Page 52 of The Final Vow

‘The maths supports it,’ Poe said.

‘His zeroing range supports it too,’ McCloud agreed. ‘If he’s local, or semi-local, he won’t have to drive a long heavy rifle through a load of built-up areas. There isn’t much civilisation between here and the Cairngorms.’

She stopped outside a semi-detached house. She checked her phone. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘The victim commuted from Dumfries. I think her dad lives on his own.’

‘You don’t say.’

In contrast to the rest of the houses on the street, Mr Callaghan’s was scruffy. It had a weed-choked drive and a brown lawn. A white plastic seat, the kind that skidded across the ground in the lightest of breezes, sat underneath the front window. Even that looked neglected. McCloud walked up the path and knocked on the door. Firm but not hard. Not apologetic.

A man in shorts and a PrimarkCaptain AmericaT-shirt answered the door. He had more tattoos than Ray Bradbury’s ‘Illustrated Man’. He was smoking a cigarette and didn’t bother to remove it when he said, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Callaghan?’

‘Yes.’

They identified themselves as police officers.

‘May we come inside, please?’

‘No. Fuck off.’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. I would feel more comfortable delivering it inside.’

He leaned against the doorframe. ‘I’m fine here.’

McCloud glanced at Poe. You couldn’t force your way into someone’s house to deliver the death knock.

‘You know there’s been another shooting?’

Callaghan nodded. ‘And you’re not stitching me up with it,’ he said. ‘Bastard cops stitched me up with theft once. You can piss off if you think I’m taking another fall for you.’

‘I’m afraid we believe your daughter is the victim, Mr Callaghan,’ McCloud said, ignoring his tirade.

That put a stop to his vitriol.

‘Nah, Rachelle’s at work. She’s a morticia.’

‘Mortician,’ Poe said automatically.

‘Aye, one of them. She works at the funeral home.’

‘She’s dead, Mr Callaghan. The sniper shot her when she popped out for lunch.’

Callaghan stared at McCloud. Realised she wasn’t joking, wasn’t trying to trick him into confessing to something. His daughter really was dead.

‘But I’ve just bought her birthday present,’ he said. He pointed to a carton of cigarettes by the door. ‘She was supposed to come round and get it after work. What am I supposed to do with two hundred Marlboro Golds? I don’t evensmokeMarlboro Golds.’ He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and showed them, as if they didn’t believe him. ‘See?’

‘Perhaps we’d better come inside, Mr Callaghan?’ McCloud said.

‘I suppose I could sell them,’ he said, clearly not listening. ‘But you never get what you paid for them. You always end up out of pocket.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose either of you two want to buy them?’

Poe looked at him. Realised he wasn’t joking. ‘I’m good, mate,’ he said.

‘I think we’d better leave you to your grief,’ McCloud said.

They left the still-complaining Callaghan and walked back to the crime scene. A cop with muddy boots met them before they got halfway. He was sweating.

‘Have you found where he shot from, Jim?’ McCloud asked.