What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

Janie could feel the change in the atmosphere, too. Almost as if his temperature had spiked and was heating the air between them. And was it her imagination, or had the bar suddenly gone very quiet?

‘I’ll expect to be kept informed of developments, Detective Sergeant Harrison.’ Fielding put heavy emphasis on Janie’s surname in a ham-fisted attempt to intimidate her. He knew who she was, it said, and he’d make sure she’d pay if he didn’t get what he wanted. She merely stared at him, even though what she really wanted to do was punch him in the face. A condescending smile, a silent count of ten. That’s what the boss would do. She’d only got as far as seven when Fielding broke.

‘Come on, lads. Let’s go find somewhere a bit more private, aye?’

Janie stepped aside as the group all stood to leave. Most left unfinished drinks, but the young man with the better than average knowledge of seventies cinema quickly downed the remains of his pint before joining them. She gave him a little nod as he hurried to join the others, and he smiled back nervously. In moments they were gone.

‘Well, that went OK, wouldn’t you say, Lofty?’

DC Blane looked down at her as if she was mad. ‘You know he’s going to make a formal complaint, right? And he’s mates wi’ the chief constable?’

Janie wiped her forehead, surprised to find a slight dampness there. ‘Aye, I do. And he probably will. Just hope it hits the right desk. I was kind of getting used to being a sergeant.’

19

All Detective Sergeant Janie Harrison wanted to do was go home, have a long, hot shower to wash away the dirty feeling that talking to Tommy Fielding had left on her skin, and then collapse in front of the telly with a takeaway curry. She knew if she did that though, the report-writing and paperwork would be waiting for her in the morning. They were already scheduled for an early briefing and case review on Cecily Slater, and there was a report for the Procurator Fiscal to be prepared regarding Steve Whitaker too, so with a weary sigh she cadged a lift from a passing squad car and headed back to the station.

Late shift had settled in by the time she arrived, which meant that hopefully the canteen wouldn’t be too busy. She needed coffee, and possibly chocolate, if she was going to get the paperwork squared away in less than an hour. Passing the corridor that led to the holding cells, she heard something that wasn’t so much a commotion as . . . singing? Never one to ignore the siren call of curiosity, she changed course and went to see who had such a fine voice.

The custody sergeant sat at his desk in the room where people were processed before being detained. Mostly the cells were filled with drunk and disorderly young men, and if they sang at all it was generally football chants and out of key. The song Janie could hear was pitch perfect and quite haunting, although the echo from the cells meant she couldn’t quite make out any of the actual words.

‘What’s going on, Tam?’ she asked. ‘Someone arrest a choir outing?’

‘I should be so lucky. It’s those bloody women from the protest. Soon as we asked them to stop screaming, they started singing instead. Can’t say it’s not an improvement, but I’d rather they just shut up altogether.’

‘The protest?’ Janie peered down at the sergeant’s desk, trying to see the names written on the register. ‘Who’ve you got, then? I’m just back from trying to calm down the aggrieved Mr Fielding.’

‘Rather you than me. He’s a right bastard that one. Heard he plays golf with the chief constable.’

‘Aye, so people keep telling me.’

‘You’ll be wanting a look at this then, I guess.’ The sergeant turned the register around and lifted the top, blank page so that Janie could see the names beneath. She picked up the clipboard, leafing through the pages. Six women, varying ages.

‘What’s going to happen to them?’

‘The usual. They’ll get a caution and then sent on their way. If they turn up at the hotel again, then we’ll maybe arrange a wee visit to the Sheriff Court.’

Janie went to put the clipboard back down again, then the last name registered a vague memory. ‘Isobel DeVilliers? Where have I heard that name before?’

‘Oh Christ, her.’ The sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘What a temper, aye? Rest of them are peaceful as anything you like, but her? I’d lay odds on her being back here within the day. Bloody English.’

‘Ah, come on, Tam. What’s it the First Minister said? If you want to make Scotland your home, you’re welcome?’

The custody sergeant half shrugged, half shook his head. ‘She’s a posh one, too. They’re always the worst. Think they’ve more to prove. Aye, she tries to hide it wi’ her swearing and those rubbish clothes, but you can tell good breeding a mile off.’

DeVilliers. Janie was sure she knew the name. And then in a cascade of memories, she did. It explained the fleeting glimpse she’d caught at the protest the first time she’d been there, too. Not the person she’d thought it was, but her younger sister. Half-sister. Someone who had every right in the world to be angry, particularly at men like Tommy Fielding.

‘You processed these yet?’ Janie waved the clipboard about.

‘No’ just the noo.’ The custody sergeant narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why?’

‘If I was to take this one . . .’ Janie gently unclipped the sheet with Isobel DeVilliers’ details on it from the small pile ‘. . . off you. That’d be one less for you to worry about. The awkward one and all. And I’d owe you, right?’

The sergeant narrowed his eyes even further, his bushy eyebrows merging into one. ‘You’ll take her away? An’ you’ll make sure she doesnae go breaching the peace again?’

‘Guide’s honour,’ Janie said, hoping he wouldn’t know she’d never been a Guide, and that Isobel DeVilliers would take advice from someone she didn’t