Snow Storm (5 page)

Give me strength Burke
thought as someone at the back of the room did a mocking hand
clap.

Gray had his sound bite.
Within a couple of hours it would be on the news in people’s living
rooms as they chomped on their TV dinners. It may even put them off
their TV dinners.

Address over,
the boss rose from his seat, jerking his head forward in an
affirmative manner and adjusting his jacket so it hung off him in a
forwards direction before triumphantly leaving the room.

Burke caught
Steele’s gaze as she made to exit and thought he saw her stifling
an eye roll.

He followed
the pair down the corridor as the media scrum headed out the door
on the other side of the room. They regrouped in Steele’s office,
neither man wanting to sit down as the Detective Superintendent
stared out the window at the yellowing skyline, flanked by photos
of her grandkids. Steele’s office at least had a degree of
personality to it compared with Gray’s tribute to 90s
utilitarianism.

“
I feel that
went well guys,” she finally said, attempting to adjust an unruly
pot plant. “You were fairly conspicuous in your silence James,
although I think we managed to fill that void

fairly well. I trust you
were actually with us in there?”

“
Yes Ma’am,”
Burke replied.

“
Good. It’s
good practice for you, you know. Media experience is a thing you’ll
need to progress in the modern force.” Steele raised the index and
middle fingers on each hand forming quotation marks before adding,
“Going forward” and Burke couldn’t help but like her a little more
for it. “In the mean-time chaps, what exactly is the script? Are we
really pursuing multiple lines of enquiry as you said? I really
hope we know something about what’s going on here.”

“
Well,” Gray,
started awkwardly, “there is one theory doing the rounds.” He
looked appealingly at Burke, who now realised the DCI did not know
where he was going with this one and expected his subordinate to
help him out and magic something out of the ether.

He dutifully
obliged with all he had while inwardly cursing Campbell for
expressing his opinions.

After a conversation
which made him feel like he needed to take a shower, he headed to
Moray Place.

He pressed the buzzer
next to the brass name plates heralding the names of the many
MBACPs present and was duly allowed over the threshold. He
announced his presence to the receptionist who seemed fresh faced
and chirpy in contrast to those in the waiting room. His dentist
employed a more matronly type who looked at patients with the
knowing sense of foreboding combined with a touch of sympathy only
years of dealing with the afflicted could provide. Here they’d gone
for the screaming of their own success by employing someone with
the right shade of lip gloss approach, more traditionally deployed
by advertising agencies.

He took a
seat by the stack of magazines under an aesthetically questionable
Jackson Pollock rip-off and checked his emails. Aside from the
standard invitations to buy Viagra and Xanax and the many warnings
from the many banks he had no dealings with regarding the security
of his accounts there was nothing to report.

Reflex meant he would
normally dig his hands deep into his pockets in a place like this
but he forced himself not to and instead picked up a magazine about
running and thumbed through. One day perhaps he would be able to
run the length of himself. Until such time he could always read
about it here, provided he could pick up the magazine.

The receptionist called
his name and he made his way through, head hung low, to explain
himself some more.

Dr Carr was
probably around five years older than he was but had a face with an
ageless quality.

“
Morning,”
Burke began, “or is it afternoon?” He checked his watch. Just
before twelve. “On the cusp,” he concluded as he sat down awkwardly
and she smiled patiently.

She always
had this effect on him. In the two years or so he’d been coming
here there was invariably this disjointed exchange with the cursory
attempt at small talk on his side and what could have been called a
gentle stone wall in response.

“
So, how are
you?” she enquired.

“
Good. Good,”
he fired back, emphasising the second good and looking at his
Chelsea-booted toes before catching her gaze and the raised eyebrow
that suggested doubt at this. Social convention meant he always
felt the need to ask the same back but as with the magazine he
forced himself to defy reflex.

She said nothing, knowing
he would give in and fill the uncomfortable void with whatever
poured out. He reasoned it must be like the psychiatrist’s ink
blot. You saw what you wanted to see and blurted out whatever came
to your head. In a similar way she was tapping into whatever filled
his mind, willing him to trip up on his fear of the conversational
lull, the resultant drivel filling in whatever blanks she still had
in his psychological profile.

This was his
hell. Two years and three psychotherapists on and still there was
no end in sight. It was a racket. Who didn’t have a screw or two
loose?

He wasn’t
there through choice but under orders; not Gray’s this time but
Rachel’s. She put up with a lot but demanded this in return; one
hour a week in the company of a shrink and his ghosts.

It was a large office but
even Burke would concede it got crowded in here of a Wednesday
afternoon.

“
They’re
back,” he said, cursing his own lack of self control and watching
as she acknowledged this information without giving anything
away.

Daryll woke in a state of
confusion. He blinked at the midday sun streaming through the
yellowing net curtains and took a moment to assess the
situation.

The pain surged into the
base of his skull as his stomach somersaulted in sympathy and his
mouth began to water. He would not throw up he assured himself. He
wouldn’t. He launched his slight frame across the room and plunged
headfirst through the bathroom door towards the pan. His stomach
emptied itself as the cranial pain was renewed once
more.

Never get
high on your own supply; that was the old adage. No one saw fit to
mention the perils of getting wasted on cheap rum while trying to
deal with the tedium of attempting to peddle the shit
though.

What a fucking mess. They
were a man down thanks to Leon going missing, probably having
thought better of the whole thing as they’d made naff all progress
so far.

