Then turned and lumbered away into the evening.
A shaft of sunlight broke through the heavy cloud, the low beam of golden light pulling a rainbow from the drizzle. Making the graffiti-wreathed shopping centre shine.
The car’s horn blared.
Right.
Callum peered in through the rear window and there was Franklin peering back at him, reaching over from the passenger seat to lean on the horn again.
Mouthing the words, ‘Hurry up!’
Funny how some people could start off looking extremely pretty, only to get less and less attractive the more time you had to spend with them. At this rate, by the end of the week, Detective Constable Franklin was going to resemble the underside of Quasimodo’s armpit.
He sighed and climbed in behind the wheel. Cranked the engine. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
She checked her watch. ‘DS McAdams said an hour and a half, thirty minutes ago. We’re, what, twenty minutes from DHQ. That leaves—’
‘Plenty of time.’ He navigated his way through the potholes and back onto the road. ‘Just got a little stop to make on the way.’
‘God’s sake!’
‘It’s on the way. Won’t take five, ten minutes tops.’
‘Gah!’ She swivelled in her seat to give him the full-on glower. ‘I’ve just started with this team and I am not going to let you screw it up for me.’
‘Seriously?’ Left at the junction, onto McGilvray Place with its boarded-up terrace and abandoned building site – just foundations and pipes sticking out of the ground to mark the death throes of the local construction industry. ‘What happened to, “I’m not wasting my career with you losers”? Thought you wanted nothing to do with us.’
‘Let’s get something straight, Constable, I’m out of here first chance I get. But until then, I’m going to do the job. Properly. Not whatever half-arsed version of it you think you can get away with.’
‘It’ll take five minutes.’ A right, onto Munro Place, taking the car up the hill. ‘Then we’ll hit Division HQ and I’ll do the murder board, OK? And you can feel free to clype on me anytime you like.’ After all, it wasn’t as if Mother or McAdams could hate him more than they already did.
He slowed for a moment next to the rusty Volkswagen, where Dugdale had deployed The Claw, then over the crest of the hill and down the other side.
Left at the bottom.
Callum checked the slip of paper with ‘LITTLE MIKE’S PAWNSHOP ~ PRE-LOVED GOODS & PERSONAL FINANCE SOLUTIONS’ in flowery script along the top and, ‘BROWN : 45B MANSON AVE.’ scrawled beneath it in biro.
Number 45 was on the outside edge of a set of five identical squashed grey council-issue boxes. Each one semidetached, split down the middle – A on the left, B on the right – ten homes per block. Someone probably thought arranging them into wee groups like that would foster a sense of community pride and spirit. It hadn’t. A ruptured sofa sat outside the house next door. The one beyond that had a washing machine as a garden ornament, the porthole door open to show a collection of crumpled lager tins. Knee-high weeds from the front door to the garden wall.
Callum parked out front. Hauled on the handbrake. ‘Five minutes. You can use the time to compose your formal complaint about me.’
She just scowled at him.
He slipped out of the car, turned and stuck his head in again. ‘One of these days, the wind’s going to change.’ Then clunked the door shut and marched off before she could say anything back.
The garden gate was rusted solid, so he hopped over it onto a path of cracked paving slabs with grass growing in off-green Mohicans between them.
No doorbell.
He gave the chipped wood three loud hard knocks.
The light was on in the living room, shining through a pair of lace curtains. Shadows moved about inside.
Another three knocks.
And a voice came from the other side of the door. Young, female. ‘Go away.’
‘Mrs Brown?’
‘If you’re from the bailiffs, you can sod off. I don’t have to open the door!’
‘It’s not the bailiffs, it’s the police.’ He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘See?’
A groan. Then something thunked against the door at head height. ‘He doesn’t live here, OK? I kicked him out six weeks ago.’
Callum put his warrant card away. ‘Who doesn’t live here?’
Franklin was checking her watch, making a big pantomime of pointing at the thing and then pointing at him.
‘Go away.’
‘I’ve got some stuff for you, OK?’
‘I’m not in.’
Why bother?
Callum marched back to the car, popped open the boot and hauled out an armful of kid’s plastic toys. Dumped them just over the garden wall and went back for another load. Adding to the pile until the boot was empty.
The last thing was the raggedy teddy bear, with its missing ear and herniated stuffing. Plastic tat was one thing, a well-loved teddy bear was another. No way it was getting dumped in the weed-ridden grass.
He returned to the front door. Knocked. Held Teddy up to the spyhole.
Some muttered conversation inside, then the door opened a crack, the chain glinting in the hall light. A thin face peered out at him, blonde hair pulled back tight. She didn’t look old enough to leave school, let alone have two small kids. There was a huge bruise on her cheek, dark and angry against the pale skin. She blinked at the bear. ‘Mr Lumpylump?’
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 didn’t even flinch. ‘Shut up, Pinky.’
‘I redeemed the rest of the kid’s toys. They’re 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? There’s no money in it anyway, it’s just a tatty old wallet that’s falling apart. Like the bear.’ He gave Mr Lumpylump a wee shoogle, making him dance. ‘It’s important to me.’
She blinked
