‘Are you involved in that in the same way?’
‘No, but I have a personal interest in one aspect, so I’m not taking my fucking eyes off it. Is all that okay?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Mann asked.
‘Yes. If you feel strongly enough to complain to Maggie Rose, go ahead.’
‘Bollocks to that. I like being a DCI. Will you need a room?’
Skinner shook his head. ‘No, that would beg questions. If I need to, I’ll bunk up with young John here. I’ve got lots of stories to tell him about the world beyond Thomas the Tank Engine.’
Thirty-Five
‘That’s appalling,’ David Brass exclaimed. ‘The woman is working on my ex-wife’s case, you say. Surely her being missing can’t be connected to that.’
‘We have very strong evidence that it is,’ Sauce Haddock assured him.
‘If you say so. I’m sorry to be so ill-informed. I don’t watch much television news these days,’ he explained. ‘I don’t really keep up with current affairs at all. Like most of the country, I’m sickened by all that Brexit nonsense. Bloody parliamentarians! They had their orders, so why all the fuss about carrying them out? I never prevaricated in my job. If a tooth had to come out, out it came. All that apart, I don’t see how I can help you; I’ve never met the lady, even though you say she was working on my business.’
‘That’s not why we’re here,’ Noele McClair said. ‘It isn’t only Ms McDaniels who’s missing. Early yesterday morning, there was a break-in at your lawyer’s office, and the file you gave Ms Skinner was stolen. The same night, Carrie McDaniels’ home was burgled and all her computer equipment was taken. Given the fact that your ex-wife’s case never made it to court, there’s no other record of the investigation. In trying to piece together her movements last week, we’re working in the dark. By any chance, did you copy the papers you gave to Alex Skinner?’
Brass sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He ran his fingers through his sparse hair. ‘What have I started?’ he murmured. ‘What you seem to be telling me is that if I’d let Marcia rest in peace, this woman wouldn’t be missing.’
‘We’re not saying that at all, sir,’ Haddock assured him. ‘If you believe your wife was wrongfully accused, it was your right to look into it.’
‘It’s good of you to say so, but the real truth, I’m ashamed to say, is that I personally didn’t give a damn. When we were married, Marcia was always a pain in the backside with her crusading politics. The cause of the month was always more important than me and our son. She divorced me because I had relationships elsewhere, and I was happy to let her. When the LuxuMarket business blew up, and she died, I was sorry, angry even, but not exactly overcome with grief. Austin was, though. He inherited his mother’s obsessive gene, and he refused to accept the official version. He made a huge fuss about it, accused the police of conspiring with Marcia’s enemies on the council, accused the store owner, accused everybody. He only stopped when he had a visit from the LuxuMarket owner. I wasn’t present and Austin never told me exactly what had happened, but he was pretty chastened afterwards. All he would say was that there had been a threat of legal consequences. It didn’t stop him, though; he took a step back from Marcia’s case and started his blog, Brass Rubbings, uncovering and publicising other miscarriages of justice, police misconduct and misuse of public office. And look where that got him, eventually. He died, like his mother . . . thanks to his mother, damn her! That was when I dug out the file on Marcia and decided to have one last try at finding the truth. But I didn’t do it for her; I did it for my son.’
‘I see,’ the DI murmured. ‘But you did it, and a chain of events began that has led to the disappearance of your investigator and to related crime, including,’ he added, ‘an attack on Alex Skinner in her home.’
Brass gasped. ‘My God, is she all right?’
‘She was unhurt, but a colleague of ours who was with her at the time did sustain an injury. She’s safe now, but it adds even more urgency to our investigation.’
‘I’ll bet. Her father must be incandescent.’
‘He is,’ Haddock chuckled. ‘Alex is her father’s daughter, though; she nailed one of the intruders with a heavy frying pan before the pair of them ran for it.’
‘That’s good to hear. I wish I could be of some help to you. These people need catching.’