Stupid
fucking plan anyway. There was no way with this place. A – it was
too cold, B - the people seemed to have adjusted themselves
accordingly and let off the same vibe and C – when you did manage
to engage the muppets they had a few trust issues going on. There
was a bit of a prejudice element to it he reckoned. How precisely
was someone supposed to get a foothold in this place?

All they
wanted was to be the local crack dealers but would anyone give them
a break? Hell no.

A series of snorting and
snuffling sounds emerged from Gus’s mouth or nose. He couldn’t say
which. The great pile of lard lay face down on a mess of feather
filled rags that might once have passed for a mattress. He couldn’t
even breathe properly. Such a basic human function and he had to
make it sound like a pig was up to some serious truffle hunting on
the on the other side of the room.

Crawling was the best
solution to his current malaise and its inherent mobility issues.
He slumped back onto the mattress knowing it would be a while
before he could move again without incurring the wrath of his head
but wary of the fact there was a limit to the length of time he
could stay still before his weak and feeble mind took over. Once
that happened the symptoms would be magnified further. Such was the
state of hangover play.

This thought alone
brought the stomach churning on once more and once more he made
contact with porcelain. There was nothing left to give as it turned
out, save for a large amount of reflexive exertion. Was this what
hell would be like? Probably, although it would be a close run
contest between a perpetual hangover and just one weekend in this
place.

It wasn’t the Brum. That
was for sure. It didn’t have the familiar haunts. There was no
comfort zone to stretch out in but he’d hoped that might mean a
lack of the same frustrations, no more glass ceiling to bounce his
head off. They had talked about this being the promised-land.
Stupid. That was back when it was all shiny and new. They still had
hope then, to some degree, thought they’d do it together, like The
Godfather Part 2 in the flashback sequences. They’d get rid of the
established market they said, get their own slice of the pie,
couldn’t be more than a few daft jocks and they were all pissed
most of the time.

It had seemed
a flawless plan but now, much like last night’s Lamb Bhuna, it was
headed round the u-bend.

They had done some
serious under estimation. This might not be a bigger pond but as
far as they were concerned, there were a lot bigger
fish.

Gus
spluttered some more before kicking into life like some kind of
clapped out over-loaded motor. He looked up from his mattress
through eyes that as usual looked set to burst out of their
sockets. “Well what now, man with the plan?” he rasped.

********************

The initial
chat with Edwards had been brief. Yes, the SCDEA were missing Vlad
the Inhaler, was all he was willing to give away over the phone
before he began quizzing Burke regarding the state of the body or
part thereof that they had in their possession.

Burke sent some pictures
across in a password protected file along with some info from
forensics.

They had arranged a call
back for later in the afternoon, following the head shrinking
session.

It was around three; the
point at which afternoons generally tended to sag. He often
wondered what they’d done to cope with it in the past. In the days
of the liquid lunch afternoons must have amounted to an endurance
event. Sleeping on the job was hard enough to avoid in these more
puritanical times. His system seemed to go into a sort of
pre-hibernation state. It was worse in the summer, when the air con
struggled to cope in a building constructed on the cheap with one
eye on the public purse strings.

He went for a wander to
the coffee machine, more in an effort to get the blood going than
anything to do with caffeine, which, if he was honest, he needed
just to function normally, never mind provide any sort of
perk.

Campbell shifted
awkwardly in his seat as he passed, pretending to focus on a set of
generic graphics Burke recognised from an online gambling site and
which popped up when the skiving chancer in question made the mouse
hover over a “look busy” icon.

He didn’t actually mind
Campbell being on the site but did feel reassured when any of his
subordinates scrambled to hide things like that when they heard him
coming. It was one of life’s little pleasures, admittedly a mildly
sadistic one.

Campbell had been talking
about placing a bet on the possibility of a white Christmas
earlier.

Edwards had a shifty air
when he finally called back. “I’m sending a couple of my team
through to identify the remains if it’s ok by you,” he said. “Or at
least do the best they can.”

“
Yeah sure,”
Burke replied.

“
Just another
scumbag off the street, small time pusher. Gets it all off your
desk doesn’t it?”

“
It does,”
Burke agreed, thinking it was terribly helpful.

“
First thing
tomorrow we should be able to confirm either way but looking at the
snaps I’d say it’s our boy.”

“
Good.”

Burke attempted to
extract a fairly stubborn bit of chicken from between two of his
back teeth.

“
And as for
this other one, I’m not even sure they’re connected but as a one
off finders fee let’s say..”

The chicken gave way and
Burke felt a sense of victory.

“…
I suppose
we could, ahem, assume they are and take that off your hands to
boot.”

Gotcha. A smile slowly
spread across Burke’s face. A low down shrink’s trick it was but
definitely one that worked and the results themselves had a certain
therapeutic quality.

“
Anyway,”
Edwards continued, talking into the void, “I suppose we should
catch up again this time tomorrow.”

“
Tomorrow it
is then.” Burke agreed. As he put the phone down he felt the
tension ease itself out of his shoulders and his brow begin to
unfurl.

He left the office and
made his way home where he crawled into bed and into a state of
unconsciousness for the next 12 hours.

Andy waited patiently at
the port road end. The big John Deere rattled in its diesely way
and the cover on the exhaust did its dance in his eye-line as he
waited for a gap in the line of cars coming out of Braehead towards
Newton: rush hour - shire style.