Quintin Jardine - Hour Of Darkness

But she believed that life was wasted if it was spent carrying grudges, plus she and Andy were agreed that they had done at least two things right in what had become, eventually, a sad, distant marriage, a point she had reiterated the evening before when he had picked up Danielle and Robert from her new house in Lasswade.

She believed also that hatred could only be destructive. She had seen enough of it in her career, and looking at the file that sat on top of the small stack of live investigations on her desk, her conviction was reinforced.

When she had applied to rejoin the police force, after her divorce and her move from Perth, she had expected to be accepted at her former rank but had assumed, more or less, that her first posting would be in uniform, somewhere, anywhere on the force’s extensive area. Her interview had been conducted by Mario McGuire, with a po-faced bloke from Human Resources sat alongside him, to keep the ACC serious and on message, she guessed.

That had worked, until they reached the point of confirmation, and the HR bod had produced a list of available postings for a uniformed sergeant. The big guy had taken it from him, politely, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into a waste basket, ten feet away. If he had missed, it might have spoiled the moment, but he hit it, dead centre.

‘With respect,’ he lied, ‘if Personnel thinks that I’m going to deprive CID of the services of a proven, experienced detective officer, it’s got it badly wrong. Karen, do you want to go back into CID?’

Her reply had been automatic. ‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘Okay. I need somebody in the office at the West End. Becky Stallings is going off on maternity leave, Jack McGurk’s being bumped up to acting DI, and with young Sauce Haddock. . you probably don’t know him. . going down to Leith on promotion, I’m light on experience at detective sergeant level. If the chief constable approves, and I believe she will, are you up for it?’

‘Yes please. Can my shift pattern include weekends?’

‘Are you sure about that? The stuff can hit the rotor blades on Saturdays and Sundays in that division.’

She had smiled at him. ‘Been there, and been splattered by that stuff; it would help with the kids, that’s why I ask.’

‘Then you’ve got it. That brings me to something else. What are we going to call you, Detective Sergeant?’

She had thought that one through before the interview, indeed as she was filling out the application form. ‘I style myself Ms Martin, sir, in my private life; I’m not going back to my maiden name, not with children. I’ve talked it through with my. . former husband,’ she had come close to calling him ‘Andy’, but had maintained formality, ‘and he’s perfectly fine with that. But professionally, I want to be what I always was, Karen Neville.’

‘Suppose he wasn’t, that wouldn’t matter to me, even though the Director of the Serious Crime and Drugs Agency and I go back to the last century as colleagues. Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Neville, and welcome back.’

She beamed at the recollection. Back in the moment, the huge man behind the desk opposite raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re one strange woman, Sarge,’ he said. ‘I draw weekend duty by rotation and I grumble about it. You volunteer and you’re smiling.’

‘How do you know what I’m smiling about, Detective Constable Singh?’ she replied, deadpan. ‘For all you know. .’

‘True,’ he conceded, quickly. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘No, thanks; one promise I’ve made to myself is that this time around I’m going to drink a hell of a lot less of that stuff. Stains your teeth, rots your guts. What incidents have you got on the go?’

‘Traffic passed on a hit-and-run from last night,’ he told her. ‘That’s the most urgent. The victim’s a nineteen-year-old student, a lassie. She was making her way home from not one but several pubs, along Gorgie Road, when she was hit by a car, probably blue, heading westward, out of the city.’

‘Jesus,’ Neville muttered, ‘kids and alcohol; nothing changes. Did she survive?’

‘So far, but nobody’s making any promises. She’s in the Royal Infirmary with serious head injuries.’

‘I take it we don’t have a number for the van, since it’s been tossed our way.’

The Sikh shook his head. ‘No, and no chance of getting one. The uniforms who took statements at the scene said that the three witnesses, the girl’s boyfriend and another couple, were all pretty well pished, as was the victim herself. They’re emailing everything across, but the picture seemed to be that the girl stumbled out into the roadway, right in front of the driver.’

‘Is it possible he didn’t know he’d hit her?’

‘No, because he stopped, immediately afterwards, for a few seconds. Then he drove away.’

‘And still nobody got the number?’

‘No. One of the lads thought it might have been a zero-eight registration, and the other girl said it began with S, but that’s the lot.’

‘What’s the camera coverage like in that area?’

‘Patchy, but there is some; not at the scene of the accident, but we can check around the time. I’ve asked Traffic to get all the footage they can on to DVD and send it over to us.’

‘Thanks, Talvin. Have we got addresses for the witnesses?’

‘Address. They all share a flat in Denholm Crescent.’

‘Handy,’ she said. ‘In that case, let’s get ourselves up there sharpish, and re-interview them. The booze should have worn off by now, and we might get some sense out of them.’

They were heading for the door when the phone rang, a direct call, not a front desk reference. Singh swore softly, but turned back and picked it up. ‘Western CID’, he announced.

‘Who’s that?’ a brusque voice asked.

‘DC Singh. Now it’s your turn.’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Mackenzie, smart-arse. You may have heard of me; I’m your boss.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the DC replied evenly, ‘I’ve heard of Mr Mackenzie, and I know what he is. But how do I know that you’re him?’

He heard a deep breath being taken. ‘You could take my word for it, Singh, or you could hang up and ask the comms centre to raise me on my home number. Which is it to be?’

Smart-arse , the big man thought; but he liked CID and so he chose to risk his tenure there no further. ‘What can we do for you, sir?’

‘That’s better. I’ve just had a message passed to me by uniform. It came from Scottish Power. They had to gain entrance to a flat this morning to read the gas meter. They’d been unable to raise the occupant and had to make an arrangement with the owner. A lawyer looks after the place on his behalf, ’cos he’s away. Anyway, a girl from the lawyer’s office met the meter reader with a key, at nine o’clock. They couldn’t find the meter at the front door, where you might expect to, so they went into the kitchen. There was blood all over the place, more than a cut finger would leave. Who’s your senior officer there?’

‘Detective Sergeant Neville.’

‘Right, you and he. .’

‘That would be she, sir.’

‘Of course it would, wouldn’t it. How could I forget? Okay, you and she drop whatever you’re doing and get round there, now. The address is one forty-two Caledonian Crescent. Check it out and report back to me.’ There was a pause. ‘Through the communications centre,’ Mackenzie added, heavily.

As Singh replaced the phone, Karen whistled.

‘You were pushing your luck, Talvin, were you not?’

He shrugged his vast shoulders. ‘He called me “smart-arse”,’ he grumbled.

‘Could be he was right.’

‘I like this plan of yours.’