FOUR
The desk sergeant wrinkled her nose when Calum entered. “You’re not welcome here.” She returned her attention to her book, stretching her lean legs out before her and resting her boots on her desk.
Calum’s prepared speech died in his throat. The linen of his shirt suddenly felt too hot, his skin feverish. The desk sergeant before him—Sergeant Fleming—had no particular reason to dislike him, but he supposed her being an officer at Station House Six was reason enough after his departure.
“I-I’m looking for a missing person.” He swallowed. “A report, I mean. It was filed recently.”
Fleming sighed, running a hand through her short grey hair. “Do you have a name, or shall I have some poor constable fetch all the missing persons reports filed in the last week?”
Calum fumbled the letter out of his pocket, fingers trembling as he unfolded it. “Flora Hamilton. The report was made by a Margaret Watson.”
Fleming poked her head around the door to the station house proper.
“Fergus!” A sandy-haired constable appeared in the doorway.
Calum didn’t recognise the lad; perhaps he’d been hired after Calum had been transferred to Station House Eight.
Fleming murmured something to the constable, who disappeared and returned moments later with a single piece of paper in his hand.
Calum’s stomach contracted as he scanned the report. The summary of the incident was a single line.
Friend reports subject left town after losing her job.
Calum scowled at the name of the officer who took the report. DC Morrison. The lazy tosser. At least the man had been demoted after the incident.
Calum strode past Fergus and headed straight for Morrison’s desk, ignoring the stares and murmurs of those around him. Fury bubbled in him like water in a pot, dissipating his nerves like fog on a summer morning. He dropped the report under Morrison’s nose, his fingers splaying over the paper.
“Is this all there is to this report?” He fought to keep his breath from hitching.
Morrison looked up, his lip curling in a sneer. “What’s it to you? As I recall, you don’t work at this station house anymore.” He tapped one long, slender finger against his philtrum. “Where is it you were transferred to? Ah, yes, Shit House Eight.”
The other constables tittered at that, as though Morrison had told a brilliant joke. Calum clenched his jaw, biting back his anger. “Where’s the rest of the report?”
Morrison made a show of looking for it, running a hand through his pale shoulder-length hair, as he lifted papers on his desk and opened a drawer. “I think . . . Ah, here it is.” He pointed at the single page under Calum’s palm. “You’re holding it.”
“Did you investigate at all?”
“There was nothing to investigate. Woman lost her job, left town. That’s all there is to it.”
“Left town without telling her friend?” Méabh’s eyes, it was like pulling teeth, trying to get information from the wanker.
“The two of them probably quarrelled, and the lass making the report”—he peered at the words between Calum’s spread fingers—“Margaret Watson, that is, was no doubt too embarrassed to mention it.”
“Do you have any evidence for this, or is it pure fabrication?”
“It happens all the time.” Morrison leant back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers. “How many missing person cases have you investigated where there was actually a crime? Nine times out of ten, the supposed victim left of their own volition.”
Calum bit back a curse. He himself had filed countless missing person reports for people who had turned up two days later, hungover and with their pockets substantially lighter but none the worse for wear.
But Calum could never let it go, could never stop seeing his sister in their frantic loved ones as they awaited the news.
“I don’t suppose you bothered to cross-reference the information Margaret gave with other reports, did you?”
“Why would I? It was open and shut.” Morrison’s teeth flashed as he gave a cruel smile. “What do you think happened, the Wulver took her?”
Calum bit back a retort as the other constables roared with laughter. The Wulver was the most notorious crime lord in the city, and the police had been trying to learn his identity for years, without success.
“I’ve no idea who took her,” Calum said over the other constables’ guffawing. “That’s why, as police, we investigate.”
Morrison’s eyes flashed. “What do you know about police work? As I recall, you’re more interested in following ‘the rules’ than you are in getting results.”
“Torturing witnesses is not the way to ‘get results’,” Calum barked. “Do you really think Robertson’s advocate wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t reported you?”
“Erskine!”
Calum’s shoulders tensed. He turned around to see the superintendent of his own station house striding into the room, his dark hair slicked back from his face. He wore a tweed waistcoat and matching frock coat, the peat colour bringing out the warmth of his golden skin. “Yes, sir?”
