Blood, Salt, Water by Denise Mina Page B

declamatory. Sometimes he was right, she couldn’t insist that he wasn’t, but it was the way he said things.
    She filled him in on the morning’s developments as they drove out to Helensburgh.
    ‘The Met’ll get the proceeds,’ he announced as they passed the Erskine Bridge. ‘Our chief hasn’t got the pull.’
    She ignored that. Fuentecilla had been traced to London—
    ‘She’s run off with a boyfriend.’
    She tried to denote her annoyance by leaving a pause, but he was undeterred.
    ‘Spanish woman are diff—’
    ‘ Fucking shut up. You’re just burbling . It’s bad police work. Wait for the facts, let things become clear. Keep an open mind, for fuck’s sake.’
    Thankless’s eyebrows rose high and stayed there.
    Alex looked out of the side window. She’d done it again: another stranger met, another friend made. She had a bit of an anger problem. It was her problem, she reminded herself, not his problem. People were allowed to be annoying.
    They drove on in silence until the sharp turn-off to Lurbrax Farm. It was on the side of a steep hill a mile before Helensburgh, overlooking the broad Clyde Estuary.
    ‘Here,’ said Morrow, and they took the turn.
    Hedged on either side, the bumpy road led up to a cluster of run-down farm buildings set around a house. The farmhouse had ‘Yes’ referendum campaign signs in each of the high windows, white on a pale blue, propped against the inside of the glass.
    Thankless nodded at them. ‘He’s got guts,’ he proclaimed. ‘It’s pretty much solid “No” voters out here.’
    The problem was hers, not his. She grunted and Thankless took it to mean – really? Do elaborate, you interesting and knowledgeable man. So he did:
    ‘“Yes” want to shut the nuclear sub base. They’re saying the housing market’ll collapse out here. Prices are frozen now.’
    A Ford Fiesta, a city car, was parked up ahead; Morrow had been told the forensic photographer would visit the scene and guessed it was hers. The fact that she was here at all was down to PINAD. Fuentecilla’s body hadn’t been found, just her car, she shouldn’t really be here at all. Thankless parked behind it and Morrow was shocked to see a ‘No thanks’ campaign sticker in her back window. It was a contentious issue. The photographer might as well have turned up wearing a football strip.
    Morrow got out into a fresh shower of warm rain and pulled her coat around her, stomping up to the farmhouse.
    Two dogs heralded their arrival with a chorus of unthreatening barks. An older dog, grey haired with a cataract in one eye, looked out of the open-sided barn and disappeared back into the dark. Mr Halliday came out, flanked by his milk-eyed companion. He shouted at the noisy young dogs, ‘Shut it!’
    He looked older than he sounded on the phone. A weather-beaten man in his sixties or seventies, the curvature of his belly accentuated by the ribbed jumper straining over it. He looked at Morrow with a cheeky twinkle in his eye. ‘Is it you?’
    ‘Aye,’ smiled Morrow. ‘It that you?’
    ‘I suppose it is.’ He turned his attention to Thankless. ‘And who’s this one?’
    Thankless smiled beneficently and held his hand out. ‘I’m DC Thankless of Police Scotland.’
    Halliday showed his brown teeth, a little bit aggressively, and shook Thankless’s hand. ‘Well, son, I’m Me of Here.’
    They uncoupled their hands and Halliday turned to Morrow.
    ‘So, I’m saying: I was asleep yesterday morning, that’s my bedroom up there’ – he pointed to a small window at the top right of the farmhouse – ‘until about five o’clock. Dogs woke me up, barking. They did it another couple of times.’
    ‘You didn’t get up, though?’
    His hand strayed to the dog’s head. ‘The dogs always get up afore me. I was up late, watching Breaking Bad , have you seen it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’ll tell ye what,’ he nodded solemnly, ‘certainly make ye circumspect about what ye stick your nose into.’
    Argyle