climbed out into the drizzle and hurried up the path to number 18. Stood beneath the little portico waiting for someone to come answer the bell.
‘So?’ Franklin stuck her hands in her pockets.
‘So what?’
‘What did you do?’
‘Oh …’ Well, she was going to find out sooner or later. ‘I cocked up. Contaminated a crime scene, because I wasn’t paying attention. Too busy trying to get a conviction.’ A shrug. ‘You know Big Johnny Simpson?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Well, he walked on a murder charge. Because of me. And no, I’m not happy about it.’ At least that part was true.
‘So the team’s a dumping ground for the unwanted and the incompetent. That’s just great.’
‘I wouldn’t say—’
The door opened. ‘Hello?’ A middle-aged woman squinted out at them, hair piled on top of her head, a red pinny smeared with grey stains covering polo-shirt and cords. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. ‘Sorry, I was in the studio. Can I …’ Her shoulders dipped as she looked them up and down. ‘I’m flattered, but I honestly don’t want any copies of The Watchtower, leaflets about the Bible being a guide to modern life, or a discussion on accepting Jesus into my heart. So if you don’t mind.’ She tried to close the door, but Callum stuck his foot in the way.
‘Mrs Carmichael? Police. Is Glen in?’
‘It’s Ms, and no.’ Her nose came up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got clay on the wheel.’
Franklin held out her warrant card. ‘There’s been an accident: we just found your son’s car in a field south of the city. He’s not in it. We’re worried for his safety.’
A hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘Glen …’
‘Now can we come in?’
The kitchen was warm enough, every surface covered with pots and bowls and mugs. Some less wonky than others.
Callum stuck the kettle on to boil, then picked up a blue mug with a white rim. ‘These are very good. Did you make them yourself?’
Ms Carmichael sat at the small kitchen table, worrying at her clay-greyed dishtowel. ‘Is Glen all right?’
Franklin pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘We don’t know. We’ve been in contact with the hospitals and doctors’ surgeries, but nothing so far. He’s—’
‘Oh God …’ Her eyes reddened. ‘Glen.’
‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’ Callum pointed out through the kitchen wall in the vague direction of Shortstaine. ‘We didn’t see anything in the car to suggest he’s badly hurt. He’s 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 didn’t 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 we’re concerned about. Something that didn’t belong to him.’
She stiffened. ‘My poor wee boy could be lying dead in a ditch and you’re here accusing him of stealing?’
Callum put teabags in mugs. ‘I know it sounds a bit insensitive,’ he gave Franklin a pointed look, ‘but we’ve got to investigate this kind of stuff. It’s important.’
‘It’s because of those burglaries, isn’t 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 wasn’t 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 Terry’s Bistro on Minerva Road. It wouldn’t even have been a thing if the bloody sports centre hadn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 Glen’s 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. That’s the recession, isn’t 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 wasn’t even wearing a crash helmet. Some people just didn’t 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. ‘Don’t look at me, I told him when he turned sixteen: you’re 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 we’d go to the art gallery, and we’d 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
