Allan Guthrie - Bye Bye Baby

Not the sort of hands you'd expect a photographer to have.

Mrs Wilson had given me his address and enough background information to explain why she was sending me to an artist's studio in Stockbridge.

They'd made up last night, she'd said. Their relationship was back on.

Les Green's studio was the end one of five. It was a small space, and it looked even smaller because of the clutter. The walls were covered in framed photographs. Mainly portraits. There was one of Mrs Wilson, looking lost.

The studio floor was carpeted in an industrial grey. There were a couple of big lights on tripods and a black umbrella thing and a reflector disc. A wide strip of white material ran down from a ten-foot-high board and draped across the floor for another ten feet or so. Various cameras and lenses lay about the place. A dozen empty frames leaned against the wall and magazines littered the floor.

I tightened my grip on Les's hand. "What do you call that big white sheet?" I asked.

"An infinity backdrop." He tried to pull his hand away. "It blends the foreground and the background. Makes it seem as if the subject is standing in space."

"Interesting. And is this your job or your hobby?" I already knew the answer. Mrs Wilson had told me. But Les didn't know that.

I squeezed his fingers.

His expression didn't change. "I worked for the local rag for a few years," he said. "Got laid off a couple of months back. Decided to take some time out. Work on my own projects. Wanted to see what I could do if I had a bit of time."

I let go of his hand.

He held his hands out, fanned his fingers. Each one was twisted to the side, or backwards, at the tip or middle joint. Freaky as hell.

"You'd need to squeeze a lot harder," he said, "if you want to hurt me."

"Why would I want to hurt you?"

"I was wondering the same thing."

I stared at him for a bit, then said "Listen, I don't mean to be rude. But, your fingers. Is that some kind of bone condition?"

He laughed. "Playing cricket. I used to be a wicket keeper."

"You must have been pretty bad."

He clenched his fists. His right index finger looped over his thumb. He spoke, his voice soft: "Actually, I almost made the national team."

"Not a lot of competition, I suppose," I said. "Cricket's not the most common sport in Scotland. Surprised you even managed to get a team together."

He took a step back, put his hands by his sides. "Clare said you were coming." The softness had gone from his voice. "She didn't say you were a prick."

"Nice." I gave him a couple of slow nods. "Ballsy."

He looked at me.

"And stupid, of course," I said. "Sums you up, don't you think?"

He took a long breath through his nose. "What do you want?"

"So you're unemployed?"

"Self-employed," he said.

"Making any money?"

"Not yet."

"You rent this place?"

"Yes."

"Meet the payments okay?"

He gave me a look. "What did Clare tell you?"

"Mrs Wilson advised me that she pays the rent for you."

"It was her idea," he said. "She insisted on it."

"And you just can't bring yourself to say no. Probably upset her too much and you wouldn't want to do that. Am I right?"

"She wants to help me out. I'm not too proud to accept."

"Right," I said. "Funny thing, you know. I got the feeling she didn't like photographs."

"Because of Bruce?" He shook his head. "It's odd, but the more you get to know her, the more you realise how real Bruce is to her. It's Bruce who doesn't like having his photo taken. She doesn't mind."

"All a bit confusing, isn't it?" I said. "Why didn't you get your fingers fixed, by the way?"

"Thought I'd lose my place in the team. Wanted to keep on playing."

"You played with broken fingers?"

"Only one at a time."

"Not just ballsy and stupid," I said. "But hard as well. My mistake."

"Happens to us all," he said. "Don't be too tough on yourself."

"And you think you're witty, too. A fine list of dangerous traits."

"Can we get back to the subject?"

"And impatient." I moved forward slightly. "Can I speak frankly?"

"Like I could stop you."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your personality stinks, Les. Makes me think the worst of you."

He shrugged my hand off.

"Okay, you're right," I said. "We should talk about Bruce. Good idea. My understanding is that you claimed he was ruining your relationship with Mrs Wilson. I can understand that. Nothing like a dead child to mess things up. Especially when they come back to life."

He said nothing.

"And so you and Mrs Wilson broke up," I said. "But now you're back together?"

"We patched things up," he said. "I said I was sorry."

"Once you heard about the kidnapping."

"I love her." His voice went soft again. "But you've seen how she is. It's impossible to have a relationship with her. But I do love her."

I didn't believe him. Not for a second.

"And because you love her," I said, "you offered to take 250 grand in cash from her?"

"She's going to throw it away."

"And you want it for yourself."

"No," he said. "I want to make sure she gets it back. The only way I can do that is if I'm the one who delivers it."

"Ah." I couldn't fault his logic. It was the same as mine. "Thoughtful. I like that trait, Les. I like it so much I'm going to help you work on it. How about I give you a hand to deliver the money, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'll come with you. Tag along behind in my car. Make sure everything goes smoothly."

He looked at his hands, stretched those bent fingers. "And then what?" he asked.

"You'll go away and tell Mrs Wilson it's done."

"And leave you with the money?"

"You don't trust me, Les? I'm offended."

"What's to stop you keeping it?"

That was a very good question.

I'd hardly set foot back in the station when my uncle called for me.

I walked passed Dutton's office. The door was open but it was empty. At the end of the corridor, I stopped and knocked on the door marked Detective Inspector James Fleck.

He shouted for me to come in.

I wondered if I'd find him crouched on the floor and we'd have to go through that foot-in-the-back business again. I really wasn't in the mood.

But he was sitting at his desk, looking comfortable enough.

Opposite him was DS Dutton, stroking his moustache. I caught the familiar whiff of stale smoke.

"The hell's he doing here?" I asked my uncle.

"Shut up and pay attention," he said. "I want you to behave. I want both of you fuckwits to behave. Any more crap and I'll come down on the pair of you so fucking hard, you'll be shiting your own fucking heads."

His outburst caught Dutton by surprise. Poor dolt's mouth was open, the hand that had been playing with his moustache hovering in the air like it didn't know what to do with itself.

"I didn't do anything," he said, and lowered his hand.

"And I can knit cardigans with my cock." My uncle scratched his chin. "Look, you don't like each other, that's fine. Just shake hands and get the fuck along. I don't have the time or the fucking energy to dick about any more. Okay?"

Dutton looked at me and shrugged.

I held out my hand. His palm was sweaty and cold. We shook.

"Super." My uncle clapped his hands twice. "Now get out."

I turned to go.

"Hang on, sunshine," he said. "You stay. I want an update on the loony mother."

Once Dutton had gone, I said, "What about Erica? She coming back soon?"

"I invited her to rejoin us. But she said no. She's decided to leave."

I was at home when the call came through. I'd been thinking about heading off to bed, where Holly had gone a couple of hours earlier. The boys had disappeared to their rooms to play video games after dinner and left me alone.