Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘No, I have a pot of Singapore curry in the cupboard. That’s my lunch plan. Actually, I have two if you fancy.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  She frowned in his direction. ‘Right, now we’ve sorted out the menu, are you going to tell me what the fuck this is about? Professional not personal, you said, yet here I am feeding a family.’

  ‘Have you heard any talk in your office,’ he began, ‘about a homicide in Glasgow last week, in a flat in Candleriggs? It would be very hushed talk, I should tell you, because the death occurred in a flat owned by MI5 and used as its presence in Glasgow.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a whisper, but if it only happened last week, and no arrest’s been made it wouldn’t have got to my level yet. Who’s the victim?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, nor do the Glasgow Serious Crimes squad . . .’

  ‘Lottie Mann’s outfit?’ she asked, cutting across him.

  ‘Yes. You know her?’

  ‘We’ve met. My dad asked me to sort out a custody problem she was having with her ex-cop ex-husband. Lottie’s top talent. What’s the problem with the victim ID?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me, but the thinking is—’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she exclaimed interrupting once more. ‘Why would they tell you? You’re a civilian now, Andy.’

  ‘I’m also a suspect, it seems. Traces of my DNA were recovered at the scene. Lottie and an insolent little twat of a detective sergeant hauled me in for a formal interview a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Without legal representation?’

  ‘I was invited to bring a lawyer. I chose not to because I had no idea what it was about. I’ve spent the last two days brooding about it, until this morning I decided I had to see you.’

  ‘Andy, I couldn’t represent you, not without resigning as an AD and I don’t want to do that at this stage.’

  ‘I know that, but if it came to it, you could find me a capable substitute, yes?’

  ‘Yes, I could,’ she said. ‘While I’m doing my stint as a prosecutor, my associate Johanna DaCosta’s fronting my office. She’s excellent and I can put you together. But it won’t come to that, will it?’

  ‘I hope not, but I don’t like the way the thing’s heading. I told them I had no idea how my DNA got there, but the fact is, I do.’

  She gasped. ‘You lied to Lottie Mann?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘I wasn’t under oath, Alex, but in any event, I didn’t see how I could tell her the truth. Thing is, I have been in that flat. When I was chief, there was a situation. The Security Service had credible information that a terrorist cell had a dirty bomb and were planning to set it off on Pacific Quay. Amanda Dennis, the Director General, contacted me directly and asked me for manpower. She flew up and I met her there, in that flat; just me, her and one other; no other officer was involved, not even your uncle, Lowell Payne, the counter-terrorism ACC. We met, assistance was promised and given and the threat was neutralised.’

  ‘I don’t remember that ever getting to court.’

  ‘It didn’t. Don’t you go asking Payne about it either.’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell Lowell,’ she suggested, ‘to get Lottie off your back?’

  ‘I’m not sure it would. Mann said that two of my hairs were found in the victim’s blood. I don’t doubt that because I know how good Dorward and his people are, but if I say that they’ve been there for four or five years, it’s a flimsy defence.’

  ‘Defence against what? That isn’t nearly enough to charge you. It’s nothing. Christ if they don’t even know whose the body is . . .’

  ‘They asked me about a man named Clyde Houseman. He’s Dennis’ spook in residence in Scotland. I denied all knowledge of him, but the fact is I have met him. He was the third person at the meeting I told you about. I assume it was him that neutralised the threat.’

  ‘Even so, if it is him, it’s still possible that your five-year-old hair sample got mixed in with his blood. They don’t have enough, Andy, not enough.’

  He winced, as he cut the children’s sandwiches into quarters pointing at their backs through an open hatch. ‘There might be, with the icing on the cake. I’m pretty sure that Houseman’s sleeping with their mother.’

  Fifty-One

  Detective Constable Tiggy Benjamin gazed around the Serious Crimes squad room, failing to disguise her excitement at being there. She knew none of her new colleagues other than DI McClair but guessed that at twenty-two she was the youngest person in the room by at least five years. Further, she surmised that there were not too many younger than the boss.

