She shifted, and there was child number three a baby cradled in her arms, wrapped in a tatty Power Rangers blanket. Face a rounded pink blob, making snuffling noises.
A small child wailed somewhere behind her, sounding as if someone was removing its fingers with a blowtorch. Child number four.
The woman didnt even flinch. Shut up, Pinky.
I redeemed the rest of the kids toys. Theyre in the garden.
Her hand reached through the gap between the door and the frame, fingers trembling. Can I have him. Please? She licked her lips.
Look, all I want is my wallet back, OK? Theres no money in it anyway, its just a tatty old wallet thats falling apart. Like the bear. He gave Mr Lumpylump a wee shoogle, making him dance. Its important to me.
She blinked up at him. I dont have it. I dont have any wallet.
You could check, though? Ask your children?
Behind her, the toddler wailed some more, as whoever it was turned the blowtorch on their toes.
Theyre not here. She reached out until the frame and door dug into her arm. Straining for the manky teddy bear. Please...?
What was he going to do, hold a kids teddy to ransom?
Callum passed her the bear and she snatched it from him, yanking it back inside the house and slamming the door.
He knocked again. Hello? Rested his forehead against the door. Hello?
Silence. Not even the wailing.
Great.
What was the point of trying to help people? Why did everyone have to be so... so selfish. And nasty. And horrible?
One last try.
He pulled an official Police Scotland business card from his pocket wrote, IF YOU FIND MY WALLET, PLEASE LET ME KNOW on the back, and slipped it through the letterbox.
Probably be sod-all use, but what other option did he have?
Callum trudged back along the path. Clambered over the rusted gate.
Hoy, mister? A young girls voice, hard with defiance and a broad Oldcastle accent.
He turned.
The little monster from this morning. The one whod swigged cider from a can. The one Dugdale had used as a human shield. The rotten wee sod whod stolen his wallet.
Shed ditched the baseball cap and tracksuit top for a T-shirt with a vampire Womble on it, but not the attitude. What you doing here, Piggy?
He nodded at the pile of plastic things.
Her eyes widened. Whoa! You got Pinkys toys back? Then her internal coolometer must have kicked in, her grin turned into a bored expression and a shrug. Yeah, so?
Swap you for my wallet.
Aint got no wallet, do I? Chucked it.
His whole face crumpled. Oh for... What was the point? Of course she chucked it, with the credit cards cut up, why would she hold onto it? Wasnt as if there was any cash in there. His shoulders drooped. Sodding hell.
Dont know what youre greetin about. Just a crappy old wallet, innit?
It was my fathers. Only thing Ive got of his.
Yeah? She spat into the weeds. Well, my dad broke my arm then ran off with one of mums friends.
Mine disappeared when I was five.
I was four. Always had to have the last word, didnt she? A competition for who had the crappiest childhood.
Well I grew up in a care home. Beat that.
Aha, she couldnt, could she. At least she had a mother. Though going by the bruised face, her mums taste in men hadnt improved any.
He narrowed his eyes. Its Willow, isnt it? At least, that was what her wee brother had called her when she was kicking three shades out of Dugdales head. Any idea whos been hitting your mum?
Willows back stiffened. I aint no snitch, Piggy.
Course not. He produced another business card, stuck his mobile number on the back, and laid it on top of the wall. But if youre worried about her or anything... A shrug. You know.
The lace curtains twitched open, and there was Willows mum, standing with a toddler on one hip. She had the tatty old teddy bear clutched to her chest like a bible.
The lace curtains twitched open, and there was Willows mum, standing with a toddler on one hip. She had the tatty old teddy bear clutched to her chest like a bible.
Not the kids bear, hers. Pawned to pay for food, or rent.
How depressing was that?
Callum climbed in behind the wheel. Frowned. Shook his head. Then started the car.
Franklin stared at him. Well?
No idea. He pulled away from the kerb, keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror.
The little girl stood and watched them all the way to the corner, then disappeared from view.
This was all for your stupid wallet, wasnt it?
He pulled out his Airwave, poking at the buttons with one hand as they navigated their way back towards the real world. Control? Can you do a PNC on a Ms Brown, forty-five B Manson Avenue, Kingsmeath? See if anyones been bothering her.
Aye, will do. Hang on.
Thanks. He stuck the handset on the dashboard, took them out past a dilapidated community centre doors and windows boarded up with damp-swollen chipboard and onto Montrose Road. Pottering along behind a Fiat Punto barely doing twenty miles an hour.
For Gods sake, at least put the blues-and-twos on. Franklin reached for the button mounted on the dashboard, marked, 999.
Callum slapped her hand away. Are you off your head?
Were going to be late!
You press that button and the dashboard camera comes on. He pointed at the little rectangle of plastic mounted against the windscreen, hidden by the rear-view mirror. And the GPS starts recording. And it all gets stored for the courts, or in case theres an accident while youre wheeching through traffic. Lights and sirens are for emergencies only, not because youre in a hurry.
