Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘DCI Haddock?’ he ventured as he took a seat and laid a briefcase on the table. ‘Paul Dorward.’ He extended a hand, then withdrew it. ‘No, the First Minister says we can’t do that, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Consider it shaken.’

  ‘My boss, my father, sends his apologies.’

  ‘That’s a first,’ McClair chuckled. ‘Arthur and apologies haven’t been found in the same sentence until now.’

  The young man smiled. ‘Actually, he doesn’t. I made that up because I feel as if he’s thrown me in at the deep end.’

  ‘This is not deep,’ Haddock promised. ‘Lottie Mann, through in Glasgow, she can go down a few fathoms, but this is a paddling pool by comparison. So, what did Arthur bottle out of telling us himself? Have you drawn a blank at the three locations we asked you to test? Or are you going to need more time?’

  ‘Neither,’ Dorward replied, as he opened the briefcase and took out a folder. ‘I’ve finished all three locations. None of them were complicated. Mr Stevens’ property was brand new when he moved in, and the builder must have cleaned it thoroughly before the handover. I feared there would be multiple samples from painters, carpet fitters et cetera, but there were very few. Mr Stevens himself, his carers, yourself, Inspector McClair, and your colleague, PC Benjamin. There was one familial sample among them. Did Mr Stevens have a daughter?’ The DI nodded confirmation. ‘I assumed as much. There was another familial pairing, two brothers, but not connected to Mr Stevens. This is guesswork on my part, but I’d say they were the removal contractors who helped him move in. The location of their samples were consistent with that. I expect you’ll be able to confirm it fairly easily.’

  ‘The daughter will be able to help us confirm hers, I’m sure,’ Haddock said. ‘What about the other scenes?’

  ‘Two elderly ladies, each of whom had lived alone for many years. As you would expect, their traces were all over the shop, but there were very few others. The Eyrie was an interesting place. There were recent signs of one individual rampaging through it. Fortunately, I was able to identify him—’

  ‘Sir Robert Skinner?’ Haddock ventured.

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Had to be. The gaffer told me he tore through the place looking for her after he found the henhouse opened and the chickens all killed. I guess you identified him in Mrs Alexander’s kitchen as well. He had to kick her door in.’

  ‘I did,’ the scientist confirmed. ‘And in Mr Stevens’ place, as he warned us we would. He said he called in on him just after he’d moved in, with a few people from the golf club. The club gave me a list of all their names and DNA samples are being obtained for elimination. That leaves me with two anomalies; DNA samples, so far unidentified, that were present in all the locations, one in all three, the other in Mr Stevens, and Mrs Alexander’s only. Both are white males, and one is considerably younger than the other. The younger’s the one that was present in every location. He has Scottish, English and Italian heritage. The older is Scottish with a dash of Irish. Neither of them is identifiable from any of the databases to which we have access.’

  ‘Can you be precise about age?’ McClair asked.

  ‘We haven’t really tried to pinpoint it but based on the limited analysis that I’ve done of the samples’ epigenetic markings . . . think of tree rings if you’re wondering what they are . . . the younger one’s maybe somewhere between twelve and sixteen. The older one is over sixty for sure.’ He closed the folder. ‘Does that take you any further?’ he asked.

  ‘That depends,’ Haddock answered. ‘Does it tell us that these three deaths were anything other than a series of consecutive misfortunes in a tight location? No, it doesn’t. But if we decide to regard them as suspicious, it does offer us a couple of suspects . . . and we may know who one of them is.’’

  Fifty-Six

  Noele McClair gazed at her host across the small table as he topped up her glass. ‘You do realise that this is a big step for me?’ she murmured. ‘Your invitation came out of the blue, and it’s the most like a proper date I’ve had in over a year. It’s Harry’s first sleepover with Granny in a while too.’

