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to delegate. It was a delicate balance: it was crucial that she didn’t give them any reason to doubt that she trusted their abilities, but sometimes just letting them know she was taking a closer interest was enough to make them all up their game.
    They walked over to the kiosk. It looked small from the outside, but denuded of racks and gondolas there was a lot of floor space. Mrs Chalmers was dressed in a navy blue skirt and matching jacket. A laminated lapel badge identified her as working for a bank. Catherine gauged a mumsy late thirties, pictured her hugging the kids that bit tighter when she picked them up from school or nursery later that day.
    The witnesses were standing with their backs to the window so they didn’t have to look at the guest of honour out there amid his crown of suds; metaphorical scum surrounded by the literal.
    Mrs Chalmers looked up anxiously as Catherine and Beano entered, visibly intimidated by the arrival of authority but instinctively eager to assist. By direct contrast the other two made their own subconscious acknowledgment of rank, stiffening a little against the glass. McCallister was right: they were scared; not of the gunman, and certainly not of her. She doubted two car-wash workers would have any higher involvement in Stevie Fullerton’s operations than the knowledge that he was the unnamed proprietor, but being ringside when he got executed had dumped them at the eye of a storm. All they would feel secure in doing, in compliance with the only instruction they would have been given, was ‘tell the polis nothing’.
    Catherine introduced herself and made a general request for a quick recap, addressing it to no one in particular. She knew who would respond and who wouldn’t, and she wanted them to relax, thinking Mrs Chalmers was doing all the driving for them.
    ‘These aren’t formal statements,’ she added. ‘We’ll get those later. Right now we just need information we can work with.’
    Mrs Chalmers nodded, responding like she’d be partly to blame if the perp wasn’t apprehended.
    ‘I was about halfway through getting my car washed when theBentley pulled in,’ she said. ‘At that point Mr McShane here dropped the brush he was using and just walked away.’
    She looked a little flushed as she said this, self-conscious about grassing the guy up but incapable of lying to the polis. God, Catherine loved the Mrs Chalmerses of this world.
    ‘VIP customer?’ Catherine asked, to no response.
    ‘They both started working on the Bentley, and they had just covered it in foam when another vehicle drove into the forecourt. It went right around the side and parked in front of the kiosk just there, facing the exit, engine running, like he was nipping in for a newspaper.
    ‘I got out my phone to text a friend about something because I thought I’d be sitting there a wee while, so I wasn’t looking at the man as he got out of the car. But then I noticed Mr Gerrity getting down and lying on the wet ground. I thought he was looking under my car, but then I noticed that Mr McShane was doing the same, and that’s when I saw the man with the skull mask.’
    ‘Did he order you to lie down?’ Catherine asked them. ‘What did he say?’
    Gerrity looked to McShane, Catherine unable to quite read the dynamic. He was either deferring to the older guy for an official response or asking whether he had permission to answer.
    ‘“Lie down,”’ said McShane. ‘That’s all. Two words. It was enough, with the gun and the mask. I just assumed we were getting knocked over.’
    ‘And no doubt wondering who might be desperate, crazy or just ignorant enough to rob a business belonging to Stevie Fullerton?’ Catherine suggested. She allowed a twinkle of humour to come into her eye, inviting him to betray his agreement with a smile. None came, which told her plenty. He was acting out of fear rather than loyalty. That would make him an easier nut to crack. She just had to make herself a