‘What if it isn’t as simple as it seems, and they’ve both been abducted?’ the DCS ventured.
‘Why?’
His abruptness made her frown slightly but she stood her ground. ‘The man’s ex drugs squad,’ she pointed out. ‘He must have made enemies in that job; it stands to reason.’
‘He hasn’t been on that squad for years,’ he countered. ‘But even if you’re right, would a mortal enemy just ring his doorbell, tie him and his wife up then drive them away in their own car? Even if there were two or three of them and that was physically possible, surely the house would be a mess. It isn’t; everything’s neat and tidy and normal, apart from their bedroom and bathroom, and the iron having been left on.’
He shook his head, slowly. ‘Sorry. I know you’re only doing your job, and being devil’s advocate, but as yet I don’t buy any third party involvement here. I can only see this as a domestic incident, albeit a potentially serious one. The car’s gone, there’s blood on a towel, every other bed in the house has a duvet but theirs, and Ray found a ferry company home page on the computer.’
‘The missing duvet? What’s that about?’ Chambers asked.
The ACC looked back at her. ‘You know what I’m thinking, Mary, so don’t be shy, tell me.’
‘It’s a kingsize bed,’ she responded, ‘so it must have been well big enough to wrap a body in.’
‘Exactly. So,’ he said, ‘do you still imagine we can play this low-key forever?’
‘No,’ the head of CID conceded at once. ‘But we can’t assume it’s a murder either. Cheryl Mackenzie may still be alive. But if she is, for how much longer? We’ve got to trace him as quickly as we can.’
‘Absolutely,’ McGuire agreed. ‘Step one, get his car details. Can you remember what he drives?’
‘Yes, it’s a Honda four-by-four, but I don’t have a Scooby about the number; it should be on record at Fettes, though.’
‘That’ll take time.’ He stepped out into the hallway and called out, ‘Arthur!’
A few seconds later a figure in a sterile tunic appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What?’ he barked.
‘Have your people cleared the study yet?’
‘No, it’s not a priority.’
‘Well, can I go in there?’
‘You’re an ACC,’ Dorward retorted. ‘You can go where you bloody well like. But if you do,’ he added, ‘please wear gloves and overshoes, just in case there are forensics in there. You’ll find some just outside the door. Best if you don’t touch the keyboard. I don’t need to spell out why, do I?’
McGuire glared at him. ‘If you were still on the force rather than a central service . . .’ But he knew what the provocative scientist had meant; if Mackenzie had killed his wife, then looked for ferry ports as an escape route, he might have left blood traces on the keys.
He went to the door and found the coverings that Dorward’s team had left there, and slipped them on, feet first, hands second.
‘What are you looking for?’ Chambers asked from the living room.
‘Car registration documents. I saw a filing cabinet in the office when I had a look in there.’
He stepped into the study; the wooden cabinet matched the desk and stood alongside it. It had two drawers; he opened the top one first. Mackenzie, or his wife, had been neat. Each sliding section had a subject, written on a card within a plastic clip, and they were alphabetical. ‘Car’ came first.
McGuire lifted the V-shaped folder from the slider, and found what he was looking for at once. There were two documents; one was for a Renault Clio. Its number matched the car parked outside, and it was registered to Cheryl Mackenzie. The other was for a Honda.
He took it out, replaced the folder, closed the drawer and rejoined the head of CID. ‘The number is Sierra Lima Six Zero Delta Hotel Juliet. We need to . . .’ he stopped, flashing her a small sheepish smile. ‘You know what we need to do.’
‘Yes, and I will.’
‘Who’s going to be SIO on this?’ Ray Wilding asked. He had been standing quietly to one side, letting his senior officers assess the situation.
Chambers looked across at him. ‘We’re in Joppa,’ she said, ‘and that’s in Sammy Pye’s area. But he’s got his hands full with the Watson homicide, so, my boy, that puts you in the frame. You found this, Ray, you run with it.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ the DI replied, with the wry smile of a man who had just been handed a brimming chalice and knew for certain that it was poisoned. Then it vanished. ‘I might have a problem, though, with my wing man, my DS.’
