Hour Of Darkness

by Quintin Jardine

  Dan Provan’s eyes widened to the point of incredulity. ‘It’s him?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ve had that displeasure, although not that close. We were both in the same division when he was a DS, but we were never on the same investigation. I always thought he was unstable, but not that he’d go off his rocker. They’re certain, are they?’

  ‘Not certain, but from what Wilding told me, they think it’s a bit more than likely.’

  She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly, drawing herself up to her full, and not inconsiderable, height. Provan assumed she was ready to leave for Troon, until he saw that her eyes were on the door. He looked over his shoulder, then started out of his own chair.

  ‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ Bob Skinner said. ‘I assume you’ve been in touch with Ray Wilding by now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Lottie Mann confirmed. ‘I’m just off the phone with him, and he’s brought us up to speed. We’re still taking it in.’

  ‘Me too. Mackenzie and I have some shared history, so I’m taking this personally. I thought I’d drop down here to let you know that.’

  ‘No pressure, eh?’ Provan chuckled.

  ‘Shut up, you insubordinate wee bastard,’ Skinner retorted, but with a hint of a smile.

  ‘Do you have any insight that would be useful to us, sir?’ the DI asked.

  ‘You mean did I ever see him as a wife murderer, Lottie? Hardly, not even as a wife-beater. I’m not sure I do yet, for the evidence they have isn’t conclusive. The day that I’d even suspected as much, he’d have been on suspension and undergoing counselling. The day I’d been able to prove it, he’d have been in the dock.

  ‘But . . . the fact is, the more intelligent someone is, the harder it is to see what’s inside their head. Now you, Dan, I can read you like a fucking book, but Mackenzie, no I couldn’t. For example, I never thought that he would bottle it on an armed operation, but he did.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘The dangerous thing may be,’ he continued, ‘that he never thought so either. I’ve just had a conversation with a friend of mine, a consultant psychologist, one with a special insight, you might say. His view is that when someone as smart and ambitious as David Mackenzie finds that he isn’t the person he believed he was, the consequences can be dramatic.’

  ‘In which case,’ Provan observed, ‘if he’s as smart as a’ that, Christ, even if he’s only as smart as me, and he has done something bad to his wife, he might not be at any ferry terminal yet.’

  The chief nodded. ‘I was wondering about that too, Dan. Why do you think so?’

  ‘Drugs,’ the dishevelled DS declared. ‘These days, at any ferry terminal you’re likely to find a dog or two, trained to sniff out all sorts of contraband, fags, drugs, even humans. Worst case, if he has done her in, as they’re fearing in Edinburgh, turn up at one of these places wi’ her in the boot of your car and you are seriously pushing your luck.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Skinner agreed. ‘And that ties in with something my psychologist said. If the Bandit has killed poor Cheryl, no way was it premeditated. He will have no getaway planned, he’ll be in a panic. In that situation, my consultant says, people in a panic don’t run away; either they sit tight and wait for the inevitable, or they go somewhere they know. We’ve all got a hidey-hole mapped out in our minds, people. We need to find out where Mackenzie’s is, just in case he’s heading for it.’

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘Did you find out anything interesting about the man Holmes?’ Haddock asked as he slid into the passenger seat of his DI’s car. ‘The way the ACC described him made him sound like Al Capone.’

  ‘Plenty,’ Pye replied. ‘There’s a file on him on our intranet. From what I’ve read so far he was a lot smarter than Mr Capone. Scarface went to jail eventually, but Perry Holmes never did. I found Tommy Partridge’s book too; it isn’t on Kindle, as it happens, so I’ve ordered a copy from the library.’

  ‘Have you ever met the man Partridge?’

  ‘No,’ Pye admitted, ‘he was a bit before my time. He’ll be pushing eighty now . . .’

  ‘If he’s still alive.’

  ‘Oh, he is. I subscribe to an online magazine called Scottish Review. He’s a regular contributor, like a wise old owl perched on a branch somewhere. He also has letters in the Saltire on occasion. He never has any trouble getting them published; the editor’s his daughter.’

  ‘He sounds like a crank,’ the DS observed.

