He was ten minutes into the drive home when his mobile sounded. He allowed it to ring several times while he conducted the usual debate with himself about whether to break the law and answer it while he drove or be sensible and pull over. A hands-free kit was never an option. They were only for people who wanted to look like someone off the Starship Enterprise.
It was a pleasant morning. A light frost was in the process of melting away under a struggling rising sun and a buzzard was circling over an unplanted field on his left. He wasn’t in any kind of a hurry. He drew to a halt.
Petra’s voice did not sing as usual. There was no melody – just a losing battle with irritation. ‘You’re up bright and early, aren’t you?’ It was not an observation, more a remonstration. ‘I passed by round at your flat but you’d gone. Must be something important, I thought to myself, to get you on the road at such an uncivilised time.’
He knew he was being asked where he was. He also knew he could not tell her without indicating where he’d been. It was not something he wanted to do. So he sidestepped it. ‘Pot, kettle, black,’ he said lightly. ‘What gets you out and about at this “uncivilised” hour?’
‘Just thought we should have a chat but you’re probably much too busy.’
‘Never too busy for my favourite detective,’ McBride said, trying to soothe her. ‘Anything in particular on the agenda?’
‘Bits and pieces.’ Lightness was returning to her voice. ‘DNA results are back. Can we meet?’
They arranged to join up in an hour to run together. It was just enough time to allow him to drive back into town and shower once more. He did not want the scent of the woman he had slept with to still be on him.
When he turned to lay his phone back on the passenger seat, McBride realised for the first time that he had stopped at the end of the narrow road leading to Castle Huntly half a mile away. He gazed across the flat expanse of fields at the sturdy fortress in the distance and thought about Bryan Gilzean. The 500-year-old castle had once been the home of the Earl of Kinghorne and later the first Earl of Strathmore but was now one of Her Majesty’s open prisons, a sort of Scottish Colditz but without bars, machine guns and jackboots. Nor was it remotely escape-proof. It was for inmates coming to the end of their sentence and held lifers, among others, being prepared for their eventual release back into society. They’d left the bars behind in their previous institutions.
One day, McBride reflected, Bryan Gilzean would probably be scheduled for shipping down the motorway from Perth Prison a dozen miles away to finish his time in the splendour of the baronial halfway house. Unless he was released beforehand with a fat compensation cheque in his pocket for a wrongful conviction, McBride mused.
* * *
When they ran towards each other along the beach that separated their two houses, they raced to see who would be first to reach the bench at the end of the Esplanade where they had agreed to meet. The sprint was illogical but it made sense. Both were competitors. McBride knew he was. Petra pretended to herself she wasn’t. She ran hardest and arrived at the seat first.
‘What kept you?’ she asked, her words coming in short gasps as she fought to regain her breath. ‘I was about to go home.’ She smiled at her triumph.
McBride took a long look at her. Studied the fashion-model, Slavic cheekbones, the slender neck, the light tan shining under the thin film of sweat her burst of acceleration had produced. He wondered how her bedroom was laid out and decided it was unlikely to be as clinically spartan as the one where he had just spent the night. He doubted, too, whether anyone lucky enough to share her bed would be subjected to a rigorous anatomical examination.
He was still deep in admiration when she spoke again. ‘Do you need a rest or should we start out?’ she asked.
McBride flashed a smile and, still without speaking, turned and ran away from her, sprinting quickly down on to the edge of the sand where it met the water and was firmest. ‘Tell me about the DNA,’ he called over his shoulder.
By the time she caught up with him, her breathing was coming in gulps once more. She drew level with his shoulder and matched him stride for stride. They continued to increase the pace together for another hundred yards then gradually eased back. Behind them, twin sets of footprints marked their route along the damp sand.
Petra’s composure returned first. ‘Clean as a whistle,’ she said suddenly. ‘The letters from your lethal friend contain a few prints and DNA traces but nothing unexpected. Needless to say, you’re all over the envelopes. So’s your local postman. We also took elimination samples from the delectable Janne at your publisher’s and the receptionist at the Apex Hotel. Beyond them, nothing. Not unexpectedly, there’s even less on the notes themselves. Apart from Janne’s traces on the first one, we found nothing.’
‘What about the stamps or envelope seals?’ McBride asked.
‘Stamps are self-adhesive – no spit required,’ she replied. ‘The envelopes had been moistened but not with saliva, with ordinary water.’
She waited for his reaction. He remained silent.
‘You know what all this means, don’t you?’ she asked.
McBride nodded. ‘Yeah, we’re not dealing with an amateur – never thought we were.’
Petra turned to look at him. ‘So?’
‘So, if it’s not an amateur, maybe it’s a professional – like a cop or cops,’ McBride said flatly. ‘You might recall I’ve been trying to tell you that for some time.’
They had come to the end of the shoreline and had struck out along a stretch of grassland where a group of boys were doing their best to fall off a roundabout in a small playground. Two dogs broke away from their careless owners and charged in the direction of the runners. Without speaking Petra and McBride lengthened their strides to outpace them. By the time they succeeded, they had reached a path within touching distance of the main rail line connecting Aberdeen and London. An express thundered past, disturbing a large gathering of swans which had settled in an inlet. They rose in unison and started running inelegantly over the water before of McBride and Petra in a perfect, unhurried, whispering formation of white feathers, as graceful as they had been awkward when they had fought to become airborne.
Petra had been trying to read his thoughts, imagining he was still chewing over his killer-cop theory. She broke his concentration. ‘What if you’re only half right?’ she said quietly. ‘What if that’s what you’re supposed to think?’ She stopped speaking, looking at him, waiting for his reaction.
McBride said nothing until the swans had disappeared over a clump of trees on the other side of the rail line. When he spoke it was not, as Petra had expected, to protest. ‘Been thinking about that too,’ he told her. ‘Could be an ex-cop. Could be someone who just hates them. Maybe the wrong person was banged up sometime. Maybe it’s an elaborate red herring. The bastard may just dislike women. Maybe it’s a load of old rubbish.’ He covered another ten yards before he spoke again. ‘So why involve me?’ McBride asked, suddenly serious. ‘I’m being played like some kind of monkey. What did I ever do to the organ-grinder?’
Petra swivelled her head until she was looking directly at him. ‘Maybe you’re supposed to solve it,’ she told McBride. ‘Then again, maybe he just likes making a fool of reporters.’