‘You and that reporter lassie. Rebecca whatsername.’
‘Connolly,’ said Scott, his mouth full.
‘Aye. So, what was that all about?’
Nolan stared at the back of his brother’s head. This was unbelievable. He slopes away when he’s needed to God knows where, and still bugger-all is said to him. He knew Maw was waiting for a reply, but he would be damned if he would make it easy for her. ‘What’s what all about?’
‘I saw you, pulling her out of there, then helping that photographer bloke. And walking them to their car like a bloody bodyguard! What’s going on, then?’
When Nolan didn’t reply instantly, Scott waded in again. ‘Aye, Maw, I saw them thegether out in the hall too. Dead cosy, they was. Practically kissing.’
Nolan gave Scott’s head another glare, then said, ‘The demo was supposed to be peaceful. It went pear-shaped, thanks to Scotty’s mate Dalgliesh. The lassie was there doing her job and I helped her get out the way. So what?’
Maw took a draw on her cigarette, narrowed her eyes against the smoke drifting upwards. ‘How’d she find Lancaster’s name?’
‘How am I supposed to know? She’s a reporter. They find things out.’ It was time to go on the attack. ‘And where was Scotty last night, eh? He should’ve been there with us, family solidarity and all that.’
Scott didn’t even pause in his eating. ‘I told you, I was out on business.’
‘Never you mind where your brother was. I want to know what the hell you’re playing at with that lassie. She’s media, Nolan. We cannae trust that lot, you know that.’
‘I’m not playing at anything, Maw. She was in trouble, thanks to Scotty’s pals, and I helped her. That’s all. What? We want innocent people getting hurt now, that it? That looks really good on us, doesn’t it?’
‘Last night was nothing,’ Maw said.
‘It wasn’t what you wanted. You said that you didn’t want trouble or any violence. Christ – that Lancaster guy didn’t even show up. Good going, Maw. You started all this stuff up, not me. I was against it. But you and eejit features here ran with it. Community spirit or some such shite. Well, look what happened. The press got hassle, Dalgliesh spouted his shite and the Ferry is once again seen as a shithole. And us? The family? We’re right in the middle of it and drawing attention when we should really be getting on with business. And I don’t mean whatever Scott was up to. I mean the real business. Dad’s business.’
He heard the toaster click behind him, but he wasn’t hungry now. He tossed the remains of his orange juice into the sink, slammed the glass down on the working surface and walked out. He knew he should have kept his head, but his patience with his mother and Scott was at an end. He should have somehow forced her to focus on where Scott had been and what he had been doing. Business, he said. Aye right.
As he slammed the front door shut, he wondered if he should have told Maw about finding blood on Scotty’s polo shirt. Not a lot, just some smears, as if he’d wiped his hand on it. Nolan would bet his life that blood wasn’t Scott’s. So, whose was it?
41
Rebecca had decided it would be quicker to walk – or rather run – from the station to the kirkyard. She had cut through the Victorian Market, dodging between tourists gawping at the small shops packed with tartan memorabilia, her phone to her ear as she called first the office to tell them where she was, cutting the line before Les could come to the phone, then Elspeth, but there was no answer. Typical, she thought. She considered nipping into her office on the way but decided against it. She would have answered if she was there. She knew Chaz was covering a ministerial visit to a fish farm on the Dornoch Firth, so she didn’t try him.
As soon as she hit Church Street, she saw the blue lights dancing ahead and wondered how close she would be able to get to the actual scene. With Chaz unavailable and no staff photographer, she knew she would have to grab a shot with her phone, a risky proposition at the best of times, given her variable skills, but a useless one if she couldn’t get close enough.
She was breathless by the time she reached the crowd knotted behind the makeshift barrier, where she found Elspeth leaning on her cane. Of course she was here. Nothing happened in Inverness, the entire north-west, without her hearing about it. In fact, Bill had probably called her first.
Her old boss gave her a mocking look. ‘You took your time.’
‘I forgot to pack my running shoes,’ Rebecca panted. ‘What’s the story, Balamory?’
