The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  Lonsdale completed his nasal ablutions before he said, ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Lonsdale, Mr Donahue. Specialist Crimes.’

  Donahue grunted and faced Roach again, unimpressed by Lonsdale’s credentials. ‘DCS Lonsdale has a bad cold, so he has opted to keep his distance,’ Roach explained. ‘He’s merely observing this interview.’

  Donahue flicked a thumb at the tape recorder on the table against the wall and then at the various cameras around the room. ‘We’re not recording this?’

  ‘Do you want us to record it?’

  ‘Not particularly. So this is not an interview under caution?’

  ‘Do you want this to be an interview under caution?’

  He leaned forward, clasped his hands on the tabletop. ‘Look, love, let’s just stop the games. I’ve played them all my life and I probably invented a few of them. I’m a busy man, so can we just cut to it and get this over with? You want to know about me and Brian Roberts, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Brian Roberts was a shit police officer. He screwed up the investigation into my daughter’s assault. He didn’t deserve to be in the Job, if you ask me.’

  ‘Did you threaten him?’

  Donahue shifted in his chair. ‘Aye, heat of the moment. I saw him on the set, recognised him right off. I’d been told he was selling dope to the crew.’

  Lonsdale spoke up. ‘You could have blown his cover.’

  Blown his cover, Roach thought. They do like to talk like they’re in a bad crime show.

  Donahue swivelled to face him again. ‘I didn’t know he was still Job. I thought he’d finally found his calling. And before fingers are pointed, who was it who placed him undercover without knowing I was on site?’

  ‘But you did threaten him,’ insisted Roach, wishing to keep any finger-pointing within her control.

  ‘I said I did. I didn’t mean it. We all say things when we’re angry.’

  ‘A death threat is pretty extreme.’

  ‘I already told you, heat of the moment. No way would I follow it through.’

  ‘And yet you said you didn’t know who he was when I asked.’

  ‘I hadn’t seen the photograph at that time.’

  Roach paused, aware she had heard the first lie. ‘Who else was around when you had your outburst?’

  Donahue considered. ‘I don’t know, some of the crew. A couple of my guys. Why?’

  ‘Because one of them may have overheard and passed it on to Spioraid nan Gàidheal,’ said Lonsdale, forcing Donahue to turn in his direction again. ‘And perhaps New Dawn.’

  Donahue shook his head. ‘No, not possible.’

  ‘Really?’ Roach scanned the printout of the crew list Moore had handed to her before they began. ‘Lot of people on this list, how can you possibly vouch for each one of them?’

  ‘You’ve had issues with Spioraid,’ said Lonsdale. ‘Vandalism, thefts, threats. Costumes have been taken, one of which was found on Brian Roberts’ body. You’re an experienced copper, Mr Donahue, you must have suspected it could be an inside job.’

  ‘I investigated each incident myself,’ Donahue said. ‘I was satisfied no one working on the crew was responsible. Each time it was a breach of security. We identified where they came in and went out.’

  ‘Or it was made to look like that,’ said Roach, still looking at the names.

  ‘You can’t be certain,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Anyone could be a Spioraid member,’ said Roach.

  ‘Or related to one,’ said Lonsdale.

  ‘Or just sympathise with the cause.’ Roach’s eye fell on one name on the list. Interesting, she thought, then looked up at the former detective opposite her. He had stopped flailing between them, either because he was tired or because he had sussed out their little ploy. The old stress interview technique. One person directly in front, another behind. Keeps the subject on edge. Frankly, she was surprised he had fallen for it. Then she saw the glint of amusement in Donahue’s eye. He hadn’t fallen for it.

  ‘So you don’t think I killed him, then?’

  She laid the printed list of names on the table. ‘I keep an open mind,’ she said. ‘So, just for the record, where were you on Sunday night and Monday morning?’

  ‘I was in the office on the compound until about midnight, then in my flat in Fort William.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’

  ‘People saw me in the office – security guards are on duty all night.’

