Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2) Page 4

  Considine didn’t have anything in response.

  Arguing like a pair of children. Now where had Vicky seen that? Oh yeah, at home. Every. Single. Morning.

  MacDonald held up a closed fist to Vicky. ‘You want to play paper, scissors, stone for them?’

  ‘Girls are better than boys.’ Vicky set off towards the Subaru and held out a hand to Karen. ‘Keys.’

  VICKY KICKED down and overtook the coach, zooming along like it was no effort at all, then slid back in to pull under the railway bridge. Along the Arbroath seafront, past the old nightclub, the still-open arcade, the football stadium and Tutties Neuk pub. Time was, the park would be jumping with families out enjoying the sun, but now it was filled with teen gangs looking to cause trouble. At least policing them was no longer her problem. ‘You can see why Considine is so upset about losing this car.’

  Karen laughed. ‘After what he did to the last one?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s lucky he didn’t have to pay for it himself.’

  ‘You know he bought himself one?’

  ‘A Subaru?’

  ‘They’re expensive too. Wonder where a single DC gets the money.’

  ‘He lives in Forfar, Karen. It’s hardly costing him a fortune there, is it?’

  ‘True.’

  Vicky shot over the empty roundabout, heading for the main road through Arbroath, not that anyone in their right mind would want to visit the decaying town centre.

  ‘The air conditioning already needs fixing, I swear.’ Karen reached over to push the dial up again, beads of sweat on her forehead. ‘So sleazy MacDonald was charming the receptionist?’

  ‘Said she used to run the desk at the serviced apartments he lived in.’ Vicky pulled up at the roundabout, gripping the wheel tight. Traffic hurtled around it, mostly boy racer cars like nothing ever changed in this part of the world.

  ‘Where he was living with his fiancée while he was sleazing on you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Euan MacDonald had a habit of getting under her skin. She was thankful for Rob. God knows she’d been a complete dick to him, but they were building a good life together. So why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking of kissing MacDonald? As much of a prick as he was, it still got to her.

  A souped-up Nissan whizzed past and she pulled away, the Subaru igniting its afterburners and rocketing round. She turned off and headed up the back road towards the abbey.

  Old Arbroath was changing. The red stone abbey, a glorious ruin, was surrounded by equally red stone buildings, all dating to some golden time in the town’s past. Higgledy-piggledy was the only way to describe it. Old houses of all shapes and sizes, some three-storey, but mostly two, with the ground floors now turned into offices and shops, with flats above.

  Abbey Catering was a small single-storey building jutting out of the front of a tall old house, wedged between the local MSP’s office and a hairdresser.

  Vicky got out and for once was glad to be in Arbroath. The sea breeze cut through the heat. Felt almost blissful. Over the road, most of the ancient abbey was wrapped in scaffolding and there was a new visitor centre she couldn’t remember from the last time she’d been there. Which must’ve been at school, forever ago. ‘Come on.’ She crossed the pavement and opened the door.

  Abbey Catering was a hot mess inside. Thumping and clanging and clattering, all at the boiling point of water. Vicky had expected an office, but she got five people making small party food.

  The nearest figure, a man with a mask covering his mouth, was squeezing a mixture into tiny quiche cases. Looked like fifty or sixty on that tray alone, and he switched to the second tray as another masked figure whisked the first one off to a giant oven near the back. The air wilted when the door opened, then the heat haze diminished as it was shut with a slam.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A woman stood by a side door, fists resting on her hips. Short and stocky, with greying blonde locks dangling loose from a hair net.

  ‘Police, ma’am. DS Dodds.’ Vicky held out her warrant card. ‘Looking for the owner?’

  ‘You’ve found her, hen.’ She tilted her head back. ‘Come on ben the hoose.’ She swivelled round and walked through the side door.

  Vicky followed, but gave Karen a frown. ‘Ben the hoose?’

  ‘You’ve never heard that?’

  ‘Obviously not, otherwise I would’ve understood what she meant.’

  ‘I forget you’re a Teuchter.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘It’s common Scots for “come on through”.’

