McLean shuddered, remembering the strange sensation of helplessness, the odd echoing howl of rage

McIntryre looked at McLean. “You should do as Chief Inspector Duguid requested, and let it alone,” she said. “We know Okolo had been in repatriation proceedings for over two years. “It’s not nice being locked up, especially if you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.

“Smythe was a frequent visitor, so everyone there would have known him.

“Okolo escaped, tracked down the man he felt was responsible for his torture and murdered him in a frenzy. End of story.”

“But there were other men who escaped. What if they’ve got the same idea?

“What about the other members of the Immigration Appeals Board?”

“All the other escapees have been captured and returned. Two of them have been repatriated already. Okolo was a lone madman.

“We might have driven him to madness, but that’s not the point.

“There’s no direct evidence to suggest anyone else was involved in this murder.

“I can’t afford the manpower, and frankly I think it’s a waste of time pursuing the investigation any further.”

“But... ”

“Just let it go, Tony.” McIntyre looked at her watch. “And why aren’t you at the pub anyway? It’s not often Charles offers to buy everyone a drink.”

Pompous

“Chief Inspector Duguid neglected to inform me of the arrangements.”

McLean knew it sounded petty even as he said it. “Oh don’t be such a pompous ass. I saw Constable MacBride and Sergeant Laird heading out earlier, and they weren’t even on the case. Pretty much the whole day shift’s gone.

“What do you suppose the junior officers are going to think of you, holed up in here with your strange photos?

“Too good to be seen with the likes of them now you’ve been made up to inspector?”

Put like that, McLean could see how unreasonable he was being.

“I’m sorry. I guess I just let the case get to me sometimes. I really don’t like loose endings.”

“And that’s why you’re a detective inspector, Tony.

But not for more than 12 hours a day, not in my station at least.

“And certainly not the day after your grandmother has died.

“Now go to the pub. Or go home. I don’t care. But forget about Barnaby Smythe and Jonathan Okolo. We’ll worry about the report for the PF tomorrow.”

The pub was like a police convention gone wrong. McLean pitied any regulars who had nothing to do with the force, though looking around in the crowd he couldn’t see any faces he hadn’t already seen in the station earlier that day.

The party was obviously well under way; small groups had split off and taken all the available tables, the friendships and alliances clear, the enmities and dislikes even more so.

Duguid was at the bar, which presented McLean with something of a dilemma.

He didn’t want to be in a position where the chief inspector could refuse to buy him a drink, and neither did he particularly want to accept one if the man offered.

But it was a bit daft to come in and not have a pint. “There you are, sir. I was beginning to think you’d bailed on us.”

McLean looked around to see Grumpy Bob making his way back from the gents.

He pointed to a table in a dark corner, a suspiciouslooking crew huddled around it.

Helplessness

“We’re over here. Dagwood only put a 50 down on the bar, cheapskate. Wasn’t even enough for a half pint each.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Bob. You weren’t on the investigation.”

“Well, that’s not the point. You can’t promise to stand everyone a drink and then only pay for a half.”

They reached the alcove before McLean had time to argue.

Constable MacBride sat in the far corner, Constable Kydd beside him.

Bob pushed his way past the imposing bulk of Andy Houseman and plunked himself down in a seat, leaving McLean to squeeze onto the narrow bench beside Miss-not-Ms Baird.

“You’ve met Emma? She’s come doon tae us frae the giddy heights o’ Aberdeen.”

Grumpy Bob rolled out the name of the town in a ridiculous parody of a Doric accent.

“Aye, we’ve met.” McLean slid onto the bench.

“You made it then,” Emma said as Grumpy Bob picked up a full pint of fizzy lager and handed it to McLean, then helped himself to the only other one on the table.

“Get your teeth around that, sir.” “Cheers.” McLean raised his glass to everyone, then took a sip. It was cold and wet and fizzy.

More than that he couldn’t tell, as it had no discernible flavour.

“I got your photos, thanks for that.” He turned to the SOC officer.

“All part of the service. Were they any use? I couldn’t see anything but white on them myself.” “Yeah, they were... OK.”

McLean shuddered, remembering the strange sensation of helplessness, the odd echoing howl of rage.

It felt like a dream, or his imagination running overtime.

No, he’d just stood up too quickly after so long crouching on the floor.

“Are you two talking shop? You are, aren’t you.” Grumpy Bob grinned in triumph, his pint glass all but empty.

Work talk

He slapped Constable MacBride on the chest. “That’s 10 quid you owe me, lad. I said the inspector’d be last in and first to forfeit.”

“What’s this?” Emma asked, a crease of concern on her forehead. McLean sighed and took his wallet out of his jacket pocket.

He was going to get the next round in anyway. Not as if he couldn’t afford it.

“Talking about work in the pub’s not allowed, under pain of forfeit.

“It’s an old tradition dating back to when Grumpy Bob was just a beat constable, which would mean some time between the wars, wouldn’t it Bob?”

He pulled out a 20 pound note and slapped it down on the table, ignoring Grumpy Bob’s protests. “Stuart, do the honours will you?”

“What? Why me?”

“Because you’re the youngest.” Grumbling, Constable MacBride extricated himself from his cosy corner, grabbing the money and heading for the bar.

“And make sure it’s decent beer this time,” he shouted after him.