  ‘Don’t ever say that if Bob Skinner’s around. Partridge was one of his mentors, and if big Bob has a fault, it’s that he’s too loyal to his friends sometimes.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind . . . not that I expect to be seeing a lot of the big man from now on.’

  ‘Where are we going, then?’

  ‘Close by Wester Hailes; a street called Beeswaxbank Road, number fifty-three.’

  ‘I know it,’ Pye said. ‘I had a few calls there when I was stationed in West Edinburgh as a young plod, before I got moved out to East Lothian. By the way, Karen Neville was there too around that time; in East Lothian, that is.’

  Haddock glanced sideways, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Oh aye? And were you and she …’

  ‘Wind it in, Sauce,’ the DI growled. ‘No we weren’t; just friends, that’s all. She and Andy Martin weren’t either, not then. He was our divisional commander for a short while.’

  Their conversation lapsed as Pye drove out of Leith, heading for the bypass rather than taking the straighter route through the ever-chaotic city centre. Initially his satnav protested his choice, insisting that he turn around as soon as convenient, but he solved the problem by switching it off.

  Beeswaxbank Road was made up entirely of apartment blocks; fifty-year-old tenements that looked well overdue for refurbishment. On one side of the street, satellite dishes adorned their walls like acne on a teenager.

  ‘Fifty-three,’ Pye said as he parked in a bay opposite their target. ‘We know that Mr Booth is on benefit. Let’s see if he’s in, or away job-seeking.’

  Their destination was accessed via an open stairway, leading to flats above; as they moved towards the steps, Haddock pushed a toddler’s plastic tricycle to one side. ‘Quite tidy,’ Pye remarked. ‘Things have improved since I was here last. For a start, that wee bike would have been gone in thirty seconds.’

  There were four doorways on each landing. The one that had a card with the names ‘P. Booth’ and ‘V. Riley’ in a doorframe holder was on the second floor. There was no bell push to be seen in the door, only an eye-level letterbox. Unusually, it had two mortise locks.

  The detectives glanced at each other. ‘Oh yes?’ Haddock murmured. He tapped the door lightly with his knuckles. ‘It’s steel,’ he said, ‘and folk with steel doors always have something to hide. If they were a bit smarter they’d work out we’re going to get in anyway, and not bother with all this.’

  He pushed the letterbox ajar, and shouted, ‘Police, open up!’ into the space. ‘Now listen,’ he whispered, as Pye smiled. They heard the sound of rushing feet from within, then the sound of taps being run and a toilet being flushed. More than a minute later bolts creaked as they were drawn back, a lock clicked, and the door opened.

  A young woman stood behind it, peering through the gap that a chain allowed. ‘Good morning, Victoria,’ Pye said.

  ‘It’s Vicky. Whitjiswant?’ she demanded, aggressively.

  ‘We want to talk to Patrick,’ he told her.

  ‘He’s no’ in.’

  ‘We’d like to see that for ourselves.’

  ‘Well, ye cannae.’

  Pye shrugged and smiled down at her. ‘Fine, Vicky. We’ll just go, then, and leave you to explain to your man why you put his stock down the drain. We’ll need to warn them down at Seafield that they’ve got another sort of shit coming their way. If they stand too close to that they could get high.’

  She stood her ground, but uncertainty showed in her eyes.

  ‘It was all a waste too,’ Haddock told her. ‘We don
’t have a search warrant, and we’re not even drugs squad officers. We had no idea that your Patrick was the street dealer till we saw that door.’

  ‘I dunno, Sauce,’ the DI chipped in. ‘That wee bike downstairs was a clue. Nobody around here would steal your kid’s toy, Vicky, would they?’

  ‘Well, what do yis want?’ she asked. In the background a child yelled, ‘Mammy!’

  ‘We told you,’ Haddock replied. ‘We need to talk to Patrick. It’s about your Auntie Bella.’

  ‘What about Auntie Bella?’

  ‘Do you not read the papers, or listen to the news?’

  ‘I don’t care about that. It’s just the same old, same old, every day.’

  ‘Not this time; this time, you’re right in the middle of it. Your Auntie Bella’s dead. Somebody stabbed her to death in her kitchen then put her body in the river.’

  The young woman’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Does ma granny ken?’

