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Chapter Three
Tuesday morning saw Reid in a cautiously optimistic mood. By the time he'd finished putting the world to rights with Coleman and driven home he'd been so knackered that he'd slept right through the night. Granted, it had been in the armchair rather than on the bed and he'd woken up with a massive crick in his neck, but it was still better than staring at the ceiling till three in the morning. A shower, a change of clothes and a black coffee later he was clattering down the steps of his rented flat with an air that might almost have been called jaunty.
As he pulled up in the staff car-park at Northcote his mobile rang and a quick look at the display showed that he wasn't going to be able to put off making that counselling appointment this time. With a little sigh he pressed the "answer" button.
"'Ello, Camille."
"Terry." As usual, Camille sounded gently amused. "I thought I'd better jog your memory."
"Sorry. What with starting back at work this week… totally slipped my mind"
This was the polite game they played. Reid had to drag himself kicking and screaming to the counselling sessions; Camille knew this perfectly well, but was determined not to let him off the hook. At the end of each session he would tell her he'd ring and arrange the next appointment; each time when he failed to call she would ring him and the appointment would duly be arranged.
"That's fine, Terry – I know there's a lot going on for you at the moment. Shall we say early next week, then? I can do Tuesday at seven in the evening if that fits in with you."
Swallowing the vague flutter of anxiety that had begun to tighten inside him, Reid cleared his throat and said: "Seven next Tuesday. Yep."
"Do you need a call on Monday to remind you?"
"No, that should be okay…" As in that will be lurking around in the back of my head all bloody week.
"Okay then. How did it go yesterday?"
"You know. It went."
"I know." There was that smile in her voice again. "See you next week, then."
Reid rang off resignedly and lit a comfort fag, grabbing a couple of moments to restore his equilibrium before he climbed out of his car. As he was disentangling himself from the seatbelt and shutting the door, Sheila Boydeau rounded the corner of the building, spotted him and waved. Raising an arm in reply Reid locked the Mondeo and strode across to join her.
"You're looking cheerful," she greeted him.
"I'm a man with a plan. Hold up…" Reid took two long drags on the cigarette and ground it out under his foot.
Boydeau's nose wrinkled. "You know that's a disgusting habit," she said.
He gave her an unrepentant smirk. "Come on." He set off toward the building at a brisk pace, Boydeau hurrying to keep up.
"What's this plan, then?" she asked as they bustled in through the double doors and signed in at the desk. "Did Pyle give us the nod to follow up on Dunsmore?"
"Yeah… for a couple of days."
The tone of his voice made her look up at him sideways. "Oh dear. Not a meeting of minds, I take it?" Receiving no answer save a slight curl of his lip she went on: "I didn't think it would be. Actually I'm not sure Haemorrhoids has much mind for anyone to meet with."
The nickname drew grin from Reid, which turned into a slightly startled expression as she nudged him to the right and pushed open the doors of the canteen. "It's early," she explained, "and I'll listen to your plan better if I've had a coffee and some toast."
Reid ambled across to a table by the window and sat in the sunshine, automatically lighting a fresh cigarette and receiving a reproving look from Boydeau as she came over with a tray. He nipped out the last half and put it back in the packet as she unloaded cups and plates onto the table, pushing a black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast across to him. He blinked down at the food and then up at his DC, who was putting the empty tray down at the side of the table. "What's this?"
Boydeau swiftly buttered a piece of wholemeal toast. "Thought you were a detective. It's breakfast."
"Did I say I wanted breakfast?"
"Have you had any?"
"No."
"Well then." Boydeau pointed her knife at his plate. "Don't let it get cold. You can pay tomorrow morning."
Defeated, Reid picked up his fork and set to work. "Right," he said after a few moments. "The plan." He took a swallow of coffee. "If your instincts are right, Dunsmore's still missing. If he is, we need to know more about him, which means going through his stuff at the house and getting over to the warehouse and digging out some background. Nothing like work gossip for uncovering deep dark secrets. Also…" he broke off to scoop up another forkful "…we should get up to where McGowan thought he'd found a way into the wood and see if we can spot anything useful, before the world and his wife go parading through there walking their dogs."
"If we went straight over to the house, I could phone the warehouse on the way," suggested Boydeau. "Check if he turned up for work, and make us an appointment to see his boss at the same time."
Reid nodded, finishing his eggs. "Give us chance to get up to the woods early doors. I'll leave Pyle a message at the desk."
Boydeau re-stacked the tray neatly. "I'll just have to grab my notebook from the office. I wrote down the number for the warehouse yesterday."
"Meet you at the car, then," he suggested.