  ‘Right.’ Vicky entered the office, a small room with three desks in a U-formation, each one stacked high with paper files.

  The owner was standing by the middle one. Her chair was taken up with a microwave, buzzing as a plastic bowl spun around inside. ‘Who you looking for?’

  ‘That’s the problem.’ Vicky stayed near the door, letting Karen case the room. ‘A body was found this morning at LA Golf.’

  The owner was more interested in working the microwave. ‘That so, aye?’ She opened the microwave and took out a plastic tub then rested it on top of a stack of paperwork that looked like it was all going to topple over. ‘Microwave is the best way to cook a haggis, trust me.’

  ‘You mind paying attention to me?’

  ‘Huh?’ She looked up from dragging a fork through the mixture. ‘Hen, I’m stressed out of my head here. I’ve got eighteen functions tonight alone. Had thirty-two last night. I’m the one who has to bear the brunt of everyone wanting to cash in on the Open in Car-snooty.’

  Made Vicky think of her old man’s comedy T-shirt. ‘We’re wondering if a member of your staff is the murder victim.’ She stressed the words, but the owner put the haggis back in the microwave. ‘You mind if I take a name?’

  ‘Mine? Oh, I’m Abby Taggart.’

  ‘Okay, Abby. Did you cater last night’s event at LA Golf?’

  ‘Aye. And you know how many casual staff I’ve had to take on?’ Abby shook her head and sighed. ‘Who you looking for?’

  ‘Any young, blonde women?’

  Abby laughed. ‘That your kink, hen?’

  Vicky got out her mobile and showed the photo to Abby. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  Abby took the phone and squinted at the screen. ‘Christ, that’s…’ She swallowed hard. ‘Are you sure you should be showing me this?’

  Vicky nodded. ‘We need to identify her. Urgently.’

  ‘Okay, well it’s hard to tell underneath all that blood. But I had three girls there last night look like her. All local lassies.’

  VICKY KNOCKED on the door and stepped back to take another look. A big Victorian house with bay windows and a long front garden. ‘Seems a bit weird to be working for a caterer.’

  Opposite, Keptie Pond glowed green in the afternoon sunshine. One of the few parts of Arbroath that Vicky could ever remember and it was now filled with algae. She was sure her mother had mentioned something about it, but seeing it was different.

  The door opened to a chain and a woman peered out. Young, blonde hair, bright green eyes. ‘They’re in Crete, so come back in a week.’

  ‘Kelly Lawson?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘DS Dodds.’ Vicky flashed her warrant card. ‘Are you Kelly Lawson?’

  ‘I am.’ She was still alive, which was a start. She could definitely pass for the victim, though. ‘Look, my folks are away on holiday, so I shouldn’t be—’

  ‘Were you at the function at LA Golf last night.’

  ‘Aye? What of it?’

  Vicky took out her phone and showed it to Kelly. ‘She work with you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Do you recognise her at all?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Not even from the party?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  KAREN KNOCKED on the door and stood back. ‘So why aren’t we doing the Carnoustie address first?’

  ‘Because of the golf.’ Vicky checked inside the house, a
brutal seventies thing not unlike her own house, the one she’d fluked out by renting to someone for the golf but which was no longer her home. No signs of life, though. ‘Be about an hour getting parked in Carnoustie, so it’s smarter to do this one, right?’

  ‘Suppose.’ Karen knocked again. ‘Still, Ramsay Street.’

  Just at the start of Monifieth, a side road that Vicky must’ve passed hundreds of times in her life and yet this was the first time she’d driven down it. ‘When me and Andrew were kids, we used to sing the Neighbours theme tune when Dad drove past here. And now Bella and Jamie have started doing it.’

  ‘Is that still going?’

  ‘Rob still watches it. Every day.’

  ‘Christ.’ Karen thumped the door. ‘No answer. Shall we go to the Carnoustie one?’

  ‘I want to eliminate this first.’ Vicky took another look inside. The house was one room deep and she could see movement out the back. And bingo — she could smell a barbecue. ‘Come on.’ She walked over to the side gate. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  She released the catch and walked along the slabs, the smell of roasting meat getting stronger with each step. ‘Hello?’

