Oh God... Her eyes reddened. Glen.
Lets not jump to any conclusions. Callum pointed out through the kitchen wall in the vague direction of Shortstaine. We didnt see anything in the car to suggest hes badly hurt. Hes probably just lying low and feeling a bit bruised and stupid. That, or Glen had massive internal injuries and was drowning in his own blood somewhere, but his mum definitely didnt want to hear that. Nothing wrong with leaving people with a little hope.
Franklin sniffed. Ms Carmichael, your son had something in the boot of his car that were concerned about. Something that didnt belong to him.
She stiffened. My poor wee boy could be lying dead in a ditch and youre here accusing him of stealing?
Callum put teabags in mugs. I know it sounds a bit insensitive, he gave Franklin a pointed look, but weve got to investigate this kind of stuff. Its important.
Its because of those burglaries, isnt it? She poked the table with a clay-greyed finger. He was twelve, OK? Just a kid. His dad, God rest his useless little soul, ran out on us the year before. Glen had a hard time adjusting. A shrug. His therapist said he was just trying to get attention. Pushing me to see if I loved him enough to put up with all his crap.
The kettle grumbled to a boil, spouting steam into the air.
It wasnt even money he took. It was stupid things: a standard lamp from next door, a bust of Daley Thompson from the sports centre, all the cutlery from Terrys Bistro on Minerva Road. It wouldnt even have been a thing if the bloody sports centre hadnt insisted on pressing charges.
Callum fished the steaming teabags out and dumped them in the bin. What happened with the girlfriend?
Gah... Ms Carmichael stared at the ceiling for a moment. Angela. He wouldnt leave her alone. Always buying her little presents and writing her little notes. Following her home from school. She looked down when Callum put a mug of tea in front of her. I tried to talk some sense into him, but you know what teenage boys are like all hormones, spots, and erections. Her parents called the police, and he was in trouble again.
The fridge was mostly full of yoghurt and chardonnay, but there was half a pint of semi-skimmed that looked reasonably fresh, so Callum stuck it in the middle of the table. Nothing since?
She wrapped her hands around her mug. It took a while, but he grew up a bit. Got over his dad abandoning us for some leggy tart in the roads department. Started doing well in school again. Went to university and got an MA in business management.
Sounds like a bright kid. Callum passed Franklin a slightly wonky green mug, but kept his eyes on Ms Carmichael. Is it OK if we take a look at Glens room?
What? She blinked at him. Oh, yes. Right. She scraped her chair back and stood. Led them out of the kitchen and down a small corridor to a room at the end with SECRET EVIL VILLAIN LAIR printed on a sign hung on the door beneath a radiation symbol. She opened it and stepped to one side, mug of tea clutched to her chest. Of course, by the time he graduated no one was hiring. Thats the recession, isnt it?
The floor was barely visible through the patina of discarded socks, T-shirts, jeans, and pants. Walls covered in bookshelves science fiction and fantasy paperbacks, mostly. A TV hooked up to a PlayStation. A poster of a young woman in a bikini, riding a motorbike. Never mind leathers, she wasnt even wearing a crash helmet. Some people just didnt take basic safety precautions. A collection of photographs pinned to the wallpaper, above a small computer desk that was heaped with envelopes and bits of paper. And a double bed covered in more clothes.
Every breath in here tasted of stale digestive biscuits and mouldering cheese.
Ms Carmichael shrugged. Dont look at me, I told him when he turned sixteen: youre a grown-up now. You tidy your own room, or you live in a pigsty. Your choice.
Franklin picked her way into the middle of the room. Was Glen interested in museums?
When he was little wed go to the art gallery, and wed laugh at all the statues and their naked willies, but other than that... A shrug.
Hmm... She leaned over the desk and pulled a photo from the wall. Held it out. Is this him? Her finger hovered over the central figure in a group of three. It looked like a selfie: three young men, all with grins and tins of lager. Checked shirts and tan braces.
The one on the left had a full-sized Grizzly Adams beard, two squint teeth dominating his smile, all crowned by brown hair cropped close at the sides and floppy on top. Hed got one of those piercings, where they stuck a big round plug in the lobe to stretch it wide making a dirty big hole. As if he was a Masai tribesman, instead of a peely-wally wee bloke from Oldcastle with a lumberjack fixation.
The one on the rights arm snaked out of the picture so hed be the photographer a shoulder-to-wrist tattoo of Clangers, Soup Dragon, and the Iron Chicken blurring into a colourful mush where the lens couldnt focus. Long hair pulled back in a ponytail. A variety of studs spread about his nose, eyebrow, lip and ears.