As he pushed open the swing doors, Reid could hear Pyle's raised voice: "…what the hell are you on about, 'the milk's on the turn'? There's bloody black bits floating about in this!"
Carefully avoiding Coleman's eye, Reid paused by the desk. "Boydeau and I are just on the way back to Fairfax Road, sir, see if there's any sign of the victim returning home."
"What?" Pyle, who was wiping his mouth on a handkerchief, swung round. "Oh, Reid. Yes, fine. Keep me informed."
Reid headed for the door, retrieving his half-smoked cigarette from the packet on the way. Behind him came another explosion: "Of course I want a bloody clean cup!" He paused to light up, concealing his amusement in his cupped hands, then with cigarette in mouth Reid strolled back to the car and propped himself against the bonnet to wait for Boydeau.
******
"You take upstairs, I'll do down here," instructed Reid. Boydeau nodded as he disappeared through the door that lay between the kitchen and the now boarded-up front living room. He found himself in a pleasant, airy dining room with a large bay window that gave a good view of the local golf course. Minimally but tastefully decorated, he thought, then shook his head and decided he'd been watching too much daytime television.
He opened the sideboard drawers, starting with the bottom one – he could never explain why he always did this, perhaps he should mention it to Camille in case he was OCD, he thought wryly – to reveal tablecloths, napkins, and place mats. He had almost stopped paying attention when he finally reached the top drawer and found, surprise surprise, a little black book. He grinned like the proverbial cat with a very large dish of cream.
"Sheila!" he called, and immediately heard her footfalls overhead and then on the stairs. He handed the book to her without a word and she quickly scanned its contents. Names, phone numbers, lists…
"You were right, sarge," she said with a touch of pride in their joint success. "D'you think it is drugs, then?"
"Looks like it. Although outside odds might be on blackmail."
The word triggered something with Sheila. "Or maybe black market? His record would point to that."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, one of those "eureka" moments that reminded Reid why he did the job, then he slammed his hand down on the sideboard. "That's it! His job at the cash and carry gives him the perfect opportunity to skim off the odd crate of booze or fags here and there." He recalled something else they'd discussed the previous day and asked, "Didn't you say he'd been ID'd by a guy in a pub? Perhaps Whyte knew Dunsmore because he'd been hawking his wares round all the locals."
Boydeau was starting to catch the excitement. "I think we should have a word with Whyte next, then," she suggested.
"Definitely. Do you have his..."
Reid's words hung in the air as an earsplitting crash rocked the ground floor of the house. Instinctively the two of them dropped to the floor, crouching and covering their heads.
Sheila whipped out her radio and said quietly but urgently, "DC Boydeau to control. Urgent assistance, 32 Fairfax Road. Burglary in progress. Silent approach please."
"Is it just me," asked Reid, sotto voce, "or is this getting a bit old? Two windows in as many days?"
"Well, it can't be the front room..." she whispered back.
"Kitchen, I think, unless they've got a very large catapult out there." Reid crawled to the dining room door and peered round the corner cautiously. "Yep. Breeze block this time."
They waited for the assailant to enter the house. Sheila got her night stick out, and Reid said regretfully, "Left mine in the sodding car."
There was a crunch of glass in the kitchen, as somebody carefully made their way across the remains of the back door. Reid gestured to Boydeau to hand him her baton, which she did, and as the suspect drew level with the dining room, he was met with a swift blow to the shins. Screaming in agony, he went down like a sack of spuds, and both Reid and Boydeau piled on top of him, pinning him to the floor, as two uniformed officers barged in at the front .
"In here!" bellowed Reid, and one of the constables handcuffed the crippled intruder, who was dragged to his feet as they all stood up.
"Ah'm gonny sue youse! Maimed for life, so am ur!"
Amused, Boydeau said, "Well, limp off out to the patrol car while I get my First Aid kit, because your health is absolutely one of our priorities."
"Did I detect a bit of an accent there?" enquired her superior officer, brushing down his trousers. They could still hear shouts of "Police brutality!" coming from the street.
"You are good," replied Boydeau sardonically. "First scrambled eggs, now this..."
"Don't get lippy," shot back Reid as he prepared to light up, and to his horror Boydeau reached over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth.
"Oi!" he cried indignantly. "Who do you think...?"
"It's not good for your health, sarge. I think you should at least try and cut down. That's your fourth this morning – that I know of."
"You're counting?" Reid was incredulous. "You're worse than my last guv'nor – at least he only made me put them out."
"You should listen to him."
"Accent?" said Reid crossly, putting the packet of fags away anyhow.
"West of Scotland, definitely. Most likely Glasgow."
"Sounds about right. Well, let's get back to the nick and see what he has to say for himself, once the police surgeon's put him back together again."