  ‘It’s just a home-delivery dinner with a friend, in his garden.’ Matthew Reid smiled. ‘Okay, we’re in an office pod, warm and under cover, not sitting out in the winter chill, but that’s one of the grey areas in the Blessed Clive’s strictures. Is it a date? If that’s what you want to call it, I’m flattered . . . very flattered, given that I’m at least twice your age.’

  ‘How old are you, Matthew?’

  ‘I’m seventeen in my heart,’ he replied. ‘That’s what a friend of mine used to say when someone asked him that question.’

  ‘Too young for me in that case,’ she grinned. ‘Do better.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve had my first shot of the AstraZeneca vaccine. Is that better?’

  ‘It’ll do,’ she conceded. ‘You don’t look it, I have to say. You’re sort of ageless. That’s the trouble with men; they can do that. How do you pull it off?’

  ‘By investing the best part of four hundred quid in a very good electric shaver,’ he ran his right hand over his hairless head, ‘to make sure that the grey is never seen. Not that there’s much left. I’d look like a bloody monk if I let it grow in.’

  ‘Where would your cell be if you were a monk?’

  He looked around the pod. ‘You’re probably sitting in it. This space is the centre of my world. It’s where I work, it’s where I do my most creative thinking, it’s where I spend most of my day, other than when I’m walking the dog.’

  ‘Where is the dog, by the way?’ McClair asked. ‘I was expecting his usual lavish welcome.’

  ‘Sunny’s on his holidays,’ Reid replied. ‘I put him in a boarding kennel every so often to give us a break from each other, and to help him socialise with other dogs; he’s still only a pup.’

  She picked up her wine glass and rolled its stem in her fingers. ‘This is nice.’

  ‘The Albarino or the glass?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘The wine is Martin Codax, and the container is Riedel. I prefer Spanish wines and I like to present them as they deserve.’

  ‘You prefer them to what?’

  ‘Almost everything. I’m no wine snob, Noele, I know what I like, and I don’t need to know why. What’s your preference?’ he asked.

  ‘I go for Sauvignon Blanc usually; I like New Zealand best.’ She swirled her glass again. ‘But I must admit I could get used to this.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said. ‘For next time.’

  ‘Next time’s at my place.’ The words escaped her lips without warning; she had simply spoken a thought. ‘So, Mr Mystery Writer,’ she said, moving on quickly to forestall any discussion, ‘what’s your own mystery? You came to my mother’s book group, and we’ve had a few walks and coffees, but I still don’t know anything about you, beyond what’s on the cover of your books. Your Wikipedia page tells me nothing.’

  ‘That’s because I edit it,’ he laughed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I suppose I want to know, first and foremost, whether there’s a Mrs Reid . . . or even a Mr Reid. You don’t live here all the time; you could have a spouse tucked away somewhere.’

  ‘Well, I don’t . . . but if I did,’ he added, ‘she’d be female.’

  ‘Where do you live when you’re not here? Where’s your other life?’

  ‘In Spain. My two lives tend not to overlap. When I’m away I avoid the ex-pat groups like the coronavirus. As it happens, I live not far from Bob Skinner’s place over there although he doesn’t know that. I really meant what I said about separate lives.’

  ‘I thought Sir Robert knew everything,’ she said.

  ‘Not quite. For all that we’re friends he knows very little about me. On the other hand, I know a lot about him, even where some of the bodies are buried, so
to speak.’

  ‘I sense that’s how you like it.’

  ‘You sense correctly. I create mysteries for a living, and it suits me to be a bit of a mystery myself.’

  ‘What do you know about me?’ Noele challenged.

  ‘I know that you’re thirty-four, divorced rather than widowed, although your former husband, Harry’s father, is deceased. You were educated at Whitehill Primary School, at Hamilton Grammar . . . which was Hamilton Academy in my youth . . . and at Glasgow Caledonian University. You were badly affected when Terry Coats was killed, not only by his death, but by that of the man who died with him: so badly that you were moved out of CID to keep you in the force. You’re getting over that now, I think, as witness you’re back in your old unit at Fettes.’ He reached his glass across the table and tapped hers, producing a clear crystal sound, ‘and you’re here tonight.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ she asked, suddenly defensive.

