42

Ale is sitting in front of her computer having just sent off an email asking when the DNA results might be in. Who would have thought that austerity cuts would have led to murder suspects being let off?

She drums her fingernails on the desk, wondering if she should phone instead. She phoned yesterday, and phoning again today was just going to piss people off. Yes, but emails are so much easier to ignore, she thinks.

‘Will you stop that,’ says Daryl Drain, a look of indignation on his face.

‘What?’ asks Ale.

‘Drumming your fingers on the desk. It’s annoying.’

‘Excuse me,’ says Ale. Grins. Drums with added zeal.

Daryl raises his eyebrows at her. ‘Really mature.’

‘This DNA thing is doing my head in,’ she offers by way of explanation. She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. ‘What the hell is going on over there?’

Daryl slides his chair over a few inches so he has a better view of her face past her computer screen. ‘What else can you be getting on with?’

‘The boy, Cook,’ she exhales. ‘I’m not buying either of the Davis boys for that. Far too…’ she searches for a word, ‘clinical.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asks Drain.

‘One wound. Appears to be aimed with precision. And who goes for the throat like that for Christ’s sake?’

Drain nods in agreement.

Even in her few short years on the force, Ale has seen the outcome of plenty of knife attacks. Sure, they’re reducing in numbers thanks to a number of clever initiatives from the suits, but it still happens with alarming regularity.

‘With Cook there’s no defensive wounds, so my guess is that it was over quickly. Most knife attacks I’ve seen are aimed at the chest, and when it is the neck, if they’re attacking from the front, it tends to be a kind of slashing movement. This was a single movement. He was quite literally going for the jugular.’

‘Aye. Spot on, Ale,’ Drain says. ‘This has the feel of an execution. Not a rammy, which it would be if Cook was posting the hate mail and was caught by one of the Davis lads. And besides, none of the neighbours reported hearing any disturbances.’

‘It’s just not adding up. Who would execute a geeky student?’

‘Unless he was more than a geeky student.’

Ale recalls the time she met Cook in The Horseshoe. Sees a body language that suggests, if the Bible is correct, the young man concerned was about to inherit a large chunk of the earth.

‘Never say never, but that guy made mice seem positively gregarious.’

‘Ooo, gregarious. Who’s been reading their word-of-the-day toilet paper again?’

Ale shoots him the finger.

They both sit for a few minutes in silence. Each lost in their own conjecture. Ale chases one thought down after another. Frustrated by the lack of a result in this case and even by the lack of answers.

‘Where’s McBain?’ Ale asks.

‘Buggered if I know.’

Back to silence.

Then.

‘What else did you get from the scene-of-the-crime guys?’ asks Drain.

‘Just what we talked about there. No weapon found at the scene, so the perp likely took it away with him.’

‘What was Cook carrying?’

Ale looks at her notebook. Reads, ‘Wallet, matriculation card, twenty quid in notes. Driver’s licence. Mobile phone.’ Looks over at Daryl. ‘So, it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. Nothing seems to be missing.’ Pause. ‘I’ve asked them to…’

There’s a knock at the door. A young officer sticks his head in. Short black hair, thick with gel. White shirt, blue tie. Takes one look at Ale and gets his dimples on. Jesus, thinks Ale. Save me from the office Lothario. Thinks flashing the enamel is all he needs to do to get into a girl’s pants. Ale is aware that being one of the few women in the department means there is endless speculation about who is shagging her. Consequently, when the subject comes round she’s as quiet as a nun in cloisters. And she gives nothing back when someone tries to flirt with her. She knows it drives them nuts. While there is no way any one of these guys is going to get groiny with her, she’s not averse to fucking with their minds.

He walks over to her desk. Sucking in his gut as he draws nearer.

‘Can you sign for this, DC Rossi?’ he asks. His extends his right hand, which is holding a small bundle. Ale recognises the formal packaging, and she grabs it from him.

‘Just in good time,’ she says, deliberately avoiding his eye. Looks at Drain. ‘It’s the phone.’

‘Sweet.’

They both look at the young cop.

‘You can run along now,’ says Ale.

Drain makes a shooing motion with his hands.

‘I hope the tech guys have unlocked it,’ says Ale as she pulls off the packaging. She’s aware that the deliverer is hovering at the door for a moment longer than he needs to, just in case. She gives him nothing. Holds the phone out in front of her. It’s a Samsung and yes, it is unlocked. There are a number of apps on the home screen. The usual social networks are there. She enters Facebook.

‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘There are literally hundreds of messages on here.’ She groans. ‘It’s going to take ages to get through all these.’

She reads a few. ‘Seems like our Ian is suddenly popular. Can you believe he’s had twenty friend requests since the news broke?’

‘People want to be friends with a corpse?’ Daryl checks for understanding. ‘I’ve heard everything now.’ He grins. ‘You should accept them and see what reaction you get.’

‘Now that would be unprofessional and worthy of disciplinary action,’ she admonishes him. ‘But it would be hilarious.’ She scrolls through some more. Thinks out loud. ‘Probably best to check what was going on in his timeline last night.’ She does so. But there are no entries for the last couple of days.

Daryl reads her expression. ‘How about you look at what his mates are saying now? Or what they were saying last night?’

Ale nods in agreement and moves about on the screen. ‘His BFF is a guy called Jack…’ She scrolls some more. ‘And here he is.’

He’s changed his profile picture to one that shows him and Ian Cook together. They each have an arm over the other’s shoulder, and they’re flashing white. Jack’s smile says, ladies I’m chocolate and you want to eat me. Ian’s says, you really do and I’m happy to take his leftovers.

A message alert comes through. Someone called Billy-Bhoy. And Ale is thinking, there’s a nice mix of Glasgow’s leading cultures right there. Billy for the “celebrated” William of Orange who is celebrated by a section of the Rangers fans. And Bhoy for the Celtic section of the city.

Billy, even in a Facebook post, is somewhat excitable. ‘Got the fucker. Spotted coming out of St Enochs.’

Jack replies. ‘No here, Billy. Ya bellend. Omerta!!!’

Ale wonders what the legendary Mafia code of silence has to do with a group of Glaswegian students. She looks down the side of the screen to see which groups Cook was a member of. She expects that if Jack is a member, Ian will be too.

There’s only one group. It’s called Omerta.

‘This detection thing is a piece of piss,’ she says to Daryl. ‘Especially when the people concerned are as thick as shit.’ A press of a finger and she’s in.

She can see there are seven members. And hello, here’s a familiar name. Karen Gardner. She’s the sole female. What on earth is she doing here? Before she can take this thought any further a new post comes through. Lee Kennedy is on Matt Davis’s tail. He wants “haunners”. A hand from his mates to take Davis on. They’re down the back of the St Enoch centre.

‘This guy done Ian,’ he posts. ‘Time for some payback.’

Ale grabs her jacket of the back of her chair. Stands up.

‘Right, DD. Things are about to get out of hand. We’re on.’