Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Yes,’ the DS confirmed. ‘Second generation Italian, which fits with the profile.’

  ‘And the mysterious Mr Campbell? Any joy yet in identifying him?’

  ‘Negative on that,’ Noele McClair said. ‘I was able to check with Amazon Studios while Tarvil and Tiggy were on their way back. They’ve never heard of him; plus, they wouldn’t be interested in that type of documentary. As for speculative funding, not a chance.’

  ‘Rory has his mobile number on his phone,’ Singh volunteered. ‘He showed us all the texts and attachments he’s had from him, and they back up his story all the way. I ran a check on the number. It’s a pay-as-you-go, and it’s no longer responding.’

  ‘Can we trace its location?’

  ‘I doubt it, we can be fairly sure it’s in a bin by now. Historically? No, because there’s never been a call made from it. He only ever used it to send texts.’

  ‘You’re saying “he”, Tarvil, but we don’t even know that,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘If all the communications with the Potters, father and son, were by text through that SIM card, we don’t even know Alan Campbell’s gender for sure. In fact, we know absolutely nothing. Here we are, a supposedly elite Serious Crime unit and we can’t even prove that a single crime has been committed. We’ve even had an explanation for what happened to Anne Eaglesham’s hens. Rory says she would let them loose for a while when she collected the eggs, and there was a tray of eggs in the laundry when she died. So, she gave her chickens their playtime as usual, went to transfer the laundry from the tub to the spin drier in her antediluvian washing machine, and was electrocuted. That’s the only logical explanation for what happened to her and her poor bloody hens, and thanks to Rory, we know it.’

  ‘Just as we know that Mrs Alexander had a shoogly stepladder,’ Benjamin added.

  The DCI nodded. ‘And that Michael Stevens was very absent-minded. However,’ he added, ‘thanks to Rory’s body camera, which is working and transmitting according to Jackie Wright, who’s just examined it, friend Campbell knows it too. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the only reason why I am not closing the book on this crazy situation. Pull out all the stops, people, and find me Alan Campbell, whoever he, she or it may be!’

  Sixty

  The male voice took Noele by surprise, because he answered her call by quoting the landline number. ‘Bob?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s Mark. I’m sorry, my dad isn’t in. Is that Ms McClair?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m sorry too, Mark. I should have realised, but you do sound like him.’

  ‘That’s what people say all the time, but it shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s brought me up since I was seven; I can’t remember my real dad’s voice. My mum’s in.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s who I wanted.’

  She waited, listening to voices in the background as Mark passed the handset to his mother. ‘Hi, Noele,’ Sarah said as she took the call. ‘What’s up that you’re calling this number?’

  ‘My mobile’s on charge, and I’ve only got your landline programmed into mine.’

  ‘Give it ten years and we won’t have landlines, any of us,’ Sarah forecast. ‘So how are you?’ she asked. ‘Happier for being back in CID?’

  ‘Much. Happier all round actually.’

  ‘I thought there was a spring in your voice. Harry messaged Seonaid today saying that he stayed at his gran’s last night. Could the two be connected, I ask myself? Hell, woman, I’m asking you! Have you been getting it on? Don’t worry,’ she added, ‘Mark’s gone back to his programming, or hacking or whatever the hell he does, Jazz is running on the treadmill and Seonaid’s introducing Dawn to the world of Frozen. You may speak freely.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, Sarah,’ Noele laughed.

  ‘You don’t have to. I know the sound of a returning mojo. Don’t bother to deny it. Who’s the guy?’

  ‘All right, I won’t deny it; I had sex last night for the first time in over a year. And again this morning, if you really want to know. But no way am I going to tell you who the man was, no fucking way. It will probably be a short-term thing, and for the sake of future co-existence his identity should stay secret, until it isn’t a short-term thing.’

  ‘That serious?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. It’s complicated,’ she added.

  ‘Everything that involves interacting genitalia gets complicated sooner or later. I can tell you that personally and professionally. Now, if you’re not going into the sticky details, how can I help you out?’

