they were both suffering from the same malady: James Machie.
People waved and nodded as they sat at the traffic lights on Main Street. Scott snorted as the car coming towardsthem ignored the red signal all together, cruising past them with a hearty wave.
‘I take it that Green Cross Code punter never made it here?’ Scott spoke for the first time since they left Daley’s house.
‘These lights have only been up for a couple of months. It takes them a wee while to get used to new traffic management measures,’ Daley replied, glad to be talking about something that wasn’t James Machie.
‘When I wiz a young cop, I’d have been standing there a’ day tae get a few bodies.’ Scott remembered how young police officers had been encouraged to report as many misdemeanours as they could, learning to construct a proper case, regardless of its nature.
‘Brian, if we prosecuted everyone who jumped these lights or committed minor traffic offences here, the court would be a 24/7 job. Have you never listened to your man’s “pragmatic policing” speech?’
‘Ye know yersel, Jim, I listen tae him as little as possible.’ Scott shook his head.
The lights changed, and they drove up the street and turned through the open gate into the car park at the rear of Kinloch police office, situated on the crest of the hill looking down Main Street.
‘Well, you’ll get the chance to listen to him all day today, my friend,’ Daley said as he parked the car in the space reserved for the sub-divisional commander. The detectives exited the vehicle then, after Daley had punched the security code into a wall-mounted keypad, pushed open the heavy security door to the office.
Daley noticed the hush that had pervaded the building, normally a lively, even happy, workplace. This morningeveryone seemed subdued. As he passed the bar office, the desk sergeant drew his forefinger across his brow and inclined his head to indicate that a senior officer with a braided cap was present: Donald.
Though Daley was acting divisional commander, he had based himself, quite naturally, within the glass box in the CID room. When Superintendent Donald arrived, he would occupy the boss’s office. As expected, he was sitting boldly behind the desk once occupied by Inspector MacLeod.
‘Ah, there you are. At last,’ Donald murmured, looking pointedly at his watch.
‘I’m surprised to see you, sir. I thought you were flying down.’
‘I arrived just under an hour ago. I have so much on I decided to drive down early. The roads are so much quieter. I had hoped that your day would have begun long before the time designated to pick me up.’ Donald was in an imperious mood, which didn’t bode well. ‘Things have moved on rather rapidly, I’m afraid to say. Come in here, both of you, and shut the door.’
Daley could hear Scott mutter under his breath as he shut the door firmly. There was only one seat in the room, apart from the one occupied by Donald, so Daley indicated to Scott that he should take it.
‘What’s wrong with you, DS Scott?’ Donald enquired. ‘No doubt nursing a gargantuan hangover, judging by the look of your bloodshot eyes. Please do your best not to breathe in my direction.’
Scott opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to interrupt as Donald carried on, barely pausing for breath.
‘In the very early hours of this morning, a forty-nine-year-old man was found dead in a street in the East End of Glasgowwith a seven-inch blade still lodged in his solar plexus.’ Donald looked at the men for a reaction, but gave them no time to comment. ‘Two hours earlier, a helicopter was discovered by a night orienteer – whatever the fuck that is – in a clearing in the middle of forestry in South Ayrshire. The pilot had been despatched professionally by two shots to the head.’ Donald looked out of the office window, down Kinloch’s Main Street.
‘Not something that happens every day, sir,’ Daley commented, feeling that he
People waved and nodded as they sat at the traffic lights on Main Street. Scott snorted as the car coming towardsthem ignored the red signal all together, cruising past them with a hearty wave.
‘I take it that Green Cross Code punter never made it here?’ Scott spoke for the first time since they left Daley’s house.
‘These lights have only been up for a couple of months. It takes them a wee while to get used to new traffic management measures,’ Daley replied, glad to be talking about something that wasn’t James Machie.
‘When I wiz a young cop, I’d have been standing there a’ day tae get a few bodies.’ Scott remembered how young police officers had been encouraged to report as many misdemeanours as they could, learning to construct a proper case, regardless of its nature.
‘Brian, if we prosecuted everyone who jumped these lights or committed minor traffic offences here, the court would be a 24/7 job. Have you never listened to your man’s “pragmatic policing” speech?’
‘Ye know yersel, Jim, I listen tae him as little as possible.’ Scott shook his head.
The lights changed, and they drove up the street and turned through the open gate into the car park at the rear of Kinloch police office, situated on the crest of the hill looking down Main Street.
‘Well, you’ll get the chance to listen to him all day today, my friend,’ Daley said as he parked the car in the space reserved for the sub-divisional commander. The detectives exited the vehicle then, after Daley had punched the security code into a wall-mounted keypad, pushed open the heavy security door to the office.
Daley noticed the hush that had pervaded the building, normally a lively, even happy, workplace. This morningeveryone seemed subdued. As he passed the bar office, the desk sergeant drew his forefinger across his brow and inclined his head to indicate that a senior officer with a braided cap was present: Donald.
Though Daley was acting divisional commander, he had based himself, quite naturally, within the glass box in the CID room. When Superintendent Donald arrived, he would occupy the boss’s office. As expected, he was sitting boldly behind the desk once occupied by Inspector MacLeod.
‘Ah, there you are. At last,’ Donald murmured, looking pointedly at his watch.
‘I’m surprised to see you, sir. I thought you were flying down.’
‘I arrived just under an hour ago. I have so much on I decided to drive down early. The roads are so much quieter. I had hoped that your day would have begun long before the time designated to pick me up.’ Donald was in an imperious mood, which didn’t bode well. ‘Things have moved on rather rapidly, I’m afraid to say. Come in here, both of you, and shut the door.’
Daley could hear Scott mutter under his breath as he shut the door firmly. There was only one seat in the room, apart from the one occupied by Donald, so Daley indicated to Scott that he should take it.
‘What’s wrong with you, DS Scott?’ Donald enquired. ‘No doubt nursing a gargantuan hangover, judging by the look of your bloodshot eyes. Please do your best not to breathe in my direction.’
Scott opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to interrupt as Donald carried on, barely pausing for breath.
‘In the very early hours of this morning, a forty-nine-year-old man was found dead in a street in the East End of Glasgowwith a seven-inch blade still lodged in his solar plexus.’ Donald looked at the men for a reaction, but gave them no time to comment. ‘Two hours earlier, a helicopter was discovered by a night orienteer – whatever the fuck that is – in a clearing in the middle of forestry in South Ayrshire. The pilot had been despatched professionally by two shots to the head.’ Donald looked out of the office window, down Kinloch’s Main Street.
‘Not something that happens every day, sir,’ Daley commented, feeling that he
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