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  Vicky sat in front of the desk, the seat back jerking back. Modern art paintings filled the white walls, splashes of oranges and reds in a series of three large canvases. “Feels like I’m applying for a mortgage all over again.”

  Considine laughed. “Tell me about it.”

  Gary Black stormed into the room, clutching a tall beaker of coffee. He shrugged off his suit jacket and put it on the back of his chair, his pink shirt looking box fresh. “Sorry I’m late. Had a client meeting in the Overgate.”

  Vicky smiled as she got out her notebook. “Thanks for seeing us, Mr Black.”

  Black collapsed into his seat, breathing hard. He took a long pull at the coffee. “You said on the phone this is about the dog we bought, aye?”

  Considine nodded. “What can you tell us about it?”

  “My daughter called him Boab. Wee guy just wasn’t himself after about six months. He’d have been about a year old by then, so he was pretty much fully grown. We took him to the vet and he reckoned he’d seen it before. Said it was NME, like the music paper.”

  “NME?”

  “Necrotizing meningoencephalitis. It’s also known as PDE.” Black took great care pronouncing the words. “I’ve since become something of an expert on the matter, shall we say. He gave us some tablets but it didn’t help wee Boab any. After another few months, we had to put the wee guy to sleep. He could only confirm it was this NME after the autopsy.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I went ballistic. Rocked up at that Hay woman’s house and had it out with her. She denied all responsibility. Said the dog must have caught it.” Black clenched his fists, pressing down on the wooden desktop. “Can you credit it? NME’s hereditary in pugs. She’s breeding those dogs far too close. She’s got three bitches she breeds from and the boy’s the father of two of them. That’s just not right.”

  “Did you do anything else?”

  “I’m not a violent man but I swear I came close to swinging for her husband. We’d paid them a grand for that dog. The medication and vet bills came to another grand, even with insurance.”

  Considine scribbled in his notebook. “What happened next?”

  “There was quite a fuss in the paper at the time. There’d been a few other defective dogs over the years, not just ours.” Black toyed with his silver fountain pen. “They were pretty difficult about it. We just wanted a refund and our fees reimbursed. In the end, we sued them. Settled out of court.” He let out a deep breath. “Got another dog from that animal rescue place on Brown Street, not the council one. God knows what it’s crossed between but it’s a lovely dog. I gave them the money we got off the Hays.”

  “Is there any lingering animosity on either side?”

  Black gripped the edge of his desk. “My wife and daughter loved wee Boab. Him dying hit them hard. After months of him being in and out of the vet’s, I had to tell my wee girl that Boab wasn’t coming home. Do you know what that’s like?”

  “So there was some animosity on your part, then?”

  “Aye.” Black took another drink of coffee. “They shouldn’t breed those animals so closely. It’s unnatural.”

  Considine folded his arms. “We believe Mrs Hay’s been abducted.”

  Black blinked a few times. “Really?”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “What about your wife and daughter?”

  “I’d have to check.”

  “Can you give us your whereabouts yesterday afternoon?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We’re looking to eliminate you from our inquiries, Mr Black.”

  Black tapped at his computer. “I was working till eight doing client meetings all across the town. Happy to share my itinerary with you.”

  “That’d be useful.” Considine smiled. “When was the last time you saw Rachel Hay?”

  “Not since she handed us the cheque.”

  Considine gave him a card. “Give me a call if anything else comes to mind, okay?”

  Chapter Six

  Vicky set off down Whitehall Street towards the bus stops, glancing at Considine as they walked. “Look into Black’s background, will you? I want to know if the police were involved. He says it was all over the press. Get copies of the old newspapers and try to find the journalist. And get someone to check out his wife and kid.”

  Considine let out a deep breath, his lips vibrating. “Is that really all I’m good for?”

  Vicky stopped by the car. Give me strength. She locked onto his grey eyes, dark rings surrounding them. “Stephen. I’ve been over this with you —”

  “Look, I’m a wee bit resentful of the fact you’re bossing me around here.”

  “I’m your boss, Constable. I’m the sergeant allocated to this case and you’re my DC. Deal with it.”

  Considine looked up and down the street. “Come on, Vicky. It should be me getting that DS gig, not some new punter from Glasgow or Edinburgh or wherever.” He stabbed a finger in his chest. “Me. I know the team, I know the area.”

  Vicky smiled, trying to disarm him. “Look, DI Forrester asked me to coach you, okay? If the DI’s asking that, something needs to be done, okay?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you might need to tone it down a bit. Nobody wants to constantly hear about how you need a promotion or highlights of you arresting a taxi driver all on your own or how your daddy never really loved you.”

  Considine leaned back against the Subaru, breathing hard through his nostrils, jaw twitching. “So you’re saying I need to stop going on about it?”

  She stared down at the pavement, sucking in the sharp smell of Chinese cooking, a nerve at the back of her neck thudding, then looked back up at him. “Something like that. If you want to become a DS, you need to show you’re a DS, not tell everyone you’re a DS. Actions speak louder than words, as they say.”

