Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  He keyed in 999 and a moment later an operator answered, ‘Emergency, which service please?’

  ‘Police,’ he said.

  Another moment, then: ‘Police, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to report the owner of a dark-green Mini. Almost sideswiped my Toyota in Holyrood Park Road. A young woman. She’s zig-zagging all over the place.’

  ‘Did you get her registration number, sir?’

  ‘Yes. SWS 5550.’

  ‘In which direction is she heading?’

  ‘Holyrood Park Road from the Commonwealth Pool. I think she’s making for the exit at Holyrood Palace.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I’ll alert a patrol. May I have your name, please?’

  ‘Mr Gardiner. Phillip Gardiner.’

  Reilly ended the call, rolled down the window and tossed the phone into a nearby litter bin, then did a U-turn and made for Gayfield Square via the Bridges.

  * * *

  Mason stopped at the give-way, waited for a gap in traffic, then turned left into Holyrood Park. She checked her rear-view mirror and noticed a red BMW parked beyond the junction.

  Strange, she thought, the car looked exactly like the 335d belonging to DI Reilly. Surely it couldn’t be. What would he be doing up here? She shook her head dismissively, then winced.

  God, she had the mother of all headaches. They’d had a few drinks to celebrate Knox’s birthday and had stayed up until one.

  Jack was shaving when she left. He had pecked her cheek, telling her he’d be at the station in forty minutes. They’d laughed; she’d got some foam on her face, which he wiped off with a tissue.

  She slowed for a speed bump, and the bounce of the springs made her wince again. That’s what you get for having that extra glass, my girl. Not to worry, there were some paracetamols in her desk. She’d swallow a couple as soon as she got in.

  She drove by Holyrood Palace and the Scottish Parliament, then negotiated a mini-roundabout, which she’d almost cleared when she spotted the blue lights of a traffic car speeding down the Canongate. She carried on into Abbeyhill, then moved left to let it pass. She was surprised when she checked her mirror and saw that it was now at her back.

  Mason glanced at the mirror again and saw the driver point to the kerb. They both came to a stop, then the driver’s colleague exited and walked to her car.

  She rolled down the passenger window and the officer leaned inside.

  ‘Did you just drive through Holyrood Park from the Commonwealth Pool?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Mason replied.

  ‘We received a call from a motorist in a Toyota,’ he said sharply. ‘Claims you were driving erratically. Almost side-swiped his vehicle.’

  Mason shook her head. ‘That’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘I was driving normally. I never saw a Toyota, never mind nearly side-swiping one.’

  ‘Is this your car?’ the officer said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve your licence with you? Means of identification?’

  Mason opened her handbag, took out her warrant card and handed it over. ‘Look, I think there’s been a mistake,’ she said. ‘As you can see, I’m a DC attached to Gayfield Square Police Station. I don’t have my driving licence with me, but I can provide it if required.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the officer said. ‘Sorry, DC Mason, but the fact you’re a police officer doesn’t exempt you from the law.’ He handed her back her card. Then, indicating the police vehicle, added, ‘Look, I think I can smell alcohol on your breath. I’ll need you to sit in the traffic car for a moment. I’d like you to take a breathalyser test.’

  Mason did as she was asked and went to the police car. The officer followed, took a breathalyser kit from the dash, and handed it to her. ‘I think you know the drill, DC Mason, but I’ll repeat it anyway,’ he said. ‘Take a deep breath and blow into the tube until I tell you to stop.’

  Mason inhaled and blew into the device as hard as she could. ‘Keep going, keep going,’ the officer exhorted. Then a moment later, ‘That’s it – stop.’

  He took back the breathalyser, examined the reading, then shook his head. ‘23.5 micrograms per 100 millilitres,’ he said. ‘The limit is 22 micrograms, so you’re slightly over.’ He looked at her and added, ‘DC Mason, I have to caution you that you’re under arrest for driving while under the influence of an intoxicating substance.’ He glanced at his colleague. ‘DC Mason’s attached to Gayfield Square Police Station.’

  The other policeman, who wore a sergeant’s chevrons, said, ‘I’m sorry, DC Mason, but we’ll need you to take a further test on a more sophisticated machine. You’re only 1.5 micrograms over on our device, so the chances are you’re still within the legal limit.

