Allan Guthrie - Bye Bye Baby

"Was it your own idea to ditch your car?"

"No, he told me to. Said you'd be looking for it."

"Tell me about his voice," I said.

"From around here," she said. "Middle-aged." She shrugged. "Nothing that stood out."

Erica came back.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"Public phone," she said. "Might be CCTV coverage."

Somehow, I doubted it. This guy was too smart.

Mrs Wilson agreed. "You're not going to catch him, are you?" she said.

I couldn't believe I was doing this.

It was Mrs Wilson's idea. And of course it made sense to her.

She'd sent Erica upstairs to fetch Bruce. Erica came back with Dr Snow and Les.

The shrink came up to me, walking stick hardly touching the ground. She grabbed my elbow and dragged me over to the corner of the room.

"This is a terrible idea," she said. Erica must have told her what Mrs Wilson was planning. "You have to stop her."

"How?" I waited a second or two but she didn't say anything. "You're the expert. Show me."

Dr Snow clumped over to Mrs Wilson. I followed, stood close by so I could hear what they were saying.

"Bruce has been through an ordeal," Dr Snow was saying. "I don't think he wants to talk about it."

"You don't think it might help him?"

"No, I think it'll make it harder for him."

"Bruce says he's fine." Mrs Wilson's cupped hand drew an arc in the air next to her. Around shoulder height. "Somebody needs a haircut, I think." She was smiling as she looked up again. "He doesn't mind."

"But I don't think-"

"Bruce is doing it, Dr Snow. It doesn't matter what you think."

Dr Snow nodded, hunched her shoulders, then moved off to take a seat on the corner of the settee.

"What do you want to ask him?" Mrs Wilson said to me.

I wasn't sure where to look. I slowly became aware that I was scratching an eyebrow repeatedly. And it wasn't even itchy.

"Shouldn't you get your notebook out?"

I did as Mrs Wilson suggested. At least it gave me something to do with my hands.

"Could you ask Bruce if he can describe the kidnapper?" I asked.

Mrs Wilson turned her head and whispered something. Then she said to us, "Bruce was wearing a blindfold. He didn't see the man."

We were quiet for a while.

"What else?" Mrs Wilson said.

"What about at the school? Didn't Bruce see him then?"

She whispered again.

"He was tall," she said.

"What was he wearing?" Erica asked.

Again, Mrs Wilson leaned down. "A suit."

"What colour?" I asked.

"Grey."

"How old was he?"

"Bruce says he was older than Mummy."

The questions went on for about ten minutes. Ten very long minutes.

"That's great," Erica said at last. "But I think we need to get back to the station now."

In the car, Erica said, "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

When I sat down at my desk in the CID office, I noticed the drawer was open.

"Some arsehole's been fiddling with my stuff," I said to Erica.

I spotted something inside that I didn't recognise. A piece of purple cardboard. I tugged the drawer out.

I pulled out the cardboard. Inside was a Halloween-style severed finger. Or there would have been, if the plastic hadn't been torn open and the finger removed.

Erica reached into the desk and picked up a magazine. It was a magazine I'd never seen before. A sailing magazine. She flipped through it. Some pages fell out. Words missing from the headlines. Some scraps landed on the desk. Random words with one or two letters cut out.

"Shit," she said. "What else have you got in there?" She stuck her hand back in the drawer.

"It's Dutton," I said. "Up to his usual. Thinks this is funny."

"That's not usual." Erica held up a brick of cash. A tight little bundle of crisp new fifties. "How in the name of Christ did you get this, Collins?"

When I looked around the room, I saw that all my colleagues were watching me, looking for an answer.

I swallowed. My throat hurt.

They put me in a holding cell downstairs. Not because of what was in my desk, but because I kicked the shit out of Sergeant Dutton.

I'd sprinted to his office, flung open the door and laid into him. He couldn't run away. There wasn't enough room. I pinned him to the wall and flung punch after punch at his fucking moustache.

They'd taken me down here to calm down.

I'd had some time to think. I don't how long because they took my watch. Felt like a couple of hours since the door closed. I thought at least Erica would have come down to see me, but no, nobody came. It was just me and a shitty toilet and a bed.

I sat on the thin rectangle of foam in its blue, wipe-clean plastic cover and rubbed my bruised knuckles. I tried to figure out why Dutton had framed me. All this because he blamed me for his wife leaving him?

I looked up when I heard a key in the lock. After a second or two, the door opened.

"Erica," I said. "Get me out of here."

"How could you do this?" She stepped right up to me. "Holly's gutted. And your kids, how do you think it's going to be for them now?"

I didn't believe I was hearing this. "Erica, what the hell are you talking about?" I put my hand on her shoulder.

"Get the fuck off me!" She raised her fist.

"What's wrong?" I put my hands in the air as if she was holding a gun. "It's Dutton. He set me up."

"I always thought you were a piece of shit, you know that?"

"Listen to me," I said.

"Fuck you." She turned around, slammed the door shut behind her.

I walked over to the door and leaned my head against it. I stayed there for quite a while.

I was back on the bed, probably half an hour later, when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. The key scraped in the lock again and my uncle stepped into the cell.

"Thank Christ," I said.

"You sure you don't want to see a Police Federation representative?" he asked.

"For beating up Dutton? Everybody knows he asked for it."

"Come with me," he said.

I didn't need to be asked twice.

Interview room 2. I knew it well. But I'd never sat on this side of the desk before. The room looked different when you were facing the door.

They'd left me there with a uniform standing guard, under orders not to speak to me. That was fine. I didn't feel much like talking.

My uncle walked in carrying a briefcase. A grey briefcase.

"Recognise this?" He dumped it on the desk.

I checked to make sure and, yes, the name of Mrs Wilson's bank was there in gold letters on the front. "Where did you find it?" I said. "Was the money — ?"

"I asked you if you recognise this!" he shouted.

What the hell had got into him? "Yes," I said. "I do."

The door opened and Erica came in. She was carrying a large evidence bag filled with cash. Bundles of it. As she got closer, I saw that the notes were fifties, and they were all banded into bricks.

"Jesus," I said. "You did find it! Is it all there?"

"There's 120 grand." He took the bag from Erica. Set it on top of the briefcase. "With the five we found in your desk, that's exactly half of Mrs Wilson's missing money. Where's the rest?"

"How would I know?" I asked.

"There's no point carrying on this game any longer, Collins," Erica said, and folded her arms.

"Look, for the tenth time." I folded my arms too. "Dutton's the man you want. He set me up."

"I'll grant you," my uncle said, "he might have been able to put that funny finger and those magazines in your desk. He might have put a stray five grand in your desk too. But do you think Dutton's the kind of guy who'd stick 120 grand in the boot of your wife's car?"