Hour Of Darkness

by Quintin Jardine

  You’re a fool, Skinner, I thought. You’re more arrogant than Mackenzie.

  I swung round in my chair and looked out of the window, westward across the evolving skyline of a city that I’d never been able to like, and thought about what had brought me into my lofty office.

  The more I considered it, the more I concluded that I was too like the man we were trying to find, far too like him for comfort. His faults were my faults and they had clouded my judgement.

  If that old priest was wrong, and the man I’d brought into my team had killed his wife because of the pressure of a job he should never have been in, I knew that it would weigh heavily on me for the rest of my life.

  I took a bottle of water from my fridge, then returned to the file, picking my way backwards through David Mackenzie’s career, through years of appraisals, by different officers, yet with remarkably similar observations, through several commendations, through successive and rapid promotions.

  Finally, there was only one document left: his application to join the police service. It was free-standing, unsupported by any other papers. The memorandum that Father Donnelly had described was missing from the folder. I was fairly certain that it had never been there.

  I looked at the form. It was neat, each entry printed in firm capital letters: date and place of birth, parents’ names, both deceased, schools attended, educational achievements, and work experience. It was supported by two referees: Father Thomas Donnelly, parish priest, and Magnus Austin, engineer. Each had signed beneath his name, and before David had signed and dated the form himself.

  Every section had been completed, save one: that which requires applicants to list any court appearances, even those where an absolute discharge was granted, and any involvement with a police investigation. I had looked at hundreds of these forms during my police career. A minority had disclosed offences and charges, but in every other that I could remember the applicant had written ‘None’. On Mackenzie’s form that section was blank.

  A long time ago, at a CID dinner that took place just after I’d made a particularly high-profile arrest, my colleagues presented me with a magnifying glass. The gift was a joke, but it actually worked, so I kept it. When I’d emptied my desk in Edinburgh, I’d brought it with me. I took it out and held it over the empty section, studying it for as long as it took for me to be certain.

  There was no other sign of erasure, but the paper within the rectangular box was lighter than the rest of the sheet, than the rest of the document. A very effective chemical must have been used to dissolve the ink that had been there, for the surface was absolutely smooth, but it had been doctored, for sure.

  I closed the folder; the prediction I’d offered Maggie and Mario had come to pass. I’d been confident that it would and so I’d known what I was going to do before I started. I reached for the notepad that I keep on my desk, scrawled out a note and ripped it off, then walked the few yards to my exec’s office.

  I handed her the sheet of lined paper, and the folder. ‘Sandra,’ I said, ‘take this to Arthur Dorward in the Forensic Service, please, give him my compliments and ask him to do what I ask in that note. Beg the so-and-so if you have to, but get him to make it his top priority and tell him I need his findings on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.

  ‘If he wants to know what it’s about, give him my compliments again and tell him to mind his own bloody business.’

  Forty-Five

  ‘This is fascinating,’ Marlon Hicks said, as he settled into a booth in the café in Nicolson Street, where he had agreed to meet the woman from the unclaimed inheritance agency who had called him at work that morning. If he was surprised that she had with her a very tall and very serious colleague, his expression gave no hint of it.

  Karen Neville smiled. ‘That’s what they all say,’ she replied. ‘Descendant research is a very interesting occupation, looking into people’s family trees, and finding new branches that you never knew existed.’

  ‘Just like being a detective, eh?’

  ‘You’re spot on there, Mr Hicks. Sometimes I think I should take it up professionally. I’m trained for it and I could set my own working hours.’

  The young man was taken aback. ‘You mean you don’t get paid for this?’ he exclaimed. He was an odd mix. Facially he could almost have passed for an older version of one of the boys she had seen in the faded photograph in Bella Watson’s flat. Vocally, a blind person might have taken him for a West Indian.

  ‘No, we get paid for something else. We are detectives, the orthodox kind. I’m DS Neville, Edinburgh CID, and this is my colleague, acting DI McGurk.’

