Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  * * *

  He had reconnoitred the track while delivering a parcel to Howgate the previous week. It was situated on the B7026, four miles the other side of Auchendinny, and cut through a heavily wooded area for a third of a mile, ending at a broad clearing surfaced with bracken and cinder.

  It was a half hour before midnight and there was little traffic but as he turned off the road, he cut his lights anyway. He parked the van, set the handbrake, then went to the back and removed two jerrycans. He began by carefully emptying the first over the contents of the back of the van: a large tarpaulin and a dozen wooden crates.

  He poured the remaining petrol into the cab, dousing the seats and floor mats, then decanted the rest into the engine bay.

  Next, he took a couple of oily rags from a door pocket and lit them with a disposable lighter, then tossed them inside.

  Within moments the vehicle burst into flames, which became a raging inferno in less than a minute.

  He turned and walked quickly to the road, where his accomplice was waiting.

  As he opened the van’s passenger door, the driver motioned to the flames, now visible above the treetops, and said, ‘Done?’

  He nodded. ‘Done.’

  * * *

  More than six hours earlier, the detectives had concluded their interview with Reynolds and were driving back on the M8.

  Naismith turned to Knox, who was slowing for traffic merging from a slip road. ‘You had a hunch Masters had sold the Caddy to McGeevor?’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Knox replied. ‘Lorimer was assaulted by Masters, yet none of the couriers we’ve interviewed own one. I’d an idea he must’ve traded it in.’

  ‘Yet Reynolds told us the transaction wasn’t on G&S’s books?’

  ‘Aye, it’s something we’ll need to look at,’ Knox said.

  ‘Suppose McGeevor had someone “ring” the VW, boss?’ Fulton said.

  Knox shook his head. ‘Not sure I follow, Bill.’

  ‘A trade buyer, say, who gave it a new identity,’ Fulton said. ‘Came across the practise a lot when I was in Traffic in the nineties. Dodgy dealers in the motor trade would take a stolen car, find an identical model that had been scrapped – same year, same colour – then swap the registration and VIN plates, get a false V5 for the vehicle, then sell it on to an unsuspecting buyer.’

  ‘And as far as the DVLA records are concerned, the legitimate Caddy is still with the last recorded owner?’ Knox said.

  ‘Uh-huh. One of hundreds registered in Central Scotland.’

  ‘And without Masters’ real name, we haven’t a clue who that might be,’ Knox said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Naismith said. ‘And the van McGeevor sold Masters, he doesn’t notify the change of ownership right away?’

  ‘The only problem with that,’ Fulton said, ‘is insurance. Masters would be taking a risk without cover.’

  Naismith nodded. ‘You’re right, Bill,’ he said sagely. ‘But a risk he’s more likely to take in the circumstances.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘The DVLA and PNC records show all six of Bluebird’s couriers owned their vehicles well in advance of Lorimer’s assault and Fairbairn’s murder,’ Knox was saying. ‘What’s more, all are insured and none were bought from G&S Motors.’

  He and the other detectives were discussing the murder at Broxburn and going over the information gleaned from their interviews.

  Naismith marked in McGeevor’s name on the whiteboard, and scrawled VW CADDY and OTHER VEHICLE? alongside. ‘We know McGeevor disposed of the Caddy,’ he said. ‘Yet checks with the DVLA show him in possession of another vehicle – a Ford Transit. However, no transfer of ownership has been registered.’

  ‘What if Masters has the Transit garaged somewhere?’ Herkiss offered.

  ‘Possible,’ Naismith agreed. ‘Any other suggestions?’

  ‘Wouldn’t McGeevor’s wife know if the Transit is still in his possession?’ Hathaway said.

  Naismith shook his head. ‘McGeevor wasn’t married, Mark, he lived alone.’ He nodded to Knox, and added, ‘Jack and I discussed the possibility of the Transit being at his house and asked West Lothian Police to take a look. It isn’t there, but that isn’t proof he sold it to Masters.’ A short pause, then, ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ McCann said. ‘A bit off topic – Derek Norton’s son, Jeff.’

  ‘Aye, what about him?’ Naismith asked.

