Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Same in Gullane. The tide’s out so we can walk from one end of the beach to the other then back again. I walk, Sunny runs. It’s a rather nice morning and I feel at peace with myself in a way I haven’t for a while.’

  ‘Me too, Matthew, me too. Mind you, I admire your stamina,’ she chuckled. ‘I thought you’d be having a lie-in.’

  ‘I have no choice in the matter. The boy’s body clock is incredible; he knows what happens at given times of the day almost down to the minute, and if they don’t, God help me. Besides, I probably had as much sleep as I get most nights, and I didn’t burn myself out, thanks to your energy. One of the great things about an Apple watch is its heart-rate monitor. Mine was remarkably steady. But what about you? Is this where you tell me that there’s no future in it so let’s make it a one-off?’

  ‘No, it’s where I ask you what you’re doing on Friday night.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Matthew, I went through a whole marriage wondering what an orgasm was, but I had one last night . . . and another this morning.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ She sensed his smile. ‘I thought you were just being polite.’

  ‘I don’t do that any longer, I promise you. As for the future, to hell with long-term thinking. My place, as I promised. I’ll even cook, and if you want to stay for breakfast that’s good too. The only thing is, it’s contingent on me fixing another sleepover for Harry. My mum has something on, but I think I know somewhere he could go.’

  ‘I’ll need to find lodgings for Sunny as well, but yes, that would be good. I should tell you I will be giving up the virtual pub night on Zoom that the Friday gang have been doing all through lockdown. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘I am truly humbled, sir. I’ll call you tonight once I’ve made my arrangements for Harry.’

  Fifty-Eight

  Seventeen Raglan Place was not what either Singh or Benjamin had been expecting. Maps had shown them that the street was in Edinburgh’s West End, not far from the Caledonian Hotel, where the buildings were elegant Georgian terraces. They had assumed that it would be a flat conversion or possibly even an entire house, depending on how well-heeled Rory Graham’s parents were.

  In the event when they reached the address, they found that it was an office. The brass plate at the door read ‘Pottender Limited’ but offered no more information. The DS pressed the buzzer above it.

  ‘Aye?’

  The voice was male, definitely Scottish, and its owner sounded suspicious, by nature suspicious.

  ‘Police,’ Singh growled.

  ‘What do yis want?’

  ‘You opening the door would be a good start,’ he boomed.

  ‘Aye, but what do yis want?’

  ‘Nothing we’re going to talk to you about on the doorstep. DS Singh and DC Benjamin, Edinburgh Serious Crimes. Don’t make your day any worse.’

  ‘Aye all right, but Mr Potter’s no gonnae like it.’

  ‘That may well be the case,’ the DS said as a buzz told him the lock had been disabled, ‘whoever the fuck he is,’ he added quietly as he pushed the heavy door open and ushered Benjamin inside.

  The doorkeeper was seated behind an oak desk in a badly lit but well-furnished room. The DC’s initial thought, that he might have been Rory, was banished as soon as she saw him, in his early twenties with short bleach-blond hair and a ring through his right nostril. He wore a purple suit with an unbuttoned Nehru jacket, and an open-necked white shirt.

  ‘What is this place?’ Singh asked as he and his colleague displayed their credentials.

  ‘Like it says on the door; Pottender Management. Haud on, I’ll let Mr Potter ken you’re here.’

  ‘No need, Rupert,’ a voice advised as a door opened on the officers’ right and a tall man in his forties stepped into the room. ‘There’s a second speaker from the door-entry system in my office,’ he explained. The accent was predominantly Scottish, but with a hint of something else. ‘Come on through; whatever Rupert said, I’m always happy to assist the police. My name’s Gerry Potter, and my business is talent management. I’m an agent, broadly based across the entertainment industry. I represent musicians, comedians, actors and film and television professionals on both sides of the camera. Don’t mind Rupert, by the way. He’s got a part coming up in River City, and I’m trying to get him into character. He’s very good, actually. You’d never know he was a vicar’s son from Salisbury.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Singh agreed as they stepped into a much larger room, with a window that offered a view of Coates Place. ‘I was prepared to lift the cheeky bastard.’