Elspeth jerked her head across the road to the black gates of the kirkyard. ‘They found a man dead in there this morning.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m told it might be Walter Lancaster.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Rebecca. How long had he been dead? The night before? Was that why he and his social work minders were a no show in the Ferry? She raised her phone to take a landscape shot of the scene, making sure she got the nearest police vehicle in the frame with the black iron gates of the kirkyard in the background. As she lowered the phone, she saw DCI Roach.
The detective’s gaze fell on her and Elspeth and was followed by a nod of recognition, and she began to walk across the road directly towards them. She was wearing a long, black woollen coat, unbuttoned, but her hands were in her pockets, hugging it closer as if to ward off the chilly morning.
Rebecca gave her a little wave. She really didn’t know why.
Roach stopped at the tape and gave them another nod. Elspeth gave her one in return. Rebecca half expected one of them to say ‘Whassup?’
‘I’m going for a coffee,’ said Roach. ‘Where’s good?’
‘There’s a little place just up the road a bit I like,’ said Elspeth. ‘Do you want company?’
Roach considered this, then said, ‘Sure, why not?’
Roach ran a practised eye over the varieties of coffee available and selected an Americano. No milk. She also ordered something sweet and sticky. Rebecca, a confirmed spoonful in a cup gal with little time for the current obsession with coffee, had learned to ask for a flat white. Elspeth eased her knee at a table looking out onto the street and Rebecca placed in front of her a large cup and saucer containing tea, then sat down in the seat opposite Roach, who was peeling off her coat to reveal a dark pinstripe suit and white shirt.
The detective looked tired. She had what Rebecca’s mother would call ‘a pinched look’. She poured a sachet of sugar into her coffee and stirred it with one of those thin strips of wood that did very little to circulate the sugar through the liquid. Rebecca tipped three sachets in and stirred like it was a workout.
‘So,’ said Elspeth after taking a mouthful of tea, ‘is that Walter Lancaster lying dead back there?’
Roach smiled. It did very little to disguise the dark circles and the colourless cheeks. ‘Are you ever off duty?’
‘Are you, DCI Roach?’
Roach’s head twitched to the side as she conceded that. ‘This is an off-the-record chat, so call me Val.’
‘Okay, Val,’ said Elspeth. ‘Is that Walter Lancaster lying dead back there?’
Roach laughed and took a long drink of her coffee, then sat back and seemed to revel in the taste. ‘That’s good. I’ve been desperate for that.’ She gave it another stir all the same. ‘I’ve heard you can be like a dog with a rat, Elspeth, when it comes to stories.’
Elspeth waited for an answer to her two questions. Or rather her single question asked twice.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Roach went on. ‘Ask again, and if you’re wrong I’ll tell you.’
‘Is that Walter Lancaster lying dead back there?’
Roach kept stirring her coffee. Elspeth gave Rebecca a knowing nod, then asked, ‘Will the name be announced soon?’
Stir.
‘Then we haven’t much time.’ Elspeth pulled herself to her feet and hooked her cane from where it rested against the window.
‘Don’t you want to know if it’s connected to the Culloden murder?’
Elspeth stopped, leaned on her cane. �
��Is it?’
‘Is what?’
‘Is Walter Lancaster’s death connected to the Culloden murder?’
Roach raised her cup again, her eyes meeting Rebecca’s over the rim. Elspeth lowered herself back down again.
‘What’s the connection?’
‘That’s not how this works.’
‘You’ve already told us it’s Lancaster and it’s connected, so . . .’
‘I haven’t told you anything. You’ve asked questions I have not answered.’
Both reporters knew this was Roach’s way of giving them information while keeping her integrity in some way intact. It was a stretch, but it seemed to work for her, and Rebecca wondered if she’d done this before. Then she wondered why Roach was doing it now.
Elspeth still had her hand on the curve of her cane and she tapped the bottom against the floor as she wondered how to ask the next question. Rebecca tried to think how the death of a pervert in a kirkyard had anything to do with the death of Goodman at Culloden. Was the body outside or in the church? It had probably happened overnight, so she guessed outside. She had been in the graveyard once. It was old. Something nibbled at the edge of her memory. Something about the graves.