  ‘Can Harry stay with you on Friday?’ Noele asked. ‘It’s allowed under the lockdown rules. My mum will have him through the day as usual, but nine o’clock Saturday morning’s her on-line tai chi class and nothing gets in the way of that.’

  ‘Of course he can,’ Sarah told her. ‘Friday’s Bob’s Girona day and there’s never a guarantee he’ll be back that night. Actually, there’s a panic in Spain right now that needs the chairman’s attention. Ask your mum to drop him off here with an overnight bag, and I’ll bring him home on Saturday whenever you’ve got your breath back.’

  ‘It’s not like that, honest,’ she protested. ‘It’s very comforting . . . a strange word for shagging, but it is . . . and very satisfying.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. I still think of sex as something of a rodeo. I’ll see you on Saturday.’

  Noele hung up, giggling at her friend’s analogy, and checked her mobile. It showed sixty per cent, enough for her to unplug the charger cable, find Matthew’s number and call him.

  It rang three times and went to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Matthew Reid. I’m sorry, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message and, if I know you, I’ll call you back. If, on the other hand, you’re a hapless kid calling to discuss the blameless car accident that I never had, hang up now and get yourself a better job.’

  ‘My name’s Britney,’ she began, ‘and I’m from Sue, Grabbit and Run, solicitors.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But really it’s Noele, calling to confirm Friday night. I guess you may be working just now, unless Sunny’s body clock has insisted on an evening walk. If you want to talk when you’re done, about anything or nothing, give me a call back.’

  She was smiling as she hung up, musing over the complications of interacting genitalia. As far as she was concerned, they were worth it.

  Sixty-One

  ‘That prick Martin,’ John Cotter drawled. ‘Was he as big a bastard when he was chief constable?’

  ‘Honestly, John,’ Lottie Mann replied, ‘I couldn’t tell you. I never saw him when he was in the job, or even came close. Dan says that was his problem, he thought he could do the job remotely. He came from running a specialist agency and being deputy chief in Dundee. In each of those he could have thrown a blanket over his staff more or less. When he took over the national force, it was on an entirely different scale, and he just couldn’t get his head round it. That’s what Dan says.’

  ‘Fine, but it doesn’t necessarily make you a bastard.’

  ‘He didn’t think you were a special person either, John,’ the DCI retorted. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to bollock you in front of him, but you were well out of order in there. Like it or not, he’s a former chief constable, not your average person of interest in an investigation. He was entitled to more respect than you showed him. If you didn’t like the way he reacted to you, learn from the fucking experience or I’ll pull a couple of strings and have you posted to Shetland.’

  ‘Could you do that, Lottie? I like it up there.’

  She frowned at him. ‘DS Cotter, I’m willing to bet that your experience of our most northerly islands doesn’t extend beyond the TV series. That tends to miss out the part where the sun rises after breakfast and sets not long after lunch. Then there’s the wind.’

  He whistled. ‘It’s like that? I’d sooner you sent me to Sunderland.’

  ‘That’
s not within our jurisdiction, but it could possibly be arranged. The message is, John, behave yourself.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m back on the Candleriggs investigation?’ he asked.

  ‘You were never really off it, truth be told. Certain aspects of it are sensitive, even beyond Sir Andrew Martin’s involvement, and need to be handled pretty much at executive level. I’m lucky I got into the second interview with Martin myself.’

  ‘What’s the deal, boss? I don’t get it. We’ve got Martin’s hair in the victim’s blood. He can’t deny he was there.’

  ‘He doesn’t, not any longer. But he is denying it was within the time frame of our homicide.’

  ‘Can he prove that?’

  ‘He doesn’t have to. We have to show beyond reasonable doubt that he was.’

  ‘What will that take?’

  ‘Corroborating forensic evidence. Basically, something that takes the investigation beyond the confines of the flat.’

  ‘What about his wife’s involvement?’ the DS argued. ‘Isn’t that corroboration of sorts?’

