Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  Mackenzie gave Knox a querulous look. ‘What evidence?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that.’

  McKenzie gave a shrug of indifference.

  ‘What did you do before you joined Bluebird?’ Knox said.

  ‘Long distance driving, like my dad.’ Mackenzie pulled a face. ‘Didn’t like it. No social life. Always away from home.’

  ‘You’ve an HGV licence?’ Fulton asked.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Passed the test in 2013.’

  ‘And before you got your HGV?’ Knox said.

  Mackenzie studied him for a long moment. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’ll find out anyway. At eighteen I joined the army. Only lasted eight months. I was kicked out for banjoing a sergeant.’

  ‘You punched him?’ Fulton asked.

  Mackenzie nodded. ‘The sadistic bastard deserved it. I was picked on from the moment I arrived. Always on jankers for one thing or another.’

  ‘Where were you on Friday night?’ Knox asked.

  ‘Out for a drink with my mates.’

  ‘Where, specifically?’

  Mackenzie bridled. ‘Look, if you think I had anything to do with her murder…’

  Knox held his gaze. ‘Just answer the question, please.’

  Mackenzie frowned. ‘A couple of places. Nobles in Constitution Street, The King’s Head at The Shore.’

  ‘What time did you go out?’

  ‘My last delivery was at eight-thirty. I got home at nine and my ma gave me something to eat. Around nine-thirty.’

  ‘Where was your van then?’ Fulton said.

  ‘I told you, Mitchell Street.’

  ‘What time did you park up?’ Knox said.

  ‘Around quarter to nine.’

  ‘Where did you make your last delivery?’

  ‘Currie.’

  ‘Currie’s on the Lanark Road, a dozen miles the other side of the city. You made it back to Leith in only fifteen minutes?’ Knox said.

  ‘I dunno,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I might’ve got home a bit later.’

  ‘So, what time did you go out?’

  ‘Probably nearer ten.’

  ‘Your mates, who are they?’

  ‘Two guys I’ve palled about with since I was a kid. John Harper and Roy Adams.’

  ‘You mentioned a couple of pubs. Which one did you visit first?’

  ‘Nobles. John and Rory were there when I arrived.’

  ‘Then you all carried on to The King’s Head?’ Fulton said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What time did you arrive there?’

  ‘Lemme think… probably around eleven. We stayed an hour or so, then went for an Indian. Headed home about half-one.’

  ‘Okay,’ Knox said. ‘We’ll need to verify that with Harper and Adams. Can you give me their addresses?’

  Mackenzie nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Knox tore a sheaf from his notebook and handed it over together with a pen. After Mackenzie had finished writing, the detective returned both to his pocket and took out a sealed package. ‘This is a DNA swab kit,’ he told Mackenzie. ‘We’re asking all Bluebird couriers to take the test. You’ve no objection?’

  ‘Why would I object?’ Mackenzie said. ‘I’ve nothing to worry about.’

  A minute or so later, he had completed the test and Knox resealed the kit. ‘Okay, Todd,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we need to talk again.’

  * * *

  ‘What do you think, boss?’ Fulton said when they were back in the car. ‘He ticks a couple of boxes. Ex-army, a fair similarity to the photofit image.’

  Knox turned the car and headed up Constitution Street. ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘And he’s a bit on the volatile side. Discharged for assault. I wonder if that was his only misdemeanour?’

  ‘But he’d be in Leith when Fairbairn was murdered,’ Fulton said. ‘If his mates back up his story.’

  Knox shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s our man,’ he said. ‘I’ve a hunch the killer’s a Jekyll and Hyde type. Mackenzie doesn’t give me that impression.’

  They lapsed into silence until they reached Leith Walk, then Fulton said, ‘You reassigned Arlene and Yvonne to the Newtongrange interview?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Knox replied, then glanced at his watch. ‘They should be there any time now.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Newtongrange, on the southern reaches of Edinburgh, was one of many former colliery towns – Loanhead, Bilston and Newcraighall among them – which had changed substantially from the days when the country was dependent on coal.