And the one in the middle looked as if hed inherited his great grandads haircut and glasses. Though where hed got the massive soup-strainer moustache from was anyones guess. He was straightening his bow tie, showing off an oversized steel wristwatch on an oversized leather strap. More piercings.
Ms Carmichael squinted at the photo. No, thats his friend Ben. Glens the one on the left with the ridiculous beard. She grimaced. Why these hipsters all want to look like old men from the thirties is beyond me. But there you go.
I see. Franklin produced her notebook. Can you tell me what your son was wearing when he left the house this morning?
A snort. This morning? Hes not been back here for six weeks. Him and his friends have been staying at the flat theyre doing up. She sighed, looking around the room with its explosion-in-a-laundry-basket décor. Bretts got a degree in environmental science, Bens got a BA in aquaculture, and none of them can find jobs. Recession.
Franklin scribbled something in her notebook. And where is this flat?
They bought it at auction. The man who lived there killed himself in the living room bank was foreclosing on his mortgage.
Yes, but where is it?
Hold on, itll be in here somewhere... Ms Carmichael rummaged through the piles of paper on the computer desk, before emerging triumphant with what looked like a council tax bill. Flat twelve, one thirty-five Customs Street, Castleview, OC twenty-one, six QT. Then she turned and put a hand on Callums arm. Youre sure Glens... not hurt?
He gave her his best reassuring smile. Well let you know as soon as we hear anything.
Why did you have to lie to her?
Callum shrugged, slowing the car at the junction. What did you want me to tell her: weve no idea if your wee boys dead or not? Think that wouldve helped? The bridge over the River Wynd made a graceful cobbled arc above the water, marking the border between Blackwall Hills twisted knot of housing estates, the Wynds well-ordered Georgian streets, and Castleviews functional industrialisation. All of it grey and miserable in the drizzle.
He took a left at the next roundabout, down a long drab street blocks of terraced flats, punctuated by shopping centres with more boarded-up windows than new shops.
What if Glen Carmichael turns up dead from a punctured lung, or a ruptured spleen?
Then hell still be dead whether shes panicking about him or not. Let her have... Oh, hold on. He slammed on the brakes and pulled their manky Vauxhall into a space between a delivery truck and a skip.
What the hell do you think youre
Ill only be a minute. He scrambled out of the car. Honestly, five tops. Callum clunked the door shut, waited for a bus to grumble past, then hurried across the street and into one of the few shops still open.
The Royal Caledonian Building Societys carpet was going threadbare in the middle, drawing a straight line from the door to the counter. A large middle-aged lady sat behind the bulletproof glass, reading a copy of the Castle News and Post. She looked up as he reached the counter and pulled on a smile about as natural as a porn-stars breasts.
How can I help you?
Callum thumped his warrant card on the countertop. Someone stole my wallet and I need you to give me some money from my account.
She made a face, as if hed just slapped a used nappy down in front of her. Ill have to speak to the manager...
The sharp-faced woman pulled on her glasses and peered at her computer screen. Well, Mr MacGregor, youll be glad to hear that we appear to have recovered your cards. Someone tried to use them to redeem a number of items at... let me get this right... at a Little Mikes Pawnshop? In Kingsmeath?
Little sods were probably trying to get hold of samurai swords, crossbows, and ninja throwing stars.
Callum crossed his fingers. Did they find my wallet?
Please, please, please, please.
She poked at the keyboard. Frowned. Im sorry, I dont actually have that information. But the proprietor has destroyed the cards, and as theres been no successful purchase made on the account, there wont be any excess to pay. The frown turned into an expectant smile, as if she was waiting for congratulations and a round of applause. Well get new cards issued to you in the next couple of days.
A couple of days? But I need to buy
Im sorry, but the cards have to be reissued from head office. Ill flag it as urgent, but itll still take a couple of days. Now is there anything else I can assist you with, Mr MacGregor?
Yes: I need to take some money out of my savings account.
Ah. I see... She made the same face as the woman behind the counter.
Franklin glowered at him as he lowered himself into the drivers seat. What happened to five minutes, tops?
Dont start. He hauled on his seatbelt and started the car. Pulled away from the kerb. Just been bent over a bank managers desk for the last quarter of an hour, being shafted without lubricant. And do you know what for? Fifty-three pounds and seventy-two sodding pence. He held up the tiny handful of notes and coins. Because thats all the money weve got.