‘Maybe you can. The only clues we have to Carrie’s movements come from something she said to her father about places she was seeing for the first time. Dundee we know about, but she also mentioned Motherwell. From what you can remember about the file, was there anything in it that might point there?’
The old dentist frowned, then shook his head. ‘No, nothing comes to mind.’
‘How about Millport?’
‘Millport? She’d be seeing Cedric Black, Marcia’s lawyer; my lawyer really, but he represented her when she was arrested. He’s retired now, and lives there with his new lady.’
The detectives looked at each other. ‘I suppose so,’ the DI sighed. ‘We don’t have many possible leads.’
‘If you see him, it’ll likely be a wasted trip, though. Cedric always believed she was as guilty as sin. He only took the case on for me. Poor old Marcia, only two people really believed she was innocent. Her son and her twin.’
‘Her twin?’ McClair exclaimed.
‘Oh yes. She had a twin sister, Joan. Didn’t you know?’
Thirty-Six
‘Sir Robert didn’t hang around for long,’ Cotter remarked as he drove away from the Queen Elizabeth II University Hospital.
‘I didn’t expect him to,’ Mann said. ‘He said he was only coming along out of courtesy to Professor Scott. He has a day job with the owners of the Saltire newspaper. It’s not full-time, but it tends to keep him in Edinburgh.’
‘Will we see much of him?’
‘As much as I want. I’m not so proud that I’ll turn down help from the best detective officer I have ever met.’
‘Better than Dan?’
‘For all I may say, even Dan would concede that, although maybe not before witnesses. What did you think of Professor Scott?’
‘He’s impressive, and he has a nice turn of phrase. He seems to be in absolutely no doubt that we have a murder case on our hands.’ The DS hesitated. ‘But guv, can we open a full-scale investigation on his word alone? Don’t we need a second opinion?’
‘Two things, John. One, don’t ever call me guv. This is not the fucking Sweeney; here its ma’am, or boss, or gaffer, or Lottie, once we get to know each other a bit better, and I’ll tell you when that is. Two, in the west of Scotland Graham Scott is the top pathologist, and utterly reliable. His opposite number through in Edinburgh is Professor Sarah Grace, who happens by sheer chance to be Lady Skinner. Yes, I could ask her to look at the report, but she’d agree with Graham’s findings, Graham would be pissed off if he ever found out, and we’d have wasted time. Now, Sergeant, tell me: in the unfortunate absence of Dr Archie Banks, who either screwed up Marcia Brown’s post-mortem examination or deliberately submitted an incorrect report to the procurator fiscal, Robert Hough, where do we begin?’
‘With the second pathologist?’ Cotter suggested.
‘Sound idea, but she’s not going to tell us anything she hasn’t told Graham Scott already. We’ll leave her for the moment and interview the only other witness, the former Detective Inspector Terry Coats. But before we do that, we’ll do some advance research, by pulling his file from HR. That name has meaning for me. I never met Coats, but I made DI not long after him and heard some stories about him, not all of them to his credit. Dan knew him, though.’
‘What did he think of him?’
‘The words “fucking chancer” come to mind.’
Thirty-Seven
Bob Skinner was in a reflective mood as he stepped out of his car in the Saltire House car park. He glanced around as he pressed the lock button on his remote; it had become a habit with him after an incident when he had been
attacked by a misguided thug with a score to settle.
Sarah had been right. He had been dragged back into what was potentially a major criminal investigation; although he was not in the lead, he had semi-official oversight. Alongside that was the disappearance of Carrie McDaniels, and the attack on Alex. He was sure that Rose and McGuire had asked him to focus on the Marcia Brown investigation to keep him away from Sauce Haddock more than anything else. ‘As if,’ he murmured.
He was still thinking of his former colleagues when his phone rang, so he was not surprised when Mario showed on the screen.
‘Steady on,’ he said as he took the call. ‘I’ve only just briefed them.’
‘It’s not about that,’ McGuire replied. ‘Where are you?’
‘Saltire House, just about to go up to my office.’
‘Can it wait?’
‘It can. Officially I’m not here today. Why?’
