of comforting …
I closed my eyes. Let it wash over me. Yawned.
Could drift off for a—
Three loud knocks at the door. ‘Hello? Ash? Constable Henderson? Hello? It’s me, Alice …’ Dr McDonald. Wonderful. ‘Hello? Are you in there?’
I gritted my teeth, rolled off the bunk up to my feet, and stood there like a dose of brewer’s droop – back bent, arms dangling.
‘Hello?’ Knock, knock, knock.
I opened the door.
She was standing in the narrow corridor, both arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting from side to side. ‘They said there’s been a mistake with the cabins, the team admin officer only booked the one, and the other cabins are all full, and obviously we can’t share a cabin. It wouldn’t be right: we work together, and you’re a man and I’m a woman and what if something happened, it wouldn’t—’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ I slouched back to the rumpled bunk and collapsed face-down onto it. ‘Ow …’ It was like being battered all over again.
‘But we can’t share a cabin it’s ridiculous, I mean it’s—’
‘Trust me,’ words muffled by the pillow, ‘you’re not that irresistible.’
There was a pause, then the creak of someone sitting on the other bed. ‘Can’t you sleep somewhere else?’
‘I think I might be able to control my sexual ardour if … buggering hell.’ Bloody phone was ringing again. I fumbled it out, stuck it against my ear. ‘What?’
An Irish accent, female, clipped. ‘Officer Henderson, have yez forgotten yer manners along with everythin’ else?’
‘Mrs Kerrigan.’ As if today couldn’t have got any worse.
‘They’ve got these seats upstairs you can recline almost all the way, I’m sure they’re comfortable, you could get one of those—’
‘I’ve got a message for yez, Officer Henderson—’
‘Oh, I got your bloody message all right. Well, you know what: I know where you live too.’
‘—and you can probably hire one for a couple of pounds—’
‘Yez’ve got a hard neck, talkin’ to me like—’
‘You tried to have me crippled! You really think I’m going to let that go?’
‘—I can’t sleep in the open, surrounded by strange people, anything could happen, I mean I couldn’t sleep at all, it would be—’
‘Where’s our money, Officer Henderson? We had a deal.’
‘You should’ve thought of that before you sent “Mr Pain” to my house.’ My knuckles ached, the phone’s casing creaked in my fist. ‘Deal’s off. I so much as see one of your dogs near me, I’m coming after you, understand?’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘—and what would happen then, it would be horrible, I can’t have people watching me sleep, Richard has to go into the spare room when he stays over—’
‘Listen up, ye little bollox, if ye ever eat the head off me again I’ll feckin’ come round meself, understand? Then we’ll see how gobby ye are. Deal’s not off till I say so: four grand by Thursday lunch.’ And then she hung up.
‘—it’s not that I don’t value you as a colleague, obviously I do, but I really don’t think we should be sleeping in the same room—’
Oh fuck … I dumped the phone on the bed and folded my arms over my head. Fuck. Fuck. Shitting fuck. Why? Why couldn’t I keep my big gob shut? Threatening Andy Inglis’s right-hand woman, what a great idea that was. No way that was going to come back and bite me on the balls. Fuck …
‘—I mean we only met yesterday … Ash? Hello?’
I rolled over onto my side: it hurt slightly less than being hit by a car. ‘I’m going to have a shower. You can stay and watch if you like, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
The ferry thrummed and throbbed beneath my feet, rocking and rolling as I hauled myself upstairs to the main deck level – all pale wooden floors and shiny chrome. A shop, two bars, a cinema, lifeboats … Who could ask for more? It was busy: families; groups of friends; couples; people on their own; what looked like a rugby team, wearing matching red tops, downing pints of lager and singing some sort of folk song.
‘Roond da boat da tide-lumps makkin,
Sunlicht trowe da cloods is brakkin.’
A wall-mounted TV played the news, but no one was watching it.
I stopped for a minute. On screen was a shot of Oldcastle Police Headquarters in all its mouldy Victorian glory. A woman with wind-blown hair and a blue umbrella stood in front of the entrance, talking at the camera. It was impossible to make out what she was saying over the singing, but the ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘SERIAL KILLER – BODIES FOUND – OLDCASTLE POLICE CONFIRM REMAINS ARE “BIRTHDAY BOY” VICTIMS.’
‘We maan geng whaar fish is takkin,
Rowin Foula doon …’
The picture jumped to ACC Drummond at some sort of media briefing. Busy grabbing the credit before Dickie’s team of Party Crashers turned up tomorrow.
The ferry had two eating areas: a canteen at the back of the ship, and a fancy sit-down place with tablecloths and wine – closed off from the common areas with a glass wall. So the people outside could see what a good time the people inside were having.
I hauled the door open and joined the chosen few. There were only half a dozen tables, and they were all taken. Dr McDonald had the one in the far corner, sitting with her back to the wall hunched over a menu.
I wandered over and pulled out the chair opposite. ‘Our Assistant Chief Constable’s on the telly right now, marking his territory before Dickie turns up.’
She didn’t look up. Sulking.
A man appeared, carrying a tray. ‘The large Glenmorangie?’
Dr McDonald stuck up her hand. ‘Mine. And can I get a bottle of the Pinot Grigio too.’
‘Of course. Sir?’
I turned in my seat … Grimaced as burning needles jabbed up and down my back and stomach. ‘Sparkling mineral water: big bottle.’
‘Are you ready to order, or would you like a couple more minutes?’
Dr McDonald snapped her menu shut. ‘I’ll have the herring followed by the pork and black pudding.’
‘Excellent choice; sir?’
‘Er … Can you give me a minute, I—’
‘He’ll have the smoked salmon, and the fillet steak: rare.’ She threw back her whisky and dumped the empty glass on the table. Shuddered. ‘And I’ll have another one of these.’
‘Coming right up.’ The waiter put the tumbler on his tray, collected the menus and melted away.
As soon as he was gone, Dr McDonald picked her satchel up from the floor and took out a red plastic folder. She laid the contents out on the table: copies of every card Hannah Kelly’s parents had received from the Birthday Boy.
‘You sure you should be doing that in here?’
‘That’s why I’m sitting in the corner. No one can see over my shoulder.’ She arranged them in chronological order, oldest top left, newest bottom right. Then wrapped one arm around herself, the other hand fiddling