  A bizarre possibility was developing in Benjamin’s mind. ‘Mr Potter,’ she began, ‘do you have a client named Rory Graham, a teenage boy?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I do. Rory’s one of ours, I’m pleased to say; he’s doing very well for a boy of his age, but he’s not getting ahead of himself. He’s coached by his mother at the moment, but he’s planning to go to drama school when he’s old enough. In the meantime, he’s landed quite a few small roles in TV dramas and independent films, and he’s been in a couple of TV commercials. They pay very well, I should tell you. Why are you asking about him?’

  The DC glanced up at her sergeant who nodded. ‘We’re trying to trace him,’ she continued, ‘in connection with an investigation.’

  ‘What’s its nature?’ Potter asked, immediately more serious.

  ‘There have been a series of deaths in Gullane, in East Lothian, involving old people. On the face of it they’re all accidental, but we’re looking into them just in case they aren’t. The only concrete link between them is the presence of a teenage boy on a bike, and we have information that it might be Rory.’

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ Singh said. ‘We need to trace him, Mr Potter. We need you to give us his home address . . . and don’t try to fob us off with client confidentiality. You’re not a lawyer.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to; Rory’s upstairs, in our apartment, home-schooling with Constanza, my wife. His full name is Rory Graham Potter and he’s my son. He doesn’t use his family name on his Equity card. With me doing what I do it wouldn’t look so good. There might be accusations of me favouring him over other young clients, although that’s something I absolutely do not do.’

  ‘May we speak to him . . . with you or his mother present, of course.’

  ‘Yes, you may,’ the father said, ‘but first let me explain the background. Sit down, please.’

  The room was furnished with a desk, a table and four chairs, and a three-piece suite facing a wall-mounted television above a fireplace. It felt like a den as much as an office. Singh chose the sofa, as if he doubted that the armchairs could accommodate his bulk.

  ‘Yes,’ Potter admitted, ‘Rory was in Gullane. But it was a job, a professional engagement.’

  ‘To do what?’ the DS asked.

  ‘Film work. I was approached by a man who said he was a docu-maker, planning a fly-on-the-wall film about village life in lockdown and beyond, with Gullane as the subject. But before he committed to it, he wanted to see if it would work in practice. He wanted to hire a young actor to work to a script, insinuating himself into post-Covid village life, meeting people, helping people and all the time being discreetly filmed. He said he wanted to prove to himself that the project was viable and had merit before taking it to the villagers and asking for their cooperation, with sample footage to win them over. He told me that he had development funding from Amazon with a commitment to bankroll a full-scale production. I was convinced, and Rory fitted the bill exactly, so I put him forward.’

  ‘What was his name? Louis Theroux?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Potter said. ‘He introduced himself as Alan Campbell. I asked him if he had a showreel. He said no, but he
described himself as an emerging talent straight out of film school and said more or less that if he had Amazon behind him who the fuck was I to question his credentials.’

  ‘Can you give us contact details?’ Benjamin asked.

  ‘Only an email address I’m afraid. That’s how he contacted me.’

  ‘How about a description?’

  Potter frowned and looked away. ‘We’ve never actually met,’ he admitted.

  Singh leaned forward, his eyebrows in a hard line. ‘Has he paid you yet? Have you got bank details?’

  ‘Cash. A package containing five grand was dropped off by a bicycle courier the day after I agreed to the project. It was fifty per cent up front.’

  ‘That didn’t strike you as iffy, Mr Potter?’

  ‘This business is not always conventional, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘So let me get this right. You took the money, and you sent your son out to do the bidding of a man you’d never met, with no credentials other than an email address and a wadge of cash?’

