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Authors: Craig Robertson
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yourself up about it.’
‘Can’t I? Well, why do I keep waking up and thinking about it then? Ironic, isn’t it? I can’t remember a bloody thing half the time but the one thing I’d rather forget . . .’
‘Let it go, Dad. It’s for the best.’
‘I can’t. I just can’t. I keep dreaming about that island. That poor girl.’
A single tear ran down his cheek and dropped with a soft splash onto the collar of his shirt. Another followed. Rachel realised she’d never in her life seen her dad cry – not at a movie, a funeral or a wedding. He’d been the strong one, always there and always tough enough to look after everyone else – until now.
‘I’ll sort it, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll make it right. I promise.’
‘Thanks, love. But some things can’t be sorted.’
‘Of course they can.’
‘Hm? Yes, okay. Okay. Anyway, Helen, you take care and I’ll see you next week.’
‘You count on it. Love you.’
Rachel turned to leave, the tears finally falling. Helen was her mum’s name.
CHAPTER 12
Winter was safely back in his office in the bowels of Strathclyde Police HQ in Pitt Street, down in one of the dark places where daylight is a memory and a moment of cheerfulness is a prisoner. It suited him perfectly.
He was thumbing through photographs of near nothingness that he’d taken under the midnight moon on Inchmahome, looking for the soul of a girl long departed amidst the frozen ground and ancient priory. She wasn’t there but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her. He’d been seeing her, truth be told, almost every night when sleep finally came.
The sound of the office phone disturbed his reverie and he was grateful for it. Not only did it bring the promise of work, it also took him away from the unfulfilled promise of Rachel’s cold case. He knew they were both obsessing on it and something about their mutual fascination with it bothered him. Maybe, as an only child, he’d just never learned how to share.
He picked up the receiver, recognising the call as an internal ring, and tried to stifle a sigh when he heard the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Campbell ‘Two Soups’ Baxter, the senior crime scene manager and Winter’s nemesis. Two Soups had never had much time for Winter as part of the team, believing that his scenes of crime officers did a perfectly acceptable job of recording evidence without the need for a specialist photographer. Naturally, Winter disagreed.
‘Ah, Mr Winter. So good of you actually to be in the building for a change. If you could make yourself available for transportation to the east end, then we would be most grateful. Immediately.’
Even when Baxter was in what seemed to be a good mood, he remained a most irritating bastard.
‘Yes, of course, What’s the . . .’ But Baxter was already gone.
Winter grabbed his camera bag, confident that it was, as always, fully loaded and ready to go. He hustled his way to the car park and saw immediately that whatever it was, it was going to be fun. There were more than enough uniforms, detectives and forensics jumping into cars to put Winter’s antennae on full alert. This was no break-in at a newsagent. He found himself in a car with two of the forensics, Caro Sanchez in the back with him and Paul Burke at the wheel.
The details were scant but Sanchez and Burke at least knew more than Baxter had bothered to tell him. There were two casualties, probably as the result of some gang-related incident near Dalmarnock Road. One was dead at the scene and the other was being rushed to the Victoria. A crowd of local neds was already in attendance, witnesses supposedly among them, and the uniforms who were first there were having a hard time keeping them back from the scene. Blood and crowds, Winter thought, his favourite.
They picked up the sound of sirens as they approached Swanston Street, the noise fuelling his adrenalin and triggering the familiar itch that signalled the imminent chance to
‘Can’t I? Well, why do I keep waking up and thinking about it then? Ironic, isn’t it? I can’t remember a bloody thing half the time but the one thing I’d rather forget . . .’
‘Let it go, Dad. It’s for the best.’
‘I can’t. I just can’t. I keep dreaming about that island. That poor girl.’
A single tear ran down his cheek and dropped with a soft splash onto the collar of his shirt. Another followed. Rachel realised she’d never in her life seen her dad cry – not at a movie, a funeral or a wedding. He’d been the strong one, always there and always tough enough to look after everyone else – until now.
‘I’ll sort it, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll make it right. I promise.’
‘Thanks, love. But some things can’t be sorted.’
‘Of course they can.’
‘Hm? Yes, okay. Okay. Anyway, Helen, you take care and I’ll see you next week.’
‘You count on it. Love you.’
Rachel turned to leave, the tears finally falling. Helen was her mum’s name.
CHAPTER 12
Winter was safely back in his office in the bowels of Strathclyde Police HQ in Pitt Street, down in one of the dark places where daylight is a memory and a moment of cheerfulness is a prisoner. It suited him perfectly.
He was thumbing through photographs of near nothingness that he’d taken under the midnight moon on Inchmahome, looking for the soul of a girl long departed amidst the frozen ground and ancient priory. She wasn’t there but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her. He’d been seeing her, truth be told, almost every night when sleep finally came.
The sound of the office phone disturbed his reverie and he was grateful for it. Not only did it bring the promise of work, it also took him away from the unfulfilled promise of Rachel’s cold case. He knew they were both obsessing on it and something about their mutual fascination with it bothered him. Maybe, as an only child, he’d just never learned how to share.
He picked up the receiver, recognising the call as an internal ring, and tried to stifle a sigh when he heard the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Campbell ‘Two Soups’ Baxter, the senior crime scene manager and Winter’s nemesis. Two Soups had never had much time for Winter as part of the team, believing that his scenes of crime officers did a perfectly acceptable job of recording evidence without the need for a specialist photographer. Naturally, Winter disagreed.
‘Ah, Mr Winter. So good of you actually to be in the building for a change. If you could make yourself available for transportation to the east end, then we would be most grateful. Immediately.’
Even when Baxter was in what seemed to be a good mood, he remained a most irritating bastard.
‘Yes, of course, What’s the . . .’ But Baxter was already gone.
Winter grabbed his camera bag, confident that it was, as always, fully loaded and ready to go. He hustled his way to the car park and saw immediately that whatever it was, it was going to be fun. There were more than enough uniforms, detectives and forensics jumping into cars to put Winter’s antennae on full alert. This was no break-in at a newsagent. He found himself in a car with two of the forensics, Caro Sanchez in the back with him and Paul Burke at the wheel.
The details were scant but Sanchez and Burke at least knew more than Baxter had bothered to tell him. There were two casualties, probably as the result of some gang-related incident near Dalmarnock Road. One was dead at the scene and the other was being rushed to the Victoria. A crowd of local neds was already in attendance, witnesses supposedly among them, and the uniforms who were first there were having a hard time keeping them back from the scene. Blood and crowds, Winter thought, his favourite.
They picked up the sound of sirens as they approached Swanston Street, the noise fuelling his adrenalin and triggering the familiar itch that signalled the imminent chance to
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