Father Confessor (J McNee series) by Russel D McLean Page A

insanity. Which was how I wound up breaking Lindsay’s nose. Ostensibly, I had other reasons for striking him, but mostly I did it because I was convinced he’d done nothing but sit on his arse and let the trail go cold, leaving me with no clue as to who had run the car off the road, killed my fiancée and left my life shattered.
    I had convinced myself that Lindsay had allowed Elaine’s killer to disappear out of spite, some held-over grudge that I couldn’t pinpoint but still knew existed between us. Nothing dissuaded me of that idea for a long time.
    But in the last few years, as much as I tried not to notice, I’d seen another side to the DI. Perhaps it was Susan’s influence. After all, following her transfer to CID, she’d wound up working closely with the man. She tried to repair our relationship, tell me the truth as she saw it; that George Lindsay was a dogged, determined professional who, as it happened, just didn’t have time for the niceties of everyday life. According to Susan, Lindsay took his professional life absolutely seriously. Prided himself on results. And even if he had personal feelings, he didn’t let them interfere with a case. An assignment. A duty.
    Maybe she was right. Didn’t mean I liked him any more, though.
    In his younger days, Lindsay had been in the army.
    I don’t know much about it, but it was the talk around the force. Rumours persisted he’d been a candidate for the Special Forces, but had walked away for reasons no-one seemed too sure about. Difficult to tell by looking at him whether these rumours were true. He seemed too small and scrawny to have had SAS potential. But then you saw him work on an interrogation and you realised how he was hiding something underneath that frame. A power and anger you didn’t expect.
    I’d once described him as simian. Meaning it as an insult. The way he carried himself and that high forehead made him look like the missing link resurrected.
    I forgot to remember that a monkey can rip your arm off if the mood takes him.
    It was strange to think of him in hospital. Lying there. Still. Silent. Broken. I’d become used to the idea of Lindsay being around. Not that I’d started to consider him a friend. But he’d become a familiar obstacle. An expected opponent.
    A sparring partner.
    Which might explain why my stomach was churning as Susan and I walked through the main doors at Ninewells.
    This time of the morning, the reception area was quiet. Walking past the shuttered clothes stores and the darkened WHSmith, I felt as though I was trespassing. Hospitals are odd enough places during the day, but at night there is a strange expectancy in the air, as though everyone has gone home to avoid whatever stalks the corridors in the dark.
    The woman on the front desk was pale, a walking cliché of the night shift. Slightly overweight, with the years showing on her face, and grey hair that might have been curly if she let it grow out. She looked at us with undisguised disdain, and asked why we were here.
    The only visitors at this time of night came with the worst news.
    Who could blame this woman for being a cynic?
    Susan asked after George Lindsay, and the woman’s face softened suddenly. As though she saw something in Susan that told her we weren’t ghouls from the clean-up crew.
    It was just as well the woman didn’t give me a second glance.
    I don’t know what she would have seen.
    We turned off, grabbed a lift. Inside, the space felt too large. Designed to move patient beds around with ease.
    Susan grabbed my hand. And squeezed.
    Yet kept her distance.
    Let go when the doors slid open.
    We walked down the corridor. A nurse stopped us.
    Susan said, “I work with George Lindsay.”
    The nurse – mid-thirties, a tough face and tired eyes – said, “You and a hundred other bloody police.” She jerked her head down the corridor, “We’ve got a special room set aside. Incident room.” Those last two words just the right side of