  Potter recoiled from his gaze. ‘It doesn’t sound good, does it?, when you look at it dispassionately.’

  ‘Without the lure of a brown envelope full of washable banknotes? No, it doesn’t. Can we see Rory now?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll go and get him.’

  Singh rose to his feet. ‘I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sergeant, my wife’s there,’ Potter protested. ‘She doesn’t know about this. How can I explain your presence?’

  ‘You can tell her I’m Harvey fucking Weinstein for all I care.’

  Benjamin waited as the two men left the room, wondering whether Potter was naïve, or greedy, an out-and-out liar or simply a man trying to do the best for his son. She knew that ten thousand would pay for more than half a year’s school fees at George Heriot’s College and if it was tax free, as cash payments often were, so much the better.

  Armed with her knowledge of his background, she recognised Rory Graham Potter as soon as he walked into the room, between his father and Singh, not as the kid who had all but knocked her over outside Michael Stevens’ flat, but as a mouthy young patient in an episode of Holby City, the BBC medical soap.

  Singh grinned at her as he closed the door. ‘He told his wife that I work for a film casting company,’ he said. ‘It makes a change from being taken for a bouncer. Actually, I was a bouncer, once upon a time.’ He turned to the boy, who appeared more curious than concerned as he sprawled on the sofa. His hair was longer than Benjamin remembered it, but that could be said of most people since hairdressers were closed by Covid. He wore a Ralph Lauren sweatshirt with a bear on the front and white cotton trousers, rather than the puffer jacket and jeans that she had seen before.

  ‘This is no more than an informal chat, Rory,’ the DS began, once all four were seated. He took out a pocket recorder and placed it on the coffee table. ‘For everyone’s protection, I’m going to record it, and I suggest that your dad does the same.’ Potter senior nodded agreement and turned on his phone’s voice-memo facility. ‘I don’t want you to feel threatened by us in any way,’ Singh continued. ‘Your father’s here to make sure of that.’

  ‘I’m cool,’ the boy said. ‘It’s better than doing maths with Mum. What’s it about?’

  ‘I’m going to put three names to you,’ Singh told him, ‘and I want you to tell me what they mean to you. Mr Michael Stevens, Mrs Wendy Alexander and Mrs Anne Eaglesham.’

  ‘They were on the list,’ Rory replied, ‘the list of people I was given.’

  ‘By Mr Campbell?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What were your instructions?’

  ‘It was a brief, rather than instructions. I had a role, as if it was an unscripted drama in which everybody was a character, including the people on the list, although they weren’t supposed to know it.’

  Benjamin intervened. ‘That was the project?’

  ‘That’s right. The storyline was that I was a kid on a mission to help old folks that were sheltering during the lockdown, doing stuff they couldn’t manage themselves. I was given the list and told where to be on specific dates. Mr Campbell said that I would be filmed, although I wouldn’t see him with the camera or know where he was. I did what I was told, visited all three addresses . . . although I got one wrong. There was an attic flat above Mrs Alexander’s, and I went there by mistake. Mr Campbell must have had some good gear. I never saw any cameras; I don’t know how he hid them in the staircases, but I suppose he did.’

  ‘You just knocked on their doors and asked if they needed help? Was that the instruction?’

  Rory frowned as he looked across at the detective constable. ‘Have I met you before?’ he asked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied. ‘You nearly knocked me over on your bike, outside Mr Stevens’ flat. I was in uniform then.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I got a bit of a shock when you and the other officer turned up in your patrol car. I’d been told to be there at nine o’clock, for some general footage of me knocking around on the bike. I wasn’t expecting you, so I ad-libbed and got out of there. I really am sorry about nearly knocking you over. It was you turning to go back for something; I didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Apology accepted, Rory, now back to my question about the extent of your brief. Was it just door-knocking and offering to help?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No, I was supposed to get into all three houses. I wasn’t sure about that, with coronavirus and everything, but Mr Campbell said I was minimal risk because I’m a kid, so it was okay.’

