‘This you’re going to love. Bob Skinner.’
Instantly he forgot about the video game, turning to catch her gaze. ‘You are havin’ one, aren’t you? Skinner? Sir Bob himself? Has he no’ got a home to go to?’
‘It seems not,’ she agreed. ‘Big Mario only said that it’s something he came up with on his own time, spin-off from some client business that Alex has been doing. It may be related to it, it may not; that’s for us to determine.’
‘But Skinner’s doing the briefing? Not the fiscal, not a serving officer?’
‘That’s the thing, Dan. Technically he still is. The chief’s made him a special constable, with a roving brief. He neither gives orders nor takes them; his role is that of an adviser or a mentor, however I want to see it.’
‘Do you have to see it?’ Dan asked her. ‘Can’t you just thank him and send him home?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The DCC made it clear that he’s only there with my agreement. The term that was used was mentor; if I feel that I don’t need one, least of all the most overbearing, forceful personality in the history of Scottish policing, I can thank him for his information and then ask him to go away and let me get on with it.’
‘But you’re no’ going to do that, are you?’
‘No, I don’t think I am. I like big Bob, and I value his judgement and his experience. As well as all the things I called him before, he’s also by a country mile the second best detective officer I ever knew.’
‘The best being . . .’
She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You, my darling man, who else but you?’
‘Nice of you to say so, but that man’s seen things I’m glad Ah haven’t. If he’s prepared tae advise you, ye’d be daft not to let him, not least since you’ve got a new spare wheel. Will this one last any longer than the last two?’
‘I hope so. Your two successors just weren’t up to the job.’
‘They’d a hard act to follow, mind,’ Provan murmured.
‘Granted, but the first one, the newly promoted woman from Traffic, she couldn’t have followed an ice cream van, and the second one, he was an Irish joke. I’d never really believed in the Masonic connection in the old Glasgow force, but a month working with Detective Sergeant McFee put me right about that. There’s no other way he could have got stripes on his arm.’
‘And the new boy? Young John frae FurryBoots City? How is he going to do?’
‘This’ll be his first big test,’ Lottie said, ‘but so far the signs are good. He’s got an honours degree, and he realised that it wasn’t going to do him any good in the transport police. Best of it was, you know they floated the idea of merging the railway plods with our crew, and forty-plus per cent of them quit? John Cotter did the opposite. He made the switch the day the policy was announced; he was promoted in Aberdeen within six months, and transferred to Glasgow three months after that.’
‘Who’s his fairy godmother?’ Provan asked. ‘These young superstars have usually got someone in the hierarchy looking out for them.’
‘Nobody that I’ve heard of. My chief super was vague about him when he posted him to me. “Don’t break this one, DCI Mann. He could be precious,” was all he said.’
‘A couple of ways you could take that. The other is that he could go running tae his rep at the first harsh word.’
‘My first impression is that he’s a goodie. Young, late twenties, keen and full of ideas.’
Provan frowned. ‘In that case, do you think it’s a good idea having Skinner around him?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ she countered.
‘One of the things I’ve learned already from this college job is that there are folk coming into the job who have no clue of the history and traditions of the service. They know eff all about the service as it used to be, when we had eight chief constables, no’ just the one. That’s the norm to them; they’re more civil servants than they are cops, and they’re gonna regard the likes of Bob Skinner as exhibits in some polis version of Jurassic Park. If your boy Cotter’s one of them and he lets Skinner know it, well . . .’
He paused, then beamed beatifically. ‘On second thoughts, go for it. Kids like that think Ah’m a dinosaur too. If yours is one of them, it’ll do him no harm tae find out just how terrifying a tyrannosaurus must have been up close and personal.’
Twenty-Four
Not once had Clarice Meadows regretted her decision to leave the civil service, not for a single second. She was free of politics both office and national, the two having become increasingly interlinked in her experience; she had a congenial workplace in the city centre, and with thirty years of accrued pension rights transferred into her employer’s more-than-adequate workplace scheme, she felt secure for life.