‘Mavis McDougall? Why?’
‘Because she worked with Superintendent Mackenzie for a lot longer than I did, and she got very friendly with his wife. She’s going to be way too emotionally involved.’
‘Ray’s got a point,’ McGuire chipped in. ‘You might need to swap people over for this one.’
‘I can see that,’ the DCS agreed. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Just the one, off the top of my head, unless you pull in a DS from the Borders or West Lothian. It needs to be someone who didn’t, doesn’t, know Cheryl, and doesn’t have too many preconceptions about David. That suggests Karen Neville.’
‘It does, but Karen likes to have a couple of weekdays free.’
‘True, but much as I like Andy, those kids of hers have got two parents, and this force isn’t carrying the whole fucking load. Daddy and Auntie Alex will help out as necessary, I’m sure.’
‘No,’ Chambers declared, suddenly and authoritatively, ‘let’s all hold our horses and think about the headlines. Sir, “Cop wanted in connection with wife’s disappearance” will be a major media event. I believe we need a period of quiet, not pressure from the get-go.’ She looked at McGuire. ‘Unless you order otherwise, I want to keep this confidential for a minimum forty-eight hours, let’s say until Thursday morning.’
The ACC frowned, then conceded the debate. ‘Okay, you’ve got it. Ray, everything else you have on your desk you give to Mavis. You work on this alone; officially, David’s having some personal time to deal with family issues.’
‘With a bit of luck,’ Wilding said, ‘I’ll have found the bugger . . .’ he grinned, ‘excuse me, sir, ma’am, of course I meant the detective superintendent . . . by Thursday. The only thing is, I’m going to have to look nationwide. I’ll begin with a “stop on sight” order on that number, and get on to the ferry companies to check whether it’s booked on any of their crossings. From what I saw on screen he could be going to any of four different countries.’
‘Then you’d better make sure your passport’s up to date,’ the ACC told him. ‘I hate to point it out but he’s got up to a day’s start on us.’
‘What if I need help from other forces?’
‘Ask for it, but don’t give names, only that number and stress that it’s sensitive. Don’t share with anyone, not even Becky, without my authority.’
‘That’ll be tricky.’
‘Sure but it has to be if we’re to avoid the highest profile manhunt since the Yanks got Bin Laden. Go to it.’
Twenty-Three
When I confessed at a dinner party that Blue Bloods was one of my favourite TV shows, Aileen, my wife at that time, accused me of being a right-wing, sentimental old fart. My smile may have been a little tight-lipped, but I sat there and let it pass.
Now that she’s part of my history, I want to put the record straight for anybody who was at that table and might have believed that I agreed with her description. I don’t.
I know I’m not right-wing, but I don’t feel that I have to prove it to anyone. I have been known to be sentimental, but it takes the presence of my children, or these days of Sarah, to bring out that side in me. A television programme does not get anywhere close. As for the last, one day maybe I’ll become one of those, but not yet.
I know Blue Bloods is corny, but it’s about cops, so that gets my attention. I know that it has one basic storyline, but the good guys always win. I know that th
e Irish Catholic family it portrays, the Reagans, is laughably stereotyped, but their values are my values, if not their faith.
I enjoy it, and I’m not embarrassed to say so; live with it.
One thing, though; people who know the show might assume that I associate myself with Frank, Dad Reagan, the New York police commissioner. I don’t. The character with whom I empathise most is Danny, the older son, who’s a New York City detective. That’s why when I walked into my chief officers’ meeting on my first day back after my L’Escala break, and those six uniforms stood to attention, I had a sudden flash of me, with a Tom Selleck moustache, and I thought, Shit, this is not who I am.
I kept it to myself, though. All I did was reiterate my edict that nobody who didn’t wish to wear a uniform to my meetings should feel obliged to do so. I suspected that nobody would take a blind bit of notice, but I felt it needed saying.
