The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(62)
He picked up the new mobile phone that was lying on the table in front of him. It looked surprisingly sleek, with a huge screen and too few buttons. He thumbed at it absentmindedly, flicking through the menus he only half-remembered from the demonstration in the shop all those weeks ago. What he really needed was a teenager to show him how it worked. Or failing that, Detective Constable MacBride, since he wasn’t far off that age.
The contact list was pitifully small: Grumpy Bob, the station, MacBride, the mortuary. With a wry smile, he noticed that Emma’s mobile number was in there; she must have put it in when they were all ogling over the new technology down the pub. Pretty forward of her, or was it justified? She’d slept in his bed, after all, even if it had been without his invitation. He’d even taken her out to dinner a couple of times, and she’d helped him rebuild his wardrobe for an afternoon, which had certainly made the chore of shopping a little more bearable. But any spark that might have been there had fizzled away under his studied indifference. Matt Hilton would say he was avoiding any deep personal relationships deliberately, and the annoying little shit would be right.
Of course it could well be someone else’s number and part of an elaborate joke. He wouldn’t have put that past the likes of Grumpy Bob.
Sighing, he put the phone back down on the table, then noticed that the screen had changed colour. Somehow he’d managed to hit ‘dial’ without realising. He snatched up the phone, searching for the off button, found it and jabbed it with his thumb. Hopefully the call wouldn’t have gone through; it was really very early after all. Especially for Boxing Day.
He’d have gone to the station, waded through the ever-increasing mounds of paperwork that threatened to engulf his office, if he hadn’t received graphic instructions from Chief Superintendent McIntyre as to what she would do to him if she caught him anywhere near the building. Which just meant he’d have to think of something else to do. Most likely wade through the ever-increasing mounds of paperwork that his grandmother’s death had generated.
The trilling of his phone took him by surprise. Even Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stopped purring and looked up with a disgusted expression. The screen said helpfully: ‘Emma Baird calling’, so at least he was going to find out whether it was a joke or not.
‘Hello?’
‘Who is this?’ Not a joke. Emma, and sounding very grumpy indeed.
‘Ah ... Emma?’
‘Yeah. Who is this? You any idea what time of the morning it is?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s Tony McLean. I didn’t mean to wake you up.’
‘S’OK. I was awake anyway.’
Not a good liar, McLean recalled.
‘What’d you phone me for anyway?’
‘Yeah, about that. Sorry, it was an accident. I thought I’d stopped it before it rang.’
‘I still don’t get why ... Oh, right. I put my number in your phone, didn’t I?’
‘Something like that, aye.’
‘Well, that kind’ve backfired, didn’t it?’ There was a muffled sound of movement in the background, a shuffling of phone from one hand to another. ‘So what are you doing up at – Jesus, is that what time it is? Working on some important case, I guess.’
‘Actually I’ve got the day off. At something of a loose end.’ Even as he said the words, McLean cringed. He hadn’t meant to come on to her like that, had he?
‘Well in that case, inspector, there’s a place not far from here that’ll be open at this ungodly hour, even today. Lofty’s Café, you know it?’
‘Aye, I know Lofty’s. Not been there in a while, mind you.’
‘Well I doubt it’s changed. Meet me there in half an hour and see for yourself. You can buy me breakfast at the same time.’
History didn’t relate who the original Lofty was. Certainly not the current proprietor, who went by the name of Alphonse, and was a good six inches short of five feet tall. A third generation Scottish-Italian, Alphonse had been supplying fine coffee and simple food for as long as McLean could remember, and you had to be up pretty damned early in the morning to find the place closed, even on Boxing Day. As it was, by the time he got there forty minutes after speaking to Emma, more than half the tables were taken. None by the woman herself.
McLean ordered a coffee and a bacon buttie, then retreated to a table by the window, checking his phone as he sat down to see if there were any messages. A couple nearby held hands and looked deep into each other’s eyes, oblivious to anything else going on around them and certainly unaware of the old man in a mud-splattered overcoat who was watching them with a curious intensity from the far corner. Most of the other people in the place were shift-workers by the look of them; the unlucky mob who’d lost the Christmas lottery. And there, in the far corner, two beat constables from his own station. They didn’t appear to have seen him yet, but it was only a matter of time. Briefly, McLean thought about ducking out of the café there and then. Anything to avoid the inevitable comments that would follow after he was seen meeting Emma.
But then it was too late. The door clattered open with a jangle of bells and a long, heavy overcoat with a mop of spiky black hair poking from the top of it stepped inside.
On the face of it, there was no real reason to be embarrassed about meeting a work associate for breakfast, and yet McLean couldn’t help cringing as Emma stamped her feet a couple of times, shucked off her coat and scarf and shouted to Alphonse: ‘Bloody brass-monkeys weather out there, Al.’ All eyes turned towards her; even the mooning couple broke off their love-in and looked to see what the commotion was all about.