  The newly minted DCI Haddock smiled at her from behind his desk as she and Noele McClair stepped into the former conference room that he had commandeered as his office. Its windows offered views of two schools, the architecturally bland Broughton High, which faced the building, and on a slope above, on the other side of Carrington Road, the independent Fettes College, a great baronial edifice with a dash of a French chateau in its design. A cold snap had hit the city overnight. Grey slush lay on the roads and pavements, and fine snowflakes fell lazily down to augment it.

  ‘I was bricking it too on my first day in CID, DC Benjamin,’ Haddock said, as they took seats. ‘I wasn’t much older than you either, and I wasn’t sure I would survive, but I did, because my boss had faith in me, and because I was mentored by a great guy, Sammy Pye, who should be here today, in this chair but isn’t. Pye and Haddock: they used to call us The Menu. Neither of us liked that much, but if I could have him back, they could call us anything they bloody liked and I’d take it happily. DI McClair will be your mentor. You’re here on her recommendation, so it’s only right that she looks after you. I’m hoping that it works out as well for you as it has for me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she responded, her voice almost a squeak. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you will, because Noele won’t accept anything less. One thing before we go any further. I don’t like being called “sir” by anyone in this unit. “Boss” will be fine; once you’ve found your feet, you’ll probably wind up calling me “Sauce”,’ he jerked a thumb towards the squad room, ‘like most of those undisciplined bastards out there do.’

  Benjamin nodded and turned to the DI. ‘What do I call you, ma’am?’

  ‘“Noele” will be fine, most of the time. You’ll learn when it isn’t; mostly that will be when we’re on camera and audio with suspects and their lawyers. Recordings could wind up being played to a jury, so we have to be formal then.’

  ‘Your first interview will possibly include an appropriate adult as well,’ Haddock told her. ‘Has Noele briefed you on our call-out yesterday to what appeared to be a fatal accident in Gullane?’

  ‘Yes, she has. Was it really an accident, s— boss?’

  ‘Officially it is until it’s proved not to be.’

  ‘If that’s so,’ she ventured, ‘why is Serious Crimes involved? Why were you and Noele called to the scene?’

  ‘Not so much why,’ the DCI replied. ‘More a case of who called us. Sir Robert Skinner has my mobile number. He’s part of a coronavirus resilience group in Gullane. The victim was one of his clients, as was another accident fatality, Mrs Wendy Alexander. You were present at that scene, I believe.’

  ‘I was, boss, but it seemed pretty straightforward.’ She glanced at McClair for support. ‘Didn’t it, Noele? The old lady fell and hit her head on the corner of her kitchen table. You could see the mark.’ She touched her left temple.

  ‘That’s how it seemed,’ the DI confirmed. ‘As far as I’m concerned it’s still the likely explanation, but there is something that needs to be investigated, the link to the boy with the bike.’

  ‘The kid who knocked on Mike Wilson’s door?’ She glanced at Haddock. ‘Mrs Alexander’s upstairs neighbour,’ she explained.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Haddock said. ‘It appears the
boy was working for Mrs Eaglesham, yesterday’s victim.’

  ‘And he was outside Mr Stevens’ place,’ Benjamin added.

  ‘Exactly. So, as I told Noele yesterday, your first task as a CID officer is to find him. It won’t be easy without a photograph, but I suggest that you go back to Mr Wilson and get the best description he can give you, then take it to the head teachers at North Berwick High and the local primary schools.’

  ‘Can I do something else first, boss?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know a bit about bikes, so I’m pretty sure I know the kind the lad was riding. It was a VooDoo Canzo, a top spec full-suspension men’s mountain bike, and it looked fairly new. They don’t come cheap; they cost over four figures, so you don’t see them every day. Can I check with the specialist cycle shops and see if I can put together a list of buyers of that model in the last year or so? Even if they’re bought online, they’re still shipped out of stores.’

  ‘Absolutely, Tiggy,’ Haddock exclaimed, ‘get right on it.’ He grinned as he looked at McClair. ‘I think you were right about this one, Noele.’