The group were still, largely, strangers to me. The only two I’d known before taking the Glasgow job were the ACCs, Bridie Gorman, my very sound acting deputy, and Michael Thomas. He and I had a difficult beginning, but we’d reached a position of mutual respect, if not trust, on my part.
In truth, though, none of them was my sort of cop. The only one of the command crew I inherited that I would have chosen for that rank was old Max Allan, but no sooner was I appointed than he decided that his health wasn’t up to the job any more. I couldn’t complain. He’d only been hanging on to spite my predecessor. Her tenure had come to a sudden and shocking end, but that’s another story.
‘Nothing personal, Bob,’ Max said, when he told me. ‘You’ll get on fine without me.’
It seemed that in my absence the Strathclyde police force had got along perfectly well without me too. There had been no serious crime, no crises and generally speaking everyone was sleeping peacefully in their beds at night. It was the sort of briefing that every chief constable should like to hear, but it left me with a growing sense of my own irrelevance.
I’d signed up for the role, though, so I thanked them all, sent them off to continue keeping the people safe, and went off to tackle my mountainous in-tray. I got so wrapped up in it that I almost broke my vow to Sarah by having a daytime coffee to keep myself awake, but I worked my way through a whole series of decisions, of which most were so damned obvious that my nine-year-old son could have taken them.
I was so wrapped up that when Inspector Sandra Bulloch, my executive officer, came into my room to tell me that a man named Dominic Jackson was downstairs in reception, saying that he had an appointment with me, it took me quite a few seconds to make the connection.
‘The guys downstairs are a bit wary about him, sir,’ she said. ‘Apparently he’s enormous.’
I smiled as I made the connection. ‘That’s possibly an understatement. Go get him please, Sandra.’
I was waiting at the lift door when she returned with my visitor. I’d been wondering how he’d react when he saw me on my own turf rather than on his. As it turned out he looked a little reserved, shy almost. Sandra certainly seemed to have found nothing in him to make her wary, for she was completely relaxed as she ushered him into the corridor.
‘Mr Jackson,’ I said. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ We shook hands; mine isn’t small but it almost disappeared inside his.
‘Thank you for the invitation,’ he replied. ‘It took me completely by surprise, as you’d imagine.’ His voice was at odds with his size, but I’d known that. It was as quiet as ever, and over his years in a broad-based community much of his Edinburgh accent had worn off.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I can imagine that. Come this way; my office is along here. Would you like tea, coffee?’
‘I’m fine thanks, Bob. Plain water, if you’ve got it, but that’s all.’
‘Sure.’
I settled him into a visitor chair that was fortunately just big enough to take him, then fetched a couple of plastic bottles from my office fridge. I didn’t sit behind my desk, but on the other side, facing him.
‘Well, Lennie,’ I murmured, ‘this is full circle, is it not?’
‘It surely is.’
‘How’s the course going?’
‘Very well. I’m on track for graduation next summer.’
Lennie had begun a postgraduate Masters degree at Strathclyde University; he was like any other mature student in that he attended lectures and tutorials five days a week. The big difference was that at the end of the day he went home to Kilmarnock Prison, and ten thirty lights out, while the others went to their flat shares, their designer pubs and wherever else they chose to exercise and abuse their freedom.
I’d known about it from the start; in fact I supported his application when he asked me if I would. He told me that his degree and his doctorate were respected, but they were OU and that he wanted to top them up with what he had called an orthodox qualification.
He glanced in the direction of Sandra Bulloch’s glass-walled office. ‘Does the inspector know who I am?’
‘You’re Dominic Jackson to her and to anyone else in this building who crosses your path.’ The university had agreed that he could study under his alias. I suppose it was possible that some of his fellow students would have heard of Lennie Plenderleith, given that criminology was in his course, but it was highly unlikely that any would recognise him. His hair was receding, and what was left was far shorter than in any photograph in newspaper libraries; also he wore a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘So, Bob, cut to the chase. Are you feeling so lonely up here that you felt the need to see an old familiar face, or is there something else?’