‘They’re both historical sites,’ Rebecca said, dimly recalling something connected to the ’45. She would call Anna later. Roach dipped her eyes. Rebecca felt there was more, though. What else would make Roach link the two deaths? What else . . . Two historical sites. One victim found in period clothes, but two costumes stolen from the film set.
Rebecca had a flash of inspiration. ‘Was Lancaster dressed in the stolen uniform?’
Roach laid her cup down on the table and sat back. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.
‘Okay,’ said Elspeth, rising again. ‘Thanks, DCI – Val. It’s heartening to see that Police Scotland keeps its word.’
‘Again, I don’t know what you mean. We’ve shared a coffee and you’ve made some wild statements which I have neither confirmed or denied.’
‘Understood,’ Elspeth said, smiling. Rebecca smiled too. This was the first time she had ever encountered an information exchange like this and it was exciting. ‘We have to go,’ said Elspeth to Rebecca.
Roach’s voice made Rebecca stop halfway to her feet. ‘There is one thing you can help me with, Rebecca.’ Rebecca sat back down. Elspeth remained standing, eager to get away and file copy, but Rebecca knew she would stand by like a minder. Roach twirled the big cup in its saucer. ‘I need the name of the person who told you about the theft of the costumes.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Rebecca.
‘It’s important that I speak to this person.’
‘I understand that, but I gave my word.’
‘We have two murders here, Miss Connolly.’
Miss Connolly. Maybe they weren’t pals any more.
‘I’m aware of that, DCI Roach.’ Two can play at that game, she thought. ‘But I promised I would not tell anyone my source’s name. There’s little enough confidence in the media these days without the likes of me breaching trust.’
Roach thought about this as she stared at her coffee. Rebecca could not tell if she was angry already or on her way there.
‘You’re out of order asking that, Val,’ said Elspeth. ‘You know Becks can’t give you that name.’
Roach’s eyes lifted from the tabletop to Rebecca. ‘I could have you charged.’
Her voice was low and flat and devoid of any heat, but that made it all the more intense. Rebecca felt fear rise in her throat like bile.
‘That’s bollocks and you know it,’ said Elspeth. ‘Have you heard of the European Convention of Human Rights, Article Ten?’
‘I have, but I also know that if I make a strong argument that I need that name in the public interest – and catching a killer is very much in the public interest – then a court may well support my position.’
Elspeth laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘You’re bluffing.’
‘Am I? What do you think, Rebecca?’
A tremble in Rebecca’s voice betrayed her. ‘I have to take that chance.’
‘So you’d risk jail to protect this person?’
‘It wouldn’t come to that,’ said Elspeth. ‘You’re just trying to scare the lassie. And we were getting on so well, too.’
Roach stared at Rebecca. It was a long stare, one that said she meant what she said. Rebecca felt her knees weaken and she wished her father was around to give her advice. But he was gone, at least physically. She wondered if she should just walk away, get back to the office, talk to Les and Barry. They were journalists. Surely they would support her on this. Or maybe not. She thought about Simon, giving him a call, taking legal counsel. Would he talk to her? Would he help? She stared back at Roach, trying to see a hint that this was a scare tactic to make her give up the name. Taking a journalist to court to reveal a source was a risky move that could so easily backfire. Police Scotland had had its fingers burned a few years back when it had intercepted a journalist’s communications during an anti-corruption probe.
‘DCI Roach – Val,’ said Elspeth, her voice losing some of its harshness in an attempt to calm things down. Rebecca knew her, though, and knew she would be wondering if she could get away with using her stick in a manner for which it was never intended. ‘We, Becks and I, have been nothing but cooperative so far. We have provided you with information ahead of time when we could quite easily have let you read about it over your Rice Krispies.’
‘Only because it suited you.’