  ‘Have I been stalking you?’ he exclaimed, smiling. ‘Not unless following you on Instagram makes me one of those. Calling yourself by your married name on social media isn’t a very good way of disguising yourself, Noele Coats. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m a writer; information is one of my stocks in trade, plus I’m naturally curious. I know things, I hoard things; can’t help it.’

  ‘What else do you know? About people I know. Do my bosses have any secrets I could use against them?’

  ‘None that I know of,’ Reid admitted. ‘The new chief, McIlhenney, he was a surprise appointment to some because he wasn’t a shining light before he moved down to the Met, but he was involved in an undercover investigation in London that gave his reputation a big boost. Involved along with Bob Skinner in fact. Sir Robert has links with the security apparatus that persist.’

  Noele gasped. She drank more of her white wine, almost draining the glass. ‘I never knew that, Matthew. How come you do?’

  ‘I have links too,’ he replied, as he refilled her glass, finishing a second bottle. ‘Some of them are on the political side, some in business, one very good one is in the police. The fact is, Noele, guys who do what I do develop informants all over the place, but some of mine go back to before I became a professional mysterian. They’re all secure though; the one thing I’ve carried with me from my brief journalistic career is the first thing every new reporter is taught . . . never reveal your sources.’

  ‘I know about that one,’ she confirmed. ‘We run up against it frequently in CID. This hoard of knowledge that you have,’ she continued, ‘does it make its way into your books?’

  ‘Some of it does,’ he acknowledged. ‘Septimus Armour, my fictional pot of real gold, he isn’t based on anyone, but things about him might sound familiar. For example, he’s had a couple of wives and one of them was a politician.’

  She winced, but with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Ouch!’ she chuckled. ‘How did Bob Skinner take that?’

  ‘With equanimity,’ Reid replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think Bob’s ever read one of my books. He fakes it pretty well, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he read them?’

  ‘Dunno for sure, but possibly because he doesn’t want to put a friendship at risk.’

  Noele nodded. ‘I could see that.’ She sipped more of the Martin Codax. ‘How about me? Will I ever make it into a Septimus yarn? Or have I already, without knowing it?’

  ‘I haven’t known you long enough for that to be possible,’ he told her. ‘But I’ll make you a promise here and now. You won’t be, unless you really want to.’

  ‘I’ll defer a decision on that,’ she said, ‘until I get to know you a little better. Or doesn’t that happen, Matthew? Do people ever get to know you at all? Really well, I mean?’

  He gazed at her over his glass. ‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘Some have done. None of them are left, though.’

  She saw sadness in his eyes and fell silent for a while; she realised that she was waiting for him to make the next move but saw no sign of it coming.

  ‘Are you working on a book just now?’ she asked, eventually.

  He beamed, suddenly. ‘That is my second most-asked question,’ he laughed.

  ‘What’s the most asked?’ She was smiling too, knowing that she had not felt as relaxed in over a year and pleased that she could.

  ‘“Who’s going to play him in the TV series?”’ he answered.

  ‘There’s never been one?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, although I did have a close call once. A production company optioned the series; it got to the point where they sent me a script. I read it and I went mental. It bore no relation to anything I’d ever written, and it was shit to boot . . . not that I ever boot shit, you understand. I would like to have sunk a size ten into the writer, though. Suppose the project had made it all the way, it wouldn’t have gone beyond a second series. I’d have made a few quid but nothing spectacular, and the books would have been damned by association with the garbage I was shown. We were almost there too, almost at the stage where it was commissioned, when the station involved decided to go in another direction. I waved them happily off and kept the option money.’

  ‘Who would have played Septimus?’ Noele asked.

  ‘Christ knows. They never got to casting.’ Reid scowled, theatrically. ‘Probably Kate Winslet, the way things were heading.’

  She laughed. ‘Who would you have cast?’

