Chapter 6 – police questioning – under suspicion – encounter with a higher authority

‘And you’re sure you saw no one else leaving the flat before you arrived, Miss – ah..?’

‘Burns. As in third degree. And no, I’ve told you, P.C. Thomson, I saw no one but those kids hanging about. You’d be best speaking to them, they saw someone visiting before I got here, some Men in Black.’ I bit my tongue to stop a ‘Sonny’ slipping out, the officer taking notes looking about the same age as the Huge Hoodie. ‘They’ll have buggered off as soon as you arrived but it shouldn’t be that difficult to find them, what with one being about fifty foot tall.’ 

I was trying to keep calm but as I’d been hauled into the stairwell as the flat filled with police and paramedics to be treated like a suspect for half an hour, it was proving difficult. Never been too keen on the police. Being kettled one too many times will do that for you. Plus one of them had phoned the Slorach to check my identity which was just fucking wonderful. I knew she’d be sitting there thinking, ‘Typical! I let Cathy Burns out for an interview and what happens? The client dies and she gets arrested. No ‘Effective’ marking for her this year.’

‘Now, Miss Burns, we’re only trying to establish what happened here. Men in Black you say…’ and P.C. Thomson gave a ‘Great, we’ve got an X-Files fan,’ eye-roll to his colleague standing next to him, the one whose name I didn’t get. He didn’t seem too bothered about me, his attention fixed on the flat’s closed front door. It was like he was desperate to get back in there, to see properly what he’d caught a glimpse of before being told to help with my questioning. 

I had this niggling sensation I knew him from somewhere and that this was playing a part in his edginess. As if he was worried I’d recognise him. When I tried to get a proper look at him though there was this sort of…blurring. Like he’d remind me of about ten other people I knew, some of them just faces on the telly but then P.C. Thomson would start talking and I’d completely forget what the other guy looked like. 

Like the Knoxians, those kind of men in black not any weird Secret Service types. The Knoxians, they’re the ones you should be speaking to instead of getting all Gestapo on me. I’ve said, I was here to see Davey Robertson as a client, just a client. He’d sent some emails, my manager was concerned, asked if I would pay him a visit and that’s what I was doing here. D’you honestly think I would have called you up if I’d anything to do with this?’

I knew I wasn’t doing myself any favours but I wanted away, resented them for keeping me there. I wanted away from the stink I knew would follow me for days no matter how often I washed my clothes. At least the paramedics had taken away Linda, Davey’s wife, so we didn’t have to listen to her heart-breaking wails that punched guilt into my chest. If I could get back to the office, sort out Davey’s file, it would help me cope with what I’d seen. Maybe. 

‘Just a client,’ P.C. Thompson repeated, writing it carefully in his notebook with his stupid wee pencil. ‘So, what you’re telling me is that it’s purely down to coincidence that you happened to come here and found -’ but he was stopped by his nervy colleague shaking his shoulder, pointing down the hallway, ‘Gary, I think we’d better -’ and Gary was frowning at whatever was coming up behind us then sweeping past us and I was grabbed by someone wearing one of those white decontamination suits you see on the news when practice emergency exercises take place which you’re not sure are done to reassure or scare the shit out of us. 

Whoever it was manhandling me had their hood up and a dark visor mask thing on and the whole thing was so ridiculous, so Hollywoody, it wasn’t until I was at the bottom of the stairwell that I made a pathetic attempt to break free. But they’d been trained in the art of applying enough pain with a twist there, to let you know they could break bits off if you gave them any reason to. 

‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, who the fuck are you?’ and that wasn’t me shouting but my old inquisitor P.C. Thomson. At first I got a kick seeing him and his smudgy mate dragged down the stairs. But then, they’re policemen. If they were being treated like that, how the hell were they going to treat me?

Surprisingly P.C. Thomson, P.C. Blurry and I didn’t get bundled into the back of an unmarked van and driven off to be hosed down in some grim quarantine facility along with the other officers who’d been chucked out the flat. Instead we were dumped out on the pavement as the masked usurpers marched back into the block. We were left facing a grey-haired woman in her early fifties, hands on hips, wearing a raincoat no doubt previously modelled by D.C.I. Jane Tennison. She was good-looking in a handsome, strong-featured sort of way and had I not been so pissed off I’d have welcomed the chance to get a bit of a crush on. Although the fact she was obviously raging to the point of wanting to kill someone while keeping it very well contained was slightly off-putting.

