Hour Of Darkness

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘He and his wife have flown the coop. We don’t know why and we don’t know where they’ve gone. There were some forensics in the house that had us a ball-hair off launching a full-scale murder hunt, but Bob’s assured us that he hasn’t harmed her.’

  ‘Bob has? How’s he involved?’

  ‘We felt we had to tell him,’ McGuire explained, ‘because of Mackenzie’s Strathclyde background, plus we needed his force’s help in the early days.’

  ‘And because of their personal history?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘So Bob’s investigating the business himself?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what Bob’s doing.’ McGuire paused. ‘You don’t, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Martin replied, ‘but I can tell you this. If he is on the trail, God help Mackenzie.’

  Fifty-Seven

  I’d known Max Allan for as long as I’d held chief officer rank. We’d met at the first ACPOS (Scottish chiefs’ association) meeting I’d attended as an ACC and had regular contact from then on. But in all that time I’d learned very little about his personal life. I knew vaguely that he and his wife were regular customers at one of Paula Viareggio’s delicatessens, but that was all.

  I’d expected Sarah to blow a gasket when I told her that I had to go through to Lanarkshire to see him, but when I explained why, she understood.

  As I’d told Maggie, having uncovered the potential scandal, I felt that I had to see it through, but it was more than that.

  Yes, I could have walked into Bridie Gorman’s office on the following Monday, dumped everything on her and told her to get on with it, but it would have been awkward for her, as she and Max had been side-by-side colleagues in Strathclyde.

  He and I hadn’t; he’d been gone, to all intents and purposes, when I had moved into Pitt Street, so our relationship had been at one remove.

  The thought did occur to me that perhaps I should call in an outside force to investigate, but on reflection I decided that was inappropriate because Max was no longer a serving officer.

  And so it was yours truly who rang his doorbell, at his house in High Blantyre, to find myself face to face with a woman I’d never met, but whose close family background I knew.

  ‘Mrs Allan,’ I began, ‘I’m Bob Skinner, the chief constable.’

  She gasped, and smiled. ‘I know who you are, Mr Skinner,’ she said, ‘although I have no idea why you’re here. Is Max getting that knighthood at last? Have you come to break the news?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mrs Allan,’ I replied, ‘but I do have something I need to discuss with him.’

  ‘And you’ve come all this way? That’s a pity, because Max isn’t at home . . . not at this one, anyway.’ She stood aside. ‘But please come in nonetheless. Let me offer you a cup of tea at least.’

  ‘That would be kind of you,’ I told her and let her usher me indoors.

  Mrs Allan was of the generation who show guests automatically to the best room, and so she did. In their case it was a bay-windowed lounge looking out on to the front garden. There wasn’t a single crease on any of the chairs, nor was there a television in the room, so I guessed that Max and his Mrs spent very little time there.

  When my hostess returned, she was pushing a trolley, with two cups in saucers, and a Picquot Ware teapot and water jug with a matching sugar and cream set, the like of which I’d seen auctioned on Bargain Hunt a few weeks earlier.

  ‘What a pity,’ she repeated as she poured, through a tea strainer. ‘Max will be so upset.’ She passed me a cup, then dropped the question I’d been expecting. ‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’

  ‘Actually it’s about your nephew,’ I responded.

  She frowned quizzically. ‘Richard? What’s he got to do with the police, for goodness sake? He’s an engineer like his father was.’

  I set my tea on a side table and turned back to face her, and the plate of Penguin biscuits she was offering me.

  ‘No thank you,’ I murmured politely. ‘No, not Richard; David. David Mackenzie.’

  Her round matronly face seemed to cloud over for a second, and her eyes became a little distant as if she’d taken a couple of steps back from me mentally.

  ‘David,’ she said, her lips slightly pursed. ‘Cheryl’s husband. I never quite think of him as my nephew.’

  ‘You don’t care for him?’

  ‘It’s not my place to say. He’s married to my niece and I’m dear wee Zach’s godmother. It’s just that I find him, well, a little brash, to be honest.’

