Shona turned again to her DC. ‘On camera you’ll be forced to respond, Kate. Smile and play along, be a good sport and we’ll look like we’re not taking this seriously. Slap him down and you’ll look po-faced and out of touch, that the police can’t take a joke. It’s a poisoned chalice. So, no interviews. A statement with an appeal for witnesses is the best fit until we have something positive to say. Understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Kate replied, looking suitably chastened.
‘Right everyone, back to work. Murdo, a word.’ Shona returned to her office, followed by her sergeant. The quiet hum of worker bees resumed as staff went back to their tasks.
‘Murdo, get an appeal out for our unidentified woman in the Solway Firth and send out the picture of the bracelet with it.’
‘Isn’t that Cumbria’s case? Division won’t like that.’
‘Well Division can lump it. I’ll not ignore a young woman’s death.’
‘What did Baird say? Shouldn’t you clear it with him first?’
‘It’s what I say that counts, DS O’Halloran. My manor, my rules,’ replied Shona, drawing herself up and lifting her chin in defiance. Her first boss, a Cockney bruiser with thirty years’ service, used to say that. He’d taught Shona all she needed to know about being responsible to the community you served. ‘Call in favours with tame journalists if you have to, I want maximum coverage for this.’
‘Okay, no problem. Will we be getting any more people? If we’re working the baby milk thefts and a suspicious death and also supporting Op Fortress, we’ll be pushed.’
It was true, Operation Fortress was bearing down on them like a truck with no brakes. It was a logistical nightmare. A dozen simultaneous early morning arrests involving uniform and CID teams, vans, sniffer dogs, the works. The culmination of months of surveillance, intelligence processing and planning. But it was Baird’s operation, his officers were dealing with it. That made it Baird’s problem, not hers. Her team would concentrate on the cases they had. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No more staff. It will just be us as usual. Keeping it in the family.’
‘Does that mean there’s a chance of overtime?’
‘Do you want the Divisional response on that?’
‘Does it begin, not a snowball’s chance…’
‘…in hell?’ she finished. ‘Yes, Murdo. That’s the one.’
Chapter 5
Shona worked on until seven p.m. Then she told those team members who hadn’t already left due to family responsibilities to go home. DC Kate Irving, facing the prospect of another Friday night in front of the TV with a ready meal, volunteered to stay for a while and sift the calls coming into the control centre after the evening news appeal. Shona reckoned the interesting tips might not come until Monday, when those with something to gain or lose by talking to the police had weighed up their options, and time had worked on both their consciences and their sense of self-preservation. For now, the majority would be fantasists or curtain-twitchers who already had suspicions about their neighbours and relished a chance to air them. But every tip needed checking and Kate could give them a head start by prioritising the initial intel.
The half-hour drive back from Dumfries HQ to Kirkness was Shona’s buffer zone. A window of time in which to assess the business of the day and re-order her resources for the different challenges of home. She caught the end of The Archers on Radio 4, then switched to Classic FM as she left the A75. The road became narrower, winding down through the lanes until the first spirit-lifting glimpse of the bay. The tide had gone out, leaving a sheen of brightness on the mudbanks; a million tiny points of ligh
t sparkled in the evening sunshine. The first flames of autumn colour were tinting the far bank. Golden alders and larches, red rowans and the fiery glow of hawthorns licking upwards to the dark pines on the higher hills.
She parked the four-year-old Audi A3 next to Rob’s brand new Mercedes V-Class MPV, bought to collect B&B guests from Dumfries rail station in comfort but used mostly to ferry Becca and her friends around.
Rob called out from the kitchen as she came through the back door. She took in the ordered laundry room and stacked guest supplies with an involuntary stab of guilt. Since Rob’s outing with his brother Sandy to Carlisle races last weekend, he’d been a model of sobriety and contrition. Her worry that he’d been gambling again was beginning to feel like an overreaction. It was a day out with his brother, a letting off of steam built up by their first full season of demanding guests. It was the inevitable outcome of this period of adjustment, a single act he would not be repeating. He’d said all this in a profuse and credible apology at a lunch he’d made for just the two of them and followed by the attentive lovemaking only a relationship-threatening argument can inspire.
Rob had his back to her, washing up under the big window that faced out into the bay. He grinned over his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him.
He turned and embraced her. ‘Careful. Tommy dropped off some fish. I’ve been making a pie. I stink.’ Rob’s mother had once cooked at the nearby exclusive Palnackie House Hotel. He’d done a cookery course there soon after his redundancy and when he returned to London, he had a complete plan, spreadsheets, the lot. He still had occasional thoughts of opening a restaurant in an empty building at Tommy’s boatyard. For the moment, he practised on the family. ‘If you’re hugging me now you must love me really.’
‘Who says I love you? I could just be using you for sex, all the while planning to callously discard you.’
‘Naw, you must love me. You followed me to this hell hole.’ His expression clouded.
She looked at him seriously, examining his tanned, handsome face and blue-grey eyes for clues. ‘You think this is a hell hole?’ Beyond the window, the curve of the bay was a serene smile, the calm evening a gentle caress.
He pulled her close again, nuzzling her neck, then leaned back grinning at her. ‘Course not, though your cooking could stand some improvement, lassie. That is a vision of hell. Lucky you’ve got me or we’d all starve.’
Shona glimpsed the pie in the eye-level oven, the golden potato crust browning nicely. Her stomach rumbled. Becca came into the kitchen wearing an acid yellow vintage top over leggings, her dark wavy hair loose around her shoulders. She had her mother’s heart shaped face and colouring, but her father’s height and cheekbones. She rolled her eyes at her parents. Shona detached an arm from Rob and pulled her daughter to her. At fifteen, Becca was already several inches taller than she was. She kissed her lightly on the cheek. For a second, Shona held them both in a fierce embrace, fixing the imprint of them in her consciousness, throwing a ring of protection around all that really mattered to her.
‘Muuum,’ Becca protested. Becca disdained, but never denied, these moments of affection. Perhaps her daughter loved her after all.
Rob detached himself. ‘Right, food, ten minutes,’ he said as he began laying the table in the kitchen. The jaunty theme-tune of The Enterpriser came from the small TV suspended below the kitchen cabinets. ‘Your pal’s on again.’ He indicated celebrity business guru Kenny Hanlon, all impossibly blond hair and loud suit, beaming like the risen sun from the screen. ‘When are we meeting him?’
‘Don’t remind me. The STAC reception is next week.’ She watched as the camera swooped wildly over the ecstatic studio audience. As the titles ended it came to rest on Hanlon, posed side-on, feet planted wide and arms folded. He turned, brandished a huge fistful of cash, and winked. The legend Your Business is My Business flashed up in neon behind him. ‘God, this is trash.’ Shona shook her head.