  “Okay.”

  “And start with being a competent DC.”

  “Are you say —”

  She patted his shoulder. “Relax, I’m not saying you’re not. I’m just asking you to do your job. Show me you can do it and I’ll see what else I’ll let you do, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “And call me ‘Sarge’, not Vicky.”

  “Okay, Sarge.” Considine unlocked his car. “Where next?”

  Vicky got out her mobile. “I’m going to get an update from Melville. Derek Hay’s still top of my list of suspects.” She leaned against the car and waited for Melville to answer.

  “Morning, Sarge.”

  “Morning. How’s it going out there?”

  “Sounds like this dog isn’t an isolated incident. I’ve been having a word with him. Reckons there’ve been a few had this PDE thing. Says it’s the cost of having a pug.”

  “Do you think her husband’s had anything to do with her disappearance?”

  Melville paused for a few seconds. “All we’ve got on it seems to have come from him. He swears he’s got nothing do with it.”

  “But?”

  “Let’s just say I’m thinking of taking him down the station, you know?”

  “I do.” Vicky watched the shoppers walk the street. “How did it go with the paper girl?”

  “Just spoke to Dave, the interviewing officer. Dannii Patterson — that’s Dannii with two i’s — reckons she just delivered the paper, knows nothing about a note.”

  “Did he believe her?”

  “No reason for her to lie, is there?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “She did see a car, though, a black one. Never seen it before.”

  “What kind was it?”

  “All I got was, and I’ll quote, ‘Kind of a big thing, y’know? Like on that Mercedes advert on the telly with Tinie Tempa
h. “We bring the stars out.” ’ Mean anything to you, Sarge?”

  “Yes, it does.” Vicky hated it — some guy getting mic’d up so sound went through a set of lights stuck to his chest, listening to the sort of urban music she couldn’t get her head around. “That car’s white, though.”

  “Is it? Well, if it was black.”

  “Definitely a Mercedes?”

  “No, just that it was like it.”

  “So, a big, black car?”

  “Aye.”

  “Great.” Vicky noted it down — something for Considine to check later. “Nothing else from her?”

  “Not sure what you were expecting?”

  Vicky flicked her notebook shut. “Anything else been happening there?”

  “It’s maybe nothing but I’ve been trying to call Rachel’s brother in Forfar all morning.”

  “I thought Derek had tried everyone?”

  “Aye, well, she doesn’t really speak to her brother.” A pause. “His wife finally answered just then. Sounded like shit. Turns out he’s not been seen since yesterday either.”

  Chapter Seven

  Considine weaved in and out of traffic as they drove into Forfar, spending more time on the wrong side of the road than the correct one.

  Vicky clutched her mobile in her hand, the display still blank. “Slow down.”

  “It’s taken forty minutes to get here. That feels like a failure.”

  “You’re such a boy racer.”

  Considine pulled up outside the house, parking behind a panda car. “It’s just a car.”

  “I’ll remind you of that later.” Vicky got out and led up the drive. No sign of uniform other than the empty car. She knocked on the door. “I don’t know Forfar too well, but this doesn’t look like one of the better parts.”

  “I live here and it isn’t.”

  “His sister’s house in Invergowrie was a lot nicer than this.”

  The door was opened by a uniformed officer, medium height and slightly overweight, dark sideburns creeping under his jawline. “You pair from the MIT?”

  Vicky nodded and got out her warrant card. “DS Dodds, DC Considine. And you are?”

  “PC Murray Watson.”

  Vicky pocketed her card. “We’re dealing with his sister’s disappearance. What’s happened here?”

  Watson got out an evidence bag containing a letter. “Kirsty Joyce — that’s his wife, by the way — found this.”

  Vicky checked it — the same style as the other one. We have your husband. He is safe. Do not worry. Much. She took a deep breath. “It’s a match. Where did she find it?”

  “Underneath her paper. The Sun.”

  “Have you spoken to the paperboy?”

  “Aye. Lad swears he didn’t do anything. Said he was half asleep and listening to Slayer.”

  Considine took the note from her. “Thought this case was given to uniform?”

  Watson nodded. “It was.”

  Considine held up the evidence bag. “But there’s a letter?”

  “Aye, we only just found it, son. Mrs Joyce didn’t check the paper until an hour ago. That’s why it wasn’t flagged for you lot.”

  “So she called it in last night?”

  “Not till this morning, son. Thought he was out on the piss.” Watson shook his head. “She’s not in a good way.”

  “I gathered that when I was on the phone to her.”

  “Come on in, then.” Watson led them inside, straight into the living room, a small space crammed with two sofas and lots of furniture, pretty much all lacquered wood. A TV hanging off the wall played a news channel on mute, one of those white-background photos next to it, the whole family in an action pose.

  Kirsty Joyce was slumped on the dark green sofa, a wad of paper tissues in her hand, her red face slicked with tears. She wore a grey tracksuit, her cream t-shirt stained brown in the middle.