  Fifty-Two

  Sir Andrew Martin and Johanna DaCosta had never met before she arrived at his home to take him to the police office in Govan, but he was instantly impressed by his new lawyer.

  ‘Before we do anything else,’ she said, in his hallway, ‘and before we leave here, are you sure you’re happy with the arrangements you’ve made for your children?’

  ‘I’m good,’ he replied. ‘She’s a professional child-minder Karen’s used for a while. I’ve arranged for her to pick them up from school and nursery . . . their mum’s classed as a key worker . . . and take them to her place until I come for them.’

  ‘Okay. If you weren’t, I’d be telling DCI Mann either to reschedule the interview or come to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’d do either of those things.’

  ‘She’d have to,’ DaCosta declared, ‘or be prepared to arrest you and risk a big public fuss. My sense, based on what Alex told me, is that they don’t want that. Whether the reasons are political, personal, or something else, that I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out today. Let’s go and find out.’

  The solicitor advocate’s car was a Ford Fiesta that had seen better days. She made room for her client by tossing a selection of confectionery wrappers, a dog lead and a rubber ball with toothmarks into the back seat. ‘This is more Alby’s car than mine,’ she confessed. Martin thought that Alby might welcome an upgrade but said nothing.

  The Fiesta was sportier than it looked. She accessed the motorway not far from Martin’s home and drove westward, fast and confidently. ‘How much did Alex tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘She told me that you withheld information at your first interview.’

  ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘No, she said you’d explain.’

  ‘I didn’t tell the police that I’d been there before because that visit involved a national security matter that’s still secret. I would trust Lottie Mann with the truth, but her DS is a sarky wee twerp who’d be stationed at the Celtic end in a blue suit if I was still chief. He’s definitely not on any need-to-know list.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘ACC Payne. He’s your boss’s uncle.’

  ‘Alex isn’t my boss,’ DaCosta pointed out. ‘I’m her associate. It’s her name over the door, but we aren’t a partnership.’

  ‘Neither were we, ultimately.’ He spoke quietly but she heard him and smiled.

  ‘Que sera, sera,’ she said. ‘Yes, she has mentioned ACC Payne, and I know what his role is. I’ll tell DCI Mann that you’re prepared to expand on your original statement but only if he’s in the room, and the sarky wee twerp isn’t.’

  The second invitation to the Glasgow Serious Crimes office had come in a telephone call from Mann herself, the afternoon before. She had told him that she spoke with the full authority of the chief constable, the clear implication being that a declination was not an option. She had given him twenty-four hours’ grace, to make arrangements for his children, ‘and to engage a lawyer, which I strongly advise you to do this time, sir.’

  ‘What are the cities like?’ Martin asked as they exited the motorway, and their destination came within sight. ‘Apart from my professional visit to Alex on Sunday, I haven’t been in one since lockdown began.’

  ‘Not quite as ghostly as last year,’ DaCosta told him, ‘but it’s eerie just the same. Most of the traffic is delivery vans. I do my supermarket shopping online too. In a way it makes me feel good, because I know I’m creating job opportunities.’

  ‘Are you single too?’

  ‘Apart from Alby, yes. He’s my regular exercise.’

  ‘Mine’s a run round Strathclyde Park when I don’t have the kids. Maybe I should get a dog too.’

  ‘Who’s going to walk it when you’re an MSP?’

  ‘Or when I’m in Barlinnie,’ he countered gloomily.

  She looked at him as she switched off the Fiesta’s engine. ‘Before we go in there,’ she asked, ‘is there anything else you need to tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t kill Clyde Houseman.’

  ‘Did you want to?’

  ‘No. If shagging my wife was grounds for homicide, there would be bodies all around.’

  ‘She isn’t your wife, Sir Andrew,’ DaCosta pointed out.

  ‘No, but I still think of her that way . . . which is why,’ he added, ‘Alex and I didn’t stay the course. Karen’s the mother of my kids and as long as she’s alive, that’ll always be special with me, always.’

  Mann was waiting for them behind the security screen in the police office. She was wearing a mask, as they were obliged to but hers was no sort of a disguise. ‘I saw you arrive,’ she said, ‘so I came down myself.’

