Allan Guthrie - Bye Bye Baby

I hadn't been able to sit around doing nothing, so I'd gone out for a drive. It helped me think. Although by the time I got back home, I wasn't sure what I'd been thinking about.

Right now it was just me and late-night TV and that ringing phone.

I didn't recognise the caller's number, so I let it ring out.

A minute later it started again.

This time I checked my phone for messages.

"Detective Collins." Les Green's voice. The last person I expected to hear from. "Something's happened. Can you call me back?"

I thought about it and called him back. "What is it?"

"Well," he said. "Well, it's a finger."

"I don't get it," Les said.

We were in Mrs Wilson's kitchen, me and Les standing by the worktops. Mrs Wilson was sitting at an enormous dinner table, necking a bottle of single malt.

"Why would someone send a finger?" Les asked. "Some kind of warning?"

"That's possible. It's standard in kidnappings," I said.

"Only if the family doesn't pay up, though. Clare was going to pay up."

Which was true. And there was no note to explain. No demands, nothing. Just a finger in a clear plastic bag. It had been dropped through the letter box within the last couple of hours.

I'd checked the neighbours who still had their lights on. Nobody had seen or heard anything.

"It's a sick joke," I said. "This whole thing is."

The finger was fake, of course. It looked realistic at first glance. Your eyes were drawn to the blood, and only then did you notice the colour and texture of the finger was wrong.

It was something you could pick up in a joke shop. Something Mrs Wilson could have picked up in a joke shop. Also something Les could have got hold of. But what I couldn't figure out was why either of them would do such a thing. There was nothing to gain. And, I couldn't deny it, Les really did look baffled.

"This finger," I said to Mrs Wilson.

She wiped her eyes. Took a sip of whisky. Nodded.

"You know it's not Bruce's," I said.

"Course I do. I'm not stupid. It's made of rubber and it's far too big."

"Yeah," I said. "That's why it's not Bruce's."

"Don't."

I looked at Les.

"Just don't, please," he said, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears. He walked round the table and sat next to Mrs Wilson. He put his arm around her.

I wanted to think it was for show, but I was beginning to believe Les Green wasn't such a scumbag after all.

I called Erica on the way home.

"You woke me up," she said.

"Yeah, but listen-"

"You sodding well woke me up."

"You should come back to work," I said.

"What's it to you?"

"You can't let Dutton win."

"That's not why you rang," she said. "What do you want?"

"I need your advice. I've nobody else to talk to."

"Jesus, Collins, I'm not a cop any more."

"Course you are. You can't just walk away."

"Watch me."

"But you know the situation," I said. "You know the background. You've met Mrs Wilson. I just want to talk it through. It's not making any sense."

"Talk it through with your uncle."

"Come on," I said. "I can't wake him up at two in the morning."

She yelled down the phone and hung up.

I gave it five minutes and called again. But the phone rang out. I got the answering machine. "Hey," I said. "I miss you. Come back."

She didn't return the call.

I drove home with the fake finger inside an evidence bag on the passenger seat.

Allan Guthrie

Bye Bye Baby

It was about nine-thirty when I drove to Mrs Wilson's. The sun was out and it felt like the wrong kind of weather.

I'd swung by the station at seven. Dropped off the fake finger, wrote up a brief report.

I hadn't slept much. I suspected Mrs Wilson wouldn't have slept much either. I was right. She answered the door wearing the same clothes she'd had on last night. Most likely she hadn't even gone to bed.

She looked rough, but then I'd never seen her look anything but.

"Have a few things to check out," I said. "Can't stay."

"Who is it?" Les's voice in the distance.

"Heard anything from the kidnapper?" I asked Mrs Wilson.

She winked at me, then shook her head.

"When you do, call me," I said. "Right away."

"Okay."

"It's important. That business with the finger," I said. "We can't be too careful."

Les appeared behind her. He was dressed too, twirling his keys on the end of his crooked index finger. He gave me a look and said, "Still don't trust me?"

I wasn't sure what he meant.

"Then tag along," he said.

I followed them to the bank. One of those private banks in the West End. Went inside with them and had a seat in a posh waiting room. Then got taken to a private room the size of our CID office where we were offered tea and coffee.

We all refused.

The manager arrived and shook hands with everyone. His face was scrubbed clean and he stank of aftershave. Reminded me of a pimp I'd once arrested.

"Is my money ready?" Mrs Wilson asked.

"On its way." He rubbed his hands together. "Now, are you sure I can't invite you to take a cheque instead?"

"Don't bother," I said and showed him my warrant card.

"Ah, okay." He took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, opened it, and gave Mrs Wilson a form to fill in.

We tried to make small-talk while we waited for the cash. But nobody felt like saying much and after a bit the conversation stopped and we sat in silence.

The money arrived in a charcoal-grey briefcase with the bank's logo stamped in gold on the front. A couple of security guards flanked the clerk who brought the money.

"Thanks." Mrs Wilson got to her feet. "Can we leave now?"

"Goodness, no," the manager said. "We have to count it to show you it's all there."

"That's not necessary." Mrs Wilson turned to the clerk and held out her hand.

"I'm afraid it is." He took the briefcase from the clerk. "With a sum this large, we have to insist on it. Mistakes can easily be made."

"I suppose that's going to take a little while," Les said.

"I'll get some help." The manager opened the case and started taking out bricks of fifty-pound notes. "But, yes, we're probably talking thirty minutes or so."

"See that coffee we were offered?" Les said, steering Mrs Wilson back to her seat. "We'll maybe have some after all."

As it happened, the coffee no sooner arrived than I had my uncle on the radio.

"Sounds like you had a wild night," he said.

I gave him a quick run-down of recent events.

"You on top of it, sunshine? Need any help?"

"Don't suppose Erica's changed her mind and come back?"

"She's gone. Forget about her."

"Then I'm fine," I said.

"Super. That's what I like to fucking hear."

"I'd planned on checking a few things out." I was flattered he trusted me to handle this on my own. "Don't want to leave the boyfriend alone with Mrs Wilson, though. Not when he could just walk off with the money."

"Think he will?"

"Actually, no. I don't think so."

"Then go check out the things you wanted to check out. If he fucks off with the money, we've got our man. I kind of hope he does. See how far he gets before we nail his hairy hole."

"But… " But my uncle was right. I could leave them for a few hours. The drop wasn't taking place till this evening. And if Les was behind all this, then I couldn't read people at all. "Any chance you could get some uniforms to ask around, see if any of the neighbours saw someone hanging about Mrs Wilson's last night?"

"Who would be hanging about?"

"The guy who put the finger through the letterbox."