Against the Clock by John Carson (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📕

‘That’s why I’m single,’ Robbie Evans said from the back seat.

‘Aye, that’s why you’re fucking single,’ Dunbar said. ‘Nothing to do with the fact your maw still washes your skids.’

‘I’m a free bird. No woman is going to tie me down.’

Dunbar turned to look at him. ‘Stop talking pish. You’d be lucky if a woman wanted to tie you down, and I don’t mean on a Friday night when you’re blootered.’

‘I do like Vern, though. I could see myself being with her long term.’

Dunbar looked at Harry. ‘Have you ever heard such slavering pish? One minute he’s a gigolo, the next he’s picking out a pair of slippers and a pipe. Make up your bloody mind.’

‘Hey, I’m no gigolo. I have limits, you know.’

‘I thought your limit was your maw’s pals at the bingo? Anything above their age is a no-go, and that only rules out females with no pulse.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Linda Fry wasn’t disgusting, though, eh? You were just keeping her pension book warm.’

‘They’re more your age, my mum’s pals.’

‘Cheeky bastard. I don’t need to splash Old Spice down my fucking Ys to attract some old lush.’

Harry laughed.

‘You hear him, Harry? This is the sort of bollocks I’ve got to listen to every day,’ Dunbar said. He looked at Evans again. ‘Tell Harry about the lipstick you were wearing a couple of weeks ago.’

Evans shook his head. ‘I was working undercover. Some drag queens were being mugged. We stepped in.’

‘It nearly gave me the fucking boak looking at him wearing a dress. And that was just on his day off.’

‘Funny. We got him, though, didn’t we?’

‘We did. And the mugger got a good kick in the nanchucks thanks to Robbie.’

‘Bastard put his hand up my dress. Well, I wasn’t putting up with that. He hadn’t even bought me a drink.’

‘Bought you a drink…Jesus, listen to yourself. You should be so lucky.’

‘At least you got the bastard,’ Harry said. ‘That kind of shite shouldn’t be tolerated nowadays. Live and let live, eh, fellas?’

‘Amen to that. Some bastards need taught a lesson, though. And that bloke got one that night. One of our undercover sergeants was dressed as a pro and she got a boot in at him too.’

Harry looked for a space in Bryson Road, but there weren’t any, so he parked on double yellows and put the police sign in the windscreen. It was sunny but far from warm, with a chill wind blowing through.

‘Flat number three,’ he said, nodding to the stair door. ‘He said he’s going to be in.’

He was. They were buzzed in and made the climb up to the first floor, where a thin man was waiting for them. He looked older than his years. Harry had pulled the file before coming here and they had read the details of the family. Brian Robertson was forty-one, but his slippers and loose-fitting cardigan would have looked better in a retirement home. His hair was salt and pepper, with the emphasis on salt. His skin was waxy and pale.

‘Come away in.’ He held out his left arm, indicating which way they should go.

An open door led into the living room. They stood around waiting for him, none of them keeping their back to the door. The room was immaculate, with very few possessions on display, except for a photo of a young girl. Harry knew he was looking at the girl they had found that morning.

‘Sit down,’ Robertson said, shuffling into the room.

Harry and Dunbar sat on the couch like Jehovah’s Witnesses who had actually made it through the front door and didn’t know what to do now. Evans stood by the door, keeping an eye on the room and the hallway behind him.

‘Can I make some tea or something?’ Robertson asked, sitting down on the chair carefully, like it would explode if he plonked himself down.

‘Is Mrs Robertson in?’ Harry asked.

Robertson looked at him with wet eyes. ‘She died. Six months ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Aye. I’m hanging on in case Sandra comes back.’ He looked at each of them in turn, as if waiting for an affirmative, that it was a good idea to wait for his daughter to return.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ said Harry, ‘but we discovered a body this morning and we think it’s Sandra.’

Robertson sat perfectly still but took in such a sharp breath that Harry thought the man was taking his last one. Then he spoke.

‘Jesus. Please tell me it’s a mistake.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dunbar said, ‘but we’re sure.’

‘Is it Sandra they’re talking about on the radio? The body they found on the beach?’ Robertson’s voice was raspy now, like it belonged to an eighty year old.

‘Yes, it is,’ Harry replied.

‘Did she drown?’

‘No, it looks like she died of carbon monoxide poisoning.’

‘Carbon monoxide? Like you get when a gas heater is faulty?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘It would seem she was somewhere that had a leak and she died from it.’

Robertson looked into thin air for a moment. ‘When did she die?’

‘A few weeks ago,’ Dunbar said.

Robertson’s breathing became more laboured. ‘So she’s been alive all this time? Nobody murdered her. Stabbed her or cut her throat or anything like that. Somebody kept her, and then she died of poisoning?’

‘Yes, we believe she’d been held somewhere all this time,’ Dunbar said. ‘And now we need to ask you some questions. Starting with, where were you last night?’

Robertson’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he answered. ‘You can’t think I did this? That I was responsible?’

‘We just need to eliminate you from our enquiries, Mr Robertson,’ Evans said.

And it was this comment that broke the camel’s back. Robertson’s face crumpled and he started sobbing, putting his face into his arms and crying uncontrollably.

Harry looked at Evans and made a phone gesture with his thumb and pinkie: call for the family liaison officer.

Evans nodded and left the room, finding the kitchen. They could hear his muffled voice talking to somebody as Robertson gathered himself.

‘Is there anybody we can call to come be