Not scared, not mad, but knowing. Not the prey here, but the predator

Bob opened the interview room door and called in a couple of uniformed constables.

They flanked Callum before one of them reached down and began to undo the cuffs.

It happened in an instant. The bodyguard roared a great scream of rage, exploded out of his chair and lashed out with his fists.

The two constables went flying, crashing into the walls.

Behind him, Mclean could hear Grumpy Bob move to block the doorway, but far from making a break for it, Callum turned to the large mirror that hung on the wall, behind which was the viewing room.

He lurched towards it, pulling his head back as he did, and butted it with all his might.

Cracks speared up from the point of impact, but it didn’t smash.

Enraged, Callum pulled his head back again and hammered it once more into the fractured glass. This time the mirror gave, breaking into long shards of lethally sharp glass.

One poked up from the bottom of the frame, fully a foot long and needle-sharp. A glistening bead of Callum’s blood balanced on the point of it.

The bodyguard turned, facing Mclean with that powerful, controlled stare. Not scared, not mad, but knowing. Not the prey here, but the predator.

“You’ll understand soon,” he said in that voice that wasn’t his. Then turned, pulled his head up, arching his back ready to smash forwards and plunge the glass shard deep into his brain.

Screamed

But the two constables were on him, grabbing his arms and wrestling them behind him. Suddenly the room was full of bodies, swarming over Callum like ants.

The big man writhed and screamed, but was slowly pushed to the ground, his hands cuffed tightly behind him.

When they finally pulled him to his feet and turned him back around, Mclean could see ugly cuts in his forehead and nose.

A glass splinter had pierced his left eye, leaking aqueous humour down his cheek in a parody of tears.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore. “Get him to hospital, quick. And keep him restrained. I don’t want him having another chance to do that.”

Out in the corridor, Mclean leant against the wall and tried to suppress the shaking that had taken hold of him. Grumpy Bob stood by his side, silent for a while.

“He wasn’t trying to escape, was he,” the sergeant said finally.

“No. He was trying to kill himself. Like all the others.”

“Others? What do you mean?”

Mclean looked up at his old friend. “Forget it, Bob. I think I need a drink.”

“I second that. It’s hours past the end of my shift, and we’ve at least one success to celebrate.”

“Where’s Macbride?” Mclean asked. “He could do with one too.”

“Probably down in the incident room feverishly typing up reports. You know what he’s like. Keen as mustard.”

“Don’t knock it, Bob.”

“Far from it, sir.” The old sergeant grinned, throwing off some of the shock of recent events.

“If he wants to do the work of two detectives, that’s just fine by me. I’m quite happy to be the other one.”

They set off into the bowels of the station, finally arriving at their destination after fending off many congratulations.

Innocent

News of Chloe’s safe discovery had spread quickly, unlike the more recent events.

The door to the tiny incident room was propped open with a metal chair to let the heat out.

Low voices murmured in conversation from within. Mclean stepped inside and saw DC Macbride sitting behind his table, the laptop in front of him.

Another figure stood talking to him, and she turned as she saw his eyes flick up to meet the inspector’s.

Emma Baird took two steps towards Mclean and then slapped him hard across the face.

“That’s for even thinking I could do something so perverse as post crime-scene photos on the internet.”

He lifted his hand to his face, accepting that he probably deserved it.

But before he could reach his stinging cheek, she had grabbed him, pulled him towards her and planted a long, wet kiss on his lips.

“And that’s for finding a way to prove me innocent,” she added once she had broken away.

Mclean felt his ears turning bright red. He looked to DC Macbride, but the constable was suddenly very interested in his report.

Grumpy Bob was staring off down the corridor in a purposeful manner.

“Ah, sod it, Stuart. You can write that tomorrow,” Mclean said. “Let’s go to the pub.”

Anger and fear

The tinny little buzzing of his alarm clock broke through the pain in his head.

It reminded him with far too much enthusiasm that it was six o’clock and time to get up.

Mclean groaned and rolled over to hit the snooze button. Perhaps his hangover would go away in the next 10 minutes. It was worth a try.

He bumped into something solid beside him and couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.

Then it grunted and moved and he was suddenly very wide awake.

Sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he looked down on the prone form of Emma Baird and felt a curious mixture of anger and fear.

He’d slept in this bed alone for so long, always keeping his relationships professional, always keeping people at arm’s-length.

A therapist might have said he was afraid to commit, and they’d be right.

After Kirsty, the thought of getting close to anyone else was just too painful.

And now, after a couple of dinners and a night spent drinking with half of the station, she was asleep alongside him.

He tried to remember the night before. They’d both celebrated having found Chloe safe, but that was another part of his barricade; he never let himself get so drunk he lost control.

Never so drunk that he couldn’t remember what he’d done.

She’d been angry with him, Emma.

She’d heard all the things he’d said to Duguid outside the SOC offices at Force HQ.

About how he had planned to use his friendship to investigate the leaked photographs.

It didn’t matter how much he explained, how much he tried to persuade her that what he had meant was different to what she had assumed.

From her point of view he had been playing her. She’d only really relented when he’d apologised and begged her forgiveness.

But that was women for you, wasn’t it?

More tomorrow.