  One of the few legacies of the era were the rows of red-brick dwellings which had housed generations of miners. 6 Cochrane Terrace was now, like its neighbours, a modernised property with a front and back garden, located in the last of eleven parallel streets just a stone’s throw from Scotland’s National Mining Museum, a former pit which was open to the public.

  McCann found a parking spot a few doors along, then she and Mason exited the car and made their way back. On approach they saw a youth dressed in overalls working on a motorbike on a paved section of garden. He was bent over the engine, securing a bolt with a spanner.

  Mason cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  The young man turned and glanced at the detectives. ‘Aye?’ he said.

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Derek Norton,’ McCann said.

  He threw the spanner in a toolbox, then picked up a rag and wiped his hands. ‘You’re here to see my dad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mason said. ‘We’re police. We made an appointment?’

  A fleeting look of concern came over his face, then he regained his composure. ‘Oh,’ he said, pointing towards the door. ‘He’s in. Just ring the bell.’ He turned back to the bike and reached into the toolbox.

  The detectives exchanged looks, then McCann pressed the bell.

  A tall, dark-haired man opened the door and gave the officers a look of surprise. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘You’re Derek Norton?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  The officers showed him their warrant cards. ‘Detective Sergeant McCann and Detective Constable Mason,’ McCann said. ‘I believe you’re expecting us?’

  ‘Oh,’ Norton said. ‘I didn’t think it would be women.’ Then, realising the remark might be taken as sexist, quickly added, ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to cause offence…’

  McCann gave him a patronising smile. ‘None taken.’

  Norton gestured to the hallway. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘The sitting room’s on your left.’

  The detectives entered and Norton ushered them into a room with a wide picture window. A large Persian carpet covered a parquet floor, on which two sofas were arranged at right angles opposite a white marble fireplace.

  ‘If you’ll take a seat, I’ll nip through to the kitchen and ask my wife to get you a coffee,’ Norton said.

  McCann shook her head. ‘Not for me, thanks,’ she said.

  Mason added, ‘Nor me, thanks.’

  ‘Okay,’ Norton said. He took a seat opposite them and made an open-handed gesture. ‘Inspector Knott said on the phone you wanted to speak to me in connection with the murder in Port Seton?’

  Mason nodded. ‘Inspector Knox,’ she corrected. ‘The woman was found at Longniddry.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Saw it on the telly yesterday. I knew it was somewhere down the coast.’ He shook his head. ‘Inspector Knox said a Bluebird van might be involved?’

  ‘We believe so, yes,’ McCann replied.

  Mason took out her notebook and said, ‘Could we begin by asking where you were between 9pm on Friday and 2am on Saturday morning?’

  Norton nodded. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘I was here, at home.’

  ‘You were delivering on Friday?’ McCann asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. My last drop was at Sighthill at six-thirty. I drove home via the bypass. Got back around 7pm. Had my dinner, then the wife and I stayed in, watching telly.’

  ‘You did
n’t go out again later? For a drink, perhaps?’ Mason asked.

  Norton shook his head emphatically. ‘No, I don’t drink. Neither does my wife.’

  ‘Your van,’ McCann said, ‘it was parked here?’

  Norton gestured to the window. ‘Sitting in the street, where I normally leave it. Not always in the same place, mind.’

  ‘What make of van is it?’

  ‘You didn’t see it when you arrived?’ Norton asked.

  ‘No. Our attention was drawn to a young man fixing a motorbike,’ Mason said.

  ‘Oh, that’s my son, Jeff,’ Norton said. ‘He bought a used Kawasaki Z900 a few months back. Loves to tinker with it. He’s quite the mechanic.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ McCann said. ‘I was asking what kind of van you had?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. A Peugeot Boxer. It’s parked just over the road.’

  ‘I see,’ McCann said. ‘And you’ve told us it was there all Friday night. Is there anyone who can vouch for that? Outside your family, I mean.’

  Norton nodded. ‘A couple of neighbours opposite. Dougie Newman at number seven and Tommy Simms at nine. They’re both keen gardeners. Tommy was trimming his hedges and Dougie was weeding. Both were out until late. They would have seen the van there.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Norton,’ Mason said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to us during your lunch break. I’ve just one more question.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d ever been in the army.’