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Can I have a word with you, sir?” Calum’s palms were clammy, so he slipped the report into his pocket before his sweat could make the ink run.
“A word?” Graham flung his hand towards an interview room. “Yes, you can have a bloody word.”
Calum’s muscles tensed, his body bracing for a blow that wouldn’t come. For four years, provoking anger was to provoke attack, and in the nine years since he’d never managed to retrain his instincts.
He rubbed at the old scars on his shoulder as he followed Graham into the interview room, leaning against the heavy wooden table.
Graham closed the door and cast a hand at the sconces on the walls, filling the space with golden light.
Another twist of his wrist and the coals in the hearth opposite the door blazed to life.
He peered at Calum, his hands in his pockets, then pulled out a chair and gestured for Calum to sit, his eyes glittering in a way that suggested it was not optional.
Calum sat, stretching his long legs out before him.
His kilt fell over the edges of the hard wooden chair, fanning out in folds of green and blue tartan.
“You’re on thin ice.” Graham’s amber cheeks were tinged with pink. “Do you want to explain to me why a constable just showed up at my office to tell me you were haranguing a member of her station house?”
“Harangu—I wasn’t haranguing anyone,” Calum spluttered. “I was looking for a case report and Morrison was the one who filled it out.”
Graham sat across from him. “You need to stop with this missing persons nonsense.” His pointed face was stern, making it clear this wasn’t a request and there wasn’t room to bargain.
Calum tried anyway. “That’s the seventh one in the past six months! We can’t just—”
“We can, and we will,” Graham said, his voice firm. “You know as well as I do that these folk have probably just left the city in search of work elsewhere.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t know that.” He leant forwards. “Don’t you find it a little strange that all seven of them just left in the night, without even telling their friends or neighbours?”
Graham stiffened. “To be quite honest, it doesn’t really matter what I think. Plenty of people already think you have it in for Morrison. You don’t do yourself any favours by giving them more evidence they’re right.”
Calum ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, his skin heating. “Have it in for— You know I had no choice; I had to report him.”
“And a murderer walked free because of it.”
“If Morrison had done his job properly, instead of breaking the law, Robertson would have been convicted.” Calum flicked the paper in his hand. “And look at this. He’s still doing a half-arsed job of it. The report is one sentence.”
Graham held up his hands, a placating expression on his face. “Aye, he is. But that’s not your job.”
“Then whose is it?” Calum’s heartbeat quickened with rage. “Someone has to give a shit about finding these missing people, and it’s not Morrison.”
“It won’t be you, either, when you’re sacked for harassing a colleague,” Graham snarled.
Calum slammed his mouth shut.
“Morrison has half a dozen witnesses who will claim you came and made unfounded accusations,” Graham went on, his voice calm.
Calum snapped the report in Graham’s face. “They’re not unfound—”
Graham held up a hand. “That proves nothing. You know as well as I do that a poor, unguilded person going missing is more likely to have left the city entirely than they are to have fallen prey to mischief.” Calum opened his mouth to protest, but Graham cut him off.
“It’s lazy policing, I know, but with your history with Morrison, it looks like you’re harassing a fellow officer without cause.
” Graham sighed. “Let this all blow over and you’ll be on track for a promotion to DCI somewhere that isn’t Shit House Eight. ”
Excitement at the prospect of being free of the stigma of Station House Eight lanced through him, but he pushed the feeling down, burying it beneath duty. “I understand what you’re saying, but if these disappearances are connected, then more people could go missing before then.”
Graham passed a hand over his face. “I know. And that’s why I am asking you to let it go for now.
Keep your head down, do an impeccable job, and when your actions here have been forgotten, you can pick it back up again and be of far more use than if you’ve been sacked.
You know as well as I do that your reassignment to my station house was your last chance.
There are plenty of folk just waiting for you to mess things up.
” He leant closer. “And this morning, you have. While you were busy chasing fairy tales, a real case came into the station. One that could get you out of Shit House Eight and back on track towards promotion to DCI.”
Calum’s mouth was dry with anticipation. “What kind of case?” he rasped.