a newspaper, or maybe a file folder held over his head as a makeshift umbrella. He stopped beside Captain Bleedy and patted him on the back.
There, there, poor thing.
Ah well, wasn’t Callum’s problem. ‘You still there?’
‘No, I’ve jetted off to Barbados for piña coladas and a barbequed lobster.’
He headed back down the corridor. ‘Well?’
‘I’ve got eight different names on here and according to the flags there’s about another three that aren’t on the system. One armed robber, two drug dealers, one got done for raping a nurse, one unlawful remover, one attempted murderer, and two aggravated assaulters. Well, they’ve all got charges for that, but two of your woman’s mates didn’t branch out into anything else. Or they never got caught.’
Eleven violent scumbags, and Irene Brown was barely in her twenties.
Little Mike was right: this is what real life looks like from down here at the bottom.
‘Can you email me the details? Names, dates, convictions, everything you’ve got.’
‘Urgh …’ Another big put-upon sigh. ‘Fine. Anything else, Your Majesty, or can I go back to working my fingers to the bone?’
Yes. Away boil your head.
‘No. Thank you.’ Callum stuck the handset back in his pocket.
Why did everyone have to be such a prima donna?
He paused at the entrance to the technicians’ lounge. There was no point getting another tea from the machine – once poisoned, twice shy – but the hot chocolate couldn’t be all that bad if Lucy was having another, so—
The door leading through to the dissecting room burst open and DCI Powel stormed into the corridor with his monkey ears bright red. He turned and jabbed a finger at his own feet. ‘IN HERE NOW!’
Franklin stepped in after him, shoulders back, chin up, jaw clenched.
Powel’s voice dropped to a growling whisper soon as the door shut behind her. ‘I do not care what you got away with in Edinburgh, but you do not assault members of my team without serious repercussions. Do you understand?’
She glared back at him. ‘With all due respect, sir—’
‘I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Bellowing it out, spittle flashing in the overhead lighting.
‘Yes, sir.’ There it was again: that burning-pus tone.
‘Now you will wait here and you will not move a muscle while I go check on the man you assaulted. And while I’m gone I want you to have a good hard think about how screwed you are.’ Powel barged past her and back into the dissecting room again, slamming the door on his way.
Franklin bared her teeth. ‘I will rip your bloody balls off, you …’ She must have realised she wasn’t alone, because she clicked her mouth shut and turned her glare on Callum instead. ‘What the hell are you looking at?’
He wandered over, hands in his pockets. ‘Let me guess: the guy with the busted face …?’
‘I don’t answer to you.’
‘Never said you did.’
She paced the width of the corridor in two steps then turned and did it again. ‘What is wrong with you people?’
‘Me people?’
‘He grabbed my arse! Of course I hit him!’
Ooh …
Callum stuck his head on one side. ‘Let me guess – big guy with sideburns and a wonky eye? DS Jimmy Blake. AKA: Blakey the Octopus.’
‘And do you know what he called me when I hit him? An “effing darkie bitch”!’ She thumped her hand against the wall.
‘No.’ Callum frowned. ‘Blakey said, “effing”?’
‘Oh shut up.’ She went back to short-form pacing again.
The door thumped open, and there was Powel, suit darkened across the shoulders and legs. He hooked a finger an inch from Franklin’s face. ‘You. With me. Now.’ Then turned and marched off.
She caught the door. Took a deep breath and went after him.
She was a pain in the backside, but still …
Callum followed the pair of them into the dissecting room’s foetid air, across the stained floor to the cutting table covered in naked disembodied feet. It was surrounded by plainclothes officers, shuffling about and avoiding eye contact. Fidgeting. Looking shifty and embarrassed about the whole thing.
Blakey was a pillar of indignation off to one side, a wad of green paper towels clutched to his nose, shirt stained a lovely Ribena red all down the front.
Powel stopped right in front of him, and did the pointing-at-his-own-feet thing again. ‘Detective Constable Franklin. You will apologise to DS Blake and you will do it now.’
She stood where she was told, muscles writhing along her jawline.
‘Now, Constable!’
Franklin took a deep breath, opened her mouth—
But Callum got there first. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv, but I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding.’
Powel didn’t even look at him. ‘This is none of your business, MacGregor.’
‘Let’s imagine for a moment that DC Franklin was the victim of a serious sexual assault in the workplace. She’d be well within her rights to defend herself, wouldn’t she?’
At that, Powel turned. ‘She attacked DS Blake.’
‘There’s a reason they call him “Blakey the Octopus”, Guv.’
Blake took the towels from his face. His left eye pointed about ten degrees off from the right one, but both of them had already gone a dark shade of pink. ‘I nebber tudged her!’
Ooh … Yeah. Mental note: never try to cop a feel of Franklin’s bum. She’d completely flattened Blake’s nose, leaving a squint lump of bloody gristle behind.
Franklin bared her teeth. ‘You lying, sexist, racist scumbag!’ She took a step forward, hands snapping into fists again.
Callum grabbed her arm. ‘We can easily check, Blakey.’ He pointed up at the dark CCTV globe mounted above the cutting table. ‘Big brother sees all.’
‘Ah …’ Blake stared up at the camera.
‘So maybe what actually happened is you slipped on the wet floor and tried to break the fall with your face?’
Blake
