Read Online The Sea Detective by Mark Douglas-Home - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Douglas-Home
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was for him to hear and him only. He’d mumbled something insincere about ‘being good’.
Outside, on the tarmac, he’d looked back and she’d gone. Had she given up on her friend or had she been waiting for Cal? If the latter, ‘be careful’ now meant more than it had a few seconds ago.
He walked to Comely Bank, his stitches pinching at him with every step, where he caught the bus to Granton. Twenty minutes later, outside The Cask, it came to him. Had Jamieson been alerting him to the court order obtained by the police the night before? It prohibited him from going near any of the addresses on his list. Random blocs of Edinburgh were now a danger for him. Was she warning him not to stray accidentally? Was that it? Had Detective Inspector Ryan covertly changed his rules of engagement? Was this the way he planned to get him into court? If Cal infringed the banning order Ryan wouldn’t need any politicians to take the stand for the prosecution; and nor would they. There were no votes in speaking up for someone who had broken a court order. Cal took the lift to the top floor, his aching side relegating the importance of his carbon footprint.
Was he overcomplicating things?
He slid the key in his lock and the door pushed open. It hadn’t been locked and Cal noticed the bolt striker plate on the doorframe was hanging loose. The wood surround had splintered. His flat was in disarray. His books and papers were scattered everywhere. The shelves with all his beach-combing artefacts had been pushed over. If it hadn’t been for Jamieson’s warning he’d have assumed a burglar, one of the kids downstairs looking for drugs money. Now he thought of Ryan. Was this his doing, making it look like a break-in? Cal wondered if he’d led too sheltered a life. Did the police hand out extra-judicial warnings like this as a matter of routine?
Is this what Jamieson meant?
Be careful, because Ryan’s a mean bastard.
It gave her the creeps, this old warehouse with its echoes and pristine emptiness: one floor after another of new flats and little sign or sound of habitation; now this.
The door at the end of the top landing was half open and the key sticking out of the lock. There was a noise coming from inside; a rummaging sound. Rosie Provan stopped to listen, one foot ahead of the other, in mid-stride. Her heart thumped, surely loud enough for whoever was the other side of the door to hear it, and her breathing became faster. She reached for her mobile phone, flipped it open and tapped in the news-desk number. At the first sign of danger she would press connect. Why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going?
Her colleagues were accustomed to Rosie disappearing. The reporters called it ‘Rosie glory-seeking again’. It infuriated them, the way the news editor cast a lazy eye at Rosie missing the start of her shift when everyone else had to be in on time. They bitched about it among themselves. In their view Rosie only got away with it because of her looks. The inference was of something sexual but unconsummated between Rosie and Dick McGhee who ran the agency’s news operations.
‘Ach bollocks,’ Jimmy Armitage, the deputy news editor, said when he heard the others discussing it. ‘Dick’s soft on her because she gets bloody good stories for this agency. She pays your wages.’
Which was true, though would it be true today?
Rosie was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of this little solo expedition and not because it was 3.17pm and her shift started at 3. The tip off had come from Sam’s mate, Ewan, who worked in the Scottish Parliament.
Sam, her boyfriend, had teased her with it. ‘I know a story you’d kill for Rosie.’
She feigned boredom. ‘Not interested. It’s my morning off.’ She attended to unravelling the flex of her hair-straightening tongs and plugging them in. While she waited for them to heat, she painted her toe-nails and hummed along to Mercy by Duffy.
Sam kept up his teasing
Outside, on the tarmac, he’d looked back and she’d gone. Had she given up on her friend or had she been waiting for Cal? If the latter, ‘be careful’ now meant more than it had a few seconds ago.
He walked to Comely Bank, his stitches pinching at him with every step, where he caught the bus to Granton. Twenty minutes later, outside The Cask, it came to him. Had Jamieson been alerting him to the court order obtained by the police the night before? It prohibited him from going near any of the addresses on his list. Random blocs of Edinburgh were now a danger for him. Was she warning him not to stray accidentally? Was that it? Had Detective Inspector Ryan covertly changed his rules of engagement? Was this the way he planned to get him into court? If Cal infringed the banning order Ryan wouldn’t need any politicians to take the stand for the prosecution; and nor would they. There were no votes in speaking up for someone who had broken a court order. Cal took the lift to the top floor, his aching side relegating the importance of his carbon footprint.
Was he overcomplicating things?
He slid the key in his lock and the door pushed open. It hadn’t been locked and Cal noticed the bolt striker plate on the doorframe was hanging loose. The wood surround had splintered. His flat was in disarray. His books and papers were scattered everywhere. The shelves with all his beach-combing artefacts had been pushed over. If it hadn’t been for Jamieson’s warning he’d have assumed a burglar, one of the kids downstairs looking for drugs money. Now he thought of Ryan. Was this his doing, making it look like a break-in? Cal wondered if he’d led too sheltered a life. Did the police hand out extra-judicial warnings like this as a matter of routine?
Is this what Jamieson meant?
Be careful, because Ryan’s a mean bastard.
It gave her the creeps, this old warehouse with its echoes and pristine emptiness: one floor after another of new flats and little sign or sound of habitation; now this.
The door at the end of the top landing was half open and the key sticking out of the lock. There was a noise coming from inside; a rummaging sound. Rosie Provan stopped to listen, one foot ahead of the other, in mid-stride. Her heart thumped, surely loud enough for whoever was the other side of the door to hear it, and her breathing became faster. She reached for her mobile phone, flipped it open and tapped in the news-desk number. At the first sign of danger she would press connect. Why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going?
Her colleagues were accustomed to Rosie disappearing. The reporters called it ‘Rosie glory-seeking again’. It infuriated them, the way the news editor cast a lazy eye at Rosie missing the start of her shift when everyone else had to be in on time. They bitched about it among themselves. In their view Rosie only got away with it because of her looks. The inference was of something sexual but unconsummated between Rosie and Dick McGhee who ran the agency’s news operations.
‘Ach bollocks,’ Jimmy Armitage, the deputy news editor, said when he heard the others discussing it. ‘Dick’s soft on her because she gets bloody good stories for this agency. She pays your wages.’
Which was true, though would it be true today?
Rosie was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of this little solo expedition and not because it was 3.17pm and her shift started at 3. The tip off had come from Sam’s mate, Ewan, who worked in the Scottish Parliament.
Sam, her boyfriend, had teased her with it. ‘I know a story you’d kill for Rosie.’
She feigned boredom. ‘Not interested. It’s my morning off.’ She attended to unravelling the flex of her hair-straightening tongs and plugging them in. While she waited for them to heat, she painted her toe-nails and hummed along to Mercy by Duffy.
Sam kept up his teasing
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