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Authors: Ian Rankin
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then.’
‘Now who’s Hercule Poirot?’ Joe Naysmith muttered, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Not the interview room. Teresa Collins had been insistent. In fact, nowhere near ‘that stinking place’, which was why Fox had suggested her home. It was the upper storey of a maisonette in Gallatown. Gary Michaelson had hinted it might not be the town’s most salubrious area. Actually, it looked all right to Fox: there were plenty worse in Edinburgh. Terraced and semi-detached houses, many of them split. Pebble-dashed walls and plenty of satellite dishes. Young mothers, some pregnant again, pushed their baby buggies while talking into their phones. A few teenage lads in baseball caps scowled as the Mondeo drew to a halt kerb-side, and made intuitive grunting noises as the three men stepped out. Fox pressed the bell marked ‘Collins’.
‘It’s open!’ a voice yelled.
Fox turned the handle and started climbing the steep flight of stairs. Someone on the ground floor was hosting a party.
‘Eminem,’ Naysmith stated.
‘Just sounds like noise to me,’ Tony Kaye muttered.
Teresa Collins was seated in an armchair in her uncluttered living room, dangling one leg over the side and with a lit cigarette in her mouth. She wore black Lycra leggings and a purple T-shirt with the words Porn Star picked out in diamanté.
‘No need to spruce yourself up on our account,’ Kaye told her, examining a 3-D poster of Beyoncé above the fireplace. The music from downstairs was causing the windowpanes to vibrate.
‘I forgot to ask,’ Collins said. ‘Should I maybe have called my lawyer?’
‘You’re the victim here,’ Fox reminded her, introducing himself, Kaye and Naysmith. There was one other armchair, but it was piled high with laundry. When it came to underwear, Teresa Collins seemed to favour the thong.
‘Victim is right,’ she said, taking another drag on the cigarette. There was a flat-screen TV and Freeview box in one corner of the room. On an otherwise empty bookcase sat the dock and speakers for an MP3 player. The beige carpet had collected an impressive number of ash burns.
‘Everybody needs good neighbours, eh?’ Kaye announced, thumping the floor with the heel of his shoe.
‘They’re all right.’ The foot hanging over the arm of the chair was keeping time, while Collins’s other knee pumped furiously.
‘Few uppers to counteract the methadone?’ Fox guessed.
‘You won’t find anything that’s not prescribed,’ she snapped back.
‘We’re not looking for anything. As I said on the phone, it’s Carter’s colleagues we’re checking.’
‘So you say .’
‘It’d be nice if you believed me.’
She looked like she was having trouble focusing on him. ‘Go ahead, then,’ she said at last. ‘Ask me the same bloody questions …’
‘DI Carter used to come here?’
‘Aye.’
‘Some of your neighbours saw him?’
‘They said so, didn’t they?’
‘Wasn’t very discreet of him. What about his colleagues – they never came in?’
‘Scholes did, one time. But that was early days, when they were wanting me to be a grass.’
‘Scholes was never here when Carter was after one of these “favours”?’
She shook her head. ‘Might’ve waited in the car.’ She was looking agitated. ‘When you lot got wise, it was Scholes who phoned me, tried to warn me off.’
‘I know it can’t be easy, going back over this.’
‘I thought it was done with. Is this what happens now? He’s going down, so you lot keep persecuting me till I go off my head or do myself in?’
Fox didn’t answer for a moment. ‘You know there are charities that can help, numbers you can phone?’
‘Rape Crisis? All that lot?’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘I just want left alone.’ She exhaled a plume of smoke and brushed flecks of ash from her T-shirt. ‘Now he’s inside, that’s all I’m asking …’
‘What if he’s not inside?’ As soon as the words were out of Naysmith’s
‘Now who’s Hercule Poirot?’ Joe Naysmith muttered, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Not the interview room. Teresa Collins had been insistent. In fact, nowhere near ‘that stinking place’, which was why Fox had suggested her home. It was the upper storey of a maisonette in Gallatown. Gary Michaelson had hinted it might not be the town’s most salubrious area. Actually, it looked all right to Fox: there were plenty worse in Edinburgh. Terraced and semi-detached houses, many of them split. Pebble-dashed walls and plenty of satellite dishes. Young mothers, some pregnant again, pushed their baby buggies while talking into their phones. A few teenage lads in baseball caps scowled as the Mondeo drew to a halt kerb-side, and made intuitive grunting noises as the three men stepped out. Fox pressed the bell marked ‘Collins’.
‘It’s open!’ a voice yelled.
Fox turned the handle and started climbing the steep flight of stairs. Someone on the ground floor was hosting a party.
‘Eminem,’ Naysmith stated.
‘Just sounds like noise to me,’ Tony Kaye muttered.
Teresa Collins was seated in an armchair in her uncluttered living room, dangling one leg over the side and with a lit cigarette in her mouth. She wore black Lycra leggings and a purple T-shirt with the words Porn Star picked out in diamanté.
‘No need to spruce yourself up on our account,’ Kaye told her, examining a 3-D poster of Beyoncé above the fireplace. The music from downstairs was causing the windowpanes to vibrate.
‘I forgot to ask,’ Collins said. ‘Should I maybe have called my lawyer?’
‘You’re the victim here,’ Fox reminded her, introducing himself, Kaye and Naysmith. There was one other armchair, but it was piled high with laundry. When it came to underwear, Teresa Collins seemed to favour the thong.
‘Victim is right,’ she said, taking another drag on the cigarette. There was a flat-screen TV and Freeview box in one corner of the room. On an otherwise empty bookcase sat the dock and speakers for an MP3 player. The beige carpet had collected an impressive number of ash burns.
‘Everybody needs good neighbours, eh?’ Kaye announced, thumping the floor with the heel of his shoe.
‘They’re all right.’ The foot hanging over the arm of the chair was keeping time, while Collins’s other knee pumped furiously.
‘Few uppers to counteract the methadone?’ Fox guessed.
‘You won’t find anything that’s not prescribed,’ she snapped back.
‘We’re not looking for anything. As I said on the phone, it’s Carter’s colleagues we’re checking.’
‘So you say .’
‘It’d be nice if you believed me.’
She looked like she was having trouble focusing on him. ‘Go ahead, then,’ she said at last. ‘Ask me the same bloody questions …’
‘DI Carter used to come here?’
‘Aye.’
‘Some of your neighbours saw him?’
‘They said so, didn’t they?’
‘Wasn’t very discreet of him. What about his colleagues – they never came in?’
‘Scholes did, one time. But that was early days, when they were wanting me to be a grass.’
‘Scholes was never here when Carter was after one of these “favours”?’
She shook her head. ‘Might’ve waited in the car.’ She was looking agitated. ‘When you lot got wise, it was Scholes who phoned me, tried to warn me off.’
‘I know it can’t be easy, going back over this.’
‘I thought it was done with. Is this what happens now? He’s going down, so you lot keep persecuting me till I go off my head or do myself in?’
Fox didn’t answer for a moment. ‘You know there are charities that can help, numbers you can phone?’
‘Rape Crisis? All that lot?’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘I just want left alone.’ She exhaled a plume of smoke and brushed flecks of ash from her T-shirt. ‘Now he’s inside, that’s all I’m asking …’
‘What if he’s not inside?’ As soon as the words were out of Naysmith’s
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