  ‘Ex, John. Ex-wife. He has a very smart young lawyer, who would laugh that one right out of court.’

  Cotter bowed his head and clasped his hands together.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Mann asked, wearily.

  ‘I’m praying,’ he replied. ‘Praying for evidence that’s strong enough to let me slam a cell door on the sod.’

  Mann shook her head and turned to her computer, just as a click advised her of an incoming email. Her hand was on her mouse when the door opened and DC Barry McGuigan strode into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, boss,’ he said, ‘but I’ve just picked up an incident report from out in Lanarkshire. A human head’s been fished out of the River Clyde in a plastic bag that’s washed up on a bank. It’s not in the best of condition after some time in the water, but indications are the skin tone might match our victim.’

  ‘Do you have a location?’ the DCI asked sharply.

  ‘Yes, boss.’ He showed her his phone. ‘Apple maps puts it right there.’

  For the first time that day Lottie Mann smiled. ‘John, your prayer might have had a response. That’s less than a mile from Sir Andrew Martin’s house. Well done, Barry.’

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ he replied. ‘But there’s more. The Ministry of Defence has finally responded to DS Cotter’s DNA request. We know who the victim is.’

  Sixty-Two

  ‘His name is Calder Bryant,’ Mario McGuire said. ‘When he was found and we learned what the flat was, the assumption was that he was Clyde Houseman. He lived there, the body matched his ethnic mix, and there was a Royal Marines tattoo on his arm. When we couldn’t find his DNA on any existing database to confirm that assumption, Lottie Mann decided to go about it in reverse. Rather than look for Houseman specifically, she sent the profile to the Ministry of Defence. It took them a few days, but they got a result.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Neil McIlhenney asked. ‘Who was he, rather?’

  ‘A Marines sergeant, aged thirty-one, on leave from his unit after a two-year hitch with a United Nations peace-keeping force in Mali. He was single and lived in military accommodation; his CO said he was a good soldier, but a quiet bloke who kept himself to himself and had no close friends in his unit. According to his records, his next of kin is his father, William Bryant, of Bradford, Yorkshire, but when Lottie’s DS, Cotter, tried to find him he discovered that he left this vale of tears last year, a victim of Covid-19.’

  ‘The head found in the river—’

  ‘—is with Graham Scott in the mortuary. He’s still waiting to match the genetic information to the rest of the body, but it’s the missing piece, no doubt about it.’

  ‘Does the Security Service know what Bryant was doing there?’

  ‘The Director General is unavailable, would you believe,’ McGuire replied. ‘But her aide said that whatever he was doing there it wasn’t on their business or with their approval. They’ve never heard of him, they say.’

  The chief constable gazed at him. ‘What do you make of the location where the head was found?’

  ‘I was trying to make nothing of it, then I had a call from Arthur Dorward. He went to the scene personally as soon as the find was reported. The head was in a Sainsbury’s bag, he said, but that wasn’t the only thing he found in it. Stuck in a corner there was a receipt for eighty-seven quid’s worth of groceries, paid for by a credit card.’ McGuire paused, watching the colour leave his friend’s face.

  ‘Oh no,’ McIlhenney whispered.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the DCC murmured. ‘It was Andy Martin’s.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered. ‘Why would he kill a man when it seems he didn’t even know him?’

  ‘Simple. He thought it was Houseman. The scenario is, he followed Karen there, recognised the address and realised who she was having it off with, went back later, and killed him. Andy’s still physically capable of it, no doubt about that.’

  ‘What about Karen? She’s missing too.’

  ‘He had umpteen opportunities to kill her and make her disappear. We can put cadaver sniffer dogs in his car and see if they confirm it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the chief constable exclaimed, ‘I can’t argue against any of that. We can’t sweep this under the carpet, Mario. We need to bring him in again and be prepared to charge him.’