  ‘Not from us,’ the DI said. ‘Now are you going to let us in, or do we have to suspect that you and wee Susan are in imminent danger and act accordingly?’

  She sighed, nodded, and unfastened the chain. The unoiled hinges squealed in protest as the heavy door swung open. The two men stepped into a carpeted hall. Haddock moved from room to room, five in all, opening cupboards and wardrobes, checking that Victoria Riley had told them true and that her partner was out. As he rejoined them in the hall he pocketed the extendible baton that he had been carrying, just in case. His left hand held something else: a jewel box.

  He showed it to Pye. ‘This was on a shelf in the fitted wardrobe in the kid’s room. Susan says she wants her pottie,’ he added, for the mother’s benefit, but she ignored him. She was transfixed by the box.

  ‘Go and see to your child, Vicky,’ the DI instructed. To his slight surprise, she obeyed him.

  ‘No way these are hers,’ Haddock declared, opening his find and displaying the contents, half a dozen rings, inlaid with diamonds, sapphires and one emerald, several pairs of earrings, a string of pearls and other neckwear, including a gold heart-shaped pendant, on a chain. ‘Our Vicky’s a bling baby. This is an older woman’s jewellery. And look at this.’

  He took the pendant from the case, holding it up with only one finger, letting it swing round so that Pye could see the reverse side, and an inscription that read, ‘Happy Birthday, Bella, from Tony’.

  ‘Indeed,’ the DI murmured. ‘We really do need to have a serious word with the boy Patrick.’

  The two detectives walked into the living room, where Vicky was in the act of handing her toddler a handful of Smarties. ‘It’s a reward,’ she explained. ‘She gets them every time she does it where she’s meant to.’

  ‘Smartie-pants, eh,’ Pye said to the child, then showed her mother the jewel box, angling it so that she could see its contents. ‘How did you come by this?’

  She peered at it, and then up at him. ‘It’s no’ mine,’ she insisted. ‘Ah’ve never seen that before.’

  ‘No? It was in your spare room.’

  ‘Well, Ah never put it there. What are yis trying to say?’

  ‘We believe this was your Auntie Bella’s. If you’re telling us the truth, and we accept that, it means that your Patrick took it. That begs a question. Did he kill her to get it, Vicky?’

  ‘Patrick never took it,’ she protested. The child was alarmed by her raised voice; she started to whimper. Haddock picked the Smartie box from the gateleg table on which it stood and gave it to her. She sniffed and beamed up at him.

  ‘Are you certain about that?’ he asked her, quietly.

  ‘Aye, absolutely.’

  ‘And you didn’t take it?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘So your story is that someone broke in here, got through your double-locked steel door and planted it, to incriminate you and Patrick in your Auntie Bella’s murder. Is that it?’

  ‘They must have. I never saw it before.’

  ‘No,’ Pye said. ‘We don’t buy that. Victoria Riley, we’re arresting you on suspicion of the murder . . .’

  He got no further. As he spoke he was interrupted by the squeal of metal upon metal coming from the hall.

  ‘Vicky!’ a rough voice boomed. ‘What the fuck have I told you about no’ lockin’ the fuckin’ door?’

  ‘Patrick!’ she called out in warning just as he stepped into view. ‘It’s the polis!’

  For Pye and Haddock, time seemed to stretch; seconds became minutes as Booth stared at them, then reached behind his back. The DS went to his pocket, but his hand snagged in the lining. The detectives were helpless, exposed, as the newcomer brandished an automatic pistol, pointing it first at the sergeant then at the DI, wildly, with panic in his eyes. ‘Freeze,’ he yelled, theatrically.

  Pye raised his hands, protectively, palms out. ‘Easy,’ he exclaimed, just as Haddock freed his baton, extending it as he dropped into a crouch and dived towards the gun, aiming a blow at the man’s wrist as he swung it back towards him.

  Booth fired, wildly, a fraction of one elongated second before the steel rod lashed across his hand and sent the pistol flying. The sergeant raised the weapon and made to strike again, but a Timberland boot caught him square in the genitalia before the blow was halfway there.

  As Haddock folded, Pye went for the gun, but by the time he had recovered it, Patrick Booth was gone. He headed after him, turning into the hall just in time to see the massive door slam shut and hear it locked from the outside.