  ‘What was the point of that? How could he have filmed indoors?’

  ‘I wore a bodycam,’ he told her. ‘He sent it to me here and told me to keep it charged and wear it all the time I was in Gullane. He told me it transmitted, and he would have everything it shot recorded on a hard disk.’

  ‘That’s right,’ his father confirmed. ‘That was dropped off by a bike courier too, like the cash. I can get it if you like.’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘Any chance of tracing the courier, Sarge?’ Benjamin asked the DS.

  ‘In the city, Tiggy? With people working from home and material being biked all over the place? Two chances, like Muhammad Ali said,’ Singh sighed. ‘Slim and none, and Slim’s left town.’ He turned to the boy. ‘Did you manage to get into the houses, Rory?’

  ‘All three. Mr Stevens asked me to get him a newspaper, a pack of bog rolls, and a loaf, so I went to the Co-op. When I got back, I put the loaf in his kitchen and the bog rolls in his en-suite. He let me keep the change,’ he added. ‘Nice old bloke, even though he already had a loaf in his breadbin and half a dozen toilet rolls in his main bathroom that I saw when he let me go there for a pee. Mrs Alexander asked me to come in and get something off her top shelf in the kitchen. She said she had trouble getting up there, because her steps were shaky. She was right, I used them and nearly fell off myself. Somebody needs to get her a new set. Mrs Eaglesham, her house was massive, but she told me she only lives in a couple of rooms.’ Rory grinned. ‘She drinks Irn-Bru,’ he said, ‘an old lady like her. She told me to get a can from her fridge, so yes, I was in her kitchen.’

  ‘Anywhere else in the house?’

  ‘The toilet, and she has this laundry room at the back. That’s where she keeps the lawn rake that I used for the leaves. She’s the nicest of all of them. First time I went up there she said she had nothing for me, but when I went back, she’d changed her mind, and asked me to tidy her leaves. I did, and I went back another time after that to put her recycling bin out for the truck. She paid me; I wasn’t going to take any money because that wasn’t in the brief, but she insisted. She gave me a box of eggs too,’ he added. ‘She keeps hens, about a dozen of them. They’re in a wire henhouse with a wooden floor . . . to stop ferrets and the like from burrowing in,
she says . . . but not all the time. She says she lets them out every so often, when she collects the eggs, and they go back in when she tells them. I didn’t believe her, but she showed me, and they did.’

  ‘Are there any other names on Mr Campbell’s list?’ Singh asked.

  ‘No, just those three for now. We’re not done, though. Mr Campbell said he’s analysing the footage before he decides on the next subjects. He has to report back to Amazon too. He said I’d hear from him in a week or so. He said he might even use some of my footage in the final product and give me a credit as a production assistant.’

  ‘Sounds good. Rory, we’re going to need to speak with Mr Campbell as well, but we don’t have his address or contact details.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ the boy replied. ‘I’ve never met him face to face, and I don’t know where he lives. When he was in touch with me it was always by text.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Gerry Potter intervened, quietly, ‘earlier you said you’re investigating a series of deaths, linked by Rory’s presence.’ His son sat up, staring at him. ‘Are you telling us that . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ Benjamin said, ‘I’m afraid that we are.’

  Fifty-Nine

  ‘Did you believe the boy and his father?’ Haddock asked as the recording ended.

  ‘I did, Sauce,’ Tarvil Singh replied. ‘Rory was genuinely shocked when he learned that the three people he’d visited were all dead.’

  ‘And so did I, boss,’ Tiggy Benjamin added. ‘Now that I think about it, he did look a bit startled when we had our close encounter outside Mr Stevens’ flat. Everything fits.’

  ‘It does,’ the DCI agreed, ‘but it is very, very weird. The car’s on its way to Gartcosh now with the boy’s DNA sample, but I think we know already that it’s going to confirm his presence in all three locations. You said his mother’s called Constanza?’