Page 14 of Better the Devil

‘It’s fine. Honest. Cheers for the chocolate,’ Dave said. ‘Joe, isn’t it?’

The old man sat straighter on the rustic wooden bench. ‘Joseph Malcolm Robertson. Born January fourteenth, nineteen-fifty-nine, Raigmore Hospital, Inverness. Parents, Agnes Smith, born?—’

‘Eh, that’s fine,’ Dave said, cutting the man off before he could deliver his entire life story. ‘So… You alright with “Joe,” aye?’

‘That’s OK, yes,’ Joe said, and though he attempted to hide his disappointment, he didn’t make a very good job of it. ‘I can write those details down for you, if it’ll be useful. I can send them over. We do email now. My grandson put it in the computer for us.’

‘I’ll get back to you on that,’ Dave told him. ‘I was just hoping you could talk me through what happened tonight. When you found the body.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Joe chewed thoughtfully on his own bit of Toblerone for a few moments, then nodded to indicate he was ready. ‘Mr Robertson was proceeding along a quiet stretch of the A95 as part of his usual nightly?—’

‘Why are you doing it like that?’ Dave interjected.

Across the table, Joe blinked in confusion. ‘Like what?’

‘In third person. Like you’re talking about someone else.’

‘I thought that would make it easier for your report,’ the old man explained. ‘You could just write down what I said, exactly as I said it.’

‘Right. Well, cheers for that, but you’re fine. Just tell me in your own words.’

‘In my own words?’ Joe placed his hands flat on the old oak table and moved them back and forth, like he was grounding himself on the worn wood. ‘Right. OK. Well, I was out on my evening patrol, as usual.’

‘Patrol?’

‘Aye. With HAWKS.’

A crease appeared on Dave’s otherwise mostly smooth forehead. ‘You were patrolling with hawks?’

‘Aye. Wait, no. I don’t mean… Not the birds. I’m not the Hawkmaster, or anything.’

Joe reached a hand down beside him to the bench, then held up a bright yellow hi-vis vest. The letters HAWKS were emblazoned across the front, formed from strips of black electrical tape.

‘Highland Area Watch Keepers Society,’ Joe announced, pointing to each letter in turn.

Dave’s initial thought about an organisation dedicated to the ownership of timepieces was quickly replaced by a much more sensible suggestion.

‘Oh right, aye. You mean like a Neighbourhood Watch, sort of thing?’

‘Ha! Oh, you could say that! You could say we’re a Neighbourhood Watch sort of thing,’ Joe replied, though he seemed to be scoffing at the idea. ‘If you think the Territorial Army’s the special forces. Or… or a traffic warden’s the head of CID.’

The old man tapped at each of the letters again, reiterating their significance.

‘Highland Area Watch Keepers Society.Highland Area,’ he stressed. ‘That’d be an awfully big neighbourhood, would it not? The neighbourhood watches, they’re important, aye. They’re vital out here, but they’re just cogs in the machine. HAWKSisthe machine. That’s the best analogy I can give you. There’s really no way to accurately describe it.’

‘Right.’ Dave glanced down at his notebook. He was yet to write anything in it. ‘So, it’s like a network of Neighbourhood Watches, then?’

Joe hesitated, then quietly swallowed the remains of his Toblerone. ‘Aye, I suppose you could describe it like that, right enough.’

Dave smiled encouragingly. ‘Good. Right. So, you’re a volunteer, and?—’

‘Pfft! A volunteer? A volunteer, he says! I’m the coordinator for the Aviemore-adjacent branch of the organisation. I manage all the other local volunteers.’

‘In Aviemore?’ Dave asked.

Joe shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘In the area adjacent to Aviemore. Aviemore itself is Callum Walker’s territory,’ he said, and Dave got the impression that this was a bone ofcontention for the old man. ‘I’m coordinator everywhere north of Aviemore and south of Boat of Garten.’

Dave couldn’t quite visualise what that might look like on a map, but it struck him as quite a small area with not very much in it.