19

‘What a dump,’ the detective-sergeant said. His name was Anthony Bothwell. He was a tall man with red hair and a wide nose that might have been broken at one time. He had the soft accent of a Highlander. In his spare time, he was a bagpiper.

‘Be a sweetheart and open a window, Vicky. Place pongs.’

The uniformed officer, Constable Vicky Kyle, thought, I’ll be your sweetheart any time – and did as she was instructed. Brittle flakes of old paint fell from the window frame. The window probably hadn’t been opened in years. She watched Bothwell, a happily married man for whom she had a doomed infatuation, stroll round the room. PC Kyle wasn’t altogether downhearted; she liked the idea of a secret longing. You needed some passion in your life, even if it was only dreamy make-believe stuff.

‘Look in there,’ Bothwell said. He pointed to a small bedroom that adjoined the kitchen. ‘I’ll have a shufty here,’ and he began rummaging through drawers and opening cupboards.

Vicky Kyle stepped into the bedroom. A blind had been drawn down on the window. She tugged it and it rose quickly on its roller, swoosh, releasing a cloud of dust. The window was dirty. Below, cars and buses slogged through the clogged thoroughfare that was Shettleston Road.

Discarded clothes covered the floor. Pyjamas, underwear, shirts, socks. The bed was unmade. A bedside table was littered with assorted cold medications and empty Nicorette boxes. Squeezed-out tubes and half-empty bottles and God knows what lay under a ceramic lamp which was crusted with dried gobs of gum.

Vicky Kyle opened the drawer of the table.

Old football pools coupons, three or four centrefolds, some of them obviously antique, a postcard from Skye signed by somebody called Tam. The message read: Fishing’s crap here and too many midges. She looked inside a wardrobe; sports jackets hung crookedly, neckties dangled from hooks. There was a stink of camphor. A stack of old race programmes had been piled at the bottom of the wardrobe. She bent to examine them. A spider rambled across her knuckles.

She looked under the bed, saw dust compacted into balls and old newspapers and cast-off slippers and four empty scotch bottles, Haig’s. She stood upright, straightened her skirt. The bedroom was airless and stale. She walked into the kitchen. Bothwell was checking under the sink.

‘Nothing in the bedroom, Tony,’ she said. ‘This place is disgusting. I wonder when it was last cleaned. If ever.’

‘The year dot,’ said Bothwell, groping behind drainage pipes.

‘BC or AD?’

Bothwell hummed ‘Amazing Grace’ and then ‘The Black Bear’. Pipers’ tunes. He loved getting kitted out in the full regalia, enjoyed the swinging weight of the kilt, the well-polished sporran, the skean-dhu tucked in the sock. He thrilled to parades and bagpipe competitions and Highland games.

He said, ‘Ah hah. Now what have we here, I wonder.’

‘You found something interesting?’ Vicky Kyle asked.

Bothwell backed out from under the sink. The sleeves of his white shirt were covered in dark streaks. He held a plastic shopping bag in one hand.

He said, ‘Let’s see what secret the hidden bag holds, shall we?’ He peered inside the bag. Then he looked at Vicky Kyle and winked. ‘Well well,’ he said. ‘Well oh well.’

She thought his wink playful. She felt blood flush her cheeks. She wondered if it showed. If she was blushing. You’re a big girl, Vicky, for the love of God, act your age.

‘What have you got, Tony?’

‘See for yourself.’

She looked inside the bag. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said.