  ‘Me?’ Norton said, shaking his head. ‘No. I was a member of the Boy’s Brigade in my youth.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t suppose that counts?’

  Mason shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.’

  McCann opened her handbag and removed a DNA test kit. ‘One final thing,’ she said. ‘We’d like all Bluebird courier drivers to take a DNA test. You’re okay with that?’

  Norton glanced at the package. ‘How does it work?’ he asked.

  ‘Simple procedure,’ McCann replied. ‘It’s just like a cocktail stick with a swab attached. We need you to roll it around inside your cheeks. Takes around a minute.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Norton said. ‘Okay.’

  * * *

  ‘Did you catch the look on Jeff Norton’s face when we said we were cops?’ Mason said. She and her colleague were back in the car a few minutes later. McCann had just joined the A7 and was heading for Edinburgh.

  ‘Yep, A definite look of guilt.’

  ‘His father, Derek,’ Mason mused. ‘You think his story’s kosher?’

  McCann shrugged. ‘No reason at this point to believe otherwise. We’ll find out for sure when the DNA results come back.’

  * * *

  He knew G&S Motors was quiet on a Monday. Saturdays and Sundays in the motor trade were always the busiest, with sales building as the week progressed. He also knew that McGeevor took a lunch break between 1 and 2pm, and that his partner, Scott Reynolds, never worked on the first day of the week.

  He parked a short distance from the premises, which occupied a corner lot next to a stretch of land that was being developed for housing, then checked to make sure he wasn’t observed. However, there was little traffic, and even fewer pedestrians. The builders at the adjacent site, too, appeared to be having their lunch break.

  He strolled past a number of vans on the forecourt whose windscreens were stickered with prices, then carried on to the portacabin which served as an office. Glancing at the window, he noticed a large card lettered in black: CLOSED FOR LUNCH (1PM TO 2PM).

  He knocked, and moments later was met with a gruff reply, ‘We’re closed for lunch. Come back at two.’

  ‘It’s John,’ he said.

  ‘John?’

  ‘Come on, Willie,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognise my voice.’

  He heard footsteps, then the door was unlocked and McGeevor poked his head out. He was a slightly-built man in his mid-thirties, who wore his thinning hair in a comb-over style.

  ‘Sorry, John. I was in the back. Didn’t hear you clearly.’ He paused, then added, ‘Problem with the van?’

  ‘No, Willie. Everything’s fine. I came to ask about the paperwork. Can you spare a couple of minutes?’

  ‘Sure,’ McGeevor replied. ‘Come in.’

  They entered the portacabin, then McGeevor locked the door behind them. ‘Monday’s normally quiet,’ he said, looking at the forecourt. ‘Still get the odd tyre-kicker sniffing about, though.’

  McGeevor went to the rear of the unit, then pulled a chair from the wall and placed it in front of a small desk. He motioned to the chair and went around the desk and sat down. ‘Take a seat,’ he said. ‘You mentioned something about paperwork?’

  ‘I did, yes. The VW Caddy you took in part exchange for the Transit you sold me. You told me you had a trade buyer in Newcastle?’

  ‘Aye, Manny Calder. One of his guys collected it the same week,’ he replied.

  ‘You told me he’d ring it for you. Give it a new identity?’

  ‘Yeah,’ McGeevor said. ‘New VIN plate, new registration, new logbook. You told me you wanted it that way?’

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘And the transaction, you never recorded it on your books?’

  McGeevor shook his head. ‘No. No paperwork. No receipts.’

  ‘That’s good, Willie,’ he said. ‘And the Transit I bought from you, you didn’t make a record of that, either?’

  McGeevor nodded. ‘Just like I said at the time. The van was, and still is, registered to me. And I never made a record of the sale.’

  ‘The logbook. You’ve informed the DVLA about the change of ownership?’

