1978, Dundee, Scotland. Newly assigned to CID, Elizabeth Burnet is seen as just a pretty face. So when she stumbles across evidence of a serial killer, dubbed ‘the Werewolf’, her theories are dismissed. This does not stop her investigating her hunches . . .

In this extract we are introduced to Elizabeth and her complacent colleagues.

The Friday Girl
By R. D. Mclean
Published by Black and White Publishing

Elizabeth Burnet pulls her coat tight. Not simply for the cold. She’s being watched.

High-heeled shoes clatter on concrete slabs. She might topple. Doesn’t like heels. Never has.

But:

You need to look the part.

Christ.

Feeling foolish. Done up like a hoor, her mother would say. So much for her ‘respectable’ profession.

Dudhope Park should be safe. But in the past four weeks, several women have been approached. The man’s behaviour escalates with each encounter.

No rapes.

Yet.

But:

It’s a possibility.

Eyes on her.

Walk faster.

The heels make it difficult.

Someone approaching. Didn’t see him on the main path earlier. Maybe waiting in the bushes?

Male. Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Big coat. Holding it closed. Maybe – like Burnet – protection against the bitter cold.

Aye. Right.

Instinct: get away from him.

But Burnet tells herself:

Just a man going for a stroll through the park. Heading home after work.

Until he proves otherwise.

Closer. Clock bare ankles and calves, feet in brogues. Pale sticks rising out of the shoes. A few inches of flesh beneath the trailing edges of the coat.

Keep walking.

Don’t run.

Look up. Stare straight ahead.

Not her first flasher. Ask a room full of women: most will raise their hand if asked about being approached by a man with ill intentions, or with his dick in his hand.

First time for Burnet: age eleven.

She ran away. He shouted after her. All the things he wanted to do.

Eleven years old.

Don’t do anything to antagonise him. You’re just walking to work. You haven’t seen anything unusual. This goes better if you just act normal.

Close now. Wanting to make eye contact.

Burnet looks away.

He steps in front of her.

Here we go.

The coat opens. Erect. Wild grin.

Eyes rolling in their sockets. Groin pumping: a bad parody of John Travolta.

More John Revolting.

Burnet can’t see anyone nearby. Just lines of bushes and trees. No people.

Oh, Christ.

Her heart does a pitter-patter rhythm. Bad jazz syncopation.

‘You’re doing this to me,’ the man says. ‘Allayouse cunts do this to me. Not my fault.’

He shrugs off the coat. Comes at her. Wiry and strong.

He reaches out.

She can’t move.

Instincts kick in.

Literally.

Boot in the balls.

‘Fuck!’

On his knees. Retching.

Now: footsteps. Male voices.

About time!

She stops herself putting a heel through his eye. Or anywhere lower. These heels could puncture his ballsack.

The Detective Sergeant is in his forties, panting, out of shape. Red face. A coronary on legs.

‘Where were you?’ Burnet asks.

He points back to the bushes.

Two uniforms cuff the pervert. He screams and yells as they haul him to his feet. Burnet notes his dick is no longer proud.

The pervert’s eyes blaze. ‘Bitch could have ruptured my balls!’

Detective Sergeant Coronary recovers his breath, straightens up, gets in the pervert’s face. ‘The least you deserve.’ Slams his forehead into the man’s nose. The pervert falls back.

DS Coronary shakes his head. “Rapists . . . worse than bloody poofters.” Low laughter from the other officers. At least one of them nervous.

Burnet remains impassive. No point saying anything.

The uniforms keep the pervert on his arse. He looks like a tortoise turned over on its shell. Except the tortoise has more dignity.

‘Cold weather,’ DS Coronary says. ‘Best to watch out. The ground can get slippery. What do they call it?’

A uniform nods in agreement. ‘Black frost.’

‘Aye,’ Coronary says. ‘Black frost.’

The uniforms get the perv back up onto his feet, haul him out the park, and into the back of the wagon.

Coronary comes over to Burnet. Hand on her shoulder.

‘You all right, love?’

She almost corrects him – constable – but decides he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Choose your battles. ‘Aye. Just, for a moment, I thought maybe no one was watching.’

‘Lass like you?’ Stepping back, looking her up and down.

‘Come on! How could we not watch?’

Deep breath. Tight smile. ‘Can we go back to the station?’ she says. ‘These shoes are killing me.’