  A tall woman stood facing them, her blonde hair in pigtails and wearing a Baby Spice dress, all short and pink. She was snogging a shorter man, hands down his pants. Her eyes widened and she pushed away from her lover, and stormed across the grass to them. ‘What the fuck!?’

  ‘Police.’

  But she swiped Vicky’s warrant card away, sending it flying across the grass. ‘What the fuck!?’

  ‘Sayrah Douglas?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Her lover sneaked in alongside her. ‘Sayr, these guys are cops.’

  ‘I don’t fucking care!’ She stomped over to the barbecue.

  He smiled at them, his wide face stretching out his thin beard lining his jaw. ‘What’s going on?’

  Vicky crouched down to collect her warrant card. ‘Looking for Sayrah Douglas. That her?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  Vicky walked over to the barbecue and showed the crime scene photo. ‘You recognise her?’

  Sayrah snatched the phone. She looked like she was going to smash it on the patio or hurl it on the barbecue. But she passed it back. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t work with her?’

  ‘I’ve only just started with the agency, sorry.’

  ‘You did work at LA Golf last night, though?’

  ‘Yeah, but so many faces. That was my first gig, and Abby stuck me in the back room.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be working a party at the DCA tonight and I’m back at Tesco tomorrow, so I need to get on.’

  Her boyfriend joined them. He took a look at the photo and flinched. ‘Christ. What happened to her?’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He frowned at Sayrah. ‘This who Kirsty was talking about?’

  ‘Kirsty?’

  Vicky frowned at him. ‘Do you work for Abbey Catering too?’

  ‘I’m a sommelier, yeah.’ There was a nice-looking bottle of Gewürztraminer on the table. Someone knew what they were doing with white wines, even in Monifieth. ‘I don’t recognise her, but did she have a tattoo here.’ He rubbed at his left bicep. ‘Like a puffin or something?’

  Vicky got a flash of the image on the victim’s arm. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it was pretty distinctive. And Kirsty Henderson was talking to us about it, said she wanted to get one, but then she’s an ink fiend. Swear she came out of the womb all sleeved up.’

  Vicky gave him a smile. ‘Do you know if this Kirsty Henderson knew her?’

  ‘Think so. I mean, this woman was on some guy’s arm. Kirsty said she thought she was like an escort. Recognised her from some previous gigs.’

  5

  Q ueen Street in Carnoustie was mobbed and Vicky had to double park just to get anywhere half a mile from the address. The street was at a good thirty-degree angle so she checked the handbrake was on twice before she got out and walked over to the flat.

  Karen got there first and pressed the buzzer. ‘See the Gewürztraminer on the table?’

  Vicky checked her phone. Nothing from Forrester or MacDonald. ‘I did.’

  ‘My Colin found out Lidl had their one in. Bought six cases of it. Four quid a bottle.’

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘Remember last Saturday, the state him and Robert got into?’

  ‘Rob. And yes, I do. Christ.’ Vicky pocketed her phone. ‘So, if she’s a prostitute?’

  ‘That’s a whole heap of shit, isn’t it?’

  ‘Damn right.’ Vicky looked down the hill towards the beach, over the silver-grey railway bridge, a massive horde of people charging along the road towards the train station. The distant rattle of the course announcer was almost lost to the crowd noise, half roaring, half gasping.

  Someone jostled her from behind. ‘Sorry!’ A sunburnt golfer in plus fours and a hideous jumper, walking off up the hill.

  Vicky sighed. ‘Bloody golf fans.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Karen watched the guy walk up the steep street. ‘So how does her being a prostitute agree with that gleaming rock on her finger?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just for show.’

  ‘What, someone didn’t put a ring on it?’

  ‘Indeed. Wouldn’t be the first woman to pretend to be engaged just to avoid wee wankers trying to chat her up.’

  The door clicked open. A tall man stood there in shorts and T-shirt, clutching a pint can of Stella. His short hair was still curling like crazy, and long sideburns ran down to his jawline. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Police.’ Vicky showed her warrant card. ‘Looking for a Kirsty Henderson.’

