They haven't got much from last night. Inside the fish shop the display got even more bizarre — Andy had used the doc's fingers to spell out I LIED on the counter (only the «E» gave him any problems) — and somebody saw a white Escort driving away from the plinth on North Bridge shortly before Lingary's body was discovered. The car was later found abandoned on Leith Walk. They're dusting the fish shop and the car but I don't expect they'll find anything.
McDunn comes in with another plain-clothes guy about half twelve. He introduces the other cop as Detective Inspector Burall, from Lothian. They're holding on to my passport and they still want me to keep them informed of my whereabouts, in case the Procurator Fiscal decides to prosecute on the Rudd case. I have to sign for the passport. I'm coughing a lot.
"I'd get to a doctor about that cough," McDunn says, sounding concerned. I nod, tears in my eyes from the coughing.
"Yeah," I wheeze. "Good idea." After I've had a walk and a few pints, maybe, I'm thinking.
"Mr Colley," the Lothian cop says. He's a serious-looking guy, a bit older than me with very pale skin and thinning black hair. "I'm sure you'll understand we're concerned about Andrew Gould possibly still being in the city, especially with the European Summit coming up. Detective Inspector McDunn believes there is a chance Andrew Gould will attempt to contact you, and even that he might try to attack or kidnap you."
I look at McDunn, who's nodding, mouth compressed. I have to admit the idea of Andy paying a visit had occurred to me as well, after that I LIED. Burall continues: "We'd like your permission to station a couple of officers at your flat for a while, Mr Colley; we'll put you up in a hotel if this is agreeable to you."
McDunn sucks through his teeth, and I almost want to laugh at the sound now. I don't; I cough instead.
"I would advise you to say yes, Cameron," McDunn says, frowning at me. "Of course, you'll want to pick up some clothes and things first, but —»
The door swings opens and a uniform guy rushes in, glances at me and whispers into McDunn's ear. McDunn looks at me.
"What sort of present for you would he leave at Torphin Dale?"
"Torphin Dale?" I say. The sickness comes back. Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ. It's like I've been kicked in the balls. I have to struggle to make my mouth work. "That's where William and Yvonne live; the Sorrells."
McDunn stares at me for a moment. "Address?" he says.
"Four Baberton Drive," I tell him.
He glances up at the uniformed guy. "Got that?"
"Sir."
"Get some cars out there, and get one for us." Then he's up out of his chair, nodding at Burall and me. "Come on."
I stand up but my legs don't work too well as we walk quickly out of the station into a bright, cold afternoon. A uniformed driver runs out ahead of us, pulling on a jacket and blipping the doors on an unmarked Cavalier.
A present for me, at Torphin Dale. Oh, sweet Jesus, no.
"Come on! Get out the way!"
"Now, Cameron," McDunn says.
Burall puts the radio handset down. McDunn asked me for the telephone number of William and Yvonne's house; Chambers Street is ringing there now and they'll call us if they get through.
"Come on!" I mutter under my breath, willing the road to clear for us.
The driver's doing his best; we've a siren going and blue lights flashing behind the grille, we're darting in and out of the traffic and taking a few risks, but there's just too much traffic. What are all these people doing on the road? Why aren't they at work or at home or on public transport? Can't the bastards walk?
We go wailing across the red lights at Tollcross, snarling traffic up in all directions, take the right-turn lane heading up Home Street, dodge a little old lady on the pedestrian crossing at Bruntsfield and scream down Colinton Road through thinning traffic. The radio gibbers away at us; I lean forward, trying to listen. A patrol car's there at the house; no sign of anybody. My hands are hurting; I look down and see they're clenched tight, tendons standing out on my wrist. I sit back, thrown to one side as we swerve for a car coming suddenly out of a side street. The radio tells us the garage doors are open at the house. The beat cops can't get any answer at the front door.
We sweep across the by-pass. I'm sitting back in the seat, staring at the headlining of the car's roof, coughing now and again, tears in my eyes. Oh Christ, Andy, please, no.
We enter the executive development of Torphin Dale between the tall sandstone gateposts of the old estate; on Baberton Drive, everything looks the way I remember it apart from the orange-and-white parked in the short driveway from the bottom of the cul-de-sac to the house. The three garage doors are all tipped open. I don't know why but this gives me a bad feeling.
William's Merc is there; Yvonne's 325 isn't.
We pull into the drive. It takes a second for me to remember that I'm not handcuffed to anybody. The driver stays in the Cavalier, talking into the radio.
A uniformed cop comes down the drive from the front door, nodding to Burall and McDunn.
"No answer, sir. We haven't looked inside yet; my mate's round the back, looking in the garden."
"There a door from the garage to the rest of the house?" McDunn asks.
"Looks like it, sir."
McDunn looks at me. "You know these people, Cameron; they in the habit of leaving the place unattended like this?"
I shake my head. "Pretty security-conscious," I tell him.
McDunn sucks on his teeth.
We walk into the garage under the tip-up doors. The usual garage stuff, if you're filthy nouveau riche; packing cases, golfing gear, the Jet Ski on its trailer, a work bench, a grid on the wall holding neatly arrayed car and garden tools, most of them gleaming and unused, pairs of ski-boot bags and ski bags hanging from the wall, a steam-cleaning outfit, a little mini-tractor lawn mower, a big grey-black wheelie bin and a couple of mountain bikes. The triple garage is huge but still cluttered; if Yvonne's car was here it would be positively crowded.
McDunn knocks at the door into the rest of the house. He frowns, looks back at Burall. "We got any disposable gloves with us at all?"
"In the car," Burall says, and jogs back to the Cavalier.
"You've been here before, have you, Cameron?" McDunn asks.
"Yes," I say, coughing.
"Right; let us know about any nooks and crannies, will you?"
I nod. Burall comes back with a handful of the sort of gloves you can buy at service stations for working on the car. We all get a pair, even me. McDunn opens the door and we go into the utility room. Nothing in the cupboards in the utility room; nothing in the kitchen.
The four of us spread through the house; I stay with McDunn. We walk through the main lounge, looking behind the curtains, the couches, under the tables, even up inside the hood of the central fireplace. We head upstairs. We check one of the back bedrooms. The officer in the rear garden, walking back towards the house, sees us; he waves and makes a hands-out shrugging motion, shaking his head.
McDunn inspects the drawers built into the divan bed. I look in the built-in wardrobe, sliding my mirrored image out of the way, my heart in my mouth.
Clothes. Just clothes, hats and a few boxes.
We go to the main bedroom. I try not to think about what we were doing here the last time I was in this room. I have that roaring noise in my ears again and I've got a cold sweat and I feel like I could just collapse at any second. I have a weird, invasive feeling, being here with the detective inspector, clumbering around the expensively delicate domesticity of this house with no William or Yvonne here.
I look in the dressing room while McDunn checks under the bed, then looks out onto the balcony. I open the dressing-room wardrobes. Lots of clothes. I pull them back, hands shaking.