Where the Bodies are Buried by Christopher Brookmyre, Brookmyre Page B

was, but there was definitely
     a reason it didn’t quite fit the picture. It was like trying to remember what other film an actor was in before the days of
     the IMDb.
    ‘There’s a strip of parking bays in front of the parade of shops,’ Laura went on. ‘According to Lisa, McDiarmid parked there
     when he was popping in on business. For his more discreet morning visits, he parked on Capletburn Drive or Langton Drive,
     which are connected by the back lane running parallel to the parade. We found his Audi Q7 parked on Langton Drive, about sixty
     yards north of the entrance to the lane. Lisa puts his post-shag puff at around eleven fifty.’
    ‘It seems reasonable to infer that he never made it back to his car,’ Catherine said. ‘And if so, it’s quite possible he was
     abducted from the same lane as he was later dumped in. Someone get on to Fleeting. Find out what he’s been up to over the
     last twenty-four hours.’
    That was when she remembered what was wrong.
    ‘Hang on, didn’t we just bang him up recently? He’s on remand, awaiting trial.’
    She saw Raeside shaking his head; she assumed in disappointment or frustration.
    ‘All the more reason why he wouldn’t be happy, with McDiarmid shagging his girlfriend while the cat’s away,’ Laura suggested.
     ‘He might not be without means on the outside.’
    ‘The cat isn’t away,’ stated Raeside with a bitter, bronchial laugh. ‘Fleeting got out couple of weeks back, while you were
     on holiday.’
    ‘Bob Cairns busted him for about twenty grand’s worth of smack,’ Catherine said. ‘How the hell can he be out?’
    ‘Better ask Cairns about that,’ he replied. ‘Although I would imagine it’s a sore point.’
    Cairns had left on a call by the time all ongoing duties had been assigned, but Catherine bumped into his buddy Fletcher on
     the way down to the car park, from where Laura was going to drive her home. Fletch and Cairns had been a mutually reinforcing
     grumpy double act for as long as Catherine could remember, so even when they weren’tworking together, one could usually be relied upon to know what was going on with the other.
    It wasn’t all they could be relied upon to know: everybody else’s business was a specialist subject too.
    ‘I gather you got a wee visit from Abercorn,’ Fletch said, before Catherine could venture any questions of her own. ‘Sniffing
     around that psycho McDiarmid’s murder. Was he lifting his leg, or just begging for scraps?’
    ‘Detective Superintendent Abercorn has a unique way of making one appear to be the other,’ Catherine replied, a non-committal
     response that Abercorn himself would have been proud of. ‘He spoke well of you,’ she added mischievously.
    ‘Aye, I’ll bet he did. Did he give you the speech about us old throwbacks just swatting mosquitoes while he’s trying to drain
     the swamp?’
    ‘Not as such, but I think he alluded to the principle. We discussed the respective merits of the longer- and shorter-term
     views.’
    ‘Aye, the long-game speech. Heard that one as well. Cracking excuse for not lifting anybody. Wish I’d thought of it years
     ago.’
    ‘Now, now,’ Catherine chided.
    ‘Cheap shot, I know. He’s making a rod for his own back, though. I’m not such a dinosaur that I cannae see what he’s trying
     to do, but the problem with the long game is that the game keeps changing. Abercorn’s spinning a lot of plates. It’s my guess
     he’s jumpy about what you might uncover in case it brings a whole bunch of them crashing to the floor.’
    ‘Funny you should say that. He seemed keen to ward me away from Frankie Callahan’s mob as a route of investigation, yet the
     early leads are pointing us towards Gary Fleeting. I thought he was on remand, but I’m informed otherwise.’
    ‘Aye. Procurator Fiscal’s office have dropped the charges. Bob was spitting feathers.’
    ‘Was there a technicality? Wouldn’t be like Cairns to drop the ball.’
    ‘No, not