Smeaton was in one of Gayfield Square Police Station’s three interview rooms. Seated at the table opposite him were Knox and Fulton. Naismith was in the room next door, viewing the exchange on a closed-circuit television monitor.
Knox studied the ex-paratrooper. A fine sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead and it was evident he was uncomfortable.
‘There’s been a development,’ Knox said, ‘with the result of your DNA test.’
Smeaton regarded Knox with a look of hostility. ‘Which implicates me?’
‘Not directly, no,’ Knox replied. ‘But our forensic team tell us your DNA specimen flagged up a family connection.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Smeaton said.
‘Markers in the Y-chromosome indicate the man we are looking for is either your father or your brother. I think the latter’s more likely, so I’d like to ask about your siblings. Can you tell us about them?’
Smeaton said nothing for a long moment, then shook his head. ‘My natural mother,’ he said, ‘had some sort of mental breakdown when I was nine years old. My brother and I were taken into care.’
‘Where was this?’
‘The place where we were born,’ Smeaton replied. ‘Camelon, near Falkirk.’
‘What happened to your mother, exactly?’ Knox asked.
‘My father – I don’t remember him – left her when I was seven and my brother was four. She had a nervous breakdown, followed by bouts of depression. We were at home on our own for long periods of time. The council’s social work department heard about it and got a court order. We were taken into care.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Knox said. ‘What was your father’s name?’
‘Gaffney,’ Smeaton said. ‘Thomas Gaffney. I was fostered at the age of fourteen. Smeaton’s my foster parents’ name.’
‘And your brother?’
‘He was fostered a year before me. When he was ten, I think.’
‘What is your brother’s Christian name?’
‘Jack,’ Smeaton said. ‘Jack Gaffney.’
‘What is his foster parents’ surname?’
Smeaton shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘The people at the care home would only tell me he was fostered by a couple in St Andrews. I never found out their address.’
‘You weren’t curious?’ Fulton said.
Smeaton nodded. ‘Of course I was curious. The care home people told me the foster parents didn’t want me to know.’
‘When was the last time you saw your brother?’ Knox said.
‘I told you. At the care home, when I was thirteen and he was ten.’
‘You haven’t communicated with him since?’
‘Only once. My foster parents live here in Edinburgh. After I joined the army, Sheila – that’s my foster mother – got in touch with the home and asked them to forward my contact details to Jack’s foster parents, but she never received a reply.’
Smeaton shook his head and went on, ‘We weren’t particularly close, really. Not even at the care home. Three years is a big difference when you’re that age. We didn’t have that much in common.’
‘So, you haven’t seen your brother in sixteen years?’ Knox asked.
‘That’s right,’ Smeaton said. ‘As I said, I was in the army between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. I met Linda, got married, and soon afterward we moved to Livingston. I didn’t try to contact him again and he didn’t contact me. It could have something to do with family history. I guess his childhood memories may have traumatised him in some way.’
‘What happened to your mother?’ Knox asked.
Smeaton shrugged. ‘Suicide. She took an overdose of pills back in 2005.’
‘This care home you went to, it’s in Falkirk?’
‘Yes. 18 Dundrennan Drive.’
‘Okay, Ryan,’ Knox said. ‘We’ll have to check out everything you’ve told us. However, I’d like to impress on you the seriousness of the situation. It’s almost one hundred per cent likely your brother has committed murder. If you should see him, or if he should try to contact you, you must let us know. Do you understand?’
Smeaton nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Knox rose from the desk and indicated the door. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You can go. See Sergeant Rogers on the desk and he’ll have an officer drive you home.’ Knox held Smeaton’s gaze and added, ‘But bear in mind, if there’s anything we have to verify, we’ll need to speak to you again.’
* * *
‘What do you think, Jack?’ Naismith said. Knox and Fulton had joined the DCI in the adjoining interview room soon after Smeaton left.
Knox shook his head. ‘I have the feeling he’s lying,’ he replied. ‘I find it hard to believe anyone fostering a ten-year-old boy would deny his brother access.’