‘I want you to meet me, down at Lauder. The Dalkeith divisional HQ has had a call from a business there; the commander had the foresight to advise me. This is being played close at the moment, but on the basis of what I’ve been told, I’ve sent Arthur Dorward and his forensic team down there, pronto. I want to see for myself before I do anything else, and I’d like you to meet me there. Can you?’
‘You going to tell me what this is about?’ Skinner asked.
‘No, because I’m only guessing myself at this stage.’
‘Okay, you’ve got me. Where am I going?’
‘I’ll text you a postcode; copy it into your satnav and let it take you there.’
‘Will do. See you when I see you.’
Thirty-Eight
‘Have you come up with anything on Marcia’s twin?’ Haddock asked as he drove past the new Tate Gallery that dominated the Dundee waterfront. ‘You’ve been on that iPad for long enough.’
‘I’ve come up with something I never expected,’ McClair told him. ‘Believe it or not, Marcia Brown has a Wikipedia page.’
‘Unexpected,’ he agreed, ‘but not necessarily surprising. Austin probably set it up.’
‘Possibly he did, but it was last edited two days ago, and sure as hell he didn’t do that. The additional text says that the case against Marcia has been reopened, with the aim of proving her innocence. Who would know that?’
‘Outside of Alex Skinner’s office, only David Brass, and the people Carrie McDaniels interviewed before she disappeared. The only one of those we know for sure is the lawyer, Cedric Black, but he never believed in her innocence even when he was acting for her.’
‘We don’t even know for sure that Carrie has seen him,’ the DS pointed out. ‘Her father didn’t actually say that she’d been there, only that it was on her list.’
‘Does Wikipedia not tell you who did the edit?’ Haddock wondered.
‘It does,’ she replied, ‘but it’s a code name: La Pucelle. That suggests the editor is French. How would that be?’
The DI laughed, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel as he took a turn. ‘You should have listened harder in school. La Pucelle means “The Maid”. That was what Joan of Arc called herself. Joan. Joan Brown, Marcia’s twin sister, the only person other than Austin who believed in her innocence. David Brass told us she’s a teacher. He never said what, but I’ll bet it’s either French or history.’
‘There are thousands of teachers in Scotland. How are we going to find her?’
‘The General Teaching Council. She’ll be registered with them, almost certainly.’
‘Will they co-operate?’ McClair asked doubtfully. ‘Won’t they throw data protection at us?’
‘They can try,’ Haddock replied, ‘and I’ll throw obstruction of justice at them. Give Jackie Wright a call back at base and set her to work on it.’
They drove on towards the road that fringed Dundee on the west, until they came to a small industrial park. Their destination was visible at once, a flat-roofed single-storey building with a bright blue logo and the name Clouds above its main entrance. The face of a smiling woman almost filled a full-length window beside the double doorway.
‘Is that her?’ McClair asked. ‘The famous Mia Sparkles?’
‘That’s her. There’s been a bit of retouching, maybe, but she’s glamorous, no doubt about that.’
‘I wonder why she’s never made it to television.’
‘Probably because her husband doesn’t own a TV station,’ the DI surmised.
They parked at the side of the building and walked to the entrance. Access was video controlled; Haddock pressed the buzzer and held his warrant card close to the camera as he identified himself and his colleague. As they stepped inside, they were greeted by the station output, filling the foyer, and by a silver-blonde middle-aged receptionist, who had definitely been retouched. McClair felt a stab of sympathy for the man; he wore subtle make-up, but his acne scars were still visible.
‘Do you ever wish you could turn that stuff off and listen to PopMaster?’ the inspector asked, jerking a thumb towards a Bose speaker at the junction of floor and ceiling.
‘Every bloody morning,’ the receptionist replied quietly. ‘The rest of Dundee does; that quiz does serious damage to the national economy. How can I help you, Officers?’
‘We’d like to see the station manager, Ms Delaney. Also the owner, Mr McCullough, but separately.’