  ‘Bastard!’ he shouted, his heart pounding, thunderously. ‘Vicky, we need a key, now!’ he yelled as he turned . . . then stopped in his tracks.

  Haddock was on his knees. His face was beetroot and twisted with pain, as he forced himself to his feet, but Pye’s gaze passed him by. Behind him, the young mother lay stretched out on the floor, her left foot twitching slightly. The wall behind her was blood-spattered. Her daughter sat at her feet, her little face, stained with chocolate and something else, smiling up at the detective inspector.

  ‘Come here, darling,’ he said, gently, and lifted the child from the floor, letting her sit on the crook of his arm. ‘You all right, Sauce?’ he asked over his shoulder as he carried her through a door on his right and into the flat’s narrow kitchen.

  ‘I’m better than Vicky,’ the DS hissed, through clenched teeth, ‘but only just.’

  ‘Check her out and then come in here.’

  Haddock edged painfully across to where the young woman lay. Her foot had stopped twitching; she stared up at the ceiling with eyes that he knew would never see anything again. The shock of her last moment was written on her face, and a trail of blood came from a round red hole, right on her hairline. In a futile gesture, he placed two fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse he knew that he would not find.

  ‘She’s gone,’ he called to his colleague. He glanced around the room, and saw a key on the table. He picked it up, then joined Pye in the kitchen. He took his mobile from his pocket and held it up, one eyebrow raised in a question.

  The DI nodded. ‘Mary,’ he said.

  As a matter of routine, all detective officers of sergeant rank and above had the head of CID’s number among their contacts. He found it and pressed, ‘Call’.

  ‘Chambers. What is it, Sauce?’

  ‘DI Pye and I are at fifty-three Beeswaxbank Road. We came here to interview a man named Patrick Booth about the Bella Watson inquiry. We now have another homicide on our hands.’

  ‘Are you collecting them?’ the DCS asked, drily.

  ‘I’m just glad I can still call it in, ma’am,’ he said, then started to shudder as the closeness of his escape came home to him for the first time.

  Pye read the signs, snapped his fingers and held out his hand for the mobile. ‘This is Sammy, boss,’ he snapped as he put it to his ear. ‘The man Booth surprised us. He tried to shoot Haddock, but hit and killed his girlfriend instead. Then he legged it, locking us in here in the process. I’
m assuming he had a car outside so we’re going to need to get his number and put the word out as quick as we can. This all happened only a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘A full crime scene team, for starters, but this is a drug house, so that squad’ll need to be informed as well. There’s a child here, unharmed, thank God, and happily munching Smarties. We’ll need Social Services for her, and we’ll need to trace her great-grandmother, whose name is Susan Coulter, probably aged seventy.’

  ‘How do they relate to the Watson investigation?’

  ‘Great-granny’s Bella’s cousin,’ Pye explained. ‘And Patrick Booth may have killed her.’

  ‘I’d better mark him as approach with caution, then.’

  ‘For sure, but the likelihood is he’s unarmed. Sauce knocked the gun out of his hand after he’d shot the girl. It’s still here, but I suppose, you never know, he may have another.’

  ‘I’ll make sure there’s an armed response team handy when we trace him,’ Chambers said. ‘Well done, gentlemen. You stay there and wait for the cavalry.’

  ‘Will do,’ the DI said. ‘But there’s one other thing we’re going to need, pronto: a gunshot residue test.’

  ‘Sure, but let’s catch him first.’

  ‘No, boss. It has to be done on me. I picked up the weapon. My prints will be on it. I’ll need to prove to Arthur fucking Dorward’s satisfaction that I didn’t shoot the girl myself.’

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘What the hell are we doing here, Lottie?’ Dan Provan complained, as he watched the screen. ‘He’s not in fuckin’ Ireland. A cop wouldn’t run away to Ireland; he’d know it’s too well watched.’

  ‘This one would know that,’ his inspector agreed, ‘because he’s ex-Strathclyde, but they might not realise that in Edinburgh. The man Wilding’s coordinating this search, and he asked us to check the Troon CCTV. That’s what we’re doing. Anyway, the job’s nearly done; this is the last possible crossing he could have taken within the time frame.’