The Impossible Dead

6



Detective Constable Cheryl Forrester liked to ask questions. Questions like: How long have you been in the Complaints? Is there a selection process? How many of you work there? Is it for life, or some kind of fixed term? Why is it you’re detective grade but not called detectives? What’s been your most shocking case? What’s the nightlife like in Edinburgh?

‘It’s only a train ride away, you know,’ Joe Naysmith told her.

‘Oh, I’ve been there plenty times.’

‘Then you probably know the nightlife better than we do,’ Tony Kaye said.

‘But I mean the places locals go …’

‘DC Forrester, we’re not really here to pass along tourist tips.’

‘I like the Voodoo Rooms,’ Naysmith interrupted. He saw the look on his colleague’s face and swallowed back a further comment.

The problem was, Forrester’s enthusiasm was almost infectious. The description ‘bubbly’ might have been coined for her. She had curly brown hair, tanned skin, and a rounded face with freckles and large brown eyes. She had been in the force for six years, the last two in CID. Right at the start, she’d told them she was too busy for a boyfriend.

‘I’m sure plenty have tried,’ Kaye had stated, intending to bring Paul Carter’s name into play, but she had steered the conversation in another direction by asking Naysmith if the Complaints worked nine-to-five, to which he’d responded by telling her about their surveillance van and how an operation could last anything up to a year.

‘A year of your life? Better be a result at the end of it!’

And so it went, until Kaye finally rapped his knuckles against the table. They were in the interview room again, but without the recording equipment. Forrester, sensing she was somehow worthy of censure, set her mouth tight and clasped her hands together in front of her.

‘As you know,’ Tony Kaye began, ‘certain allegations have been levelled at several of your colleagues. Would you care to tell us what you think of them?’

‘The allegations or the colleagues?’

‘Why not both?’

Forrester puffed out her cheeks. ‘I was shocked when I heard. I think everyone was. I’d worked with DC Carter for almost eighteen months and he’d never … well, never struck me as being like that.’

‘You’ve been out on calls with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the car with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s never said anything? Never asked you to wait while he popped into a house or a flat?’

‘Not like that, no.’

‘Police stations are terrible places for gossip …’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything.’ She stared at Kaye with her wide, innocent-seeming eyes.

‘Your colleagues in CID – Scholes, Haldane, Michaelson …’

‘What about them?’

‘When the Carter investigation started, they must’ve talked about it.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Did anything strike you? Maybe they went into a huddle?’

She gave a look of concentration, then shook her head slowly but with certainty.

‘Did you ever feel left out? Maybe they headed off to the pub together …’

‘We have nights at the pub, yes.’

‘You must have discussed the case.’

‘Yes, but not how to tamper with evidence.’

‘The time Michaelson spilled coffee on his notebook – did you see that?’

‘No.’

‘And you never saw Teresa Collins, never heard Carter on the phone to her?’

‘No.’

‘How come you weren’t called as a witness at the trial? Sounds to me like you could have done Carter a power of good.’

‘I don’t really know. I mean, all I could have said is what I’ve just told you.’

‘Carter never came on to you?’

There was silence in the room. Forrester looked down at her hands and then up again. ‘Never,’ she stated.

‘And that’s the truth, not just something you’ve been told to say?’

‘It’s the truth. Bring me a bible and I’ll swear on it.’

‘If we can’t find a bible,’ Naysmith interrupted, ‘would a cocktail list suffice?’

Cheryl Forrester laughed, showing perfect pearly teeth.

At the end of the interview, Naysmith said he’d walk her back to CID.

‘It’s not like she’s going to get mugged,’ Kaye chided his colleague, but Naysmith ignored him. Kaye decided to wander outside for some air. In the car park, a hovering gull just missed him, splattering an MG’s windscreen instead. There was no sign of the Mondeo, and no sign of Fox. Kaye took out his mobile and checked for messages. He had three, one of them from Malcolm. Back inside the station, he kept his finger on the bell until the desk sergeant arrived with the same welcoming black look as ever.

‘I’ll take DCI Laird, if he’s around,’ Kaye said.

‘I’m not sure he is.’

‘Okay, never mind.’ Kaye headed for the corridor and climbed the stairs to the next floor. CID comprised several offices here. Cheryl Forrester was in one of them, while Naysmith stood in the doorway, arms folded, one foot crossed over the other, talking to her. Kaye gave him a dig in the back as he passed, then pushed open the door to the large open-plan office further on. Scholes and Michaelson looked up from their desks. Scholes was on the phone, Michaelson navigating his computer screen with a mouse. Another man, slightly older than the other two, stood in the centre of the room. He had dispensed with his suit jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He had waxy olive skin, hair that was grey at the temples, and bags under his eyes. He was reading from a sheaf of papers.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Laird?’ Kaye held out his hand. Laird had yet to make eye contact. He added a couple of words to the margin of one sheet, then pocketed his pen.

‘You’re Fox?’ he drawled.

‘Sergeant Kaye,’ Kaye corrected him, withdrawing his hand.

‘Where’s Fox?’

‘Probably off getting a second opinion on Haldane’s flu.’

‘Well now …’ Laird deigned to meet Kaye’s eyes at last. ‘You’re a cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Depends on the situation, sir.’ Kaye sensed that he was standing in front of a man who believed in the troops under his command and would defend them to the bitter end. Forrester hadn’t been helpful because there was nothing for her to be helpful with, but Laird was another matter entirely. He would give them nothing because that was all they deserved. It was there in his tone, his manner, his way of standing, feet planted widely apart. Kaye had encountered the type plenty of times. They could be dismantled, but it took time and effort. Weeks of time, unceasing effort.

Fox’s message had been ‘Ask Laird why Pitkethly was brought in.’ It was a reasonable question, and Kaye knew why it was best not to ask Pitkethly herself. Quite simply, she probably wouldn’t know. She hadn’t known the station at all until she was shipped there. Laird had served under the previous regime. He was an old hand. If there was a story worth telling, Laird might be the one to tell it.

But a few seconds spent in the man’s company told Kaye this wasn’t going to happen.

‘My boss,’ he said, ‘had something he wanted me to ask you.’

‘Spit it out, then.’

But Kaye just shook his head. ‘I don’t think I will.’

Then he turned and walked away. Halfway down the corridor, he grabbed Naysmith by the back of his collar and took him with him.