his chair and fixes the cuffs on his shirt. Ensures the creases are just so and the cufflinks are square to the end of the sleeves.
‘A couple, Tom. But nothing concrete as yet.’ I force calm into my mind and my pulse to settle. No-one had talked. Yet.
‘Give me a time-frame.’
I lift my hand in the air before us and pretend to pluck something from it. I look down at my hand, ‘Three months.’
A fucking time frame he wants.
‘Don’t be a smart arse, McBain.'
‘Well, with all due…’
‘All due… kiss my arse. We need answers. Now. You know as well as I do that the trail runs cold the longer the killer goes undetected.’ One thing we both know, most killers are known to their victim. Recent stats quote ninety per cent. When there is a connection between the two a conviction usually follows. No quickly discernible connection, no quick conviction. No nasty killer locked up behind bars.
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ Sometimes it works well to play to his ego. Remind him who’s the boss and then go and do what the fuck I like.
We stop in a wee roadside café a few miles north of Perth on the Aberdeen road. A sign ahead points the way to Kinnaird. The café has a large car park in front, polka-dotted with puddles.
There’s a large wooden wheel at either side of the door, as if someone had the idea of going for a Western theme. Nothing else in the location hints at this, apart from the chequered curtains. Maybe that was the extent of their imagination.
‘You sure you want to go in here?’ I ask Gary Wilson. I have a recent bad track record when picking places to eat. The early signs are not good.
‘Aye. I’m starving. I could eat a bullock between two bread vans. I could eat a scabby-headed two-year-old. I could eat…’
‘Shut the fuck up, will you? If you mention anything else you could eat, I’ll no’ be able to eat anything.’
The sign inside the door reads Self Service . There’s a chrome guardrail defending the food counter from the hungry hordes, who have obviously decided to eat elsewhere. Wilson and I follow the path dictated by the rail and peruse the choice, which is not too bad. Lentil soup heads the menu. I love lentil soup. The Soup Diet flashes through my brain. This could be a start, I think.
‘Yes?’ A young girl leans against the till, prepared to take my order. She has black hair that looks as if it’s been dyed blacker. Her eyelids have been shaded by what I could guess at as being coal. The only colour on her face is a spot on the left of her chin that could fill custard pies in its spare time. From the expression on her face she would rather dip her no doubt black-varnished toes into a pool of toxic waste than serve us. I stretch my face into as wide a smile as I can.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say.
‘Can I help you?’ She raises one eyebrow. ‘Sir.’ This she adds as an afterthought. In case the boss is listening.
‘Having a busy day?’
‘Aye,’ she looks over my shoulder pointedly at the empty room, opens her mouth as if to say something else. Then closes it as if I’m not worthy of her witty riposte. She stares at her pad, pen poised.
‘A plate of your finest lentil soup.’
‘'Zat all?’
I see a basket of homemade muffins. Toffee and banana or apple and cinnamon. They look huge. And gorgeous.
‘A muffin, please. Toffee.’ I hand over the required amount and I’m served with my soup straight away.
Gary joins me at the table. ‘Nice tits on the waitress.’
‘Hadn’t noticed. I was waiting for the zit to explode and fill my soup plate.’ The soup is delicious. The spoon catches a sliver of ham. Just the way I like it.
‘So what else do we know about this guy?’
‘Just what I told you, so far. He appears to have everything that we would all want. The family, the house, the business. But as my old ma used to say, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.’
Briefly, I considered that curiously British trait of bringing
‘A couple, Tom. But nothing concrete as yet.’ I force calm into my mind and my pulse to settle. No-one had talked. Yet.
‘Give me a time-frame.’
I lift my hand in the air before us and pretend to pluck something from it. I look down at my hand, ‘Three months.’
A fucking time frame he wants.
‘Don’t be a smart arse, McBain.'
‘Well, with all due…’
‘All due… kiss my arse. We need answers. Now. You know as well as I do that the trail runs cold the longer the killer goes undetected.’ One thing we both know, most killers are known to their victim. Recent stats quote ninety per cent. When there is a connection between the two a conviction usually follows. No quickly discernible connection, no quick conviction. No nasty killer locked up behind bars.
‘We’re doing our best, sir.’ Sometimes it works well to play to his ego. Remind him who’s the boss and then go and do what the fuck I like.
We stop in a wee roadside café a few miles north of Perth on the Aberdeen road. A sign ahead points the way to Kinnaird. The café has a large car park in front, polka-dotted with puddles.
There’s a large wooden wheel at either side of the door, as if someone had the idea of going for a Western theme. Nothing else in the location hints at this, apart from the chequered curtains. Maybe that was the extent of their imagination.
‘You sure you want to go in here?’ I ask Gary Wilson. I have a recent bad track record when picking places to eat. The early signs are not good.
‘Aye. I’m starving. I could eat a bullock between two bread vans. I could eat a scabby-headed two-year-old. I could eat…’
‘Shut the fuck up, will you? If you mention anything else you could eat, I’ll no’ be able to eat anything.’
The sign inside the door reads Self Service . There’s a chrome guardrail defending the food counter from the hungry hordes, who have obviously decided to eat elsewhere. Wilson and I follow the path dictated by the rail and peruse the choice, which is not too bad. Lentil soup heads the menu. I love lentil soup. The Soup Diet flashes through my brain. This could be a start, I think.
‘Yes?’ A young girl leans against the till, prepared to take my order. She has black hair that looks as if it’s been dyed blacker. Her eyelids have been shaded by what I could guess at as being coal. The only colour on her face is a spot on the left of her chin that could fill custard pies in its spare time. From the expression on her face she would rather dip her no doubt black-varnished toes into a pool of toxic waste than serve us. I stretch my face into as wide a smile as I can.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say.
‘Can I help you?’ She raises one eyebrow. ‘Sir.’ This she adds as an afterthought. In case the boss is listening.
‘Having a busy day?’
‘Aye,’ she looks over my shoulder pointedly at the empty room, opens her mouth as if to say something else. Then closes it as if I’m not worthy of her witty riposte. She stares at her pad, pen poised.
‘A plate of your finest lentil soup.’
‘'Zat all?’
I see a basket of homemade muffins. Toffee and banana or apple and cinnamon. They look huge. And gorgeous.
‘A muffin, please. Toffee.’ I hand over the required amount and I’m served with my soup straight away.
Gary joins me at the table. ‘Nice tits on the waitress.’
‘Hadn’t noticed. I was waiting for the zit to explode and fill my soup plate.’ The soup is delicious. The spoon catches a sliver of ham. Just the way I like it.
‘So what else do we know about this guy?’
‘Just what I told you, so far. He appears to have everything that we would all want. The family, the house, the business. But as my old ma used to say, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.’
Briefly, I considered that curiously British trait of bringing
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