22

PC Dennis Murdoch was fond of WPC Meg Gayle. He liked her tall flat-chested body and the touchingly self-conscious way she slouched to diminish her height. Some people considered her awkward in her movements, but not Murdoch. He loved her laugh – a bell’s sound, he thought – and the way she cut her black hair in a bob.

He shone his flashlight into the doorway of the shop. Sleet pierced the narrow beam of light. Bending, Meg Gayle examined the space illuminated by the torch. There was no evidence anything out of the ordinary had occurred here, no body, no bloodstains, just a plain old doorway, a few scraps of uninteresting litter – Crunchie Bar wrapper, dented Tizer can, spent matches – and a darkened insurance office beyond.

‘What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway?’ she asked.

‘Evidence of violence. This is where the encounter took place.’ Murdoch directed the beam around the space again. He’d been taught to be thorough. Look, and if you see nothing, look again. Then a third time.

‘Perlman showed me the videotape.’

She said, ‘I bet he doesn’t want to be out in this weather, does he?’

Murdoch smiled. ‘I don’t think he gives a monkey’s about the weather. He’s too busy thinking. He’s got, how would you describe it … an elsewhere look? I like him.’

‘They say his bark’s worse than his bite.’

Murdoch said, ‘Ah, he doesn’t bark that much.’

‘All the worse when he does bite,’ she said.

‘I sort of admire how he goes about his business.’

‘And you want to be just like him when you grow up, Den?’

‘It’ll be years before I grow up.’ Murdoch smiled and killed the beam.

He stood with Meg Gayle in the doorway. He enjoyed the intimacy of this, him and Meg and the empty street. In other circumstances, off-duty say, he might have reached for her hand and warmed it between his own. He imagined undressing her in a half-dark room. Red scarf draped round a lampshade. That flat body. The hard stomach. Flimsy knickers, peel them off gently, slide them down over her legs. You’ve a mind like a cesspool, he thought.

‘We might as well drive back,’ he said. ‘I’ll call in, tell Perlman there’s nothing at the scene.’

‘Spose.’

They rushed to the patrol car parked nearby. Inside, melting sleet dripped from Murdoch’s black and white chequered cap. Meg Gayle blew her nose quietly into a Kleenex. Sniffle weather, Murdoch thought. Weather for coming down with bugs and calling in sick.

The carphone rang and he answered. He heard the throaty voice of PC ‘Diamond Jim’ Brady. ‘Come in, Dick Tracy, speak your mind. Diamond Jim’s here most of the night to answer your calls, ease your worries, soothe your concerns, give you good advice on loving and living, on vitamins and nutrition, alternative medication as against traditional, anything you need, you just ask the Diamond –’

‘Christ,’ Murdoch said. ‘The Mouth Machine. We’re just on our way back. Anything happening?’

‘Possible victim of violence Terence Dogue was taken by a passer-by to Emergency at the Royal Infirmary.’

‘Have you told Perlman?’

‘Yepski. He was out of here like a whippet in heat.’

‘Any instructions for us?’

‘Aye. You’re to meet him for tea and cream buns tomorrow afternoon at the Willow Tearooms. Two-thirty, don’t be late. His treat. And wear your best suit. As for you, WPC Gayle, Perlman wants to see you there in a really skimpy mini-kilt and transparent blouse and absolutely no bra. Something utterly suggestive, he said. Something you can see your nipples through. I’d suggest PVC.’

‘Piss off,’ Meg Gayle said.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘You’re up to here in crap, Brady,’ Murdoch said.

‘And damnably proud of it,’ Brady said.

‘Bampot.’ Murdoch cut the connection. Back to Pitt Street through the sleet. He looked at the wipers and thought of Meg Gayle in mini-kilt and see-through blouse. Aye aye. Hot thoughts on a nippy night.

He needed a steaming cup of Bovril.