She had never been a clock watcher by nature, but she had spent her working life surrounded by them, and by desks that were regularly empty on Mondays, given the resigned attitude of management to ad hoc sick days. She enjoyed working until a task was complete, not only to Alex Skinner’s satisfaction but to her own. To her surprise, she had discovered that she even acquired a certain buzz from being called on Sunday.
She had been in the garden with Sandy, her accountant husband, watering their desperately dry lawns, when her mobile had vibrated in her pocket. Her left eyebrow rose slightly when she saw Alex’s number, and she felt a quick flash of excitement.
‘Clarice?’ Her boss had sounded tentative, less than her usual confident self. For an instant Clarice suspected that she might have the same hangover that was keeping her daughter in her room with the curtains drawn tight against the sun. ‘I’m sorry about this, but there’s a . . . situation. I have to be somewhere so I can’t handle it myself, and it isn’t something that Johanna’s been involved in, so I’m wondering. Could you give me a hand?’
‘I’d be delighted. Sandy’s off to the bowling club . . .’ the lie came spontaneously, to put Alex more at ease, she told herself, ‘and our Janice will be best avoided until about five, so it’s no problem. What do you need doing? Do I have to go into the office?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. Do you have Carrie McDaniels in your contacts list? Carrie the investigator?’
‘The woman who came in the other day about the Brass affair? Military type? AC/DC? Yes, I have her. Mobile number and her address; you said she works from home.’
‘I need you to run her to ground. She called me yesterday and asked for a meeting in the office at five thirty, but I didn’t get her message until it was too late. I tried calling her last night and again today, but she’s been on voicemail herself ever since. I really must speak to her, but right now, short of leaving yet another message, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘Urgency on a scale of ten?’
‘Off the scale.’
‘No problem, Alex. Leave it with me; it’s as good as done. What do I tell her when I find her?’
‘Tell her to stop what she’s doing and get in touch with me, urgently.’
‘Do you need her to come and see you?’
‘No, because I don’t know where I’ll be.’
‘Sounds mysterious. Boss, are you okay?’
‘I’ve been better, but yes. Thanks for this, Clarice. There’ll be a bonus.’
‘A bottle of something with bubbles will be perfectly fine.’
‘Thanks, you’re a darlin’.’
‘It might need to be two bottles,’ Clarice murmured now, as she walked up the Royal Mile. She had expected no miracle from her call to McDaniels’ mobile. At best a drunken mumble, at worst the ‘subscriber is unavailable’ message that she heard.
‘Magic! Her voicemail’s full or her battery’s dead. Help me here, woman?’
Her contacts book was comprehensive; it had a landline number, email address, a Facebook listing and a WhatsApp notation. The landline call went to message after a few seconds of ringtone; not immediately, as it would have done if the number had been engaged. Clarice left her name and number
, then delved back into her phone and sent three messages, the first an email, the second a WhatsApp chat contact, and the third using Facebook.
That done, she picked up the garden hose once more and went back to watering. When the parched grass finally felt squelchy under her feet, she checked her phone. None of the tries had been acknowledged, and most significantly, the WhatsApp icon showed that its message had not reached its target. One way or another, Carrie McDaniels was off the reservation.
Faced with no other option, but determined to keep her word, she had picked up her car key.
‘Where you off to?’ The mumble had come from the garden chair.
‘Duty calls.’
‘Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.’
‘I don’t. Make our daughter a fizzy drink and tell her the longer she lies there, the worse it’ll get.’
Summer Sundays in Edinburgh attract more motorists to the city than its car parks and meters were ever intended to cope with. Eventually she had found a slot in the underground facility beneath Dynamic Earth, leaving her a long uphill trudge towards McDaniels’ address.
‘It’s bloody Sunday,’ she muttered, realisation dawning as she passed John Knox’s House, searching for the number she had noted. ‘What if this really is an office? What if Alex was wrong? What if this has been a complete waste of bloody time?’
‘F2,’ she read. ‘Second bloody floor.’ She trudged up two flights of worn stone stairs, making a mental note to renew her gym membership, now that she no longer had access to the lavish civil service facilities.
