Watching

“What do you think about? When you’re on a stake-out?” somebody asked me, somewhere, I don’t remember who or where.

“I dunno. Except I’ve never called it a stake-out”, I said, which was an honest answer, in at least two respects.

“So, what do you call it?”

“You don’t call it anything, you just do it.”

But here I was, watching. Watching and thinking about that question again, thinking about what it was I thinking about, and knowing that that was not normally what I would be thinking about. Thinking about thinking. And so on.

*** *** ***  

Hunger. No, not hunger, just a vague gnawing. Here, at midnight in a drip-lit avenue in King’s Park, your body doesn’t have anything useful or amusing to do, so it says “hey, let’s eat…” But you don’t, because here in the burbs there’s no place to do that, not now, not in the damp of the dark hours. And anyway, sitting on your arse in a borrowed (always, borrowed) car, whatever empty calories were pushed down your throat would take up residence and never leave. You don’t burn up much of anything, watching…

…watching, to see if Jimmy Rogerson would stay at the maisonette of Michelle…what was it? Some north-country name…Michelle Braithwaite, that’s it. If he would stay beyond a reasonable time…well, it was midnight already – how much owling would Mrs Rogerson need, to count as evidence? It was already much too deep in the night to be working late at the office and anyway, this was no office, this was Michelle Braithwaite’s one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. I guess one would be enough.

I learned long ago not to be surprised by what motivated people to involve themselves in irrational personal webs, and what – later – made them ask me to pick around in the messes they made. I remember one Janice McKechnie, asking me to follow her husband to a dive where he a met “a blonde”, whereupon (the report would read) the couple left the premises so that she could perform “a sex act” (the report would further read) on the bonnet of a BMW. Problem was, the “blonde” was Janice McKechnie herself, in a wig. Exhibitionism like that came at a price but at least she got photographic evidence of her talent. Maybe she showed that to her buddies, safe at home and chardonnayed to the gills? Maybe.

No BMW was in sight here, tonight, in a drizzle that would stifle even the most ardent, and you'd have to include Janice McKechnie in the cast of that movie. 

*** *** *** 

… whoa! Fox in the bins, raking through filter papers and fag packets, searching for the El Dorado of a tray from an Asda ready-meal, a spag bol not properly rinsed out with crusted tomato sauce in the corners. Maybe it was living in the park round the corner, maybe its…nest? What do they call a fox’s…? Sett? Naw, that’s a badger…den? A den is for dragons. Lair? Lair? Surely that was where Goldfinger lives, inside a volcano, somewhere like Costa Rica.

No, it was actually “den”, my vagrant wandering mind told me. A fox’s den. And that was what I had been stumbling towards – maybe its den was in King's Park (the park, not the neighbourhood), somewhere deep-cloistered in tree roots and dark passages. More likely, the fox lived right here on the streets, in a garage at the back of one of the gardens down by the street properties, or in a bin store here at the flats, cubs mewling and howling behind a 400 litre Centurion, as truly urban a creature as any schemie in Castlemilk roaring and puking after a single litre of Buckie.

See? That’s the kind of place where your mind can wander, here in the night, watching.

*** *** ***

I chanced the radio. Scottish country dance music – whaaat? At this time of night? Hit the button – now it’s jaaaazzzzzzz. Not the cool, smoky, melancholy kind, but the kind that sounds like a box of car horns and parrots had been dropped into a skip of balloons and hit with jaggy sticks. Punch the button and now, a soothing voice…I pressed “seek” before Jesus could be mentioned. Now, local politics as Councillor McClumphit attacked the traffic management proposals of Councillor McDumphit. Change that station and now, show toons!

Click, off, and I left Oooookla-homa to play to some more receptive soul here in the pit of the night. Who, after all, are the audience for lonely radio messages echoing through the empty hours? Who’s listening, why and what do they want (to hear)?

There’s a book in that alone, sure, but I won’t be writing it.

