Page 124 of Better the Devil

Cathy was older than Callum. She was a widow who, if he had to describe her, he’d say looked like a wasp that had fallen on hard times. Her features were all pointy, but her hair was a wild, tangled mess, like a candy floss that had taken a battering from the wind. It had even been pink at points, although she’d stopped that nonsense a few years ago, and ‘embraced her natural grey,’ as she’d put it.

Or, as Callum thought of it, given up.

‘Have you heard the news?’ she asked.

Most conversations with Cathy started in a similar way, or at least reached this point eventually. She was the most inquisitive person Callum had ever met. Not about the big stuff—Cathy had no interest in the workings of the universe, or the machinations of the political classes—but she was driven demented by her curiosity about the lives of others.

There was a general agreement in Aviemore that if you pricked your finger, Cathy Bennet would know about it before you felt the pain. It was like she was attuned to gossip on the molecular level.

Some people said that if Cathy wasn’t already aware of something, it wasn’t worth knowing about. Callum took that further. If Cathy wasn’t aware of something, it almost certainly hadn’t happened.

‘What news?’ he asked, already just half-listening.

He’d hoped she was going to report in with information about Victor Belov’s affair partner, but this sounded like it was going to be something new, and almost certainly of no interest to him.

It would be like all those other times she’d called him up to tell him about Margaret’s daughter’s husband’s cancer, or Alan’s cousin’s best man getting divorced. Callum had no idea who all the Margarets and Alans were, let alone their extended network of family and friends. Nor did he care what happened to them.

‘About Joe Robertson.’

Callum sat up straighter at that. He reached for the remote, silencing Columbo before he could continue to question an obviously guilty Johnny Cash.

‘Joe Robertson? No. Why? What about him?’

‘I shouldn’t say,’ Cathy replied. She would, of course. She always did. ‘But he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

Callum’s eyes widened, like they were trying to take in the enormity of this word.

‘What do you mean, he’s dead?’

‘Joanne’s man saw him. Flat on his back at the side of the road. Police are all over the place. Suicide, they’re saying. So I hear. Don’t quote me on that. But, aye, suicide. Shot himself. Right at the side of the road. Can you imagine? Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

Cathy was still talking, but Callum couldn’t hear her now. Not over the ringing in his ears. Not over the roaring of the blood as it whooshed through his veins.

Joe Robertson?

Dead?

Surely not. Surely she’d got this one wrong.

Not poor Joe. Granted, he wasn’t Callum’s cup of tea. He was a bit of a boring old fuddy-duddy. An outdated old relic. TheColumboto Callum’sLine of Duty. But he was a nice bloke. Kind. Thoughtful. Always brought biscuits to any meetings he was invited to, and listened attentively while Callum spoke.

‘Dead?’ he said, still not able to comprehend the size of it. ‘Joe Robertson?’

Cathy began to reply, but Callum just set down the phone and got up from his chair. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too narrow.

He paced in a tight circle.

Joe Robertson was dead.

Callum’s gaze fell on the small, shiny trophy he’d been presented with for his work with HAWKS.

He was Watchperson of the Year.

But, poor Joe Robertson was dead.

And that changed everything.