  ‘But no one after that.’

  ‘There’s a cat lives in the flat next door and I gave it a pat on my way in. I doubt he’ll speak to you, though.’

  ‘Do you keep your phone on overnight?’

  ‘Yes, I like to be on call.’

  ‘Did you use it that night?’

  ‘I called my wife. She doesn’t sleep well and I always speak to her before turning in.’

  ‘May I see your phone?’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  ‘Do I really need one?’

  There was a pause then, as they each held the other’s gaze in a battle of wills. Roach sensed the man had nothing to hide, but she wanted to confirm it. She could tell his desire to get this over with was at odds with his need to be as awkward as possible. Finally, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and slid the fancy mobile to her. She nodded her thanks and thumbed through his call list. There was a call to a Glasgow number at 12.45 a.m. on Monday morning. It had lasted ten minutes. She scribbled the number down, more for show than anything else because she knew it would be his home phone. They would check the GPS for his number but she had already satisfied herself that he was in Fort William around the time of the murder.

  She pushed the phone back to him. ‘Do you know a Walter Lancaster?’

  ‘I know of a Walter Lancaster,’ he said, returning the phone to his pocket. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on the man.’

  ‘He was found dead this morning in the graveyard of the High Kirk in Inverness. He was wearing the soldier’s uniform stolen from your film set.’

  He took this in. ‘So what connection does he have with Roberts?’

  ‘We wondered if you could tell us.’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘There is CCTV coverage on Church Street, Mr Donahue. There are lots of pubs dotted around there, so it’s needed for community safety. We have footage of the person who killed Lancaster. A big individual. Powerful-looking.’

  ‘But not his face?’

  ‘No, not the face. It’s obscured with something, balaclava maybe. But you’re, what? Six-four, six-five?’

  ‘Six-three.’

  ‘You work out, Mr Donahue?’

  ‘I keep trim.’ Donahue’s voice was terse. His fleeting amusement was dead, his patience had finally deserted him. Roach was surprised it had taken so long. ‘So let me just sum all this up, in the interests of saving time. Whoever you’ve got on that video isn’t me. I don’t know this Walter Lancaster. I had no reason to kill him. I was not in Church Street last night, this morning, or ever, as far as I know. No, I can’t prove it – again I was working late and then I went home. I did not kill Brian Roberts. My threat was made in anger and I had no intention of harming him. I regret my outburst. I admit it is possible that someone overheard my remark and accept the possibility that someone on the crew could be in some way connected to Spioraid.’ He stood up. ‘But now, unless you wish to caution me, at which point I will require the presence of a lawyer, I’m leaving.’

  Roach looked up at him as he glared down at her. ‘Thank you, Mr Donahue, you’ve been most helpful. I’ll arrange for you to be driven back to Fort William’

  ‘Save the resources,’ he said. ‘I’ll make my own arrangements.’

  He walked to the door, pausing beside Lonsdale. ‘I take it he was your man?’

  Lonsdale nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your officer. I can only imagine how you feel. But I’m not going to mourn him. I thought he
was a disgrace to the Job and I’m not going to change my mind just because he’s dead. But I didn’t kill him, no matter what I said in anger. Killing him wouldn’t bring my girl back. It wouldn’t make things right. It wouldn’t give my wife enough peace of mind to let her sleep at night. I caught killers, thieves, dealers, ponces, pimps and perverts for a living. I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill him.’

  Donahue didn’t wait for an answer. He jerked the door open and walked out, his shoulders straight, his head high. Lonsdale blew his nose again as he took the chair Donahue had recently vacated.

  ‘I don’t think he did it,’ he said.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Roach. ‘But I did enjoy noising him up. And I got this.’ She picked up the list of names once more.

  ‘And that helps how?’

  She let her eyes run down the list again, stopping at the one she recognised. ‘Because I think I’ve just found who has been assisting Her Majesty’s Press.’