  ‘When Yvonne and I were at Norton’s house, his son was in the garden, tinkering with a motorbike. When we told him who we were, his reaction made us suspicious.’ McCann looked at her computer. ‘With good reason, as it turns out. The machine, a Kawasaki Z900, has been flagged up as stolen.’

  ‘It’s on the PNC?’ Naismith asked.

  McCann nodded. ‘Stolen three weeks ago in Colinton Mains Drive, Edinburgh.’

  ‘You got the index number?’

  ‘Not when we left,’ McCann replied. ‘He’d draped an oily rag over it.’ She gave a little smirk. ‘When we arrived. Before we told him who we were.’

  Naismith grinned. ‘Good work, Arlene. You and Yvonne want to pick him up?’

  ‘I’ll give his dad a ring first, on the pretence of checking something. Make sure his son’s at home,’ McCann said.

  As McCann went to contact Norton, Knox addressed Hathaway, ‘Mark, will you get onto the DVLA and find out how many Volkswagen Caddys are in the East of Scotland? We probably can’t check them all, but I’m curious.’

  Hathaway nodded and clicked an icon on his computer screen, then the telephone on Knox’s desk rang.

  He picked up and said, ‘DI Knox.’

  ‘Hi,’ a voice answered. ‘This is Inspector Dave Keller at Penicuik Police Station. The local fire service was called to a track in the woods on the Auchendinny-Leadburn road last night. One of our patrol cars also attended. A van had been torched. Pretty much only a skeleton left, but we still managed to decipher the index number and VIN plate. We checked the PNC and it gave the registered keeper’s name and address. It also flagged up your interest.’

  ‘The owner’s a William McGeevor? The vehicle’s a Ford Transit?’ Knox said.

  ‘Aye,’ Keller replied. ‘Not that you’d be able to tell from what’s left of it.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ Knox said. ‘I’ll have a couple of our guys come up and take a look.’

  ‘Fine,’ Keller replied. ‘It’s at the end of a dirt track four miles the other side of Auchendinny.’

  Knox ended the call and went to Naismith, who’d just returned to his office. ‘The Transit McGeevor sold to Masters, Alan,’ he said. ‘Penicuik Police have found its burnt-out remains at the end of a track on the Auchendinny-Leadburn Road, fifteen miles south of the city.’

  Naismith nodded. ‘He’s tying up loose ends. Getting rid of anything that might incriminate him.’ He paused. ‘Worth checking, you think?’

  Knox shrugged. ‘Penicuik Police tell me there’s nothing but a shell. It wouldn’t do any harm, though. I’ll send Bill and Gary to take a look.’

  * * *

  The Kawasaki was gone from the garden when McCann and Mason returned to 6 Cochrane Terrace. Norton’s wife, a dumpy woman with greying hair tied in a bun, answered the door. ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Norton?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘We’re the police officers who called earlier,’ McCann said. ‘We asked to speak to your son, Jeff.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You spoke to my husband again today. On the phone?’

  ‘That’s right,’ McCann replied. ‘Mr Norton said he’d be home for his lunch and probably wouldn’t be here when we arrived. We explained it was Jeff we wanted to see.’

  Mrs Norton shook her head. ‘Jeff’s not here.’

  ‘Really?’ McCann said. ‘His father said he was.’

  ‘When you phoned, yes,’ Ms Norton said. ‘He went out soon afterward.’

  ‘Did his father tell him we were coming?’ Mason asked.

 
; Mrs Norton shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know. He might have.’

  ‘Did he take his motorbike with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, he left without saying anything.’

  ‘Have you any idea where he’s likely to have gone?’

  Mrs Norton pursed her lips. ‘I couldn’t say for sure.’ She placed a finger on her chin, thought for a moment, then added, ‘Sometimes he and his biker pals hang out at Joe’s Café.’

  ‘Joe’s Café?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Norton said. ‘It’s in Dalkeith Country Park. I think it’s run by the Town Council.’

  McCann thanked her and left, then she and Mason got back in the car.

  ‘Dalkeith Country Park?’ McCann said.

  Mason activated the sat nav. ‘I think it’s on the A6094 on the fringes of Dalkeith,’ she said, then after consulting the device, added, ‘I was right. The entrance is at the eastern end of the High Street.’

  ‘How far is it from here?’ McCann asked.