‘D.C.S. Mitchell!’ P.C. Thomson managed, obviously shocked to see her there. ‘What…who are these people? Why aren’t we – why aren’t we in there, there’s a man…’ and Gary caught himself, his boss lady too busy glaring at the goon in protective clothing pulling yellow tape across the entrance to Davey’s block to pay him much attention. My knowledge of the police ranking system was limited to what I’d learnt from Silent Witness but I could tell from the stunned faces of the officers that she was one of the High Heid ones. Not the sort you’d expect to find hanging about your average crime scene. But, Davey’s death, couldn’t really call that average, could you?

Chief Superintendent Mitchell shook her head then shifted her attention to her officers. ‘P.C. Thomson, I would love to give you a decent answer as to why you and your colleagues will return to your station but -’ and she stopped, looked down at her feet, slipped her hands into her coat pockets. And I strongly suspected the reason she’d done so was to limit the possibility of her slapping the young guy in a suit who’d glided up to her mid-sentence and tapped her lightly on the elbow. I heard a sharp intake of breath from P.C. Thomson and got the impression that to see someone shutting up D.C.S. Mitchell in this way was almost as shocking as what had happened to Davey.

She coughed in a manner that suggested she’d much rather be swearing loudly before managing, with impressive yet scary calm, ‘Mr Cruickshank here will keep you better informed. He’s in charge now,’ her hidden nails no doubt drawing blood from her palms. 

Mr Cruickshank wore a dark blue suit and tie, crisp white shirt and an attitude that told us his outfit did indeed cost at least twice what we earned in a month. His shades and hands-free clip-on phone thing made him even more hateable. He had the wavy blond hair you’d maybe see on a Yah in St Andrews but rarely in Hilltown. When he folded his arms we felt patronised and as he said, ‘Thank you Mary,’ D.C.S. Mitchell twitched in a way that had me wanting to shout, ‘G’on Mary, fucking do him!’

Then he moved in such a way that stilled us. It was hardly anything, blink and you’d miss it, but slipping his right hand towards an inside jacket pocket, he let us know he had a gun. His small smile gone, replaced by a blank expression that told us shooting everyone here would be the emotional equivalent to him of my dumping a letter in the recycling bin. 

As Mary – sorry – D.C.S. Mitchell has indicated, while my colleagues and I very much appreciate your help in securing this area, this episode is no longer your concern. Due to the nature of the incident, the possible risk of contamination, I’d be grateful if you could return to your usual work pattern. We’ll take it from here.’

His accent was the sort of R.P. you find yourself obeying automatically although no one started shifting until D.C.S. Mitchell gave a nod so slight you could tell how much pain it gave her to back up the guy’s authority. P.C. Thomson obviously wasn’t happy, hands clenched by his sides and I hoped he’d kick up a fuss. But Mitchell gave him a stare and when he looked away I knew that was that. Cruickshank’s word was law and suddenly there was nothing to see here.

Part of me, the cowardly part, thought, ‘Yes! Can get back to the office!’ but then I stuck my hands in my pockets and felt Davey’s cross. Remembered I owed the man who’d made it. 

So…that’s it? You turn up in a fancy suit and we’re supposed to wander off without any questions? Without doing our jobs properly?’ I didn’t shout, just raised my voice loud enough to make the officers pause and to get the attention of D.C.S. Mitchell. She was staring at me in a way that told me yes, I was running a serious risk of being arrested but it wouldn’t be from any order she made. The sides of her mouth flickered, the encouragement I needed to let the anger that had been building up all morning find its target. 

‘Who the hell d’you think you are? Eh? Contamination, my arse! I saw what was up there and it wasn’t caused by any kind of chemical spill. I reckon a good man was probably murdered up there by those evil fucks the Knoxians and this, this is some kind of cover up and -’

‘And you are -?’ Cruickshank’s shades glinted as he turned in my direction. His lips were pressed together in a way that told me he was probably trying to work out if he could get away with shooting me in front of so many witnesses. 