  49

  Scott tried to ignore Nolan as they both arrived home at the same time. Nolan touched his arm, made him turn to face him. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  That little smile as he began to head to the door again. ‘We really don’t, bro.’

  ‘I need to know where you were last night.’

  Scott stopped, faced him, his back to the house. ‘None of your business, is it?’

  ‘If you were on family business, like you said, it is my business too. Bro.’

  Scott held Nolan’s gaze. Nolan really wanted to slap that smile away like it was an annoying insect. ‘Tell you what,’ said Scott, ‘I’ll tell you what I was doing if you tell me what you’re up to with that reporter.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything with her.’

  ‘Not the way I see it.’

  ‘I don’t care what way you see it.’

  ‘You were with her in Barney’s the other night.’

  Shit. Nolan felt something stab at him – guilt? Regret at his own stupidity? His mind raced through his options. He could deny it, but what good would that do? He could ignore it, but Scott was unlikely to let it go. Or he could tell something like the truth in the hope that it prompted his younger brother to come clean about his actions the night before.

  ‘I’m keeping her on side. She could be useful. It doesn’t do any harm to have a pet reporter.’

  ‘A pet reporter?’ This seemed to amuse Scott even further. ‘You sure you’re not just petting that reporter?’

  ‘I’m certain,’ said Nolan, and he wasn’t lying. He had told himself he started up with her in order to keep tabs on her, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. He’d seen her around the court and then outside the council HQ the other morning. He found her attractive, but he was aware she was uncomfortable with that, although now and then he swore he’d caught her giving him a look. Or was that just wishful thinking? His dad called people like her straight arrows and he said they didn’t want anything to do with the likes of the Burkes. So he kept it professional, steered her info. Though that had almost got her hurt when the demo went pear-shaped. It had suddenly hit him when he saw the grazes on her hand and the way she walked awkwardly, as if there was pain from a wound he couldn’t see. He had fled then, because of that, and because he feared Scott had done something more than just a bit of business the night before.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘Where were you last night?’

  Scott’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Scotty, it’s important you tell me.’

  ‘It was important you told me about your girlfriend but all you gave me was shit.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Aye, right.’ Scott turned again.

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘Nothing happened last night,’ Scott said over his shoulder.

  ‘I saw blood on your shirt.’

  That stopped him. He turned, his eyes widening slightly. ‘You been snooping, bro?’

  Nolan ignored the question. ‘Whose blood was it?’

  ‘No mine, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Then whose?’

  ‘Told you, none of your business.’

  Nolan breathed heavily down his nose. He had to keep calm. ‘That guy Lancaster was murdered last night, did you hear?’

  ‘No loss.’

  Nolan gave it a beat, his eyes holding his brother’s steadily. ‘Scott, did you kill him?’

  The little smile seemed to twitch a little. ‘And if I did, so what? Kiddie fiddlin’ bastard deserved it, if you ask me.’

  ‘Did you?’

  There was a long pause as they stared at each other, Nolan itching to grip his brother by the shoulders and shake him until the smile slid off.

  Finally, Scott spoke. ‘Bro, the thing is, I don’t need to tell you anything. And I don’t want to tell you anything, because I don’t trust you any more. I’ve been watching you this past while. You’re not the Nolan Burke I used to know, the Nolan Burke Maw and Dad used to know. There’s something different about you that I can’t quite put my finger on. This thing with that reporter lassie makes my arse itch, you know what I’m saying? I don’t know what’s causing it but I can’t scratch it away. I don’t trust you, bro. Simple as. And if I find out you’re betraying us, betraying the family in any way, you and me will be having a conversation and it won’t be polite like this one and it won’t be where Maw can see us. And that conversation won’t end well for one of us.’

  He opened the front door and stepped into the house, leaving Nolan on the doorstep.