  ‘Brash?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. A little coarse, too much so for my liking. His background isn’t his fault of course, but it’s unfortunate to say the least. That business with the hot oil!’ She gave a little gasp. ‘I know he was very young, and they did say he was ill-treated, but I have my worries about anyone who could do a thing like that, for any reason, at any age.’

  ‘So you know about it?’ I probed, gently.

  ‘Oh yes. Max told me all about it. He told me when it happened, and then later when Cheryl took up with David, he told me it was the same boy.’

  ‘How did Max feel about it, them getting together?’

  ‘I don’t imagine he was too happy. In fact I know he wasn’t. But he’s extremely fond of Cheryl, he always has been. At the end of the day, anything she sets her heart on she can have as far as Max is concerned.’

  ‘Did that include David joining the police force?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mrs Allan gave me a small nod, as if to infer that she was reading my mind. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wondered at the time whether the police would want him. I said as much to Max, but he said that it would be all right. He’d put in a word for him and he’d be accepted. And of course he was. I believe he worked for you in Edinburgh, Mr Skinner, did he not?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  I hadn’t expected that one, but I improvised. ‘Almost too conscientious,’ I replied.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I can see why you would say that. Eager to please the bosses. He was always eager to please Max, that’s for certain.’

  ‘And eager to please Cheryl?’

  ‘Hmph!’ Mrs Allan snapped. ‘If only that were so. Their marriage was volatile, to say the least. My sister-in-law, Julie . . . we have the same name, you know . . . told me once that she believed that David had abused Cheryl, that he’d been violent. I was going to tell Max, but Julie persuaded me not to. As well for him,’ she added. ‘That would have been the end of his career, I can tell you, if my Max had known that.’

  ‘Now that I know it, Mrs Allan,’ I pointed out, ‘I may have to think through what to do about it, even though he isn’t under my command any more.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘I hope I haven’t said anything to get him into trouble.’

  She meant the opposite, of course, but all I did was shake my head and say, ‘No, no, you haven’t said anything of the sort.’

  I finished my tea in a gulp and rose. ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very kind but I must go. I’m sorry to have missed Max, but I’m sure I’ll catch up with him.’

  She was about to say something else when my phone sounded. ‘Excuse me,’ I told her, fishing it out. ‘In my job, you’ll understand, every call might be important.’ I checked the caller before answering; to my surprise it was Lottie Mann.

  ‘Inspector,’ I murmured, ‘you must have a good reason to be calling me.’

  ‘Of course I do, boss,’ she replied, in her own special blunt way. ‘I thought you’d want to know this, right away. I’ve just had a call from Ray Wilding in Edinburgh. Apparently Cheryl Mackenzie’s just walked into her mother’s, and now she’s wondering what all the fuss is about. So, panic over, it seems.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I told her, ‘but thanks.’

  I turned back to Mrs Allan. I thanked her and as we shook hands she ventured, ‘Eh, what can I tell Max if he asks?’
r />   ‘As it happens, nothing,’ I replied. ‘It looks as if the matter’s been overtaken by events.’

  But has it? I thought as I drove away.

  Mrs Allan had given me the address of the Lanark Cottage; I had been intending to go there, but second thoughts overtook me. Instead I used voice dial . . . after years of trying I’ve finally mastered the art . . . to call Maggie Steele’s mobile.

  ‘You’ve heard,’ she said, statement, not question.

  ‘Yes. Your DI called my DI and she called me.’

  She seemed to read that as a criticism, for her tone turned defensive. ‘I was just about to call you myself, Bob,’ she protested.

  ‘I know, I know. I wasn’t getting at you. Sorry if I sounded testy, but Cheryl Mackenzie’s reappearance doesn’t affect the line of inquiry that I’m following. And since I told you she was safe, it doesn’t surprise me either. What are you planning to do about her?’

  ‘I’ve told Ray Wilding to have a chat with her, to get more out of her. It was her mother who called Ray; he’d given her his number and told her to use it any time. Cheryl’s story is that she and David had a big argument and she stormed off in the huff, telling him that he could look after the kids for a while and run a job at the same time and see how he liked it.’

