What Lies Buried by Margaret Kirk

Author:Margaret Kirk
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781409188674
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2019-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

23

Day 16

Sunday, 16 June

9.15 a.m. The kind of summer morning the tourists probably think is typical of Inverness. Bright sky, shimmering river. Ben Wyvis in the distance, topped with the last of the winter snows. The streets clean and the alkies off their benches outside Poundland. And Flora MacDonald up on her pedestal by the castle, gazing out over the Ness with her dog at her side. Either looking for a last glimpse of her bonnie prince or making sure the feckless Stuart wino’s actually gone for good, depending on your view of Highland history. Andy Black’s pretty sure which one gets his vote.

He goes over to his bedroom window, opens his blinds. Looks down on the unlovely sight of the wifie from the downstairs flat picking up after her dog in the manky communal back garden. An actual shite start to what’ll be a typical shite Sunday, then. Good to know.

He shaves, throws on yesterday’s hoodie and jeans and heads across to Aldi for a couple of cans of pick-me-up. Last night’s curry is lying in his gut, but it’s not a peaceful sort of lying; if he doesn’t anaesthetise it with a hair of the dog, Andy’s got an idea it might decide to make its presence felt again.

He gets what he needs from the supermarket, throws in a twin pack of sausage rolls for the protein and sets off for one of the benches along the canal. Quick dose of fresh air, that’s what he needs after last night. It had started well enough, he remembers that. Bit of nonsense with the blonde lassie from McCallums, music loud enough to set the eardrums buzzing, just the way he likes it. Afterwards . . . aye, well, afterwards it gets a wee bit hazy.

Andy gets his phone out, checks the messages. None from the blonde lassie, but he’d half expected that. The other one, though . . . He must have deleted it, he thinks. Not there now, anyhow.

He settles down on his favourite bench to watch the joggers puffing past towards Torvean. Fucking stupid way to spend a Sunday morning, that, he always thinks. Keeping yourself fit, watching what you eat, cutting down on the drink to buy yourself a couple more years in a care home. Big fucking deal.

He wolfs down one of the sausage rolls, opens his first can . . . and the twitch at the back of his neck, the cop’s instinct that’s never played him wrong in all his time in the job, tells him to turn and face the guy walking towards him along the towpath.

At first glance, he looks like Mr Average. Average build, average features, average height. But Andy’s pretty sure Mr Average doesn’t wear designer watches that cost a couple of thousand for a stroll along the canal.

‘DI Black.’ The man flashes an amiable grin, takes a seat on the bench. His voice is a mix of smoothed-out central belt and something more exotic, something Andy can’t place. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? Perfect for a little chat here by the water.

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