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Shona read a line of marked text. ‘We need twelve vans.’ She turned to him. ‘How many are operational?’
‘Ten, and last time I looked the magic carpet was still at the cleaners.’
She raised an eyebrow in enquiry. He brought out a printed sheet showing Dumfries and the surrounding area. ‘Overnight road works on the main road.’ He indicated on the map with his pen. ‘Also, the quarry up at Jericho Bridge is moving a couple of excavators. It’s an abnormal load. Their contractors are dealing with it, but this section of the A701 will become closed here,’ he marked a pair of crosses, ‘and here, between four and six a.m. We’ll never make it if we’re vans short.’
‘Okay. What do you suggest?’
‘Well, we need to hit them all at the same time or phones will start ringing and we risk losing some targets, so we send teams out this way.’ He drew a dotted line through a maze of small country roads. ‘They’ll avoid trouble.’
‘And we’ll need two squad cars to pick up suspects,’ Shona said. ‘That’s not ideal, I’d rather have them in the cage.’
Murdo scanned down the list of targets and circled two names. ‘Couple of familiar faces. They’re low level dealers, shouldn’t give us much trouble. Put Guy Matthews, he’s useful, and a special on one, and the two Kirsties, Jamieson and O’Carroll, on the other.’
‘Are they up to it if things kick off? I don’t want any mishaps with an operation this size.’
‘Oh aye. They’re handy lassies. Rock solid.’
They went through the rest of the briefing document until both were satisfied. O’Halloran stretched up and yawned. Shona was treated to a glimpse of his pale rounded stomach, like a whale surfacing for air, before it disappeared back beneath his untucked shirt. In the outer office, chip suppers were being distributed and Murdo went to claim his share.
The forty or so staff and officers in the briefing room accepted DI Shona Oliver’s substitution for DCI Baird without a murmur. With Murdo’s help she went through the schedule of suspects, locations and background checks and answered a couple of queries from the floor. An hour later, as the teams were filing out with their instruction, Shona was approached by PC Guy Matthews.
‘Any problem, Matthews?’ Since Murdo’s vote of confidence, she’d ear-marked him as potential CID. Intelligent grafters were what she needed, and she hoped he wasn’t going to ruin his chances by asking a basic question.
‘No, ma’am. I just wanted to update you on Nathan Jones.’
Technically the Sweet Life investigation was no longer her case. But technically, Nathan Jones and his yard full of fishing gear wasn’t really part of that case, beyond a vague witness statement. ‘What can you tell me?’ Shona asked.
‘Not much, ma’am. He gave a very brief statement, wouldn’t be drawn. He has a previous for drink driving and was interviewed about stolen outboard motors, but otherwise he’s clear.’
‘Nothing violent? No sexual offences?’ Shona asked. Matthews shook his head. ‘All right, thank you, Matthews.’
Shona gathered up her papers and followed the others out. It was frustrating. It had seemed a promising lead, but now it looked like she was no nearer to finding the identity of the girl from the firth, and her killer, than she had been when she’d folded her brutalised body into the plastic sheeting and brought her ashore.
* * *
On the journey home Shona would normally have felt the tightness in her shoulders ease with each passing mile. It was true what she’d said to Dan Ridley earlier, the serious crime rate was low. Resources were always under budget pressures, but Shona’s main concern usually was not a backlog of cases stacking up, but how to prevent talented staff being lured away by busier and higher profile forces. The leviathan of Operation Fortress was a test of her leadership and, although she would have viewed it as a routine operation during her time in London, there were variables here in the experience and training levels of the staff that she’d have liked more time to address. She wondered if Baird had dropped the briefing on her at the last minute on purpose, just to keep her on her toes and in her place.
Rob had gone to the train station to collect some guests but left a chicken and tarragon stew in the oven for her. She fell on it with gratitude, having missed out on the office chips. Becca was in her room, wrapped in an oversized jumper, once her father’s. With headphones in and intent on her laptop, she grunted hello when her mother kissed the top of her head. Shona gave the screen a quick, parental glance and although the Spotify box showed The Clash’s London Calling was playing, she was reassured to see an essay of some kind was also in progress.
She stood by the kitchen window looking out on the bay, massaging the tension in her neck. A quick walk, just down to the sailing club pier and back, would help her get some sleep before the three a.m. alarm call. Halfway along the seafront, she saw the light on in the lifeboat station and decided to update skipper Tommy on what they’d found at the Carmine warehouse.
The two-tone alarm of a call-out blared just as she reached the station door. A couple of cars were speeding along the road towards her, volunteers already alerted by pager. Inside, Tommy was in his kit and loading the first aid box into the boat. Callum the postman and Graham Finlayson, the landlord of the Anchor pub in the next village, burst through the door behind her.
‘Got a man threatening to throw himself off Sark Bridge in Gretna. Coastguard want us to stand by,’ Tommy said. ‘It’s at the limit of our range. To save fuel I’m only taking one crew. Shona, get suited up.’ He turned to the other volunteers waiting by the door. ‘Shona’s a trained police negotiator and has experience of this sort of job from when she was based at Tower Lifeboat Station in London.’ They nodded their agreement.
‘Course,’ said Shona. She reached for her immersion suit, suspended on the pegs behind her by its yellow wellies. Op Fortress was only hours away, but saving a life came first.
The sun had almost sunk into the western waves behind them as the Margaret Wilson set off on the long pull east up the Solway. Shona had fired off a quick text to Rob and Becca. Now she was out on the water all trace of tension and fatigue had gone.
‘Sark Bridge,’ Tommy shouted to her as they cruised at top speed up the middle channel. ‘Funny how we were just talking about that. Did you have any luck with the lassie?’
‘No. We recovered a haul of drugs next door, so not a wasted journey.’ Mention of the drugs brought Baird and Operation Fortress back into her thoughts. She pushed them away, focusing on the job in hand. ‘Any info on the potential jumper?’
‘Cops are on scene. It’ll be high water by the time we get there.’
An hour later, it was pitch dark. They followed the tide up the Solway and branched left into the River Sark. Shona’s hands were numb beneath her gloves from gripping the anchor points and her knees sore from the battering of the waves through the few inches of foam that constituted the bottom of the inshore lifeboat. Tommy throttled back in the confused and choppy currents below Sark Bridge and Shona directed the powerful, handheld flashlight to a group of people up ahead.
Six feet below the parapet was a man, the light catching the wide whites of his eyes as he clung to the granite pier of the bridge. Blinded, he panicked, his legs flailing for purchase on the slanted stone. Shona dropped her arm down until the light shone instead on the churning water below. A red-haired constable and a member of the public, a thin, middle-aged man in a scuffed, brown leather jacket, were leaning over the bridge, calming the jumper down. On the road behind, a fire crew stood by. Other officers were keeping back a small number of cars and spectators.