No matter, I had my own musical diversion now. A young man, alone, and disgorged from a taxi on Aitkenhead Road, was rolling home, bawling a “tune” to nobody in particular – nobody at all, in fact, except me, and I wouldn’t be appearing on his Nielsen ratings any time soon.

The passing drunk crossed the street and headed towards the flats where Jimmy and Michelle were (you have to assume) scaling the peaks of ecstasy. “Let the people sing their stories and their songs, let the…the people…and the music of their …uh…let the people sing, let the people sing…uh…let them sing the, their native land…”

Jesus, leathered as he was, Desi (as I had named him in my own head, for no reason) should still have been able to get through two lines of a song without a prompt, but no, that was altogether beyond him. Leonard Cohen once sang about a drunk like Desi in a midnight choir, and most poetic he made it sound – but Desi wasn’t trying to be free, neither in his own way nor any other.  

*** *** *** 

But what about sex itself? Surely, when - like a bloodhound of the carnal - you’re on the trail of people diving into the illicit and the improper, your own instincts stir? No. No, it’s last thing on your mind when you’re watching other people at play. And if not the very last thing, then at least some way behind kebab-lust, midgie-raking foxes, Jimmy Shand and city council smackdowns. And that’s a long way behind. Other people’s dalliances are the least sexy thing imaginable, like watching a really bad game of chess with only two pieces.

Played by weird obsessives. Like actual chess.

Trapped in a borrowed car, stuck in the drear clutch of darkness, waiting. And, yeah, watching…that’s the right word. Watching, that’s what I call it, it’s that simple.

Next time anybody asks me what I think about when I’m on a stake-out, that’s what I’ll say. I think about urban wildlife, misremembered song lyrics, bad jazz and the proper word to describe certain things that are drifting across my mind. And one of those proper words? Not “stake-out”, just “watching”.

*** *** ***

A smidgeon short of 2am, radio back on, tuned to a mournful woman singing “did she jump or was she pushed?” and Jimmy Rogerson flees the scene, quickly into his old Volvo. I hit the ignition and prepared to follow him back to the happy home in East Kilbride.

But...hang on, he was heading north, back towards the city, ignoring any opportunity to go “home”. Less than ten minutes later, he turned the Volvo into the secure car park of the block of flats that sat where the Plaza Ballroom once jived and twisted – using his own beeper to lift the barrier.

Oh.

Well, then.

What I said before, the empty hours, the wandering mind, the distractions? Forget it. This had suddenly turned into work. 

Faith In Our Fathers, Part 5 (and final)

“Derek, mate? I’m jist gonny head, thought I’d let you know what I think ‘fore I went.”

“What? You sorted it out already. That’s -”

“No, I’ve sorted nothin’ out, but there’s some stuff you need to sort. Still, I've seen what I needed to. What’s with the raven-black hair, Derek, you fancy makin’ an appearance in a folk song sometime soon?”

“Eh? Vanity, s’pose. There’s none of us gettin’ any younger.”

“You always been a vain man? Or is this a wee new thing? Who’s it for, Derek, who’re you lookin’ sharp for? Is it Rina?”

“Whit? Eh, naw, it’s…”

“Tell me about Rina. How’d’s a young Lithuanian woman fetch up in Kirky, waiting tables in an Italian restaurant?”

“I dunno, she…she know Debra from college…”

“Got it. The two of them are on the same course, doin’ catering. Right. They meet, they pal up, how come you’re on this course?, well my da owns this restaurant, oh really, maybe I could?…and then Debra brings Rina up here, she seems keen, seems to knows her stuff – you tell yourself that’s what you think, but really you’re arse over tip that this young blonde is lookin’ at you, y’know, that way. So you offer her a job, or maybe you don’t at first, whatever. Either way, you start a…do you call it a ‘relationship’?...with this woman thirty years younger than you…fuckin’ yaldi, you canny believe your luck. But you need to make an effort, right? So you get out the Dracula dye-job and bingo – what George Clooney would look like if he zapped the grey. And if he looked like you.”