Carrie McDaniels’ door was varnished. There was a peephole just below eye level. She peered through it, hoping to see some sign of movement, or even light. Crazily she began to hum her old Elvis Costello favourite ‘Watching the Detectives’, then burst into laughter.
When it had subsided, she pressed the doorbell, and heard a loud chime from inside. She waited, her ear close to the door, listening for signs of movement. Hearing none, she lifted the letter box and called through it, ‘Ms McDaniels. Carrie. It’s Clarice Meadows from Alex Skinner’s office. Alex needs to speak to you, urgently.’
‘You lookin’ for Carrie?’
The voice came from halfway up the flight of stairs above her. Its owner was a skinny young man with long greasy hair, clad in shorts and a T-shirt with a slogan that the basic knowledge of Norwegian that she had gleaned in one of her civil service postings told her was extremely offensive. She doubted that he knew, but chose to let him carry on in ignorance until he met a Scandinavian tourist in the street.
‘Yes, I am, actually,’ she replied. ‘It’s a business matter, quite urgent.’
‘She’s no’ in,’ he assured her. ‘Hasnae been in a’ day. Ah’d have kent if she was. She plays her music far too loud; fuckin’ Indian stuff. She telt me she got to like it in the army. Ah tell her if she plays it any louder they’ll be able to hear it in fuckin’ India, but she taks nae notice.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘She was in last night, when Ah got in frae ma work.’
‘What time?’
‘Two thirty. Ah work in a pub on the Cowgate, just doon the road. Ah finished at one then hung on for a drink wi’ the staff. So, aye, it would be about two thirty.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Well, no. Ah never actually saw her like, just heard her movin’ aboot.’
‘Were her lights on?’
‘How the fuck wid Ah know? That isnae a glass door ye’re standin’ at, is it? Ah,’ his mouth fell open, ‘haud on. Ah had a fag after Ah got in. Ah don’t smoke in the hoose, ma granny doesnae like it – it’s her place, ken – so Ah wis hingin’ oot the back windae, and naw, her light wisnae on. Ah could still hear her, mind. That’s a’, though. Ah certainly never heard her this mornin’, and Ah would have. Mind you, Ah never woke up till hauf eleven.’
Clarice maintained what she hoped was a pleasant smile. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be now? Does she have a favourite hang-out? Does she have a boyfriend, a girlfriend even?’
‘FucktifAhknow,’ he replied, unwittingly copying the name given to a Yugoslav footballer by a legendary Scottish radio commentator who had misheard his assistant. ‘Ah can gie ye her faither’s number, though.’
‘You’re a friend of her family?’ she exclaimed, taken aback.
‘Naw, Ah’ve never met him, but Carrie gave me a card wi’ his contact details; for emergencies, ken. Haud on and Ah’ll get it.’ He grinned. ‘That’s as long as ye’re no’ a debt collector, like.’
‘Do I look like a debt collector?’ Clarice boomed.
‘These days, who looks like onything?’ he chuckled, retracing his steps and disappearing through a blue front door on the landing above. He reappeared after a few minutes brandishing a sheet of paper. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he descended, ‘Ah’d a hell of a job findin’ it, then Ah did ye a copy on my printer. Ah’d tae wait a minute for it tae boot up.’ He handed her the information, then carried on downstairs. ‘Nice meetin’ ye.’
She looked at the sheet of paper. It was a copy of a calling card, for personal use rather than business. ‘Peter McDaniels MA, 17 Skylaw Place, Musselburgh,’ she murmured. There was no mobile number, only a landline. Checking her phone, she saw that the signal strength was poor inside the old stone building, and so she waited until she was back on the Royal Mile before keying it in. The number rang four times, then went to message mode. ‘Hello, this is Peter,’ a cheery voice announced. ‘I’m out right now. If you’re a friend, leave a message; if you’re a former pupil, leave a threat.’
She framed her message in her mind, then launched into it. ‘Mr McDaniels, my name is Clarice Meadows. I work for a client of your daughter and I am trying to get in touch with her. She’s not responding to her mobile, nor is she at home, so I am wondering if she’s with you. I’d be grateful if you’d call me back when you pick this up.’