‘D’you think I’m going to tell you that? You haven’t given any information about who you are, why should I give you my name?’ but he wasn’t listening. His right hand had gone up to his earpiece, he muttered and a few seconds later a couple of the goons in protective clothing were coming out of the front of the block, heading in my direction. 

Whether consciously or not, Thomson and Blurry and two female police officers had formed this ragged circle around me. ‘She’s got a point, hasn’t she Ma’am?’ asked P.C. Thomson and I instantly took back all those thoughts about him being an officious dick. ‘I mean, we haven’t carried out any kind of proper investigation yet, but I couldn’t see anything that would suggest Special Branch or -’

‘No one is saying anything about Special Branch,’ said Cruickshank, glancing over at two of his masked heavies. ‘I’m sorry, but I wasn’t talking to you, whoever you are, I was talking to my boss,’ retorted P.C. Thomson, D.C.S. Mitchell telling him, ‘That’s enough Thomson,’ while the other officers started complaining about not seeing any proper identification, about the crime scene being compromised. 

Mr Cruickshank was back on his earpiece, more goons appearing and I was quite enjoying myself, being caught in the middle of a stand-off, when I felt a hand on my arm and I was pulled away down the street by P.C. Blurry who was whispering, ‘Right, c’mon, time to get you out of here before you cause any more trouble.’

‘Trouble, I’m the one causing trouble? Is this, are you, is this like an arrest? Are you arresting me because if you are then I’d like to know what you’re arresting me for, because I’m just like the innocent bystander here -’ and then I realised he wasn’t dragging me towards a police car but in the opposite direction, towards Martina.

I tried to pull away, unsure what was going on, and when he tugged me closer I saw him properly for the first time, saw his eyes and even though they were staring out of a face I didn’t recognise, I knew who he was. 

‘Phil!’ I near yelled. Couldn’t help it, hadn’t seen him for ages and here he was as someone else. He shushed me, looked over his shoulder quickening his pace, bundling me closer and when he did so it was as if he forgot to keep control over his skin as it relaxed back into his usual features and I laughed in surprise. Then his face gave this weird sort of twitch and he was back to the other guy, this stranger, this policeman. I stood and gawped as he let me go, rattling Martina’s passenger door handle.

‘Christ, Phil…it is you, isn’t it…? What the fuck you doing impersonating a police -’ 

‘For God’s sake, Cathy, would you just -’ and I let out a ‘Ha!’ because I’d recognise that voice, that irritation anywhere. 

‘I knew, knew it was you back in the flat. Well, I didn’t know but I could feel there was something about you-’

‘And believe me, if I was a policeman you’d be in the cells by now for being a right pissing nuisance. Seeing as how at this precise moment in time I am far more arrestable than you are, would you get in the fucking car and drive?’

Because it was Phil, my best friend, one of my oldest friends since Art School, the two Gays from the Tay together, sharing studio and drinking time then graduating and failing to take the art world by storm, I couldn’t help drawing out his agony a bit longer. Because that’s what close friends do. Pulling my car keys slowly out of my pocket, I dangled them from a finger.

‘But how do I know you are who you say you are? Eh? You could just be one of these shape shifter types hired by those Special Forces idiots back there.’

‘Cathy….’ Phil said in a dangerous tone, staring over my shoulder. I glanced, saw Mr Cruickshank flanked by a couple of sidekicks pointing in our direction. But I was damned if I was going to rush for their sake.

‘What’s the name of my car?’

‘What!’ and it must have been the surprise that caused Phil’s face to lose all form for a few seconds, to become like one of those Scream masks briefly. 

‘My car. What’s it called? Give me the name and it’s open sesame.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, I can’t believe…it’s Martina, isn’t it, bloody Martina Mitsubishi because you are such a lesbian. Now, can we get a bloody move on before we end up on some special rendition flight!’

‘Yup,’ I muttered, unlocking the door. ‘Definitely Phil. Queen of the hissy fit.’