  ‘Gayfield Square’s the nearest. However, because you’re a serving officer at that station we’ll take you to Leith.’ He nodded to the officer in the passenger seat. ‘PC Lyall’s charge only remains effective if you fail to pass the second test. You understand?’

  Mason nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘My name is Sergeant Byers. I should like to point out, though, that even if you’re under the limit on the second test, we’ll still have to log details of your arrest, which will be passed to a senior officer. He’ll decide whether or not any further action is warranted.’

  Byers gestured to the Mini. ‘PC Lyall will take your car and follow us to Leith. You have your keys?’

  ‘They’re in the ignition,’ Mason said.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Mason had undergone a second test and was waiting in an anteroom for the result.

  Sergeant Byers entered carrying coffee in a Styrofoam cup, which he handed to her. ‘I thought you might appreciate this,’ he said, smiling.

  She murmured her thanks, then he added, ‘I take it you had a wee drink last night?’

  Mason swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘Three or four glasses,’ she said. ‘One or two more than I should’ve.’ She shook her head. ‘My boyfriend and I were celebrating his birthday.’

  Byres gave a nod of understanding, then smiled again. ‘1.5 micrograms is only a fraction over. Chances are you’ll be clear on the second test.

  ‘Strange thing about the call, though,’ Byers continued. ‘I asked control to check on the guy who made it but they were unsuccessful. Seems it came from a pay-as-you-go last used in Cambuslang in 2014. Unable to trace it beyond that.’

  ‘Cambuslang?’ Mason said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Byers said. ‘Looks like you’ve been the victim of a prank call.’

  Mason recalled the crimson-red BMW she’d seen parked in Holyrood Park Road and grimaced. ‘Mm-hmm,’ she said. ‘Looks like it.’

  At that moment, PC Lyall entered the room holding a strip of print-out paper. Mason was relieved to see he was smiling.

  ‘21.5 micrograms,’ he said. ‘You’re clear, DC Mason.’ He stretched out his other arm and handed her the car keys. ‘Your Mini is parked at a hooded meter about twenty yards along Queen Charlotte Street. You’re free to go.’

  ‘Sorry about the report,’ Sergeant Byers said. ‘But I don’t think head office will take any action given the circumstances.’

  Chapter Twelve

  When Mason arrived at Gayfield Square, Knox was giving a briefing. He acknowledged her arrival, saying, ‘Morning, Yvonne. Get caught in traffic?’

  Mason’s gaze lasered in on Reilly, who stood at his desk with a self-satisfied smirk.

  ‘Something like that, boss,’ she replied.

  Knox noted the exchange between the two and continued, ‘Okay, there’s six couriers to interview. I’ve given priority to those with the closest match to the main criteria: the suspect’s age and description.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and continued, ‘Take a look at the list on your desks. You’ll see it relegates three folk to the bottom of the pile. The first is Shafiq Khan, 47. He’s married with four children.

  ‘Next in the least-likely camp is Maureen Somerville, 51, two grown-up children, four g
randkids. Finally, Deborah Horsefall, single, aged 23.

  ‘Okay, on to those who might meet the criteria. The first is Derek Norton, aged 47. A courier for seven years. Lives with his wife and son at 6 Cochrane Terrace, Newtongrange. Next we have a Ryan Smeaton, 29, married with an infant daughter. Delivering parcels for two years. His address is 20 Clover Way, Livingston. Finally, the only single man in the group – Todd Mackenzie, aged 24, stays with his parents at 44 Chandler Street, Leith. He’s been with Bluebird Parcels since 2013.’

  Knox cleared his throat and continued, ‘Okay, the interviews. I phoned Norton, Smeaton and Mackenzie and set these up to suit their schedule. Mackenzie does a late shift, starting his deliveries at noon, works till late. I’ve arranged to see him at eleven this morning. Norton is home for lunch between noon and 2pm, so he can be interviewed then. Smeaton starts early, 7am, so we’ll leave him till last. He’ll be home after 3pm. Each are to be swabbed for DNA at the conclusion of the interview.