  ‘Only a ten-minute drive.’

  The detectives found Dalkeith Country Park situated just off the Dalkeith-Musselburgh road, its entrance clearly marked. Mason stopped and studied a “You Are Here” signpost, which gave the location of each of the park’s attractions.

  Joe’s Café was near a small boating lake, next to which was a car park. The café was a rustic-style cabin positioned alongside a grove of trees, which served hot rolls, sandwiches and drinks from a hatch to customers who sat at tables outside.

  As Mason drove the Vectra into one of the allotted spaces, she and McCann saw four motorcycles parked nearby, one of which was the stolen Kawasaki. McCann inclined her head towards the machine and Mason nodded. The women walked to the café, then McCann spotted Norton sitting at a table shaded by a large oak tree. She nudged Mason and said, ‘Over there.’

  Mason gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘His mother was right,’ she whispered, ‘he is with his biker pals.’

  The pair approached the table where Norton sat with three men around his own age, late teens or early twenties. Like Norton, they wore biker leathers, the jackets adorned with an assortment of patches and stickers.

  Their table was littered with empty soft drink bottles and polystyrene cups, suggesting that one or two of them had been there for some time. The area echoed to their loud banter, interspersed occasionally with raucous laughter.

  As McCann drew near, Norton was sitting with his back to the detectives, and hadn’t seen their approach.

  She tapped Norton’s shoulder and said, ‘Jeff Norton?’

  Norton reacted as if McCann had laid a red-hot poker on his shoulder. He jumped to his feet and turned on her, a look of rage on his face. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he said.

  ‘Jeff Norton,’ McCann continued, ‘you’re under arrest for the theft of a Kawasaki motorcycle taken from the garden of a house at 18 Colinton Mains View on the seventeenth of January this year. You don’t have to say–’

  Norton didn’t wait for the remainder of the caution. He drew back his arm and aimed a blow at McCann’s head. The officer dodged left as Norton followed through, then grabbed his wrist and swung his arm in a 90-degree arc.

  Norton’s momentum did the rest: he executed an almost complete somersault, landing on his back. McCann continued holding his wrist, which she twisted forcefully. Norton screamed as the movement made him turn and face the ground. Then the officer thrust his arm behind his back and removed a pair of handcuffs from her waistband. She slipped one manacle over his right hand, repeated the process with his left, then closed the cuffs with a resounding snap.

  Her adversary’s mates, meanwhile, hadn’t moved an inch: they looked on open-mouthed as Mason helped her colleague raise Norton to his feet.

  Norton appeared winded by his fall; all the fight had gone out of him. He stood unsteadily, looking both dazed and bewildered.

  Only then did one of his mates react. The smallest of the group, a spotty-faced teenager with dark curly hair, said, ‘Hey! That’s police brutality, that is.’

  McCann’s free hand went to her waistband for a second time. She removed an expandable truncheon, flicked it into its extended position, then waved it at the young man. ‘So far, your friend here’s the only one we’re interested in,’ she said. ‘He’s being arrested on three charges. Theft, attempted assault on a police officer, and resisting arrest. But if you or any of your mates want to accompany him, we’ll be happy to accommodate you.’

  As McCann spoke, Mason had a two-way radio in her hand and was saying, ‘This is DC Mason requesting backup from local police. Two officers making an arrest at Joe’s Café, Dalkeith Country Park.’

  A moment later, a crackled response came over the radio. “Message received. Priority given for immediate response.”

  A tall youth seated next to the one who had spoken raised his hands, palms outwards. ‘You’ll get no trouble from me, missus,’ he said to McCann.

  The freckle-faced teenager on his right nodded. ‘Nor me.’

  At this, the curly-haired young man who’d been the first to speak shrugged and shook his head. ‘I don’t want any bother, either.’

  * * *

  ‘Nothing but a charred lump of tin,’ Fulton was saying. He and Herkiss had returned to Gayfield Square from Auchendinny after inspecting the burned-out Ford Transit and were speaking to Knox.

  ‘Absolutely trashed,’ Herkiss agreed. ‘Everything. All the electricals, tyres. Nothing’s recognisable. Must’ve used at least a couple of gallons of petrol. Only one of the registration plates was decipherable, but only just.’