She walked slowly back down the historic thoroughfare. As it narrowed, the crowds grew thinner and the atmosphere became less oppressive, but the heat had reached continental levels and she began to be sorry about being in the sun too long. She walked in shade where she could, until she spotted the familiar Starbucks logo and stopped off to buy a bottle of sparkling water.
Outside, she stepped into the shade of an alleyway and checked her phone once more. No missed calls showed. She tried Peter McDaniels again, but received the same reply. She had no idea whether there was a Mrs McDaniels. It was entirely possible that there was and that the pair were enjoying the relative coolness of the Costa Brava, or that there was not and that father and daughter were enjoying a day at the seaside.
Clarice hated to abandon a mission, she hated to leave a task unfulfilled, but she feared that she had no option but to call Alex and report failure. She was on the point of making the call when she decided that there was one last card in her hand. She returned to the car park, and programmed Skylaw Place Musselburgh into Apple Maps. After all, she was on the east side of the city, and the bypass would take her home in reasonably quick time.
Peter McDaniels lived in a new estate that was actually on the fringes of Wallyford; she supposed that the developer, a major housebuilder that had been expanding its brand across East Lothian, had determined that Musselburgh, with its famous racecourse, its ancient golf links and its boarding school, was a more marketable address. Skylaw Place was a cul-de-sac, a mix of detached and semi-detached properties; number seventeen was one of the former. Clarice sighed when she saw that there was no car in the driveway. There was a garage, but its up-and-over door was raised slightly and she could see that it was unoccupied. ‘Maybe he’s a bloody cyclist,’ she muttered.
Parking space was limited; to avoid blocking the road, she pulled her nearside wheels onto the pavement as one or two others had done, and stepped out, exchanging her air conditioning for the full glare of the sun. The house had no border to the front; a path bisected a small lawn, leading to the front door
. She had almost reached it when a car, a red vehicle with plastic side panels, swung into the driveway.
She stopped and waited as the driver switched off the engine and stepped out. He was tall and silver-haired; his face was lined but he had a healthy tan; his legs, revealed by his shorts, were thick and sinewy and his grey eyes were clear. If she had been forced to guess his age, she would have taken a stab at early sixties, but she recognised that could have been up to ten years too low.
He stood by the car, appraising her, but with a smile. ‘You have a slightly bewildered look about you,’ he began. ‘Are you lost, or are you going to tell me I’ve won the Postcode Lottery? If you are, yes, I’m Peter McDaniels.’
‘I’m not lost, Mr McDaniels, and I’m sorry not to be bearing great news. I did try to phone you, but obviously you were out and I wasn’t given a mobile number. I’m looking for your daughter Carrie, and I hope you can help me.’
The expressive eyes showed a flash of concern. ‘Maybe we can help each other,’ he murmured. ‘But first,’ he added, ‘I’ve been daft enough to buy frozen stuff at the supermarket, on a day like this, and it needs to go in the freezer, pronto. If you’ll allow me to take care of that, then we can talk.’
She stood aside, giving him access to his own front door, then offered to help him by carrying some of the bags she could see on the back seat of his car as he returned to open it. ‘Thanks,’ he said, handing her two of them. ‘Follow me.’
He led her through the house and into the kitchen. As they passed through the hallway, a single glance told her that no woman lived there.
She watched as he packed away his groceries. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that today of all days, Tesco would be quiet. Wrong. Tesco is never quiet. Nightmare as always. Now,’ he continued as he finished, ‘to complete the introductions . . .’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’m Clarice Meadows’ – in her surroundings it occurred to her for the first time that her name sounded like a Cala housing estate – ‘and I work for Alexis Skinner. She’s a solicitor advocate and your daughter’s doing some investigative work for her.’
The Bad Fire (Bob Skinner series, Book 31): A shocking murder case brings danger too close to home for ex-cop Bob Skinner in this gripping Scottish crime thriller Page 13