‘I have one of the men loading the van for you now,’ Rose said. ‘He’ll drive it round to the station.’
‘Thanks,’ Art said. ‘We’ll have some Uniforms bring them upstairs.’
‘No problem. Happy to help.’
Brodie and Cameron turned away, and Rose smiled and winked at Art and made a ‘call me’ sign with her hand. Art smiled and nodded.
Outside in the warm air, Brodie turned to Art. ‘How long have you been seeing her?’
Art spluttered for a second. ‘My flabber has never been so gasted.’
Brodie raised his eyebrows. ‘We’re all detectives here, not lollipop men. How long?’
‘I took her home one night after we met in the bowling club.’
‘That fucking bowling club is a den of iniquity,’ Cameron said.
‘Shut your pie hole,’ Art said. ‘We hit it off. We went out for a drink last night. We’re going out for a curry tonight. I didn’t think I’d have to plaster the news all over the noticeboard.’
Brodie slapped him on the arm. ‘Good for you, Art. She seems like a nice woman.’
‘She is. She’s a widow. Lost her husband a few years back in a car accident. We’re just looking for friendship just now.’
‘Nothing wrong with that, mate,’ Cameron said. ‘I called my Moira last night and she told me to fuck off. I mean, it’s not like I cheated on her. I think she’s going out with somebody.’ He looked at Art. ‘Does Rose have a sister? A much younger sister?’
‘Not that I know of, but we haven’t got around to sharing photos yet.’
‘Well, if she does, give me a shout. Even an older sister would do at this point. Watching old films with my ma is getting to be a pain.’
‘You need your own place, son. Or you’ll end up being a weirdo who lives with two cats and starts plotting stuff in his bedroom.’
‘He’s right,’ Brodie said. ‘That pish can get to you.’
‘I don’t suppose your girlfriend?—’
‘Nope.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ Cameron looked disappointed.
Brodie got into his car, and drove out of the car park, leaving Art and Cameron to debate the pros and cons of dating sites, and whether they harboured black widows, men pretending to be women and why they had adverts for itch cream.
5
Back at Glenrothes station, Brodie took off his jacket and put it on the back of the chair in Alan McRae’s office. The same one he’d used just a couple of weeks ago. There was a hustle and bustle as uniforms lugged up the boxes with the old records in them, one of them suggesting that ‘the lazy bastards in MIT should roll their fucking sleeves up and give us a hand’, but his suggestion was shot down by Breck gritting his teeth and silently promising the young Uniform a colonoscopy with the toe of his size twelves.
Breck stood in the centre of it all, coffee cup in hand, watching officers sort through evidence boxes with the practised efficiency of people who’d done this before.
‘Liam,’ he said, ‘thank God you were able to come through and lead this investigation.’
‘Always glad to be on board, sir. I’m sorry to hear there’s no word of DCI McRae yet.’
‘Aye, well, everybody’s worried now. His sister, especially. Daisy’s been calling every day, even though there’s nothing new. Imean, I understand her frustration but it’s not as if I can wave a magic wand.’
‘Hopefully he’ll be back soon,’ Brodie said, not believing his own words.
They spent the next two hours methodically unpacking the evidence boxes, creating a timeline on the whiteboards that stretched across one wall. Seven victims, seven crime scenes, seven families destroyed by someone who had never left a single useful piece of evidence.
Breck stood at the front of the incident room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, DCI Brodie was here seven years ago when this bastard inflicted horror on our community. I’d like him to give you an overview of the original case.’