  ‘Because Khan, Somerville and Horsefall are low priority, we can speak to them on the phone to start with. Find out what they were doing on Friday night, what kind of vans they drive, that sort of thing. These calls can be made when we’re not seeing the others.’

  Knox held up the list. ‘Now, who’s to see who?’ He ran a finger down the names and continued, ‘Arlene and Bill, I’d like you to speak to Mackenzie and phone Khan. Charlie and Gary, see Norton and give Somerville a ring. Mark and Yvonne, see Smeaton in person, talk to Horsefall on the phone.’ Knox paused. ‘Everyone clear?’

  There was a collective murmur of assent, then Knox glanced at Mason and jerked his thumb to the corridor. ‘Yvonne, could I speak to you a minute?’

  After Mason and Knox had exited the room, Knox stopped alongside the drinks vending machine and said, ‘When you arrived, I saw you looking daggers at Reilly. What’s the problem?’

  Mason told him about the police stop and breathalyser, being taken to Leith Police Station for a follow-up test, and the anonymous call made on the untraceable mobile.

  ‘That bastard must’ve tailed me to your flat last night,’ she added. ‘He was sitting across from Arlene and me when I showed her the booze I’d bought at Oddbins. Probably heard me tell her we were having a drink to celebrate your birthday.’

  ‘You saw him when you left East Parkside this morning?’

  ‘Uh-huh. His BMW was sitting there when I turned into the park.’

  Knox shook his head in a gesture of disgust. ‘What an arsehole.’

  Mason waved to the door of the detective suite. ‘You’re not going to cause a scene, are you, Jack?’ she said. ‘We can’t prove anything.’

  ‘No,’ Knox said, ‘I’ll have a word with him in private.’

  Mason touched his arm. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I think he’s trying to provoke you into doing something.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Knox said.

  They went back into the office where the others were studying the courier lists. Knox glanced around and saw there was an officer missing. He approached Fulton and said, ‘Bill, did you see where Reilly went?’

  His partner gestured towards the toilets. ‘He’s in the bog.’

  Knox entered the gents and saw Reilly rinsing his hands. As he came through the door, the Gartcosh DI turned to face him. He gave Knox a thin smile and said, ‘Had your wee confab with Mason, then?’

  Knox felt a sudden sneeze coming on. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and a pound coin dropped to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he spotted a pair of brown brogues beneath the door of the end stall. He straightened up, blew his nose, then returned the coin and handkerchief to his pocket. ‘We talked, yes,’ Knox replied, adding, ‘That was some stunt you pulled.’

  Reilly went to the Initial dispenser and gave the towel a couple of tugs. ‘They didn’t charge her, then?’

  ‘No,’ Knox said. ‘The device at Leith registered 21.5 micrograms per 100 millilitres.’

  ‘They’ll report her arrest,’ Reilly said. ‘Bound to have an effect if she applies for promotion.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Sneaky way to go about it, though. Using an untraceable mobile to make the 999 call. Last used in Cambuslang in 2014?’

  Reilly nodded. ‘Took it off a drug dealer. Virtually untraceable.’

  ‘Why Yvonne?’ Knox said. ‘After all, it’s me you’re pissed at. You believe the DCI should have given you the case.’

  Reilly finished drying his hands. ‘You’d better believe I’m pissed. For one thing, I’m more qualified than you are. Between March and June this year, I solved four murder cases. As for Mason: how much do you think your back-of-the-bike-shed affair contributes to station morale?

  ‘Naismith?’ He harrumphed. ‘Nothing but a bloody dinosaur. How can discipline be maintained when senior and lower ranks run around calling each other by their Christian names? Police Scotland came into being in 2013. Seems to me there’re a few more steps needed to bring it into the twenty-first century.’

  Knox said nothing. He let the silence hang for a few moments, then he and Reilly heard the sound of a cubicle door being unsnibbed. Naismith’s tall frame emerged from the end stall, then he gave Reilly a withering look.

  Reilly spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘I– I’m sorry, Alan,’ he sputtered. ‘I– I didn’t mean…’

  Naismith pointed to the door. ‘My office,’ he said. There was a short pause, then he added, ‘Now!’