  ‘Do you buy that?’

  ‘Not at first time of asking. That’s why I’ve asked Ray to interview her; not under caution or anything, just an informal chat.’

  ‘I’d like to make it slightly more formal,’ I told her. ‘And I’d like to sit in on it.’

  ‘You would? That’s a bit heavy, is it not?’

  ‘I won’t bite her, I promise. I’m not after her; it’s her husband and Max Allan that are in my sights.’

  ‘Okay,’ Maggie agreed. ‘I’ll tell Ray to hold off going to see her until you can join him. I take it from the background noise that you’re on the road.’

  ‘Yes I am, but Mags, I’m not for going to see the woman. I’ve had officers chasing after her and David all week. She can come to see us, if that’s all right with you. Ray’s in Gayfield, yes? I’ll meet him there, and she can join us. I’m sure her mother can look after the kids for a wee bit longer.’

  ‘That makes it more formal than I’d envisaged.’

  I laughed. ‘Listen, Chief Constable, if this was a man that we were talking about, if the roles were reversed and it was Mackenzie who’d come swanning in after being missing for a week . . . would you be treating him so gently? Like hell you would.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘All right, I’ll send a car for her. When can you be at Gayfield?’

  ‘Give me an hour. That’ll do it.’

  I ended the call, then turned off the music, just as it kicked back in; I had plenty to think about and the Drive-By Truckers were not conducive to that.

  I was passing Harthill services, and my conversation with Cheryl Mackenzie was pretty much planned out, when the phone rang.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, to accept the call.

  ‘Pops,’ my older daughter said, ‘can you talk?’

  ‘Last time I checked, kid, sure.’ I was casual but she sounded anxious. ‘What’s up?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s this investigation into the woman Watson’s murder. I haven’t been following it very closely, but last night I had the strangest call from Andy. He was at Karen’s picking up the kids and he rang me . . . or rather they did . . . to ask me about Mia Watson. I don’t know why, and he’s said nothing since, but it worries me.’

  I was glad she wasn’t in the car with me so that she couldn’t see the effect of her news.

  I waited until I was sure I could keep my tone under control, then I asked, ‘Why should it worry you, love? Her mother’s been murdered, it’s quite natural that her name should come up. I’m surprised that it hasn’t before now.’

  ‘But Pops, Mia’s trouble. Remember how she just disappeared all those years ago? Remember how . . . ?’

  ‘Remember you were only thirteen at the time,’ I countered. ‘Impressionable, volatile and full of emerging hormones. Your recollections of that time may not be one hundred per cent accurate.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she persisted, ‘but I do know this. You talk a lot about the past, especially to me. It’s always “Remember this?” and “Remember that?” It’s the way you are. Yet, since Mia disappeared, you have never mentioned her name, not once, not ever. So please don’t tell me her turning up means nothing to you. You’ve never lied to me before. Please don’t start now.’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, ‘I won’t. It’s true; I hoped I’d never see her again. But it’s not my investigation and it’s not my force that’s looking into her mother’s death, so there is no reason why I should. So don’t you worry . . .’

  ‘If you say “. . . your pretty little head” I will scream. I’ll stop worrying when they lock up whoever killed her mother so that she can stay wherever the hell it was she went off to!’

  Me too, kid, I thought when she’d calmed down, and hung up, me too.

  Fifty-Eight

  Karen Neville and Jackie Wright enjoyed basking in the warmth of their triumph in the unmasking of Bella Watson’s unsuspected daughter, for as long as it lasted.

  It ended with a phone call from Sammy Pye, asking for an immediate update after having his Saturday interrupted by the head of CID, wanting to know why it had taken the accidental intervention of the director of the SCDEA to unlock the secret.