  ‘She’s not in.’ He slurped from his can. ‘You mind if I get back to the golf?’

  ‘She does live here?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  ‘You her flatmate?’

  ‘Just feels like it.’ He laughed, then let out a burp. ‘I’m her boyfriend. And I haven’t seen her today.’

  Vicky felt a sting in the back of her neck. ‘When did you last hear from her?’

  He burped into his fist, but the stale beer spread across to her anyway. ‘I’m working nights at the Ashworth’s in Arbroath, just got back and I’m doing bugger all other than watching the golf.’

  ‘So when did you last see her?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Any idea where she might be?’

  VICKY STOPPED OUTSIDE THE PUB. The 19th Hole, far from Carnoustie’s best, but not its worst. ‘I had my first drink in there.’

  Karen smirked. ‘When you were ten?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  The door opened and a young drunk in a turquoise tracksuit stumbled out, his skinhead glowing red from sunburn. He shielded his eyes from the glare. ‘Christ on a bike.’ He staggered off along Kinloch Street, probably in completely the wrong direction, though he looked like he was taking about three at the same time.

  Vicky walked over to the door and the racket was almost deafening. No bouncers, though, so she pushed through into the bar. The place hadn’t changed in twenty-odd years, and it was absolutely jumping. Not just the golf crowd, but the usual Sunday afternoon boozers sensing an opportunity for a party. The golf played on the big screens in three of the corners, but barely anyone was paying attention.

  ‘Coming through.’ Vicky weaved her way through the crowd towards the bar. Like the rest of the place, it hadn’t changed, still serving the same old tired selection of beer and spirits. Probably sold wine by the box. Even had those bags of peanuts on the wall that gradually revealed a topless woman. Keep it classy, Carnoustie.

  And the barman looked as worn out as his stock. Greasy hair slicked back, his pale pink polo shirt plastered to his back, his wiry back hair poking out of the collar and giving that most sexy of looks. ‘Vicks?’

  She frowned at him and had to wipe off about thirty years of bar meals and alcoholism to tr
igger his name. ‘Craig?’

  ‘Glad you recognise me. You’re looking gorgeous as ever.’ He gave her the old up and down, lingering on her chest, then smiled wide. ‘That boy caught up with you?’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Lad in here asking for you.’

  And the note burnt heavy in her pocket. ‘No, I’m looking for Kirsty Henderson.’

  ‘And here I was thinking you were wanting to speak to me.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  He pointed across the bar to a group of women chatting up some golf fans, Americans judging by their apparel. High-end Nike stuff and the shiny white teeth that North Americans thought were healthy but were mostly just fake.

  And it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce which one was Kirsty Henderson. The lone blonde in a crowd of brunettes and redheads, sitting next to a real quarterback type. Handsome guy with a loud voice that carried, the kind of generic American accent you heard all the time on TV. ‘I mean, you try hunting a guy with a red hat across three states.’

  Kirsty leaned her head back and roared with laughter, though Vicky didn’t see any humour in it. Kirsty brushed fingers through her hair, and even the back of her hand was covered in tattoos. Seemed to run all the way up her arm. And Vicky realised she was on the other side of a generation gap.

  ‘Well, she’s smashed but alive.’ Karen charged over, nudging a drinker so that about half of his pint spilled onto the floor.

  ‘Fuck sake.’ His local accent warped the words into a violent weapon. ‘You going to replace that?’

  Karen showed her warrant card. ‘Police, sir.’

  ‘Aye, so am I. Just cos I’m off duty and you’re not doesn’t mean you can barge through like that. And I’m a sergeant so you can take your Brains Department pal here and buy me a pint of Export, thanks.’

  Karen just handed him a fiver. ‘Here you go.’

  With a shake of the head, he buggered off to the bar. Kind of place where five quid bought two pints. In 2018. And he still had most of that one left.

  ‘Brains department indeed.’ Karen took it easier as he barged through the rest of them. ‘Kirsty Henderson?’

  Fingers wrapped round a glass filled with a dark liquid, she scowled at them. ‘You the cops?’ She was way past smashed, on the expressway to banjaxed.