* * *

The newly built HQ on West Bell Street. Brutalist. Intimidating.

On the third floor, Burnet changes back into uniform.

She washes off makeup. Pauses. A long look in the mirror.

Better without the slap. More real. Like herself. But Coronary – can’t even remember his real name; just another DS – insisted she wear it during the operation.

The kind of girls this wacko goes for, he’d told her, all of them dressed like they were asking for it. Shaking his head. Honestly, what is it with you girls? Need to take better care of yourselves. Think how you look, what kind of message it sends.

Burnet’s seen the files. The Pervert doesn’t care whether his victims are tarted up, dressed down, young or old. Not what it’s about for men like him. But what would she know? Just a bloody woman, isn’t she?

The door opens. Another WPC. Looking tired. Maybe just off shift. Checks herself in the mirror beside Burnet.

‘Heard you were on flasher detail,’ the WPC – Caroline, that’s her name – says.

Burnet nods. Keeps looking at her reflection. Something’s missing. She doesn’t know what.

‘They put you in the hoor getup?’

‘Apparently, that’s the only thing these men go for.’

‘You know it’s bollocks, right?’

‘Oh, aye.’

Caroline finishes. ‘For their own pleasure more than for bait.’

‘They’re the ones in charge.’

‘Aye. Unfortunately.’ Caroline nods at Burnet’s reflection, then leaves.

Burnet stays. Thinks about the things women say to each other in these situations. Why they don’t talk about it to the people who might be able to make a difference.

Not that she’s unaware of the answer.

* * *

The canteen. Quiet.

Burnet grabs a bacon roll, still nervy from the encounter with the pervert. Skin jangling. One question dominating her thoughts – what took them so long to react?

She imagines: DIs behind the bushes sneaking a fag break (with hip-flask chaser). DIs watching the guy get his dick out; having a good old laugh, all boys together, taking bets on whether the perv has the balls to follow through. On whether Burnet panics. Or screams.

‘This taken?’

DS Dow. Early fifties, built like a collection of tangled pipe-cleaners. A shock of hair so pure white you’d swear he was born with it.

Her fists unbunch.

Dow’s good people. One of the few. The uncle you wish you had. He served in the war, but discusses it fleetingly. Did his duty, but would rather forget he ever had to.

Sometimes the men who were too young to be called up rattle on about the war like a glorious crusade. Dow never corrects them, but it’s clear from his expression he thinks they’re talking out of their arses.

He takes a sip of tea. Looks at her with bright blue eyes that belong to a man several decades younger. Crow’s feet crinkle.

Dow has a son. Grown, now. Never mentions him. Never talks about his home life.

Burnet doesn’t mind. Makes believe that he thinks of her like a daughter. Maybe true, maybe not.

‘I heard you were the lucky one today,’ he says.

‘How could I say no? You know about this one, right?’

‘I heard. Escalating attacks. Exposure to assault. You got him before he moved to rape.’

‘Today could have been the day.’ Still thinking: what took the DIs on backup so long to intervene?

‘But it wasn’t.’

Dow’s concerned; it’s in the way he looks at her. But he can’t understand how it felt, in that moment. ‘You booted him in the balls?’

That makes her smile. ‘Aye.’

‘See, he didn’t have a choice.’

She shakes her head. ‘Maybe,’ she says.

Dow stands. ‘I just wanted to check in. Supposed to be in a briefing but needed a cup of tea first. When you get to my age, no one cares if you sneak in a few minutes late.’ He lingers for a moment, brow crinkling again like he’s trying to work out if he said what he needed to. Then: ‘I’m an old dodderer, I know. But if you need someone to talk to, all that shite . . .’ He seems to think about that for a second. ‘I’ve two girls of my own. You know that, aye?’

She nods.

Dow clears his throat. ‘That’s all it is. I’d be proud if they did something like you. Choosing a career, I mean.’

She lets him leave.

Thinks about her own father. Every night, when she gets home: Girls your age don’t need careers. They need to get married.

Her father. Younger than Dow, yet somehow more old-fashioned and out of touch.

She used to think Dow represented hope. But beneath that, a more cynical part of her wonders if he’s just a tease, the universe showing her what she wants, and telling her that it’ll never really be there.

The Friday Girl by R. D. Mclean is published by Black and White Publishing, priced £9.99.