She curled her hand against her chest, as if hed stabbed it with a fork and scowled at him. Where is it then? This magical wallet?
A stone settled in his stomach, cold and heavy. They threw it away.
Waste of sodding time. She checked her watch again. Thirty-six minutes to get back to Division Headquarters and make up a murder board.
Will you stop moaning on about
DC MacGregor from Control, safe to talk?
He picked up the handset and pressed the button. Go ahead.
Aye, right: your womans a Miss Irene Brown, twenty-three years old. Done for possession four years ago, got off with a caution... Hmm... Looks like thats the last known address for one Jeremy Barron, Jezza to his mates, AKA: Jerome Barton, James Broughton, and Jimmy Bishop. Bit of a scummer from the look of it. Assault, robbery, assault, aggravated assault, possession with intent, serious assault, two counts of sodding about in public with a knife. A clicking keyboard rattled out of the speaker. Looks like shes got a bit of a history with violent scumbags. Poor woman couldnt pick a nice bloke out of an empty room if you Sellotaped a balloon to his forehead.
Twenty-three years old, with four kids.
And a dirty big bruise on her face.
No wonder she clung onto her teddy bear like that.
Her daughter, the horrible Willow, had to be at least seven years old, so that meant Miss Irene Brown must have been about sixteen when shed had her.
What a life: trapped beneath a landslide of pregnancy and violence.
Callum tapped his fingers on the handsets plastic case. Do me a favour: put a grade one flag on the house, OK? Just in case this Jerome Barton comes back again.
Pfff, cant promise anything, but Ill see what I can do.
Thanks. Callum slipped his Airwave back in his jacket. Took a left at the roundabout and onto the Calderwell Bridge.
Halfway across the river, Franklin sighed. OK, now can we go do this sodding murder board?
And that, is that. Callum pinned the last photo to the corkboard and stepped back, hands on his hips.
Not a bad job, even if he said so himself.
The murder board took up a whole wall of the Divisional Investigative Support Team office. One whiteboard cut up into sections with that thin magnetic tape stuff, all headings spelled correctly, details on the corkboards to either side of Glen Carmichael and his fellow graduate property developers. Ben Harrington with his massive moustache, Brett Millar and his Clangers tattoo. Photos, potted bios, previous brushes with the law, list of known friends and associates. Schedule for the flat from the auctioneers website along with PNC details for the previous owner.
He checked his watch. Done with five minutes to spare.
Franklin stayed where she was, perched on the edge of her brand-new desk. Is that it? A sniff. I always thought a murder board would be more... I dont know. Like on the TV.
TV people wouldnt know a murder board from a Christmas list.
The door banged open and in stormed Watt, floppy fringe plastered to his forehead, mouth scrunched up into a twisted pouting sneer, wee pubey beard bristling as he hurled his soggy jacket into the corner. He graced Callum with a glare, then shifted it over to Franklin. Whos this?
She stiffened her back. Drew herself up to full height.
But the door thumped open again before she could lay into him and Dotty wheeled herself into the office. Oh dont be such a princess, John. I said I was sorry.
Might as well do the introductions.
Callum hooked a thumb at Franklin. Watt, Dotty, this is our new recruit: Detective Constable Franklin, from E Division. Punched a superintendent, right in the car park.
Watt wiped his hands down his face and flicked the drips at Dotty. Im bloody drenched!
It was an accident.
No it sodding wasnt! You aimed for that puddle on purpose.
Franklin: the soggy tit with the beard is Detective Constable Watt. He clyped on his last team at G Division, so the high heedjins had him transferred to Oldcastle. And we are graced with his presence, because none of the other teams will work with the grumpy little git.
I didnt know you were standing there.
This is because I wouldnt get you chocolate, isnt it? Watt grabbed his mug from his desk. Get your own damn chocolate!
The young lady in the wheelchair is Detective Sergeant Dorothy Hodgkin. Shes here because some wee radge fancied a high-speed pursuit in a stolen Beamer. Dotty lost her leg above the knee in the crash. Her wheelchairs called Keith: dont ask.
I will. Dotty bared her teeth at Watt. And you know what? I was sorry, but Im not now. Youre a sour-faced, childish, chippy, miserable scumbag, John. No wonder nobody likes you.
Callum shrugged. As you can see, were all one big happy family.
Oh, ha-ha. Watt turned his scowl back on Callum. I bet hes not told you why hes here, Franklin, has he? He
Everyone thinks he took a bribe to cock-up a crime scene. I know. Franklin folded her arms. So is everyone on this team a reject? What about McAdams and Malcolmson?
Dotty wriggled her way out of her jacket. DS McAdams has terminal bowel cancer. They so want to send him off on the sick, but he wont go. And DI Malcolmson is just recovering from a massive heart attack. Dotty held her arms up, flashing victory signs like Richard Nixon. Welcome to the Misfit Mob! Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. She wheeled herself across the manky carpet tiles to Franklin and stuck out a hand with a fingerless leather glove on it. Dorothy. Dot or Dotty to my friends.