He took me aback. I’d forgotten how perceptive Lennie is, and maybe also discounted the fact that he’s become a very well-qualified psychologist. He’d read me like a book, and also, with that single question, he’d helped me to define my feelings about the job that I’d been landed in by a combination of circumstances, and possibly by my own ego.
‘Something else,’ I told him, pushing the realisation aside, ‘something serious that my old team in Edinburgh have happened upon, and need your help with.’
‘Mmm.’ He tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. ‘Something serious, as in something criminal?’
‘Both.’
‘Then I’m struggling to guess what it might be. To the best of my knowledge most of my old associates are dead, and those that aren’t are in the nick or well past giving the police any trouble. Anyway, I cut all my links with that life when I was sentenced.’
‘All but one.’
He stared at me. ‘No, all of them, I promise you.’
‘Bella Watson.’
His eyes widened. ‘Ahhh!’ The sound was half gasp, half sigh. ‘Bella. I’m sorry, Bob, I assumed you meant my criminal associates. I don’t put her in that category. What’s the old bitch been up to? It must be more than shoplifting for you to be involved. She hasn’t been claiming housing benefit, has she?’
‘That’s possible, from what I hear, but if she has, she’s got away with it, because she’s dead.’
Lennie took a deep breath, sucking God knows how many litres of air into his massive chest. ‘People die,’ he said, slowly, after a while. ‘Bella must have been in the late sixties, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary in her being dead; unless someone made her that way.’
‘Exactly. Upwards of three weeks ago now.’
‘Then why didn’t I know about it? I read the Saltire every day. It wouldn’t have missed out on a homicide in Edinburgh, on its own doorstep.’
‘Have you read today’s?’
‘As it happens, no; I usually pick up a copy at the university, but I came straight here.’
‘Do you recall reading about a body being found on the wee beach in Cramond Island?’
‘Yes, but that’s all it said, that and the fact that it was female and unidentified.’
‘They didn’t report all the gory details, because they weren’t all released. They we
ren’t told that she’d been hit by the screw of a ship, or that there were half a dozen stab wounds in the visually unidentifiable section that was washed up. It wasn’t until your lawyer’s girl had to go into the house on Saturday and found evidence of “foul play” that the identity of the body was established, and announced at a press conference yesterday.’
‘I see,’ Lennie murmured. ‘Poor old Bella.’ He paused, fixing me with his interrogative gaze. ‘Hey, they don’t fancy me for it, do they?’
I laughed. ‘The thought probably did occur to a couple of the younger investigators, but I advised them to forget it. The pathologist told me that it was impossible to be anything like precise about the time of death, but I’m sure that whenever it was, your movements and whereabouts are all verifiable. Don’t take their suspicions to heart, chum; they were fleeting at best. They are good enough to have asked themselves why you would kill the woman after housing her for the last nine years.’
It was his turn to grin. ‘These people aren’t exactly made in your image, are they? I’m sure you could have come up with a reason, in their place.’
‘I’m sure I could, but I know you, Lennie. This might sound like a crazy thing to say to someone who’s doing life for three murders, and got off with another, but I don’t believe you’re exactly a natural-born killer. With one exception you did what you did because you thought it was necessary, or just.’
‘An interesting analysis,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve never tried to justify myself, to myself or to anyone else. I’m not sure I agree with your sympathetic view of the old me. What about all the casual injuries I inflicted when I was a kid, and when I worked for Tony?’
‘You were part of Tony’s world; you lived by its rules. So did everyone else in it and they knew what happened if they broke them. You happened, or someone like you did. Before that, as you said, you were a kid, and that was your environment. I know another man who was like you must have been then, albeit with less brain power. He saw the light before he got sucked in, joined the military and changed the course of his life.’
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