Alex Gray - Pitch Black

The woman laughed, a short, humourless sneer. ‘Naw, ah’m her mither.’ She pushed back the tangled mop of dyed blonde hair as if in an unconscious wish to become a younger version of herself, then turned away shouting, ‘Al-ison!’ in a voice that had been rendered hoarse by a lifetime of cigarettes. ‘Al-ison, get yer arse doon here, it’s the polis!’

A thudding of footsteps clattered behind her then the door was drawn open and a teenage girl stood, mouth gaping open at the sight of Cameron and Weir on her doorstep. She’d probably been in bed and had wrapped a grubby pink towelling-robe around her that she was still tying to one side. Her feet were bare and Niall noticed the wee designs she’d painted on every carefully-manicured toenail. The image was curiously at odds with the pale face and long, unkempt hair.

‘Alison Renton?’

‘Aye,’ the girl answered in a monotone, but her doe-like eyes rimmed with last night’s mascara showed a flicker of curiosity.

‘It’s about Donnie Douglas. May we come in?’

The footballer’s name was an open sesame. Mother and daughter stood back and let the tall Lewisman and his partner stride in.

‘Wasn’t expecting visitors. Excuse the state of the place,’ Mrs Renton gabbled as she sought to plump up cushions and hide overfilled ashtrays and an empty vodka bottle, even as she steered them towards a leather sofa in an alarming shade of neon pink. Alison trailed behind her mother, her eyes on Niall, blinking as if she were still half asleep.

‘Now,’ Mrs Renton exclaimed, ‘a wee cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, that would be fine.’

Cameron waited until he was certain she was out of earshot before he began. ‘Donnie Douglas: do you know where he is, Alison?’

The girl frowned at him. ‘Whit d’ye mean?’

‘We’re investigating his whereabouts. He’s been reported as a missing person,’ the detective explained. ‘I hoped you might be able to tell us where he could have gone,’ he added, gently.

The girl curled up into her armchair as if she were trying to lose herself within the voluminous folds of pink towelling, tucking the collar up around her white, sleep-starved face. With no make-up she looked about fourteen, but the eyes that regarded him seemed as old as her mother’s. Alison dropped her gaze and picked at the edge of the armchair where a piece of leather piping had worked itself loose.

‘When did you last see Donnie? Alison?’ Cameron bent forward, trying to catch her eye, to make her look at him, but she simply wriggled further under the dressing gown.

‘Cannae mind,’ she said at last. ‘Mibbe Sunday?’

‘ Last Sunday?’

‘Naw, day after that ref copped it. Havenae seen him since.’

‘And has he been in touch? Phoned or texted you?’

‘Naw.’ The response was followed by a yawn and she turned her head to look blearily at them both.

Mrs Renton bustled in with a tray full of mugs. Her hair had been raked back with a clasp and her lips were a newly-painted shade of pink. ‘Therr we are now. Whit’s a’ this aboot Donnie?’

Cameron considered the woman as she placed a mug in front of him; her tone was a forced lightheartedness but he could see panic in those narrow eyes.

‘He’s missing, Mrs Renton,’ he said quietly, deliberately meeting her gaze. ‘He’s not been near the club since last weekend and his flat’s empty.’

The woman sat down heavily, spilling coffee on to her bare knees. She hardly seemed to notice the brown liquid seeping into her denim skirt. Her eyes flicked between the policemen and her daughter who sat, head down, refusing to meet anybody’s eyes.

‘Alison! Whit d’you know aboot this!’ Mrs Renton demanded, her gravelly voice harsh with suspicion.

‘Nuthin.’ The girl shrugged an indolent shoulder and cowered further into the cocoon of dressing gown.

‘C’mon, hen, ye must know sumthin,’ her mother wheedled, changing tack so quickly that Cameron guessed this was a regular routine between the pair of them. ‘Did he no say if he wis goin up home?’

Alison shook her head. There was a silence broken only by DC Weir slurping the scalding coffee.

Cameron put down his mug. This was getting them nowhere fast. If Dr Brightman had been here maybe he would have seen something in the girl’s behaviour. As it was, he felt she was definitely keeping something from them and so did the mother, he could see that from her expression.

‘If you remember anything he said — or if you hear from him again — you will contact us immediately,’ Cameron insisted, shoving a card across the narrow, ring-stained coffee table.

Alison Renton grunted in reply, leaving the card where it lay. Cameron could feel her mother’s temper rising, but whether it was directed at Alison, the police or indeed Donnie Douglas himself, he could not tell.

‘Let us know if you hear from him,’ he repeated, this time to Mrs Renton as he prepared to leave. DC Weir put down his mug and followed Cameron out into the street where a small group of young children had gathered close to his car. He glowered at them then pulled a face, eliciting a few giggles as they backed away. It wouldn’t do to foster bad feelings with even the most junior of the locals when so much effort was being put into community relations. These kids were tomorrow’s citizens, one way or another.

‘Okay, we drew a blank.’ Cameron sighed as they drove off. ‘Just wish we’d had Dr Brightman along with us. I’m sure he’d have asked the right questions.’

‘What exactly is the prognosis?’ Solly asked. It was the one question he’d been longing to ask yet dreading to utter all through these last days.

Since that fateful Friday night, Rosie had been in a high-dependency unit, her airways kept functioning by machinery that Solly didn’t rightly understand. All he knew was that she was deathly pale and that her vital signs were still being monitored by nurses carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Now he had summoned up enough courage to ask the consultant in charge of her case.

The Indian doctor smiled wearily at Solly and folded his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘We hope she will make a full recovery, of course,’ he began. ‘There’s a lot of damage from the impact. Normally we would expect some fractured ribs and even a punctured lung but the nature of the crash meant that Miss Fergusson sustained more internal injuries than would have been normal.’

‘Why? What happened?’ Solly asked, suddenly bewildered. ‘I thought the lorry had crushed the windscreen …’ He trailed off, remembering the state of Rosie’s BMW: the mangled metal twisted out of shape, the chips of glass sliding around inside like an unexpected shower of giant hailstones.

‘There was a metal strut that came loose from the load the lorry was carrying,’ the doctor explained. ‘It came through the window like a javelin and impacted against the air bag. Her injuries are mainly from that missile, Dr Brightman,’ he added solemnly. ‘That was why we needed to perform surgery so quickly. She needed intubation immediately and we had to set up artificial ventilation. This type of blunt chest-trauma is unusual in such a traffic accident,’ he told Solly, as if that would console him somehow. ‘Your fiancée has suffered severe pulmonary contusions,’ the consultant continued, his tone still grave. ‘We can see how these resolve from three to five days after surgery. But I’m afraid it is still too soon to give you a definite prognosis.’

‘But it’s four days now,’ Solly pleaded.

‘I know.’ The doctor turned soulful eyes upon him. ‘We are trying to keep her condition as stable as we can, but you must be aware that there is a risk of pneumonia setting in and of subsequent organ failure.’