  ‘If we do that,’ the DCC said, ‘we’ll have to take it to the fiscal. Given who’s involved, he’ll run a mile and take it upstairs, to Steve Lennon, the Lord Advocate. That will let the MI5 cat out of the bag. We’ll have the political scandal that Bob warned us about.’

  ‘Not if we don’t tell the fiscal who owns the crime scene. It’s not relevant to the prosecution case.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ McGuire countered, ‘but it will be to the defence. Andy’s counsel’s bound to reveal it to explain the presence of his genetic material. When that happens the Lord Advocate and the First Minister will be after our blood.’

  ‘After my blood, mate. I’m the chief constable, not you. If a head has to roll over this, it’ll be mine.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I will not let you go to the guillotine on your own. We’re in this together, like we always have been.’

  McIlhenney sighed and leaned back in his chair, gazing across the table as he gathered his thoughts . . . and reached a conclusion. ‘You know what, my dear friend?’ he murmured. ‘We’ve gone back on what we agreed a couple of weeks ago. We’ve let Bob Skinner back inside the tent, and worse than that, we’ve listened to him and his warning of political chaos. When he was our boss, in the old days, he disliked politicians almost to the point of hatred, remember? Then he bloody married one and he became a political animal overnight. His thinking changed, became much more complex, went beyond right and wrong to a space in between. But that space doesn’t exist,’ he declared, vehemently, ‘not for us. If Whitehall has been keeping secrets from Holyrood, so what? If this investigation tilts the independence debate irreversibly in favour of the Yes vote, so what? Suppose it was your DNA in the murder victim’s blood and your ID in that supermarket bag, so what? Suppose it was mine, so what? We’re police officers, Mario,’ he hesitated for a second, ‘I was about to say, “first and foremost”, but there is nothing else. That’s all we are, not servants of the state but servants of the truth. There are no other considerations. There’s only one thing that’s stopping me from going to see the Lord Advocate myself, and the First Minister, giving them a full report of the investigation and then charging Andy Martin with murder.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I flat out don’t believe it.’

  ‘So what?’ McGuire said, quietly.

  Sixty-Three

  ‘Can we go and get him?’ John Cotter asked. ‘I’d just fucking love that.’

  ‘That’ll depend on what the bosses say,�
�� Lottie Mann replied, ‘but I’ll tell you one thing. If it happens, you won’t be in the party. I’m quite sure that if the chief gives the okay to arrest and book him, there will be an officer of command rank in charge of the raiding party, maybe ACC Payne, maybe ACC Stallings, maybe even DCC Mackie. I’ll be lucky if I’m there myself.’

  ‘Who’s Mackie?’

  ‘The number three man on the totem pole, DCC McGuire’s deputy if you like. You really need to do your homework, John. We have fourteen executive officers, but I doubt that you could name more than four of them.’

  ‘Why should I? There are a dozen teachers in my kid’s school, but I’m only interested in the one that affects me, and that’s his. In here I’m only interested in the person I report to and that’s you. How many of the fourteen could you name?’

  ‘All of them, although I admit I couldn’t tell you what every one of them does.’

  ‘Who’s Stallings? Never heard of him.’

  ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ she sighed. ‘Becky Stallings is our immediate boss, yours and mine, the level between me and McGuire. She’s shuttled back and forward between Scotland and London, a bit like McIlhenney, but she’s here for good, I think, since her husband left the force and took a job in Edinburgh looking after the Scottish Government estate.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘You’re going to find out for yourself, as soon as I can arrange it.’

  ‘Can she get me on the team that lifts Martin?’ Cotter asked.

  ‘Nobody can do that. I’ll—’

  She broke off as her intercom buzzed. It was old technology, linking her office to the squad room, but it was rarely used in the era of texts and WhatsApp messages. She tugged the lever that opened the line. ‘Boss, it’s Barry. Sorry, I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile. I’m doing a wide-ranging search for matches to the unidentified DNA samples from the Candleriggs crime scene, and I’ve come up with a bit of an anomaly. I think you’re going to want to see it.’