I phone Simmonds and tell him about the bloodbath. He’s commendably horrified, assures me that he’s despatching a team to take care of the situation and orders me to stay put. I agree and hang up.
Stacey asks, ‘What’s happening?’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Too dangerous.’
‘You need someone to look after you. You need me to look after you.’
She’s perfectly serious.
‘Stacey, that’s kind of you. But I’ve managed without you for almost forty years and I’m doing all right.’
Her eyes widen in sheer disbelief. ‘If this is you doing all right, I’d hate to see you on a bad day.’
It’s hard to argue with her when I’m standing in the aftermath of a massacre meant for me, wearing a jumper that’s soaked in the blood of a man who was gunned down for simply being in the same building as me.
‘I’ll figure something out,’ I tell Stacey. ‘After I get changed, I’m leaving. And I’m leaving alone.’
*
We’re heading south in Stacey’s ancient Austin Morris J4, a former Royal Mail van that zips through the country lanes with a sprightliness that belies its age.
As dusk peters out into night-time, she switches on the headlights and says, ‘My old da did it up for me. I use it for my job.’
‘I thought you were a firefighter.’
‘Just a volunteer. I’m a kind of white van man, except I don’t have a white van and I’m not a man. Lots of folk, especially young lasses, they prefer having a woman help them to shift stuff. It’s a good job. Decent coin and I’m my own boss.’
The engine of these old J4s is in the front compartment, between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. On the plus side, it means we’re toasty warm, but the noise is loud and constant, forcing us to raise our voices as we converse.
‘Sounds good!’
‘You ever thought about jacking in the detective business and getting a normal job?’
‘Only once or twice. A day.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
I pretend not to have caught the question and ask, ‘How much further?’
‘About an hour,’ she replies and we continue to tear through the night.
*
We pass Inverness, pick up the A82 and eventually find a village just west of Loch Ness. Stacey has known where we’ve been heading since we left the hospital, and her choice definitely meets with my approval. It’s a small, old-fashioned pub that looks like it was originally a pair of cottages converted into a single building. We booked ahead and reserved one of its two available guest rooms.
There’s a log fire blazing in the main saloon and as we walk into the bar, the group of drinkers closest to it stand and start putting on their coats. Stacey swoops and grabs their chairs whilst I get a round in, buying a bottle of wine and a couple of double shots. The patrons that are leaving nod a cheery farewell and I sign us in. The landlord hands me the key to our room.
‘How long have you known Stacey?’ he inquires.
‘Feels like forever.’
‘Ach, well, she’s a good friend to a lot of folk around here. You mind you treat her well, young man.’
It feels more like a threat than friendly advice.
I carry our libations across to our table, down my whisky in one and warm my palms on the fire.
As Stacey pours us both a glass of wine, she asks, ‘Do you have kids?’
‘God, no. Do you?’
‘I’ve got a son.’ She fiddles with her mobile, then hands it to me. ‘That’s him.’ She’s brought up a photo of a boy I guess is about four years old. Dark eyes. Wide cheeky grin. He’s wearing an enormous sombrero and has both thumbs raised to indicate life is A-OK. He’s sitting on the knees of a young man bursting with so much pride, it’s obvious he’s the kid’s dad.
‘Great pic. What’s his name?’
‘Liam.’
‘Well, Liam has excellent taste in hats.’
Stacey laughs. ‘No! Liam’s my son! The bairn’s Connor – his boy. My grandkid.’
I glance at the photo again. ‘The bloke . . . You’re his mum?’
‘Aye!’ She takes her phone back. ‘What’s so surprising about that?’
‘Nothing.’ I raise my glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘It’s very different to my life. That’s all.’
‘Did you and Precious ever talk about having kids?’
‘Precious thought I was a kid.’ I take a sip of wine.
‘And why was that?’
‘Who knows? She was always very driven. Very ambitious. I think it got on her nerves that I didn’t have this great masterplan for my career.’
‘It’s good to have a masterplan for something.’
‘And what’s yours?’
‘Now that Liam’s all grown up? I’m not sure. But I know I’d best get my skates on. It goes faster than you think, Novak.’
Stacey smiles at the photo on her phone.
‘Having young kids?’
She doesn’t look up. ‘I meant life in general.’
‘Ahh . . .’
She puts her phone away, asking, ‘Do you have a business partner? Or an assistant or anything?’
‘Not really. I used to have a young woman called Mishka Ramakrishnan on the books.’
‘Mishka? Good name. What happened to her?’
‘Wafted by a favouring gale – as one often sometimes is in trances – to the USA. It wasn’t her decision to go, but she met someone whilst over there and stayed Stateside.’
‘Good for her!’ Stacey nods. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Just my original partner.’
‘The Stewart in Novak and Stewart?’
I nod.
She begins, ‘And what happened to—’
‘I don’t know.’ I down the double shot I’d bought for Stacey. ‘Stewart is still missing.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ I give a tight smile. ‘And I seem to have necked your whisky. Sorry. I’ll get another couple in.’
‘No! Don’t be daft!’ Stacey gets to her feet. ‘My round.’
Whilst she’s at the bar, I call Frank Harvey. ‘Did Terry have any joy tracing those prints?’
‘Bad news, lad. He did run them, but whoever the dabs belong to isn’t on file.’
‘So he didn’t come up with her name?’
‘If her prints aren’t in the system, he can’t magic them up! Bloody hell, Novak, he’s Terry Potter, not Harry Potter.’
‘Sure. Hey, thanks for calling in the favour. And thank Terry for me.’
‘No problem. And will do.’
Stacey returns with a couple more large whiskies I noticed she didn’t have to pay for, and going from my expression, she infers there’s a problem. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m tired. That’s all.’
Stacey retakes her seat. ‘You sure?’
‘Sure.’ I down one of the shots. ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’
‘So what’s your immediate plan?’
‘Lay low for a while. Heal.’ I shrug. ‘Take a month off. Travel around Europe for a few weeks, maybe.’
‘Sounds good.’
We drink the wine and Stacey tells me about Liam and how his dad was ‘a twat who did a runner the minute he heard I was up the duff’. But there’s no rancour in her voice. Some people say ‘what’s done is done’, but she seems to genuinely believe it. We finish the first bottle and I buy a second. More chat. She gets the third and we’ve almost sunk it when she abruptly changes the topic of conversation.
‘You know we were saying about life. And masterplans? Well, I’ve just got one.’
‘A life?’
‘A masterplan. I’m going to join you! I’m going to be the detective’s apprentice.’
‘Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be, working with me?’
‘And do you have any idea how persistent I can be? Come on! What do you say?’
She picks up her wine glass.
‘The detective’s apprentice?’ I wearily shake my head but smile and we clink glasses. ‘God help us both.’
‘I’ll get another bottle in to celebrate.’
‘It’s my round,’ I reply, but she shoots me a grin.
‘Aye, but it’s on the house for me!’
Whilst she’s getting us restocked, I think back to the phone conversation with Frank. It still niggles me. You see, immediately after asking Frank to help me with the prints, I’d messaged another friend with the same request. Within an hour, she’d replied with the name of the person whose dabs were on the glass, so I’m actually wondering why Frank lied to me. Again.
Stacey returns to the table and I begin to pour a glass of wine.