Free The Trinity by David LaBounty Page B

breach of a quiet and almost holy night, this trespass against a young and seemingly harmless family just minding their business.
    Robertson continues. His questions are over. This is the first crime he will have to solve where the perpetrator is not some familiar drunk or some abusive husband. “Look,” he says, “I’ll phone this friend of mine straight away to board up this window, and if you think of anything, you know, anything that might seem relevant to the matter at hand, call me right away.”
    Beasley nods, sniffles, the tip of his nose growing numb but he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel anything but despair starting to be replaced with anger.
    He looks at Robertson, seems to notice him for the first time. “When I know who did it, I’ll kill ’em, jail or no jail, Navy or no Navy.”
    Robertson nods and understands. Anger and vengeance transcend borders and oceans. “Not to worry, lad. I’m on it straight away, and,” he adds, “if you or the lass need anything, for yourselves or the baby, you call me. I can be reached twenty-four hours a day.” He hands Beasley his business card; he has written his home phone number and address on the back.
    Robertson feels sorry for the young sailor, and Robertson is not usually sympathetic. His years of mundane police work have made him sort of callous, but the proximity to Christmas, the new baby and Beasley’s obvious youth has touched him. He wants to reach out to this young American.
    But Beasley spurns him. “We don’t need anybody.” He walks inside and Robertson watches him put a blanket around his wife, still sitting at the kitchen table.
    Robertson walks the few blocks back to his office and turns on the hotplate upon his arrival. Tea is definitely in order. He telephones and rouses out of bed an acquaintance in the neighboring village to patch up the window in the Beasley house, and then he telephones the sergeant on duty in Dundee, at the headquarters of the Tayside Police. The sergeant is puzzled; that sort of crime doesn’t happen in the hinterlands of their region.
    “Write a report and send it in,” he tells Robertson. “Looks like you’ll have a wee bit of police work for a change,” he adds sarcastically.
    Robertson puts his feet on the desk and waits for the water to boil. He notes the time, not quite 4 a.m. Daylight is still six hours away here in the land as far north as Alaska.
    The kettle whistles and he makes his tea, lots of milk and lots of sugar. He plugs in his newly requisitioned electric typewriter and feeds the form used for reporting incidents. He then realizes this is the first crime he will have to try to solve, to find clues and sort them out. He dashes out of the office, leaving the light on and the door unlocked and his hat still on top of the coat rack. He runs to the Beasley house.
    “I need the rock and the note,” he tells Frank. “It’s evidence.” He takes the items back to his one-room station. He is not sure what to do with them, but they somehow seem significant.
    He finishes his cup of tea and makes another and notes the milkman driving down High Street, starting his day. Robertson feels somehow important; he is the one responsible for maintaining the routine of the village, and an interloper has intruded and infringed upon the tranquility.
    He thinks about returning home to catch a few more hours of sleep, waking up to a nice breakfast, sausage maybe, black pudding, a fried egg, but decides against it. He will wait until the detective bureau in Dundee reports in for the day and he will telephone them and ask them to look at his evidence and dust it for fingerprints.
    He sits at his desk and taps his fingers, waiting to begin.

The flight from London to Aberdeen is short, perhaps an hour and a little more. The plane is small but crowded. Chris is starting to feel the fatigue of travel and he pays little attention to the other passengers, just listens to the accents of the crew and others talking, his ears