“That’s just…I don’t know how…”

“How? You want some eternal truths, Derek? Well, you’re gettin’ them, anyway, cuz I’ve hauled my arse on the bus -”

“Bus?”

“- aye, bus, all the way to Kirky on a wet school night for this. People lie. There you go. Once you get your napper round that, my business gets a whole lot easier. It’s even better when they tell stupid, pointless lies. Why were you tellin’ me you’re here every day of the week, when you’re not? That’s a stupid lie, and you told me cuz the days you’re not here are also the days Rina’s not here, right? Now, I didn’t know that, but in the back of your mind there was something, right? Some guilt. So, you make up a story that ‘proves’ you were here when Rina wasn’t, so…? So nothing, in fact, cuz didn’t you think I’d speak to Debra? And she’d know you weren’t always here. Stupid lie.”

“That’s a great wee story, but what I want to know is who’s stealing money from me?”

“I dunno who dipped the till for sure – but my money’s on Debra. Because it must have been even more obvious to her than it is to me what’s goin’ on. See, that’s the other big porky you dropped. I asked you did you suspect anybody? No, you said. The first thing Debra tells me is that she told you, straight out, that Rina was the one. Another big lie, although that one’s not quite so pointless, cuz you’re tryin’ to protect your girlfriend. Still pretty stupid, but.”

“Listen, I -”

“Naw, you listen, Derek my friend. My bus fares’ll likely cost me more than that glass of Orvieto would’ve, so I’m down on this whole deal. Least I can do is set you straight. See, I understand your problem, kinda. Debra dips the till and tells you Rina’s rippin’ you off and that’s a tricky one. You were worried that, if it actually was Rina, you couldny defend her, cuz that’d raise all kindsa sticky questions, couldny fire her in case she’s got a mind to...I dunno…drop a dime to Cee-Cee about this and that, so you had to muddy the water, to look like you were doing somethin’. And if it was her rippin' you off, you hope she stops… if it’s not her, you hope Debra or whoever stops faking it.”

“Why would Debra do that?”

“You really have to ask? She wants her father back. She did this nice thing, introduced her friend to her father and look where it got her - embarrassment central. Now, she hates the friend, lost her father. So she finds a way to make you dump the ex-friend and this was the way. It’s crude, but this isny the senior common room at All Souls here.”

“As easy at that?”

“Easy? Yes and no. You know what they say – there’s only six jokes, or four, or whatever? Well, actually, that’s a loada shite, but there’s only a certain number of lies and you get to recognise most of them after a while. And when people like you don’t even bother to get two and two to make four…not a big job to figure it out. But I’ve still got questions – you don’t know a police officer called Detective Inspector Annie Simpson, do you?”

“Don’t know the name.”

“Right. And you remember what you said to me earlier? You were talkin’ about the supposed theft and you said ‘you canny ignore this kind of thing’, right? Who said that to you first? Did Cee-Cee tell you that? Did she tell you Paddy could help you sort it out, cuz he’s a polis? Did she get you to try and sort out Rina?”

“Well, maybe Debra told her what she thought about Rina and they just…”

“Aye, maybe that’s it. Anyway, thanks for the wine, I think my bus is in five minutes.”

“Is that it? I don’t understand.”

“No? I think mibbe you do, actually. And if not, you will.”

*** *** ***

On the bus back to Buchanan Street, rain dappling the window, I called Paddy Haldane.

“He never offered me a chicken cacciatore, but the wine was okay.”

“You sort it out, then?”

“Sort it? No. Not my skillset. Spent the night telling yer man Derek what a bad liar he was, and now I’m doin’ the same with you, Paddy. Or d’ye just think I’m that shite a detective?”

“You’ve lost me, Stevie.”