  ‘It’s like the DCI said,’ Knox replied. ‘He’s tying up loose ends.’

  ‘Begs the question, though, boss,’ Fulton said. ‘If the other six couriers still have transport, where does Masters fit in? Has he really anything to do with this Bluebird outfit?’

  Knox shrugged. ‘Murray’s tyre prints point to a connection, Bill. The only Byrona tyres in Scotland were sold to Bluebird and the two independents we’ve already checked out.’

  ‘What about Masters running two vans? The DCI agreed it was feasible,’ Herkiss said.

  ‘Yes, Alan did say that, Gary. And I agree it’s likely. I’ve a gut feeling, though, that there’s an element we’re not seeing yet.’

  Hathaway left his desk and jerked his thumb towards his computer. ‘The VW Caddys you asked me to take a look at, boss?’

  ‘Aye, Mark. What did you find out?’

  ‘One hundred and eighty-seven white models are registered in East Central Scotland. Four hundred and forty-nine if you take in Strathclyde and the west.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Knox said. ‘Thought as much. Bit of a mountain to climb if we have to sift through that lot.’ He shook his head. ‘What we need now is for something else to surface.’

  Mason and McCann walked into the office at that moment and Knox changed tack. ‘You ladies get a result?’ he said.

  Mason grinned. ‘Not without a struggle,’ she said. ‘But, yes, Jeff Norton’s in custody at Dalkeith Police Station. And the stolen motorbike’s been recovered.’

  ‘He resisted arrest?’ Knox said.

  Mason nodded. ‘Threw a punch at Arlene. But she dodged it and had him in cuffs in seconds. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.’

  McCann shrugged, playing it down. ‘Relatively tame, really. Compared to some hard cases I helped to collar as a PC on Saturday nights in Glasgow.’

  Knox smiled. ‘Good work, anyway. A wee highlight at last.’

  ‘Nothing breaking with the Fairbairn murder, boss?’ Mason said.

  Knox shook his head. ‘Not much.’

  The door opened again and DI Murray and DS Beattie entered. Knox was encouraged to see the forensics officers were smiling.

  ‘Good news, Ed?’ he asked Murray.

  ‘Mixed,’ Murray replied. ‘I checked out McGeevor’s files at G&S Motors’ premises. No record of who he sold the Caddy
to. No record of him selling the Transit either – though I gather that’s academic now. The van’s been torched?’

  ‘Aye, Masters set it aflame after drowning it in petrol last night at some woods near Auchendinny,’ Knox replied.

  Knox gestured to the file Murray had under his arm. ‘You look as if you may have some good news,’ he said. ‘The DNA results are in?’

  Murray nodded. ‘First off, we’re still waiting on the analysis of the blouse. But the good news is they’ve found it. And, aye, the DNA results are in. Negative on Mackenzie and Norton. Positive on Smeaton.’

  Knox’s face lit up. ‘Ryan Smeaton’s our man?’

  ‘Like I told you, mixed results. His test came in positive – but only for familial DNA,’ Murray said.

  ‘Familial DNA?’

  ‘Aye, Jack,’ Murray said. ‘The DNA markers indicate a close match, but not a complete one. Which indicates the killer is related to Smeaton. Either a parent or a sibling.’

  Fulton scratched his head. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘It’s all to do with genetic make-up, Bill,’ Beattie explained. ‘Each string of DNA has particular markers. One of these is on the Y-chromosome. It’s only shared by fathers, sons and brothers.’

  ‘So, Smeaton’s likely to be Masters’ brother?’ Knox said.

  Murray nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Knox glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, it’s three-thirty. Smeaton should be at home.’ He turned to Hathaway. ‘Mark, get onto Livingston Police, will you? Ask them to go to 20 Clover Way. Tell them to inform Smeaton something important’s come up and we want to see him here. Tell them we need his cooperation and they’ve to bring him in now.’

  ‘They’re to arrest him?’

  ‘No,’ Knox replied. ‘Not at this point. Impress on them the need to be subtle. It’s only a request at this point. On the other hand, they’ve to make the implication clear: if he doesn’t come willingly, arrest is the alternative.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘I don’t understand why you want to speak to me again,’ Smeaton was saying. ‘I thought we covered everything when I talked to you at home.’