  ‘Mary’s being good about it,’ he said. ‘She’s blaming it on Mackenzie, but the way she feels about him at the moment, she’d blame him for global bloody warming. But I slipped up, no doubt about it; it never occurred to me to check whether the victim had any other children. What I haven’t told her, though, is that Sauce and I actually heard about her last night, from young Hicks’s granny.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, but then we were sidetracked by a call to the monitoring unit, so we didn’t have a chance to log it in. It was on my to-do list for Monday.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Karen promised him. ‘But don’t take it all on yourself; that photograph in the flat kidded me too. We weren’t the first to be fooled either, either. Andy told me that when he was in Watson’s house twenty-odd years ago, with Bob Skinner, it was the same. There were pictures of her and the boys, but no sign that there had ever been a daughter. They wouldn’t have known about her, he said, if Bella hadn’t mentioned her.’

  ‘And Andy met her then?’

  ‘Yes, but just the once. She made an impression, though. She was on radio, but from what he said she should have been on telly. Mind you, he was impressionable then,’ she added.

  Pye chuckled. ‘I’ll let you into a secret; I am not so old that I don’t remember Mia Sparkles myself. I must have been about sixteen when she was on the radio, on that Airburst station.’

  ‘She passed me by,’ she commented, ‘but then I was a Radio Forth girl.’

  ‘Andy’s right about her looks,’ the DI said, softly. ‘I remember her face was on billboard posters for a couple of weeks, and it was a traffic hazard. She had a big audience among teenage kids in and around Edinburgh. She used to talk about things that they were actually experiencing, voice-breaking, periods, wet dreams, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘From what you’re saying,’ Karen laughed, ‘there must have been a few wet dreams about her.’

  ‘I’m sure there were. And then she just disappeared. I actually remember tuning into Airburst that day, after school. They trailed her programme as usual, but when the time came she wasn’t there. The previous presenter just carried on, saying that Mia Sparkles had been unavoidably detained, but she never did turn up.’

  ‘So I gather. Did it make the papers? I can’t recall.’

  ‘Yes. It was a one-week wonder. The rival radio stations rubbed it in big time, as you’d expect. It was the beginning of a very short end for Airburst. It folded not long after that.’

  ‘I wonder if she was ever list
ed as a missing person,’ the DS mused.

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same,’ Pye told her. ‘To tell you the truth, in my early days in CID, I actually looked her up and she wasn’t. But of course, I never knew her real name was Watson. In fact that makes me think; it might be worth checking again, under that surname. If she was reported missing, and she’s never been found, she should still be on a list, even going that far back. Could you do that for me, now?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ Neville said, ‘but what will it tell us?’

  ‘It’ll tell us who reported her. That might be interesting.’

  ‘True,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll get on it and let you know.’

  ‘No!’ he protested, laughing. ‘I’m off duty, remember.’

  She left him to the rest of his weekend, and called the missing person records office. It was on skeleton staffing, and as she expected, her request for a trace on a report going back three decades was greeted unenthusiastically.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ the civilian clerk sighed, after he had noted the details.

  ‘Within half an hour,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know if I can do that,’ the man warned.

  ‘I do. This is a live inquiry. So pull your finger out, please.’

  She left him to it and made herself a coffee from the CID room supply, being careful to drop a pound coin into the kitty tin. She would have made two, but Wright was deep in conversation.

  She took it back to her temporary desk, and was wondering whether there was a doughnut shop within walking distance of Queen Charlotte Street, when she was interrupted by another call.

  That guy must have taken me seriously, she thought, smiling, as she took it, but the voice on the line, although male, was much older.

  ‘Is that the officer in charge of the Watson investigation?’

  ‘For today only, yes. Detective Sergeant Karen Neville.’

  ‘No DI there?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ she replied, mildly annoyed. ‘I’m as good as it gets over the weekend.’

  ‘Of course, sorry, Sergeant.’ The man was contrite. ‘Don’t mind me. My name is Tom Partridge, detective superintendent, retired for more than a few years. There’s something I think I should report to you. I had a visit yesterday from a young man, a very young man indeed. He turned up on my doorstep, wanting to ask me about a book that I wrote after I handed in my a warrant card. It was about the life and times of a villain called Perry Holmes. Have you heard of him?’