  Vicky sat on the adjacent sofa. “Mrs Joyce, we’re looking into your husband’s disappearance. I spoke to you on the phone.”

  “I remember.” Kirsty nodded as she dabbed at her eyes. “Will you find him?”

  “We certainly hope so.” Vicky motioned for Considine to sit next to her. “What can you tell us about your husband?”

  “Paul’s a good man. A great dad.” Kirsty bit her lip.

  “But he didn’t come home last night. Is that odd?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. He likes a drink does Paul.”

  “How often does this sort of thing happen?”

  “Every few months. Just loses track of time when he hooks up with some strangers. Usually when he’s watching the football.”

  “Is it people from work?”

  “Sometimes. Occasionally some Polish boys or other foreigners. He works in a factory, packing tatties. Murison’s Prepacks, just off Montrose Road.”

  “When did you start to get suspicious?”

  “Well, I called it in first thing this morning. Just thought I’d be on the safe side. But when I got that letter . . .” Kirsty broke off in tears, springs in the sofa heaving under her bulk as she rocked back and forth.

  Vicky waited for her to make eye contact again. “So, you weren’t particularly worried when you called it in?”

  “Aye. I just wanted to check he wasn’t in the cells or hospital.”

  Vicky noted it down. “Have you noticed anything funny in the street recently?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “What about this morning?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “You haven’t seen any strange cars or anything like that?”

  Kirsty frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Have you seen one?”

  “Well . . . First thing this morning, just after I got the kids to school, I saw a car outside.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Black. Quite big, too. Just shot off when I got to the end of the road. It was driving pretty fast.”

  “What was the make and model?”

  “I’ve no idea. Just saw the colour.” Kirsty shook her head. “Why did you ask if I’d seen one?”

  Vicky focused on the painting behind her, a washed-out still life of some flowers. “Paul’s sister, Rachel, has gone missing.”

  Kirsty shut her eyes. “I see.”

  “I take it they weren’t close?”

  “Not really. They didn’t have much to do with each other, not since Rachel moved to Dundee when she was eighteen. Paul says she’s getting above herself.”

  “Was there anyone who might’ve wanted to harm them or their family?”

  Kirsty nibbled at a knuckle, the skin stretching as she gripped it. “Not that I can think of.”

  “Any family?”

  “Their parents died about ten years ago. Their dad worked at Murison’s like Paul does. Their mum was a cleaner.”

  Vicky made a note — it looked like an attack on Rachel rather than her brother. “And there’s nobody who’d want to harm Paul?”

  “Look, Paul’s a model citizen. He keeps himself to himself. He likes a drink but nothing too bad.”

  Vicky nodded as she got to her feet, business card out. “We’ll do everything we can to find him.”

  Chapter Eight

  Vicky walked up to the front desk at Murison’s Prepacks, flashing her warrant card at the security guard. “We’re looking to speak to the owner or the manager.”

  “Same person.” The guard checked his watch. “Think the gaffer’ll be on his break up in the canteen.” He thumbed behind him towards a stairway rising up to the giant corrugated iron roof. “Up the stair there, end of the corridor, can’t miss it. The name’s Michael Murison. Just ask around if you can’t find him.”

  Vicky smiled a thanks before walking down the corridor runn
ing along the outside of the building. “That’s some security they’ve got here.”

  Considine shrugged. “You showed him your warrant card. What else is he going to do?”

  Vicky stopped at the entrance to the canteen and looked around. The deserted factory floor was littered with conveyor belts and forklifts, all now static. A couple of men leaned against a van, chatting as they ate. “I worked in something similar in Carnoustie one summer. A lot more basic than this.”

  “Surprised they’ve got factories in Car-snooty.”

  “It’s hardly Broughty Ferry.” Vicky pushed open the door and entered the busy canteen, the place stinking of frying meat and onions. She headed for the nearest occupied table, where a man was reading a book. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Michael Murison.”

  Without looking up, the man waved behind him. “Two tables back. Boy fiddling with his mobile.”

  “Thanks.” Vicky clocked him immediately. Mid-fifties, red-faced, glaring at his phone and shaking his head. “Mr Murison?”

  “Who’s asking?” Murison jolted upright when he saw her warrant card. “Christ, who let you in?”

  “The security guard.”

  “I’ll need to have words with him.” Murison shook his head, before picking up a roll and taking a bite, clear fat dribbling down his chin.

  Vicky smiled — mince on a roll. “We’re looking for Paul Joyce.”

  Murison swallowed his mouthful, ran his tongue over his teeth. “Paul’s not been in the day.”

  “We believe he’s possibly been abducted.”

  Murison nudged the plate away, the porcelain screeching against the laminate. “Seriously?”

  “Aye.”

  “Come with me.” Murison picked up the plate as he got to his feet, leading them out of the canteen into the room next door. He sat behind the desk, clattering the plate down in front of him. “Have a seat.”