra Novak spoke confidently and informatively about her current career. It was a Pavlovian response. McBride rapidly came to the conclusion she was delivering a practised spiel she’d used a dozen times at women’s groups and addressing equal opportunities seminars at the police college.
When she finished, he broke in, ‘OK, now tell me what it’s really like.’
Once again, gentle laughter rose from her throat. ‘Was it that obvious?’ Her mood abruptly changed. ‘If you really want to know, it can be hard. She hesitated, then swore to emphasise just how hard.’
McBride was taken aback at her sudden descent into male-speak. ‘With the guys?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Yeah – some of them. When I was a detective sergeant, I was one of the boys. Everything changed when I was made up and took over a shift. A few of them had to work very hard at coping.’ She gave a dismissive shake of her head. ‘You know male cops – biggest bunch of chauvinist bastards in the country. But I’m getting there.’
She glanced up, apparently realising that the castle was only 200 yards ahead. Without warning, she increased her pace and accelerated away. Caught unawares, McBride was slow to respond. She had ten yards on him before he reached her. He did not reduce speed after arriving at her side. Instead, he pressed harder until he was running as fast as he could. He did not look back but, over the next fifty yards, he was conscious of her footsteps thudding into the sand closely behind. Then their sound faded and he knew she had dropped away. He stopped sprinting only when he reached the castle wall.
In the space of a minute, McBride had learned three things about Petra Novak. She had a healthy understanding of her male colleagues, she could run at speed and she was competitive.
He liked all of that.