  Hicks stared at her. He sat bolt upright on his bench seat, then his eyes went to the café door, as if he was contemplating being on the other side of it as soon as possible.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, keeping her tone as calming as she could, and laying a hand on his, gently, but ready to hold on tight if he did decide to make a run for it.

  ‘You’re not in any trouble here,’ McGurk added. ‘We’re involved in a very complex investigation, and we need your help. We apologise for being a bit devious. That’s not how we work, usually, but we know you haven’t been in your job for all that long, and sometimes, if the police turn up in the workplace looking for a new employee, the bosses can get nervous.’ He produced his warrant card, and Neville followed suit. ‘Take a look, in case you doubt us. Proof that we are who we say we are.’

  The youth leaned forward and peered at them. Then he nodded, seemingly reassured. ‘So,’ he responded, ‘what do you want from me?’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about your father,’ Neville told him. Instinctively, both officers knew that Hicks would respond better to her, and McGurk was happy to lean back and let her lead.

  ‘My father? What’s he got to do with anything in Edinburgh?’

  ‘How much do you know about him?’

  ‘I know he’s a super bloke, and I love him. He’s the reason I’m here; he taught me my trade and then he got me a job in Scotland, ’cause like he says, there’s a limit to the experience you can gather in St Lucia. Like today; I’m working on a Rolls-Royce. Tomorrow it could be a Mercedes limo, or a Bentley; there aren’t too many cars like that on a little island. I’m going to go back, though; my dad has his own business, and I want to work with him, so he can retire when he’s ready.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Mr Hicks, Marlon,’ the DS said, gently. ‘I mean your natural father, Marlon Watson.’

  He frowned, and in an instant his bright, open face was clouded by anger. ‘Him? I don’t think of him as my father. All he ever give me was his name and I’m changin’ that. My dad is Duane Hicks, nobody else, and you’re right, Hicks is my name too. That other man, he left Mama before I was born, left her alone. He hurt her so bad she won’t ever talk about him.’

  ‘But she named you after him,’ Neville pointed out.

  ‘I never knew that,’ he retorted fiercely, ‘not until I had to see my birth certificate so I could change my name all legal, for my British passport. I’m happy to be St Lucian, but Dad said no, I should have a British passport too.’

  ‘She never told you that you were named after him?’

  ‘Never. She told me she called me after a boxer, Marvellous Marvin Hagler, only she got his name wrong. Sure, I know now she was kidding, but I’m still happy with that. I don’t want to be called after him.’

  ‘Whatever, it’s your choice. What about your grandmother? Have you ever had anything to do with her, that you can recall?’

  He stared at her, and a mile-wide smile spread across his face. ‘Grandma? Of course I have. She was the first person I went to see when I got here. Grandma’s cool. She’s kinda old, but she likes Beyoncé, and the Rolling Stones, and Bob Marley. She’s got Wailers albums that I never heard of, and she even knows who Pete Tosh was.’ He chuckled. ‘She likes the volume loud too; Grandpa Ford, he’s always tellin’ her to turn it down some, but she never listens.’

&nb
sp; ‘No, Marlon,’ Neville said, quietly. ‘Again, I wasn’t asking about your Grandma Ford; I meant your Grandma Watson.’

  The sunshine vanished as quickly as it had arrived. ‘What you saying?’ he protested. ‘I ain’t got no Grandma Watson. I got Grandma Ford and Grandpa Ford and Grandma Hicks. I never heard of no other grandma.’

  ‘Are you sure? You knew that Mr Hicks wasn’t your natural father . . .’

  ‘Sure I knew that,’ he snapped scornfully. ‘Just by looking at him then looking in the mirror, I’m gonna know that. Duane’s black, lady, and I’m pale.’