“Fucksake, Paddy, first up, did you not think I’d ask Annie Simpson about this restaurant, and she’d tell me she only remembers it from when she went there wi’ you?"

“Ah…dunno – thought you might just do it, just a wee favour, coupla conversations like. Where’s the harm?”

“Ah, you’re off your game –  I told Derek that everything gets a whole lot easier when people start tellin’ stupid lies for no reason, and here you are proving me right, but I guess love’ll do that.”

“Eh? Who mentioned love?”

“Nobody. But the minute I saw Cee-Cee walk in the door, I knew who’d asked you to wade into this nonsense, and I knew why you’d done it, especially since her husband spends all those nights at the restaurant. And I know why you’re still a regular at La Celeste, one way and another."

"What's your point?"

"Some things you never get over, Paddy, eh? And Cee-Cee is the dead spit of Annie Simpson.”

Faith In Our Fathers, Part 4

Debra Ogg looked at me like I’d shat on her pancakes.

“Do I think I know who done it? Sure. I told my dad, no mystery about it. Miss fuckin’ Lithuania. It’s obvious. She done it.”

“Miss…?”

“Rina – she was the one met you at the door? Her.”

“And how do you make it that she’s dippin’ the till?”

“Nights she’s here, cash takes a walk. Nights she’s off, it disny. Case closed.”

“Every time, just like that? How come you never jist pulled her up about it?”

“No’ my job, it’s dad’s restaurant. I told him, up to him to do somethin’ about it.”

“Like?”

“Are you thick? Get rid, is what like.”

“Or call in the coppers?”

“That looks bad in the papers, he thinks. That’s how come he’s got Sherlock on the job – no disrespect, like.”

“Oh, I dunno. I think there’s a fair bit disrespect there, Debra. When you did your calculations about how you knew it was Rina, was there nobody else that was here at the same times. I mean, what’ve you got, a spreadsheet? Flip chart? Venn diagram, remember them?”

“I know what I know. It’s obvious, it’s her.”

“See…what’s obvious to you, when you’ve not got any actual evidence -”

“- I told you, I checked it.”

“- just sounds like somethin’ you want to believe. Like, I dunno…religion. No reason why I should listen to you bang on about your conspiracy theory, is there?”

“You’re a prick.”

“Mibbe. But this prick is wonderin’ why your dad – and you’re right, it’s his business, his job to sort it out – didn’t just bag her right on the spot. I mean, you gave him the smokin’ gun, right? So, why’s he got customers phoning me to get up here on a wet night instead of just binning Miss Lithuania? Or did you just tell him you ‘knew’ it was Rina?”

“You’re wastin’ my time.”

“Goes double for me, Debra, and I’m a volunteer an’ all. I think community work is meant to be good for the soul, not shitey like this.”

“Away and -”

“Whoa, one question before I get tae: you said that every night money goes missing, Rina’s here. But she’s not the only one, is she? Your dad’s here, too, isn’t he?”

“You’re some chancer, mister. D’ye think he’d rip off his own business?”

“Actually…no. I don’t think he would. But there’s an amazin’ number that do just that, one way and another. But he is here, right? Even when Rina isn’t?”

“That’s how much you know. No, he isny here all the time. And anyway, the nights he’s here, and blondie isn’t, nothin’ goes out of the till. Clear?”

“Aye. I think that’s about all I need to know.”

“So, you’ll tell her to fuck off then?”

“No. If anybody does that, it’ll be your dad. My volunteering doesny extend as far as industrial relations. In fact, I don’t think I need to talk to Rina at all, now.”

“Eh? Well how’re you gonny…hello, mum!”

The door of La Celeste had opened and a woman who Debra had told me must be Cee-Cee had walked in. I watched her cross the restaurant floor and knew as much as I ever wanted to know about this whole business.

I needed to talk to Derek Ogg. 