‘Hazel’s here, I’ll ask her if she’s free. As for Mr McCullough, he rarely comes into the station.’
‘Nonetheless, we’d like to see him,’ Haddock repeated.
‘I can let him know.’
‘Please do, but first, Ms Delaney.’
‘Give me a minute.’ He rose from his chair, revealing his considerable height, left his booth and disappeared through a door to the right. When he returned a minute later, he was accompanied by a petite brown-haired woman who might have been a foot shorter than him.
‘God,’ Hazel Delaney exclaimed, ‘they really are getting younger, Detective Inspector Haddock.’
‘I have a portrait in my attic back home,’ Sauce replied. ‘You really don’t want to see that. Ms Delaney, can I begin by asking whether you had a visit earlier today from a woman named Carrie McDaniels, or whether you’re expecting her later?’
‘Neither, and it’s Mrs. She was due here at ten, but she didn’t show up. That didn’t surprise me; I listen to our news output. But folks, I can’t help you. I don’t know the woman, and I have no idea why she wanted to see me. She phoned on Friday and made an appointment, through my assistant here . . . isn’t that right?’
The receptionist nodded. ‘Yes, but she didn’t say what it was about, only that it wasn’t station business. She’s lucky Hazel agreed to see her.’
‘Why did you, Mrs Delaney?’ McClair asked.
‘I suppose I was intrigued. She said it was something to do with my former life, which wasn’t very interesting.’ She paused. ‘Come on through to my office. We shouldn’t do this out here.’
The room into which she ushered them had a window on either side; one was to the outside, and the other looked directly into a broadcast studio, in which a young male presenter was working.
‘Do we have to be quiet?’
Hazel Delaney smiled at the detective sergeant. ‘No way; you could shoot someone in here and it wouldn’t be heard through that. It’s triple-glazed, thick glass, with a two-inch vacuum between each layer.
‘When does Mia Sparkles come on air?’
‘Four; she does drive-time. Are you a fan?’
‘When I was twelve. I lived in Lanarkshire, but I could get the Edinburgh stations on my trannie. And then she vanished, just like that.’
‘If you should meet her before you leave here,’ the station manager warned, ‘don’t ask her about that. It’s off limits to everybody.’
‘Apart from the owner,’ Haddock suggested.
‘Sometimes I wonder about that. To me, Mia’s the boss’s wife, so I keep my curiosity in check.’
‘There was a
connection between you and your current boss in your last job, Mrs Delaney, wasn’t there? As we understand it, Mr McCullough was the majority shareholder in LuxuMarket.’
‘That’s true. Not one of his finest investments, but he more than washed his face when he got out, as I understand it.’
‘How did you come to move here?’ McClair asked.
‘A vacancy arose and Mr McCullough offered me the job.’
‘Did you have background in broadcasting?’
‘No,’ Delaney answered, ‘but I don’t need one. My title is station manager and that’s what I do, manage. Mia’s the output director; before her, when I came here seven years ago, it was Benny Young. He’s on BBC local radio now, down in England.’
‘About two years before you came to Dundee,’ Haddock ventured, ‘there was an incident in LuxuMarket. A woman was accused of shoplifting and was facing prosecution; her name was Marcia Brown and she was a local councillor, quite a figure in the town.’
‘That? Is that what she wanted to talk about? I’ve spent the weekend going over my past life, wondering what I could have done to attract the interest of a private investigator. And all the time it was the Marcia Brown affair. Oh yes, I remember that, but only because the poor woman killed herself before the case got to court.’
‘Haunted you ever since, has it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, Inspector. I was very sorry when it happened, of course, but I’ve never felt guilty about it. The company’s policy was very clear: above a certain value we went to court. If we’d made an exception for her, just because she was a councillor, it would have been used against us for ever more.’
‘Ms Brown insisted that she was framed,’ Haddock continued. ‘She said the goods were planted on her after she had left the checkout.’
‘They all said that, or something similar. As I remember it, an alarm was raised by a checkout girl and Ms Brown was stopped by a security officer.’
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 18