  McGeevor shook his head. ‘No. I haven’t got around to that yet.’ He paused and studied his interlocutor for a long moment. ‘Look, John, I knew there was some reason you wanted to ditch the VW on the QT. I was glad to help out, no questions asked. You’re an old mate after all. I don’t understand why you’re here today, though. Don’t you trust me?’

  He held McGeevor’s gaze, then shook his head. ‘Oh, I trust you, Willie. I just wanted to hear what you’d done about the Transit.’

  ‘I told you, John, I have the logbook. It’s still registered to me.’

  ‘Which is what I wanted to make sure of. And to confirm you made no record of the Caddy transaction, of course.’

  ‘I say again, John, no records exist. You’ve my word on that.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Which leaves only one thing.’

  McGeevor gave him an inquiring look. ‘Sorry, John, I don’t understand. What thing?’

  ‘You, Willie,’ he said, then reached into his pocket, took out a pistol and pointed it at McGeevor.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ McGeevor said.

  ‘What does it look like, Willie?’

  ‘A gun?’

  ‘Aye, Willie. That’s what it is. A Glock 17 to be exact.’

  ‘You’re not serious, surely?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  McGeevor began to shake visibly. ‘You’re not going to…’

  He indicated a small room behind McGeevor. ‘You keep a safe in there, Willie?’

  McGeevor turned and followed his gaze. ‘A– aye, I do,’ he stuttered. ‘But there’s hardly anything in it. A few hundred pounds… look, John, if you need some money, I’d be happy to give it to you.’ He stared at the revolver, his face now as white as a sheet. ‘Jesus, man, put that gun away.’

  ‘Open the safe, Willie, and take out the cash.’

  McGeevor stood. ‘O– Okay.’

  ‘Remember I’m at your back, Willie.’

  McGeevor went into the cupboard-sized room and dialled some numbers at the front of a small metal safe. He pulled open the door, took out a cash box and raised the lid, then extracted a wad of banknotes, which he handed over. ‘Like I told you, John, there’s only a few hundred…’

  Those were McGeevor’s last words. His killer pulled the trigger and the cartridge ignited, sending a bullet spiralling into his victim’s
neck.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Just as well we’ve got sat nav, eh?’ Herkiss said as he and Hathaway negotiated a maze of flyovers, roundabouts and underpasses as they drew nearer their destination.

  ‘I suppose if you’re local, you get used to it,’ Hathaway said. ‘My wife’s sister lives here and she knows the place like the back of her hand.’

  The sat nav took him through a final series of roundabouts, then instructed him to turn left. 20 Clover Way was located on the top left corner of a cul-de-sac but was easy to find, as Smeaton’s dark-blue Transit was parked outside.

  The door was answered by a red-haired woman in her late twenties, who had a baby in her arms.

  ‘DC Hathaway and DS Herkiss,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re here to see Ryan?’

  The woman opened the door wider, then stood back. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He told me to expect you.’ She waved towards the hallway. ‘The living room’s on your right. Just go in and take a seat, He’s upstairs, changing out of his overalls. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  The detectives went into the living room, which was furnished with a check-patterned three-piece suite and a large wall unit. A long bookcase stood with its back to the opposite wall, and a writing desk took up most of the space next to the window, on top of which was a desktop computer.

  As Smeaton entered, Herkiss was over by the bookcase, checking the titles on the spines of a row of books, all on the subject of military history.

  Smeaton indicated the volumes. ‘My hobby,’ he said, then motioned to the computer. ‘Do a bit of writing in my spare time. I contribute articles to magazines.’ He was dark-haired, with high cheekbones and a dimpled chin.

  Herkiss nodded. ‘Aye?’ he said. ‘I’m a bit of a World War II buff myself.’

  Smeaton gestured to the sofa. ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Won’t you sit down?’

  The detectives did so, then Smeaton said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? My wife’s making some.’

  ‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind, thanks,’ Herkiss replied. Then to Hathaway, he said, ‘Mark?’

  Hathaway nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  A couple of minutes later, Smeaton’s wife brought in a tray with a pot of tea, three cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and milk jug, together with a plate of biscuits. She set down the tray on a table in front of the settee. ‘Please, help yourselves,’ she said.