‘And when they became adults,’ Naismith said, ‘surely one or the other would have tried to make contact?’
‘I thought it odd, too, that at one point in the interview Smeaton said his brother may have been traumatised,’ Fulton said. ‘I got the feeling he was hiding something.’
‘Well, I daresay we’ll find out before long,’ Naismith said, then glanced at his watch. ‘Right, we’d better get onto this care home, Jack. See if we can track down his foster parents before we call it a day.’
Knox looked at his partner. ‘Bill’s just about to give them a ring, Alan.’ He took his phone from his pocket and added, ‘Meanwhile, I’ve just had a text message from DI June Short, the ballistics officer we spoke to in Bathgate. She wants to update me on their findings.’
Naismith nodded in acknowledgement, then he and Fulton left the room.
Knox highlighted Short’s number, pressed call, and a moment later a voice answered.
‘DI June Short.’
‘Hi, June. It’s Jack Knox. You asked me to ring you?’
‘Ah yes, Jack,’ Short said. ‘We’ve got the results of the ballistics tests.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Knox said.
‘The killer fired at an almost forty-five-degree angle, which means he had to have been standing over McGeevor when he pulled the trigger.’
‘Yes,’ Knox said. ‘That confirms what you told me at Broxburn.’
‘It does,’ Short said. ‘But the bullet Mr Turley took from the deceased is a 9x19mm Parabellum round, which indicates it was fired from an automatic pistol.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve studied the rifling and we’re almost sure it came from an Austrian-made Glock. More specifically, a Glock 17.’
‘That has significance?’
‘Yes,’ Short said. ‘In the UK, Glock 17s are almost exclusively an army weapon. Issued to special forces: the SAS, SBS and the Parachute Regiment.’
Chapter Eighteen
Fulton’s call to Falkirk’s Glenlee Care Home at Dundrenann Drive reached the duty supervisor, who revealed that Jack Gaffney had been fostered by a Mr Archie Grant and his wife Elsie, who resided at 17 Ochiltree Crescent, St Andrews.
Knox had updated Naismith on DI June Short’s findings before winding up on Tuesday evening, and the following morning he and his partner were headed north.
As they crossed the Firth of Forth via the new Queensferry Crossing, Fulton said, ‘I overheard Naismith telling Yvonne that Gartcosh wanted to interview her about Reilly?’
‘Yes, the DCI told me before we left,’ Knox said. ‘Apparently, he appealed. They’re holding a tribunal at eleven-thirty this morning. Because Naismith enacted the suspension, they want him to be present.’
‘A tribunal?’
‘Aye,’ Knox replied. ‘Three chief superintendents and two chief inspectors. Apparently, one of the latter will represent Reilly, the other Yvonne.’
Fulton shook his head. ‘Surely, Reilly hasn’t a leg to stand on?’
Knox shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Naismith told me Reilly’s still able to pull a string or two. He’s in the habit of shaking hands with the right people, apparently.’
‘Mm-hmm,’ Fulton said. �
��He’s a Mason.’
Knox entered Fife and took the coastal route via Kirkaldy, Leven and Anstruther, arriving at St Andrews just before eleven.
17 Ochiltree Crescent was a compact, semi-detached bungalow on a new-build estate situated a mile east of the world-famous Royal and Ancient Golf Club. As Knox drew to a halt, he saw a middle-aged man and woman tending a flowerbed. The detectives exited the car, then the woman looked over. ‘You’re the policemen who called earlier?’ she said.
Knox and Fulton introduced themselves, then Mrs Grant gestured to the door. ‘Please, go in,’ she said. She took off her gardening gloves, then laid down a pair of secateurs and motioned to her husband. ‘Archie, will you put these gardening things in the shed and come back inside?’
‘Yes, dear,’ her husband replied. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
A minute or two later, the detectives were seated on a pair of beige armchairs in the living room while the Grants sat on a matching settee opposite. Mrs Grant offered to make the detectives tea but Knox thanked her and declined. ‘We left the office early this morning and stopped off at Anstruther for breakfast,’ he explained.
