Tools of the Trade

Chapter 3

Three

The A92 was, in parts, quite picturesque, cutting as it did through farmland that snuggled up to the edge of the North Sea. Relatively recent improvements had been made to the road. No longer was it the old, two-lane main road typical of less populated parts of the country, but a wide, four-lane artery winding its way north and east from Dundee to Aberdeen. Roughly halfway along that route was Arbroath, a town owing its existence to religion and fishing.

The ruins of Arbroath Abbey dominate the town. From its perch above the north end of the old town centre, the iconic circle, where once a huge, stained glass window was part of a tower, looking down like the eye of God watching over the slow demise of this once bustling fishing port.

Fishing still happened here, but it had been in steady decline for decades. No longer a sanctuary for a weathered fishing fleet, the smell of the daily catch almost a forgotten memory, the local authority having embraced plans to officially turn the high-walled harbour into a full-blown recreational marina. More pleasure craft than working boats.

Guthrie paid the harbour a cursory glance on passing. Looking up he saw the red sandstone circle of the Abbey window but ignored the speed limit signs as he made his way into town. He had done well. The MG had surprised him with its willingness to cruise along the main road north from Dundee at almost fifteen miles per hour faster than the law allowed. Precious little acceleration, but if you gave it enough time the poor thing finally reached a decent speed. Guthrie had allowed himself to relax in the half hour since leaving HQ, eating a Mars Bar and drinking a bottled water on the journey — the water his concession to healthy cuisine.

His thoughts were a jumble of images from the past. As a boy, he had come to Arbroath a couple of times with his family. He remembered the outdoor swimming pool and going for a ride on the miniature railway that ran along the links, right beside the real railway line running from Aberdeen to Dundee, Edinburgh and beyond. More recently he had paid a visit to the police station to pick up some little thug who had made his way to Arbroath after jumping out of a bathroom window at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee. He was in hospital after being arrested for explaining how rival football fans were going to go home in an ambulance. Guthrie had enjoyed his childhood experiences of the town and he had enjoyed dragging the wee nyaff Dundee United fan back home. Today, however, he was here on his second murder case as a civilian.

Just beyond the harbour the road curved to the left and Guthrie slowed the car slightly as he flicked on the turn signal and pulled into the car park of the local nick on the right, with a gratifying squeal of protest from the left front tire. Turning off the ignition, he stepped out of the car and quickly checked his shirt for any signs of melted chocolate flakes from his Mars Bar lunch, then made his way inside to meet his hosts.