‘It suited everyone, including the interest of the public you mentioned. So why, suddenly, do you get all Gestapo on us? Becks can’t give you that name, you know it. And maybe you could have her jailed, although the chances are you couldn’t, but what would that get you? Bad publicity, enemies in the press and, more importantly, still no name.’
‘I have a counter offer,’ said Rebecca. She’d had another idea. Both Roach and Elspeth looked her away again. ‘Another name.’
‘What other name?’
‘The name of the first victim.’
42
The bastard had been darting glances at Scott for bloody ages and it was beginning to piss him off. He didn’t sense any form of threat from him, but the way he kept looking in his direction was getting his goat. Scott had come into Barney’s with Deke and Andy, a couple of mates, just for a visit. Not really to drink anything because it was mid-morning and, anyway, Scott wasn’t a great drinker. He had other ways to get a lift. They had been jawing with the barman for a while, the bloke at the end shifting his focus from the telly, some shitty property show, to Scott and his pals. He’d tried to ignore it at first; Scott was used to people being uncomfortable around him and, if truth be told, he liked it that way. He liked being the guy they feared. It made some things easier, some things harder, but he often liked to do things the hard way. It was more fun.
So for a time they talked to Jack, the manager, who was also barman that day. Business was shite, he said, as usual, but that was fine. It was supposed to be. All the while, that bloke’s head was swivelling like he was at bloody Wimbledon, telly to Scott, to the telly, to Scott. It was really aggravating and Scott wondered if the bloke was steeling himself to noise him up. He’d seen it before: boy wants to be the big man, ends up with a sore one. Thing was, they usually had a girl around they wanted to impress, or at least some mates. This boy was on his tod. So what was that all about? A shirt-lifter who’s taken a fancy to me, Scott wondered. Aye, I’ll smack that notion right off of his coupon, sharpish.
Still, all he was doing was the back and forward thing with his head, so no harm done, even though it was irritating. Scott didn’t want to start any trouble, not in Barney’s, and not after the talking-to Maw had given him about that business with the drill the other night. That was fun, he thought, who knew a kneecap would bleed so much? But he had to keep his head down, and landing one on some stranger was the exact opposite of that. He’d have to keep h
is nose clean, as far as Maw was concerned, for a wee while at any rate.
The boy didn’t make any move towards him until they were leaving. He’d been looking for the balls to say something, Scott reckoned, and this was his last chance. He sidled their way, caught Scott’s eye, which wasn’t hard, as he’d been keeping one on him all the time they were in there. Deke saw him come closer and stepped in the way.
‘You got a problem, son?’ Scott said.
A nervous smile flickered on the boy’s face, but he kept his eyes on the floor. ‘Naw, eh, Mr Burke, just wanted . . . well . . . eh . . . a wee word, if that’s okay?’
Bastard wants some work, Scott thought. Or buying, not knowing that Scott was a supplier not a seller. ‘What kind of wee word?’
Another nervous smile, a glance at Jack, then at Scott’s mates, then finally to Scott himself. ‘An apology, eh?’
‘For what?’ Scott was puzzled. He’d never seen this boy before, far as he could remember, so what was he apologising for?
The eyes dropped again, then bounced up like they were on bungees. ‘Well, really it’s for your brother.’
‘Nolan? You know him, like?’
‘Well, naw, no really. It’s just, well, eh . . . I had a wee run-in with him the other night and I was out of order, eh?’
‘How?’
The boy looked ashamed. Or scared. Or both. ‘Nothin’ really. Just me being stupid, eh? Actin’ the big man. You know how it is, too much to drink.’
Scott didn’t know how it was. Not with drink anyway. ‘He give you a kickin’? I don’t see any bruises or nothin’.’
‘Naw, never laid a hand on me, but he still sorted me out.’
Aye, that was Nolan. Talk himself out of it somehow, wouldn’t soil his hands. Scott, on the other hand, would have given this balloon a sore face and then discussed the situation after.
‘The thing is, Mr Burke, I was out of order, you know? Well out of order. And I just wanted to say sorry. I wondered if you would pass that along to your brother. I mean, he was just in here for a quiet drink with his burd and that . . .’
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