Mrs Grant looked disappointed. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘I would’ve been happy to have put the kettle on.’
There was a short silence, then Mr Grant said, ‘Glenlee Care Home gave you Elsie’s details?’
‘Yes,’ Knox said. ‘We wanted to ask about Jack Gaffney. They told us Jack had been fostered to a Mr and Mrs Grant.’
Mrs Grant glanced at her husband and said, ‘Jack came to us before I married Archie. He came to live with me and my then husband, Don, in 2002. They seem to have updated their records with Archie’s name. Sorry about the confusion.’
‘I see,’ Knox said, then continued, ‘Were you and your former husband aware Jack had a brother at Glenlee?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Grant said. ‘Ryan. He was three years older.’
Knox nodded, then said, ‘After you fostered Jack, did anyone at the home contact you to ask if Ryan could visit his brother?’
‘The supervisor told us it would be in Ryan’s best interest if he didn’t see Jack for a while, to get him used to the separation,’ Mrs Grant said. ‘Don and I thought it was a cruel stance to take, but he assured us it was in the children’s interest.’
‘Glenlee didn’t allow Ryan to phone his brother either?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Mrs Grant shrugged. ‘Don and I thought it strange, but went along with it.’
‘Was Jack able to contact his bother at any point?’
‘Jack kept asking about Ryan, so six months after he came to live with us, I got in touch with the supervisor again. He told me Ryan didn’t want to see Jack, or talk to him. To be honest, I found it hard to believe.’ She shook her head. ‘But then I remembered the boy’s background and that his mother had a mental illness. I guessed it might have affected the boy.’
‘And Jack?’ Knox said. ‘He came to terms with it?’
‘Eventually,’ Mrs Grant said. ‘It took a while, though.’
‘How long was he with you?’
‘Eight years,’ Mrs Grant replied. ‘He completed a course in media studies at Napier University in Edinburgh when he was eighteen. He shared a flat with other students to begin with, visiting Don and I at the weekends. Then he got a job with a public relations firm and rented his own flat. When Don died of lung cancer in 2012, Jack stopped visiting. I don’t think he could bear coming back to the house where he’d spent so much of his childhood. He just doted on Don.’
‘What kind of personality did he have?’ Knox asked.
‘As a child?’ Mrs Grant said. ‘Quiet in the beginning. A bit withdrawn. Soon after he came to us and started making friends, he came out of his shell. By the time he grew into his teens he was outgoing, full of confidence. To be honest, though, he was still prone to mood swings.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Knox asked.
‘Six years ago,’ Mrs Grant replied. ‘At my former husband’s funeral.’
‘Does he ever phone?’ Fulton asked.
‘No, never. I don’t hear from him at all these days. Not even a Christmas card.’
‘Have you ever heard of a John Masters?’ Knox asked.
Mrs Grant frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Knox shook his head. ‘It’s not important,’ he replied. ‘Do you happen to have Jack’s address?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. The last I heard – that would be around the time Don died – he was still in his flat in Gorgie.’
‘What, was he still with the public relations company?’
‘No, he told me at Don’s funeral that he’d started his own business. Some kind of delivery service.’
‘He was a courier?’ Knox asked. ‘Delivering parcels?’
Mrs Grant nodded. ‘What was his firm’s name?’
Her brow furrowed as she searched her memory. ‘Something to do with a colour. Green… no, blue-something.’
‘Bluebird Parcel Services?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ She studied Knox for a long moment. ‘Has Donald done something serious?’
Knox raised his eyebrows. ‘Donald?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Grant said. ‘Sorry, I thought you knew. After Jack left us, he took my ex-husband’s Christian name and surname. He told me at Don’s funeral he’d changed it by deed poll.’
‘What is your ex-husband’s surname?’ Knox said.
‘Russell,’ Mrs Grant replied. ‘Don Russell.’
* * *
Gartcosh Scottish Crime Campus was situated near the M73, eight miles north-east of Glasgow. The new Police Scotland headquarters opened in 2014, designed from scratch to incorporate five key law enforcement agencies: Organised Crime, Drugs, Revenue and Customs, Procurator Fiscal Services and Forensics.