Faith In Our Fathers, Part 3

Okay, then…where do you get the bus to Kirkintilloch from? Once upon a time it would be Buchanan Street bus station, but now…

…well, now it was still Buchanan Street bus station. Nice. You complain about change but you're disappointed when it doesn’t happen – it felt like lying to myself.

The bus journey to Kirky…if you’ve done it, you know how it goes; if you haven’t, I can’t entertain you by describing it. It passed.

La Celeste – pardon my Italian – means something like “sky blue” and, fair play to Derek and his business, they hadn’t gone berserkly literal with the style, nor had they replayed the 60s with swirly-glass faux lanterns and candles in raffia chianti bottles. In fact, La Celeste was probably – no, definitely – the most chic post-modern chrome-and-glass trattoria owned by a man called Derek in all of Kirkintilloch’s golden acres.

Derek Ogg was a long way from being Italian, although his hair was awfully black. That is…awful. And black. But so, too, would be anybody’s who used that particular shade of Just For Men and wasn’t too careful about which parts of his hair it colonised and which it didn’t. As we introduced ourselves, thoughts were coursing through my head as to what the hair-care company could possibly call this deadly hair-shade. I decided it would be something like…Midnite Stalker, why not?

“Thanks for comin’ up here, Stephen – Paddy said ‘Stevie’ was okay… aye? Can I get you a wee somethin’? I just opened an Orvieto. Or mibbe you guys go ‘scotch on the rocks, and hold the water’?”

“In the movies, aye. But my last bit of work was lookin’ at Facebook and then telling a call-centre manager his marriage was done cuz his hing-oot had stuck a wee incriminator right on the page there. Hardly the Maltese falcon, so aye, wine is fine. And tell me about your till shrinkage.”

“Well, see, I never noticed it, it was my daughter, Debra. She works here, a few nights, right? She clocked it and told me.”

“You never suspected? How much were you out?”

“Well, I let Debra do the money side when I can – she’s at college after her qualification, know? Catering management? So it’s great experience for her.”

“So…?”

“So, she said were out a wee bit – ten or twenty, jist – some nights, not all the time. Hardly worth botherin’ the coppers with…but ye canny ignore it, am I right?”

“How many people work here, and how many have access to your till?”

“Me, obviously…we’ve got chefs, but they only come out the kitchen when we’re closin’ up, they don’t get to go near the money…”

“Do people not mostly pay on plastic, anyway?”

“Most, aye, but you’d be surprised. And the bar does well, that’s all cash…anyway, there’s Debra, like I say, and Cee-Cee, that’s my wife, doesny really work here, but she comes in most nights. We just live over by Torrance, see?”

“You here every night yourself?”

“Seven/seven. Or is it seven/twenty-four? I dunno. Aye, pretty much every day, except when we’re shut, for holidays and that. I try not to, but you have to work at a business, y’know? The more you do, the more you get back.”

“Any other staff?”

“Oh, aye, Tony – he’s more or less the barman, five days. If he’s on a day off, quiet nights, I do it or Debra does…or somebody else. I s’pose quite a few people have access to the till, one way and another…”

“Somebody else does the bar? Who else?”

“There's only one other full-timer, Rina. She’s…maître d’, I s’pose. And quite a few people do a coupla nights, waiting on tables. Will you want to speak to everybody?”

“Christ, Derek, I hope not. This is a favour to Paddy Haldane and – much that I’m enjoyin’ your Orvieto – there’s a limit to the time I’ve got in my calendar for paybacks that I don’t remember owing in the first place. But hey, that’s ‘tween Paddy and me, not your problem….obvious question – is there anybody you think might be doin’ this? If it was Debra first clocked it, did she say anything about who she thought was at it?”

“Eh? Naw…ah…no, she jist noticed it. That’s it. If she knew, she’d jist tell me, right? No need to call in a detective when you know what’s up already, eh? Nothing to detect.”

“Well. Normally, Derek, I’d agree with you. No need, especially when the meter’s off. Normally...”