  ‘Yes, but if Marlon Watson’s your natural father, then it stands to reason that . . .’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about no reason,’ Marlon exclaimed, loudly enough for the lady behind the counter to throw a meaningful look in his direction. ‘I don’t know the man or anything about him and I don’t want to know.’ He gazed at McGurk. ‘Look, Mistah Acting Inspector, can I go now? You get me here thinking you were someone else and you ask me all these crazy questions, but you don’t tell me what it’s about. To be truthful wit’ you, I don’t care what it’s about, so I don’ see why I should sit here any longer. I got to get back to work.’

  The big detective nodded. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘you’re right. We should tell you what our inquiries are about, but I warn you, it may shock you. Yes, it’s true that your father left your mother before you were born, but he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He left her because he was murdered.

  ‘From what I’ve been told about him, he wasn’t a bad man, but if you don’t know anything about your Watson family you’re probably lucky, and I can understand why your mother and your dad have protected you from the truth.’

  As McGurk spoke, Neville studied the young man’s expression as the words sank in, seeing shock, incomprehension and in equal measure.

  ‘This ain’t true,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she countered, ‘it is. Your father, his brother and their uncle were all murdered, by or on the orders of the same people. It was an underworld thing.’

  ‘Are you telling me my father and his kin were all gangsters?’ Marlon gasped.

  ‘The uncle thought he was, but he was out of his depth. Your father’s brother was a stupid little boy, fifteen years old, but he wanted to be one. As for your father, he was somebody who kept the wrong company, and it got him killed.’

  ‘Fifteen years old?’ Marlon repeated. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He dealt drugs for his uncle to kids at his school, and they were caught; to the people who supplied them, that was a capital offence.’

  ‘Who were these people? The ones who killed them?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ McGurk told him. ‘It’s ancient history now.’

  ‘And what about this grandma you say I’ve got?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Martin said. ‘I’m afraid that she’s followed the pattern. It’s her murder we’re investigating. Her remains were found in the river a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘You mean the dead woman who’s been in the papers? The body on the island? That was her?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘God!’ he gasped.

  ‘That’s why I have to ask you again. Did you know of her, and have you ever visited her?’

  ‘No,’ he insisted, ‘never. Honest,’ he added. ‘Why? Has somebody said I did?’

  ‘No,’ McGurk replied, ‘but just in case our bosses ask us to prove that to their satisfaction, we’d like you to give us a sample of your DNA. Would you agree to that?’

  ‘What? You mean like blood?’

  ‘No,’ Neville reassured him, ‘just a saliva smear from your mouth. We can take it right here.’ She reached into her bag and took out a sealed spatula, and a plastic envelope.

  The young man glanced around, checking that no one was watching.

  ‘I can take it from you in the toilet if you’d rather,’ McGurk offered.

  ‘No. Let’s do it here.’

  Following the sergeant’s instructions, he opened his mouth and let her swab the inside of his cheek, then watched as she bagged the sample and put it away.

  ‘Do you tell me when you get a result?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s not like that,’ she replied. ‘You’re giving it to us for elimination only and you haven’t committed a crime, so it won’t be kept on the national database.’

  Marlon shrugged. ‘It’s nothin’ to me. As long as it don’t mean I have to be a Watson, that’s okay.’

  Forty-Six

  ‘There was a time,’ Sammy Pye said, as he looked at the white building through its slatted stainless-steel gates, ‘about thirty years ago, when this was the cutting edge of modernist architecture.’

  ‘If that was so, it’s got a bit blunt over the years,’ Sauce Haddock observed. ‘That gate’s never thirty years old.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It looks fairly modern. From Mario McGuire’s description I was expecting something solid. Let’s see if the doorbell works.’

  In fact, there was no bell, only a buzzer, with a camera above. He pressed and they waited, Haddock muttering, ‘One quick spray of a paint aerosol and that’s fucked.’

  ‘Smart people put a layer of cling film over the lens,’ the DI countered.

  ‘Yes?’ A male voice came from the speaker grille.