Y-Shaped after the Y-chromosome, the four-storey building was created as a state-of-the-art facility and covered 12,600 square meters of real estate, with masonry of varying widths repeated around the façade, designed to replicate the sequences of male and female DNA.
Naismith left his Volvo xc60 at the adjacent car park, then he and Mason went into a central atrium where they were greeted by a civilian receptionist.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes,’ Naismith replied. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Naismith and Detective Constable Mason. We’re here to see Chief Superintendent Mullin at eleven-thirty.’
The receptionist nodded. ‘May I see your warrant cards, please?’
Naismith and Mason handed over their ID cards, which the woman checked. She glanced at a desktop computer, scrolled through a list on the screen, and said, ‘Ah, here we are. Detective Chief Superintendent Mullin. Room 201b, fourth floor.’
She handed back their cards and waved to a pair of lifts situated near the foot of a sweeping staircase. ‘Take one of the lifts to the fourth floor, 201b is to your left.’
Naismith turned to Mason on exiting the lift and said, ‘Mullin will chair the tribunal. I’ve had dealings with him before. He’s a fair man.’
They continued along the corridor and found 201b, where Naismith’s knock was answered by a man wearing a chief inspector’s uniform. He smiled and said, ‘DCI Naismith and DC Mason?’
Naismith nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Chief Inspector Brian Forsyth,’ he said, then shook their hands. ‘I’ll be representing you at the hearing.’ He waved them into a large room whose predominant feature was a substantial-looking wooden table behind which three chairs had been arranged. A further two were positioned at right angles on the left, and three others in the centre faced the table at a distance of five feet.
Forsyth looked at his watch. ‘11.25am,’ he said. ‘The others should be here soon. My opposite number, DCI George Laidlaw, is representing DI Reilly.’
‘Who are the other officers on the panel?’ Naismith asked.
‘Chief Superintendent Dave Ramsey and Chief Superintendent Nigel McCrone,’ For
syth replied. ‘Chief Superintendent Mullin is Chair.’
‘Yes, I was told that earlier,’ Naismith said.
‘I’ve studied your report as the basis of the case against DI Reilly, Chief Inspector,’ Forsyth said. ‘What you overheard him say to DI Knox, and the insubordinate comments he made against you. There’s nothing you wish to add or amend?’
‘No,’ Naismith said. ‘I put in my report exactly what happened.’
Then the door opened and five others entered the room. The three senior officers took their seats behind the table while the other two, DCI Laidlaw and DI Reilly, went to the seats on the left.
Chief Superintendent Mullin, a stocky man with a thick moustache, waved to the chairs opposite and nodded to Forsyth, Naismith and Mason. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘take a seat.’
He continued, ‘My name is Chief Superintendent Bill Mullin and I’ll be chairing the tribunal today.’ He motioned to his companions and added, ‘The other officers present are Chief Superintendent Dave Ramsey, seated on my left, and Chief Superintendent Nigel McCrone, seated on my right. Detective Chief Inspector George Laidlaw will represent Detective Inspector Reilly.’
Mullin leafed through a folder on the desk in front of him and continued, ‘Okay, let’s get started. The purpose of this tribunal is to determine the fairness of Detective Inspector Reilly’s dismissal from an active murder inquiry on 13 August and the pending disciplinary action. The charges are insubordination and attempting to bring into disrepute the reputation of a fellow officer, DC Yvonne Mason.’ He looked at Laidlaw. ‘DCI Laidlaw, will you confirm that DI Reilly is appealing these charges?’
‘Yes, sir, he is.’
Mullin studied Laidlaw for a long moment. ‘DI Reilly is denying that DCI Naismith overheard him admit to another officer he had set a trap for DC Mason? That he used a mobile telephone confiscated from a drugs offender to make an emergency 999 call? That he told the operator DC Mason was driving in a manner likely to endanger other road users?’
‘DI Reilly feels the facts, as they are presented, paint him in a poor light, sir,’ Laidlaw said.
‘How, specifically?’ Mullin asked.
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