Faith In Our Fathers, Part 2

(part 1 is right below - there, that one...)

“See…’member there was a time when me and Annie…”

“Eh? Do I ‘remember’? Fucksake, Paddy, I was worried about havin’ to get a best man’s suit for a while.”

“Aye, very good. This isny about that…”

“I’d guess not – I heard you were back with your wife-and-two.”

“Well, time being, aye. We’ll see. Naw, but…we used to go to this restaurant, up Kirky way. Celeste, y’know it? Italian place. Naw? Anyhow, that’s how I know it. Haveny been there in a good while. Then, out the blue, the owner Derek calls me up -”

“Derek? That’ll be one of the Sorrento Dereks, I take it?”

“-so he phones us up and says he needs a wee bit advice. I dunno how he even knew I was a copper, never mind knew my number.”

“Aye ye do. This restaurant, you might’ve stopped goin’ there, but Annie won’t’ve. So, she’s in there the other night and…Derek…goes ‘I’ve got a wee problem’, Annie goes ‘that’s a shame, so it is, why’n’t you phone up Paddy? ‘member him? Aye, well, here’s his number…’ That’s how it went, Paddy, and if you doubt it, Annie’s new boyfriend’ll keep you straight, I bet ye. That'll be how it went - unless there's somethin' else you need to tell me?”

“Whatever. Anyway, this Derek goes, ‘sumdy’s been dippin’ the till’. ‘How’d’ye know?’, I says, ‘cuz my daughter clocked it a time or two.’ ‘Aw right, if you want to report a theft, get a hold of the duty guy at Kirky station…’ But he wisny for that.”

“Sure. I bet he goes ‘don’t want to get anybody involved officially…jist wondered if you could have a word, bein’ a polis an’ all. I mean, I’m no’ even sure if -”

“- if there’s even been a crime committed. Exactly. What’s he think I’m gonny do?...excuse me, but I hear a tenner took a walk out yer till and here’s me, a detective inspector come lookin’ for it wi’ a big fuckin’ magnifying glass. Aye, right.”

“Just so’s I’m straight on this…you reckon this is ‘not a police matter’, and for sure nothin’ an inspector is gonny scratch his arse for, but somehow I’ll be happy to wear the cape? Is that what you reckon?”

“Look, Derek just wants a word, and aye, fuck Annie for not doing it herself, but could you do it?”

“What? Is there a favour you did me and I missed it?”

“Get tae. It’s no’ even a favour to me, it’s a favour to Derek.”

“That I’ve never met. Is he payin’ me?”

“Negative, captain. Consider it community work.”

“Aye, for the community of Kirkintilloch, where I don’t live – and nor do you, by the way -  and I’ve not been to for…I dunno, ten years?”

“Derek just wants to frighten sumdy, not charge or directly accuse them, jist a bit of discipline, know?”

 “What? My word is worth less than a copper’s, how could -”

“Ah, but you could do an ‘informal investigation’, which the polis do not do. Those words do not exist in our manual.”

“And if there’s any evidence of anybody gettin’ pure skulduggerous, there’d be a criminal case, right?”

“Sure – Kirky station’d love that. A slam dunk for a case that wisny even on their docket.”

“Dunno why I’m sayin’ this, Paddy, but aye, okay. Give me the address and I’ll jump up there and see this ‘Derek’. Mibbe I’ll figure out what’s really on Derek’s mind. And yours.”

“Cheers, bud – and the chicken cacciatore is good.”

*** *** ***

Detective Inspector Annie Simpson answered the phone after one ring.

“Hey, officer, you must be expectin’ an important call to pick up that quick.”

“Naw. I saw your name come up on the phone and I wondered what that arsehole McCabe wants, this time o’ night. The quicker I pick up, the quicker I get Philip Marlowe off my phone.”

“Fair dos, won’t detain you – give me a restaurant recommendation in Kirkintilloch, that’s it.”

