Chapter 38
FIFE
It had gone five now, and Art was thinking about what he was going to have for dinner, but food would have to wait.
‘Fuck me,’ Art said as Cameron took a corner too fast. ‘I saw my life flash before my eyes there.’
‘That’s ’cause you’re getting older. Old fogies always shite themselves in a car when it’s going more than ten miles an hour.’
‘Cheeky bastard. Just keep your eyes on the fucking road.’
Cameron grinned. ‘What do you think of this new boss of ours?’
‘Well, he’s no Alan, that’s for sure, and he’s not our new boss. He’s our temporary boss. I’m not sure if I like him or not. He’s just another suit. Whether he cuts the mustard or not remains to be seen.’
‘He seems professional enough.’
‘Aye, but Alan was more than just that. He was our team leader, somebody who would go the extra mile and put his neck on the line to back us all up.’ Art shook his head and turned to look out the window.
Cameron drove the rest of the way in silence until they got to the modern detached house in a new development.
‘There’s a nice wee bowling club here,’ Art said.
Cameron shook his head. ‘Do they water the beer down there too?’
‘Give it a rest.’
Cameron looked out the window at the red-brick house before turning the engine off. ‘Nice wee house, right enough.’ He looked at Art. ‘And he can afford a house like this by working as a bar manager in a wee bowling club?’
‘Unlike you, I’m not a nosy bastard. I don’t go in and say, “Half of lager and a packet of crisps, Dick. Oh, and by the way, are you fucking the taxman or something?” I don’t know how I can introduce that into the conversation.’
‘I just envisioned him living in a two-up, two-down sort of affair, not something as nice as this.’
‘Maybe he had an inheritance or something. Maybe I’ll let you ask him if we get invited inside.’
They walked up to the front door, where a small driveway sat empty. A few steps led up to the door.
Cameron walked up to the door and hammered on it.
‘Fuck me, how about trying the bell first?’
No matter how much ringing or banging they did, nobody answered the door.
‘Have a wee look round the back,’ Art said. ‘We have reason to believe he may be in danger.’
‘Aye, from us, the bastard.’
‘Aww, Jesus, keep it down, for fuck’s sake. There’s always one old nosy bastard in this sort of development. Just hop over the fence at the side of the house and have a gander round the back.’
‘What if I slip and rip my trousers?’
‘Sake, Cameron, you’re a young laddie. You should be able to hop that in your sleep.’
‘If I rip my trousers, I’ll be putting in a claim.’
‘Aye, aye, just get your arse over there.’
Cameron tutted as he approached the wooden fence and managed to haul himself up and over without doing irreparable damage to his reproductive area.
‘Right, Art, your turn,’ he said, looking back over the fence, which was only about five feet high.
‘Watch me. Just get round and check through the windows.’
Cameron stomped off, muttering to himself, and disappeared from view round the back of the house.
Then Art heard him come rushing back. ‘There are sliding doors that are open, Art. It’s stinking in there.’
‘Define “stinking”.’
‘You know, the stink that after you’ve smelled it for the first time, you never forget it.’
‘Oh, magic.’ He looked at the gate. ‘How the hell am I going to climb that? The front door is one of those plastic ones where there won’t be a key hanging out of it—’
Cameron clicked the latch and the gate swung open.
‘Pity you didn’t check that before you climbed over it, son,’ he said, following his younger colleague to the back.
The sliding doors weren’t wide open; one was open just a couple of feet. Enough so that it wouldn’t draw attention from the casual onlooker.
Art took his extendable baton out and flicked his wrist out until the weapon was fully extended. Cameron did the same.
‘Watch your back in here, son. Anybody comes at you with a knife, let the bastard have it.’
‘Too fucking right.’
Art swore he could see Cameron’s eyes lighting up at the prospect, and decided he would let the younger man charge in since he was already revved up anyway.
Cameron slammed the sliding door open and stepped in past full-length net curtains, Art right behind him.
‘Dick!’ he shouted. ‘Police!’
They were in the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place and it was deadly silent.
‘Dick! It’s Art and Cameron. You alright in there, pal? We’re coming in.’
They found Dick Drever in his bedroom, in what could be seen as auto-eroticism gone wrong.
He was sitting with his back against the en-suite bathroom door with a tie round his neck, the other end round the door handle.
His discoloured tongue was protruding out of his mouth.
He was naked from the waist down, his right hand holding his flaccid penis.
‘Jesus. I didn’t take him for one of those people who whack one out with a necktie round their neck,’ Art said.
‘I did. I thought he was a wanker the first time I clapped eyes on him.’
‘Here, now, a bit of respect for a dead man.’
‘How do you know he’s dead?’ Cameron said. ‘What if he has a pulse?’
‘Pulse my arse. Look at the colour of his skin.’
‘I’ve seen people come back from worse than that.’
Art shook his head. ‘Where about? On Night of the Living Dead?’
‘Seriously. There was this one guy who’d been run over by a tractor—’
‘Right, zip it. I don’t want to spoil my dinner. I’ll call this in, and they can send in the doc to pronounce him.’
Art walked away to make the phone call. Two people connected to Alan McRae, both dead by suicide.
He didn’t believe it, not for one minute.
Pat McRae, taking sleeping pills and hooking up a hosepipe to her exhaust; and Dick Drever, dying after playing with himself and putting a tie around his neck? No, something was way off here.
And if the bloke from Edinburgh was any good, he could pull his finger out of his arse and solve this. Whatever this was.