  ‘Brendan Gleeson, no question.’

  Noele nodded. ‘Yes, I could see that,’ she agreed. ‘He’s a genius. But what about my other question?’ she went on. ‘Are you working on something just now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Reid admitted. ‘I am.’

  ‘Spoilers?’

  He grinned. ‘Really? You serious?’’

  ‘Go on,’ she persisted.

  ‘All I’ll say,’ he began with a show of reluctance, ‘is that I’m trying to write the perfect mystery novel.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s one with no crime and no perpetrator. The mystery is . . . is there a mystery at all? What’s real and what’s . . . ? You know the song.’

  ‘Eh?’ She stared at him. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait for the best part of a year to find that out.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can. I’m intrigued. My appetite is well whetted.’

  ‘Tough,’ Reid chuckled. ‘You’ll have to feed it something else.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘Will there be sex in it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t got that far yet. The grim truth is I doubt if I’d know how to go about making sex sound convincing. It’s been a long time since I did any research. I don’t even know if I’d be up to it.’

  ‘Me neither,’ she confessed. ‘I have my issues. But this I do know,’ she said slowly, her eyes holding him. ‘I’m not driving home tonight. And I’m not ageist, in any way.’

  He returned her gaze. ‘Neither am I, within conventional limits. But I was serious, when I said I don’t know whether I’m up to it these days.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, with the right kind of encouragement.’

  ‘It would mean us going into the house,’ he pointed out. ‘Is that within the current lockdown rules, officer?’

  ‘I think it is,’ Noele said. ‘If not, I can always issue us with spot fines.’

  Fifty-Seven

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, boss,’ Tiggy Benjamin said as she laid a mug on Noele McClair’s desk. She was still unsure about being on first-name terms with senior officers. ‘You looked miles way there.’

  ‘My thoughts would cost you a hell of a lot more than that,’ the DI replied, sincerely. ‘Thanks for the coffee. It’s needed. A bacon roll would have been nice too.’

  ‘I could go to the canteen if y
ou like.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Tiggy,’ she laughed. ‘I was kidding. Besides, you and DS Singh need to track down Master Rory Graham. Kid gloves, mind, Tarvil,’ she called out. ‘He’s a minor.’

  McClair smiled softly as the two detectives headed for the door. In fact, she had been thinking that she had made an old man very happy, or a happy man very old, or possibly even both, at the same time. She had undressed in Matthew Reid’s en-suite, emerging to find him beneath the duvet with the room lit by a single bedside lamp. It was evident as soon as she slipped in beside him that his doubts about his capabilities had been unwarranted. In a night of surprises, in retrospect one of the biggest was the fact that she had not thought once of Terry or Griff Montell. They had been careful with each other, making love twice, on either side of a few hours’ sleep, and from her perspective the exchanges had been both very satisfying and guilt free. She had left the bungalow at seven fifteen, unobserved by any neighbours.

  ‘Is this going to happen again?’ he had asked, as she emerged from his bathroom once more, fully clothed.

  She had smiled, experiencing a strange mix of happiness at having knocked down an invisible wall and satisfaction that she felt not a scrap of guilt or embarrassment. ‘I told you last night. My place next time.’

  Do I really want a next time? she asked herself as she relived the exchange. ‘Yes,’ she answered, in a whisper, loud enough to cause DS Jackie Wright to glance across the space between their workstations. ‘Yes, I bloody do.’

  She took out her phone and called his. When he answered she could hear background noise, the whistling of the wind, she thought. ‘Are you busy?’ she asked him.

  ‘We’re on the beach,’ he replied. ‘Sunny and me; I picked him up from the kennels at nine and brought him straight here. How about you?’

  ‘I’m in the office. At the moment it feels as if I’ve exchanged one desk for another. Two of my colleagues have just headed out to track down and interview a kid who might be a witness, might even be something more. I’m stuck here reading up on open investigations. Truth, I would rather be with you. What’s it like? The sun’s shining here.’