“You’re jestin’, right? What would I be doin’ up there, and why the hell would you think I’d know? Unless, big Paddy…and he’s gettin’ bigger since he settled back down with his dearly-beloved, so I hear, she must cook like fuck…told you somethin’ about a place he and I went once or twice. That it?”

“Nothin’ like.”

“Aye, right. I’m strokin’ my chin here, by the way…”

“Nowhere you’d recommend, then?”

“I’d recommend you went out and bought a big sack of subtle, McCabe. You usually walk softer than this.”

“Aye, but that’s when sumdy’s payin’ me for it.”

*** *** ***

Annie Simpson was as devious as she had to be, sometimes moreso, and the amount she felt she 'had' to be might dismay the merely-average liar...but I believed she knew nothing about the Celeste restaurant's till-weight.

Okay, then…where do you get the bus to Kirkintilloch from? Once upon a time it would be Buchanan Street bus station, but now…

Verdi Cries

Natalie Merchant singing Verdi Cries...voice gliding like a dolphin in the dark, memories of times past, fragments and lost moments, close enough to feel yet forever out of reach. And hey, Proust? She even handles the confectionery better than you; you can't compete.

New Glasgow crime fiction - the series

Not all my cases involve conspiracies, murders and corruption. Not everybody I meet is a gangster, politician, hooker, copper or wayward relative. You won't want to hear about the others at 100,000 words' length, but there are still tales to tell, human frailty to explore...a small bite at a time...

Faith In Our Fathers (Part 1)

“How come you’re such an arsehole? Is it natural? Or did ye send away for it, get it off the internet or some fuckin’ ‘hing?”

“Listen, bud, I don’t expect you to be buyin’ me steak dinners, but if ye want to check out the bad guy here, jist cop a swatch at the mirror. That’ll be him, right there.”

“Whit? How d’ye make that out? Every man would be jist the same as me.”

“Slice it how you like – say you’re an unfaithful husband cuz you’ve been nippin’ wee Helena from the work since this year past, mibbe longer…if that hat doesny fit, well, you’re still the dickhead for bein’ so stupid as to do it in everybody’s favourite hot-sheet cheapo and use your own name an’ all. It was that easy I’m nearly embarrassed to be chargin’ your wife for the job…and that’s how you’re a loser as well, cuz it’ll be you payin’ for that in the end, one way and another. Have a good one, Ally.”

“Hey, one ‘hing but – how did Coleen know in the first place? She’s no’ the brightest,  I don’t understand how she caught on.”

“Aye, about that?…ye might want to have a word wi’ wee Helena – tell her that puttin’ pictures a’ you and her on Facebook would only be okay if she’s not eatin’ your face off in the photo. Your wife figured out what that meant pretty easy.”

Ally McNaughton, soon to be ex-husband of Coleen and estranged father of several bovine children, fired a few more fucks at my back as I left him pondering the wisdom  hidden (maybe) in his continual choice of sub-Nobel laureate women to dunt. Me, I reckoned they were all pretty evenly matched; I wouldn’t want to set odds on any of them making professor by Christmas.

*** *** ***

It had been a classic what-the? Infidelity in the first degree, stunned wrongdoer, car-park confrontation, mea culpa but so what?, slow realisation, then the first strands of  wondering what wee Helena would be like as a life partner and not just a very special Facebook friend. Straight from the private detective’s big book of standard take-downs, with a thin veneer of the 21^st century applied too lightly to hide its never-changing nature.

My problem was, now that Ally McNaughton was only a future invoice, my professional day had nothing to prolong it. Until the phone dinged, the display telling me my caller was Detective Inspector Paddy Haldane.

“Stevie? Paddy at Stewart Street. Somethin’ moody’s turned up, a bit informal - ye got a minute?”

A minute? Today, Paddy, I’ve got so many minutes I could fill a clock. 

(to be continued)