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 up at him. ‘I don’t have it. I don’t have any wallet.’
‘You could check, though? Ask your children?’
Behind her, the toddler wailed some more, as whoever it was turned the blowtorch on their toes.
‘They’re not here.’ She reached out until the frame and door dug into her arm. Straining for the manky teddy bear. ‘Please …?’
What was he going to do, hold a kid’s teddy to ransom?
Callum passed her the bear and she snatched it from him, yanking it back inside the house and slamming the door.
He knocked again. ‘Hello?’ Rested his forehead against the door. ‘Hello?’
Silence. Not even the wailing.
Great.
What was the point of trying to help people? Why did everyone have to be so … so selfish. And nasty. And horrible?
One last try.
He pulled an official Police Scotland business card from his pocket wrote, ‘IF YOU FIND MY WALLET, PLEASE LET ME KNOW’ on the back, and slipped it through the letterbox.
Probably be sod-all use, but what other option did he have?
Callum trudged back along the path. Clambered over the rusted gate.
‘Hoy, mister?’ A young girl’s voice, hard with defiance and a broad Oldcastle accent.
He turned.
The little monster from this morning. The one who’d swigged cider from a can. The one Dugdale had used as a human shield. The rotten wee sod who’d stolen his wallet.
She’d ditched the baseball cap and tracksuit top for a T-shirt with a vampire Womble on it, but not the attitude. ‘What you doing here, Piggy?’
He nodded at the pile of plastic things.
Her eyes widened. ‘Whoa! You got Pinky’s toys back?’ Then her internal coolometer must have kicked in, her grin turned into a bored expression and a shrug. ‘Yeah, so?’
‘Swap you for my wallet.’
‘Ain’t got no wallet, do I? Chucked it.’
His whole face crumpled. ‘Oh for …’ What was the point? Of course she chucked it, with the credit cards cut up, why would she hold onto it? Wasn’t as if there was any cash in there. His shoulders drooped. ‘Sodding hell.’
‘Don’t know what you’re greetin’ about. Just a crappy old wallet, innit?’
‘It was my father’s. Only thing I’ve got of his.’
‘Yeah?’ She spat into the weeds. ‘Well, my dad broke my arm then ran off with one of mum’s friends.’
‘Mine disappeared when I was five.’
‘I was four.’ Always had to have the last word, didn’t she? A competition for who had the crappiest childhood.
‘Well I grew up in a care home. Beat that.’
Aha, she couldn’t, could she. At least she had a mother. Though going by the bruised face, her mum’s taste in men hadn’t improved any.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s Willow, isn’t it?’ At least, that was what her wee brother had called her when she was kicking three shades out of Dugdale’s head. ‘Any idea who’s been hitting your mum?’
Willow’s back stiffened. ‘I ain’t no snitch, Piggy.’
‘Course not.’ He produced another business card, stuck his mobile number on the back, and laid it on top of the wall. ‘But if you’re worried about her or anything …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’
The lace curtains twitched open, and there was Willow’s mum, standing with a toddler on one hip. She had the tatty old teddy bear clutched to her chest like a bible.
Not the kid’s bear, hers. Pawned to pay for food, or rent.
How depressing was that?
Callum climbed in behind the wheel. Frowned. Shook his head. Then started the car.
Franklin stared at him. ‘Well?’
‘No idea.’ He pulled away from the kerb, keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror.
The little girl stood and watched them all the way to the corner, then disappeared from view.
‘This was all for your stupid wallet, wasn’t it?’
He pulled out his Airwave, poking at the buttons with one hand as they navigated their way back towards the real world. ‘Control? Can you do a PNC on a Ms Brown, forty-five B Manson Avenue, Kingsmeath? See if anyone’s been bothering her.’
‘Aye, will do. Hang on.’
‘Thanks.’ He stuck the handset on the dashboard, took them out past a dilapidated community centre – doors and windows boarded up with damp-swollen chipboard –