  ‘Police,’ the DS said, holding up his warrant card for inspection.

  ‘Put it closer to the camera, mate.’

  He did as he was asked.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘A murder investigation,’ Pye snapped, ‘so open the gate, please.’

  ‘I don’t know if I will. This family’s got no reason to like you guys.’

  ‘To whom are we speaking?’

  ‘Derek Drysalter.’

  ‘And this is your house?’

  ‘My wife’s and mine, yes.’

  ‘It’s also the registered address of Peter Hastings McGrew, a life sentence prisoner released on licence.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So have you any idea what “on licence” means? If not, then get the door open, or you’ll find out.’

  ‘Hastie’s not here.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, open up . . . please.’

  The background crackle of the speaker stopped, and the light above the camera went out. A few seconds later the steel gate slid open, and the two detectives stepped into the grounds.

  A long driveway led up to the house; by the time they reached the front door, it had been opened and a figure waited there, not a man, but a woman. Pye had done his homework and knew that, once, she had been a model; twenty years on she had retained a certain grace, but added two or three sizes, emphasised by the a black onesie that she was wearing.

  ‘I’m Alafair Drysalter.’ It sounded more of an announcement than an introduction.

  ‘DI Pye, DS Haddock.’

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She stood aside for them and then ushered them through to a huge galleried living area, with a glass wall and two centred patio doors that opened out into a garden boasting a small swimming pool. It would have enjoyed a fine view up Blackford Hill, Haddock reckoned, but for a line of tall leylandii.

  Derek Drysalter was waiting for them there, glaring as they entered. The former footballer had gained much more weight than his wife, and had given up the fight against male pattern baldness, shaving his remaining hair close to his skull. He was standing, but supporting himself on a Malacca cane with a silver handle.

  ‘Darling,’ his wife said, ‘I can handle this on my own. Unless these gentlemen want you here, why don’t you go and surprise Peri by picking her up from school. You know the bus from Mary Erskine can be a bind, and she does have the Olly Murs concert tonight. Is that okay, Inspector?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine by us,’ Pye replied, fixing his eyes on the man, and his cane. ‘Do you have a mobility
problem, Mr Drysalter,’ he grinned, ‘or is that a weapon?’

  ‘My second knee replacement,’ he answered, unsmiling, ‘a month ago. I’m only just back on my feet.’

  So you won’t have been walking upstairs at Caledonian Crescent, Haddock thought, far less helping to carry a body down in a trunk.

  ‘I’m okay to drive, though,’ Drysalter added, as he headed towards the hallway, with a careful shuffling gait. ‘My car’s an automatic.’

  ‘Now,’ his wife said, briskly, as he left, and as they took seats on a long curved sofa facing the garden, ‘what’s all this about? A murder inquiry? Really, guys, I thought those days were long gone. Hastie did what he did and he paid the price, more than he should have, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Who says we’re here to talk about your brother?’ Haddock shot back.

  ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘It could be a couple of things,’ Pye said. ‘For example, there’s the matter of your father’s death. That was investigated at the time and no conclusion was reached.’

  ‘Yes there was,’ she exclaimed. ‘The procurator fiscal decided that it had been a tragic accident.’

  ‘Actually, he didn’t. He decided that accidental death was a possibility. Alongside that, he had no solid evidence to proceed against anyone. I read the investigation summary before we came here. The established facts were that your father’s agency carers left him asleep in his powered chair and went off to the kitchen for a break. When they came back they found both him and the chair in the hydrotherapy pool. There was nobody else in the house at the time.

  ‘Perry Holmes having been what he was, obviously the carers were treated as suspects, but they had impeccable records, and the stuff that the investigators found in the kitchen, dirty plates, et cetera, tended to support their story. The building was secure, and there were no signs of forced entry; the caring agency worked in shifts, and there was only one set of keys to the premises. In fact there were only two sets in all and you had the other one.’