  50

  Jane Roberts was so thin she almost wasn’t there; in fact, she was so small that the Inshes conference room seemed like a cavern around her. She sat in a chair facing Rebecca and Elspeth. Roach was at her side, Terry Hayes standing just behind her, exuding a meld of switched-on media manager and Royal Marine gym instructor. They were like bodyguards. When the invitation had come for Rebecca and Elspeth to talk to the wife of the dead man, Hayes had said they were being given the exclusive as a thanks for their cooperation so far.

  Elspeth knew the real reason. ‘They want to avoid a feeding frenzy,’ she had said to Rebecca as they waited in the foyer to be taken into the conference room. ‘They know the media will want to talk to her. This way they can prevent her from being hassled and also control the flow of information.’

  Roach had made her views clear from the start. She told them she was against this but had been countermanded by McIntyre. She didn’t ask about Rebecca’s source again, much to Rebecca’s relief.

  There was another man present, obviously a police officer, but not one the reporters had seen before. He was loitering by the door as if he needed a quick getaway. His blue suit was crumpled and a size too small for him, his skin was waxy and his stringy fair hair needed to be introduced to a pair of scissors. He held a packet of Kleenex in one hand, a single tissue in the other, into which he kept blowing his nose in what he probably hoped was an unobtrusive manner. Rebecca had clocked Elspeth studying him as she settled herself into a chair but no introductions were made. That would only make Elspeth more curious. Rebecca too, come to that. So much for him being unobtrusive.

  Then the woman was introduced to them by Terry Hayes. Jane Roberts. The Culloden victim’s wife.

  Brian Roberts.

  Detective Sergeant Brian Roberts, no less.

  Rebecca was just growing used to the name Jake Goodman; now, it seemed that was a fiction. She could guess why. In a very swift statement, Terry Hayes had informed them that the deceased had now been formally identified as a serving police officer on operational duties. She stilled the questions as to what those operational duties were by stating that they could not expand any further. But that hadn’t been good enough for Elspeth.

  ‘Is it true to say that DS Roberts was not based in the Highland and Islands?’ Elspeth asked.

  ‘As I said, we can’t say anything at all regarding the reasons DS Roberts was deployed here,’ Te
rry replied.

  ‘But can we assume he was working undercover?’

  ‘You can assume what you like, Elspeth.’

  ‘I will, thanks. And if we accept that assumption – and, given that DS Roberts’ identity was unknown until recently, we can – can we also assume that senior officers here at Inshes did not know about it?’

  Hayes’ voice hardened. ‘Elspeth, what part of “we can’t talk about it” do you not understand?’ Then, as if to move swiftly on, she laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Roberts here has very kindly agreed to talk to you in the hope that her privacy will be respected from here on. This will be a very difficult time for her, as I’m sure you will understand, and after this briefing there will be no further comment from her. I would expect you to share copy with your colleagues, if requested. Is that understood?’

  Jane Roberts sat quietly throughout the exchange, very erect in the wooden chair, as if she was holding herself in check. She did not cry but she had done, and recently, judging by the puffy skin around her eyes. She was in her late thirties, her cheek bones high and sharp, her nose thin and straight, her shoulder-length fair hair held away from her face with a clasp in the shape of a blue butterfly. One hand kept fluttering to it, as if she was straightening it, but Rebecca felt there was something more to it. Perhaps it had been given to her by her husband.

  Her husband.

  Her dead husband.

  Elspeth’s voice softened. ‘Mrs Roberts, first, we are very sorry for your loss. It must have been a terrible shock to hear what happened.’

  Jane Roberts inclined her head slightly as her hand darted to the clasp. Rebecca was convinced it was an involuntary movement and she was not even aware she was doing it.

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  The woman looked puzzled. ‘In what way?’

  ‘In any way. Just tell us about him, please.’

  Jane Roberts looked over her shoulder at Hayes, as if for guidance, but Elspeth jumped in before the communications chief could speak. ‘Mrs Roberts, just talk to us. We’re not here to trip you up, we’re not here to sensationalise. Just tell us about your husband, about Brian. When did you meet, how long have you been married, about your family. Anything.’