  ‘You didn’t send Smeagol?’ Martin grunted.

  Lines around her eyes indicated a smile behind the mask. ‘That’s a new one. Usually he gets Frodo, or Bilbo. Arthur Dorward called him Tyrion last week; that was pretty good. John’s not so bad,’ she added. ‘I had Dan Provan at my side all my career. When he retired, his successor couldn’t be just any plod. Geordie midget he might be, but he’s a solid detective. Dan approves of him; he’s met him a few times.’

  Martin was seized with a sense of his own inadequacy as a chief constable. He knew that DS Dan Provan had been a legend in Glasgow policing circles, but they had never met.

  ‘However,’ Mann continued, ‘he won’t be with us this time. He’s on other duties; a more senior colleague will be sitting in. You’ll know ACC Lowell Payne, I assume, Sir Andrew.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Not well, but we met; I oversaw his department from a distance so our paths only crossed when necessary, which wasn’t very often. I’m glad he’ll be joining us, for reasons I will explain. Lead on.’

  ‘Let’s take the stairs,’ the DCI said. ‘The maximum capacity of the lift is two people; we’d have to do it in relays.’

  ACC Payne was waiting for them at the door of the interview room. He nodded, unsmiling, as they approached from the stairway doors. ‘Sir Andrew,’ he murmured. Martin surmised that even if a handshake had been permissible, it would not have been offered.

  ‘Lowell.’ He nodded, curtly. ‘This is Ms DaCosta, my solicitor; she’s here as a witness as much as an adviser. I thought we had dealt with this business last week, so I’m not best pleased to have been summoned here again.’

  ‘We take no pleasure from it either,’ the ACC replied, ‘but this is a serious situation. Let’s go.’

  Mann led the quartet into the room. It was not the one used in the first interview, but the layout was the same; windowless, with four seats at a table. There was a sound recorder, and another camera, mounted so that each person at the table was identifiable.

  ‘Who’s taking the lead?’ Martin as
ked.

  ‘DCI Mann,’ Payne replied. ‘She’s the SIO; I’m here as an observer in deference to your former rank.’

  The former chief constable surprised him by smiling. ‘That’s garbage, Lowell, and we both know it. You’re here in case this interview goes in a direction that’s above her pay grade. Ms DaCosta is here,’ he turned to her ‘. . . with all due respect, Johanna . . . because your niece can’t be, on account of her Crown Office role. But I have spoken to Alex, and she’s spoken to her dad, so I know everything that McIlhenney and McGuire know and that you do, that’s assuming they’ve shared it all with you. I’m going to spell it out, so you can decide who stays in the room, before the recording equipment gets switched on.’

  The ACC leaned back in his chair, eyeing Martin and drawing a deep breath. ‘If what you’re suggesting is that sensitive,’ he asked, ‘is it within Ms DaCosta’s pay grade?’

  ‘It is if we’re on the record.’

  Payne sighed. ‘Okay. Let’s have a private chat, you and me, off the record, up to a point. When we get to that point, I call Lottie and Ms DaCosta in, and we go formal. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ He turned to his lawyer once more. ‘Johanna, if you and DCI Mann will excuse us; I know this isn’t conventional but it’s probably best if you do.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, sir?’ Mann asked.

  ‘There’ll be no harm done,’ the ACC said. ‘I’m not going to sell your investigation down the river, that I promise you.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she replied. ‘We’ll be in my office. Come on, Ms DaCosta, let’s you and I get a cup of tea.’

  The two women left the room, replacing their masks for the short walk to Mann’s room. As the door closed behind them, Martin leaned forward, elbows on the desk. ‘You know what the Candleriggs place is, yes?’

  ‘I’ve been told,’ Payne said. ‘It’s owned, effectively, by the Security Service. When the body was discovered and we began our investigation, alarm bells went off in London. My bosses called me in and told me to keep a very close eye on the investigation, because of the political sensitivity as much as anything else. That fucking ball’s burst now, of course, with you in the SNP camp.’