Chapter 30

The drive to FHQ, Bell Street, Wickes sat sullen. Fuming; refusing to look at me.

I remembered what had happened with Stephen earlier.

Anger issues?

Aye, took me long enough to figure that one out.

Which made me question everything he’d told me; helped me finally figure out why I’d been uncomfortable taking him on as a client in the first place.

I looked over at him.

He pretended not to notice.

At least he was coming with me. Had agreed to talk to Susan. I’d half expected him to blow up on me, maybe try and send me to the hospital for even daring to suggest he might need someone else’s help.

I’d thought he was like me. That we connected somewhere with this need to sort out our own mistakes, to atone for things we’d done wrong.

More of his act.

I realised now we were nothing alike.

Or I had changed somewhere along the line and hadn’t even realised until now.

Susan was waiting in the car park outside FHQ when I pulled in to the Market-Gait entrance.

Before he even got out of the car, Wickes twisted his neck to take a glance up at the blocky and imposing nineteen-sixties architecture of FHQ. Said his first words in over twenty minutes: “They all look the same.”

Had to agree with him.

Susan waited at the base of the steps leading to the three sets of double doors that were kept locked on a close to permanent basis. No one really used the front entrance any more. A sign taped to the glass asked visitors to go to the rear entrance, where a bored member of Tayside’s proud support staff sat behind safety glass and tried to figure out the timewasters from the genuinely concerned citizens.

Susan held a plastic cup in her hand. The liquid steamed.

After we walked over Wickes said, “None for us?”

“This your new friend?” Susan asked, ignoring Wickes. “Is he going to tell me it was your idea to walk all over a sensitive investigation?”

Not even a smile.

Or a hello.

Officer Susan – pardon me, Detective Susan now – through and through.

I bulldozed past the cold front, sensing her concern was personal more than professional. Not wanting to get into that. Christ, we could keep the two apart, right? Said to Wickes, “This is Detective Constable Susan Bright.”

He offered his hand. “He talks about you.”

Susan didn’t return the shake. Let him lower his arm awkwardly.

Wickes said, “Temperature’s down today.”

Susan kept her eyes on me.

Said, “Deborah Brown…You told me this was about her. And Mary.”

Wickes said, “Nothing to do with him. I was the one had the information. Made him keep it back.”

Surprised me.

I’d expected sullen silence. Minimal co-operation. Maybe even some kind of outburst.

Susan finally looked at him. “Made him?”

Wickes smiled. Frosty. He was right about the temperature. “You wanted to talk about Deborah.”

“It would help.”

“How much do you know?”

Susan shook her head. “You don’t ask the questions.”

Wickes said, “Where’s the DCI? Surely he should be here.”

“I’m the one talking to you. This pans out, I’ll have no hesitation taking it to the bosses.”

Wickes looked at me. “You never said you had a thing going with a copper. Sly little bastard.”

Susan said, “Eyes on the prize, moron. This isn’t about some little soap opera in your head. This is about finding a girl who’s gone missing. A girl who, statistically speaking, is probably already dead.”

Wickes shook his head. “No. Not yet. She wouldn’t…No, it’s not in her.”

“Then tell me what is. She’s not exactly up for mother of the year.”

“Christ, just let me…I can sort this out,” he said.

“You’re worse than this one,” Susan said, gesturing at me. “What is it, a male thing? You’re the only people who can sort out the world? All the bad things would just go away if we gave you a chance to step up?” She shook her head, allowed herself a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

Wickes’s jaw was clenched tight. A vein in the side of his forehead started to pump. “She’s not dead. Deborah wouldn’t kill the girl.” That caught my attention. When he’d told me the story about the dog, that was precisely what he’d implied: Mary was in danger from Deborah.

Wickes kept going, “That’s not what this is about.” My imagination, or did I detect something like disappointment in his tone?

I didn’t want to confront him with his contradiction, figured I’d wait and see where he was going.

“You’re sure?” Susan asked.

“Oh, aye. I’m fucking sure, lass.” I remembered how he’d been in the moments before he turned on Stephen.

Braced myself before stepping in, landing a restraining hand on the big man’s arm. “She’s not the enemy.”

Wickes turned fast. Pushed me away. I stumbled, didn’t go down.

“Of course she’s the fucking enemy! Get real. Look at her, the lying bitch. You can see it in her eyes.”

Susan held up her hands. “Maybe if we all calm down.”

“Maybe if you go fuck yourself.” Wickes turned his head to me and spat. A fat glob of spit smacked the ground next to my feet. “What, you think there’s a chance she’ll let you near her, so you believe every fucking thing she says? Fucking weak, man. I expected more of you.”

I’d tried putting down his earlier outburst to frustration and anger at some kind of perceived impotence; the unconscious knowledge that there was nothing he could really do in this situation.

But I couldn’t escape it: this man was driven by rage.

Susan said, “None of this is helping.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Wickes said, spinning back to face her. His body humming with the rage. “Little fucking cunt, all you want is control. Control over everything. Control you couldn’t fucking handle if you got it.” He stepped forward.

I saw what was happening. Couldn’t quite believe His fist raised. He roared; primal. The cry of a predator.

In the flat, when he went crazy and threatened Stephen, I’d been frozen to the spot. This time, I found myself tugging back on the giant’s arm. Pulling him away from Susan. He shrugged me off, swatted his free hand at my face.

I barely felt anything; a rush of disorientation. My arms shot out to grab at something for support. Anything.

The world blurred. A noise battered through my skull; like putting a shell to my ear and instead of hearing the gentle lapping of waves, getting the scream of a storm.

I landed on my knees. Palms down, slamming into concrete. I tried to stay steady, shook my head to get the equilibrium back.

Something heavy landed on my back. My elbows gave way and I slammed straight down. My skull vibrated.

First thought: concussion.

There were voices.

Footsteps.

On the back of my eyelids, I saw Susan at her father’s party, lecturing me on something. Couldn’t hear the words. Couldn’t hear the voices. My face was on fire, pain searing up and along my cheekbones.

Finally, I blacked out.

Call that a mercy.