  * * *

  ‘Maybe he should’ve made sure there was nobody in the traps before he opened his,’ Fulton was saying.

  Knox and his fellow detectives were assembled in the Major Incident Inquiry Room thirty minutes later and Reilly had just departed the building.

  Naismith left his office and joined the others. ‘As you may be aware,’ he said, ‘I’ve dismissed DI Reilly for insubordination and for attempting to bring the reputation of a fellow officer into disrepute.’

  He gestured to the whiteboard. ‘Meantime, I want us to get back to our priority: this investigation. Obviously, we’re a body short.’ He turned to Knox. ‘You think you’ll manage, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ Knox replied. ‘We’ve three interviews scheduled and three to follow up. I’ll have to make some changes, but I’m sure we’ll cope. Bill and I will take the first of these at eleven. I’ll reassign the others.’

  ‘Good,’ Naismith said, then nodded to his office. ‘You can spare a minute before you go?’

  Knox followed Naismith into the room and the DCI waved to a chair. ‘Reilly tried his damnedest to make things difficult for you, Jack, and I’m sorry. I gather Traffic charged DC Mason on a marginally high reading?’

  ‘Yes. They dropped it once they took her to Leith.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ Naismith picked up a pen and tapped it on his desk. ‘Look, I’ll send a report to Gartcosh which will explain the circumstances and highlight Reilly’s malfeasance. I’ve every confidence that’ll reduce the likelihood of anything negative being entered on her record.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Knox said.

  Naismith shook his head. ‘You know, I didn’t pick him. The appointment came from higher up, a Detective Chief Superintendent Dodds. I thought I could work with him, keep him in line. Proved not to be.’ He shrugged. ‘One good thing, though. Dodds and other middle-management officers will give him a wide berth once my report goes in.’

  * * *

  44 Chandler Street was a narrow thoroughfare which led off The Shore at the Water of Leith, a river which had its confluence with the Forth estuary at Leith Docks. Double-yellow lines excluded all parking, forcing Knox to leave his car in nearby Bernard Street. When he rang the bell, the door was opened by a short, balding man in his mid-sixties.

  ‘You’re the polis?’ he said. ‘Here to see Todd? He told us to expect you.’

  Knox and Fulton showed him their warrant cards.

  ‘Come away through,’ the man said, waving them inside. ‘He’s in the kitchen, finishing his breakfast.
’

  Knox and Fulton followed him along a narrow lobby to the kitchen, where a woman in her late fifties was carrying a plate to the sink. A young man was seated at a wooden table, drinking tea, and looked up as the detectives entered. He was stockily-built and dark-haired, with a square face and ruddy complexion.

  He put his mug on the table, then said, ‘This is to do with the lassie who was found at Longniddry on Saturday?’

  The woman, who Knox took to be his mother, cut in. ‘Terrible business,’ she said. ‘Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to.’

  Knox looked at the man and said, ‘You’re Todd Mackenzie?’

  The woman said, ‘Aye, he’s my son.’ She indicated the older man, and added, ‘And that’s his father, Bernie. Used to be in the transport business, too, before he retired. Long distance lorry driver.’

  She pointed to a kettle on a worktop next to the sink. ‘Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Mackenzie,’ Knox replied. ‘We had some before we left the office.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, then motioned to her husband. ‘Come on, Bernie. These men will want to see Todd on his own. Better leave them to it.’

  As his parents left the room, Mackenzie waved to a couple of chairs. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You’d better take a seat.’

  The officers complied, then Fulton said, ‘Not much parking around here. Your van’s garaged?’

  Mackenzie shook his head. ‘No. Lock-ups in this part of Leith cost a fortune to rent. When I’m not working, I park in Mitchell Street, a ten-minute walk. It’s quiet and relatively safe. I never leave anything of value in it, of course.’

  ‘What make of van?’ Knox asked.

  ‘A Ford Transit. Bought it two years ago.’

  ‘And how long have you been with Bluebird Parcels?’

  ‘Four years,’ Mackenzie replied, then added, ‘I don’t understand, why are you talking to Russell’s couriers?’

  ‘We’ve evidence to suggest that someone working with him was involved in the murder.’