'You should know about that, right enough,' Martin chuckled. 'The door-to-door's given you nothing, then?'
'Well, it did turn up a boy in the new flats opposite the Roseburn pub who acted shifty when Sammy Pye knocked his door. Without any pressure at all, he confessed to growing cannabis plants in his back window box. Apart from him though, it hasn't given us a fucking thing. We've still got a lot to do mind, but…'
'Did Sammy lift the guy?'
'Aye, but there were only a few plants. I gave him a warning and let him go.'
'You both did right. What about empty properties? Have you checked them out?'
'There are none; not in the area we're looking at. Every flat and house is occupied, or at least there's Council Tax being paid on every one; there are registered voters at almost every address. They're still looking for possibles in Glasgow too, but so far all their gangsters are present and correct. I could have told you all this on the phone, you know. You've had a wasted journey.'
'That's not why I'm here,' said the Head of CID. 'I wanted to tell you personally, you and Jack here, that I've tracked down the leak to the News'
'Who was it?' asked Pringle, eagerly.
'Me.'
He looked up at McGurk. 'Your brother-in-law and I have someone in common. Her name's Rhian Lewis. She's a final-year medical student. I let something slip the other night; I also fixed it for her to sit in with Sarah on Mr Nobody's autopsy. She, in turn, passed it on, in similar circumstances, to your man Blacklock.
'I've spoken to Alan Royston already. Now I want to apologise to you both; to you, Dan, for compromising your investigation and to you Jack, for getting you implicated.'
'Not your fault, sir,' said Pringle, tactfully. 'We all talk in the dark.' He paused. 'The Margot girl's older sister, right?'
'Right.'
McGurk said nothing; Martin glanced at him again. 'I want him sorted, Jack.
'I don't want you to ruin your sister's life, necessarily; whether you tell her or not, that's down to your judgement. But I want you to let that brother-in-law of yours know from me that if he ever goes near Rhian again, far less tries to use her to get sensitive information out of me, then he is fucking dog-meat. 'Understood?'
The giant Sergeant looked down at him, his face thunderous. 'Don't you worry, sir. After I've finished with him he won't be touching anything female for a long time, especially not my sister or your friend.'
25
'Where do we start?' Stevie Steele looked round the big living room of Shell Cottage. The blinds were open; outside the untypical spell of early summer sunshine continued unbroken. The tide was out and people were walking, in ones and twos, on the wet sands, some of them giving their dogs a chance to run off the leash.
'The most obvious place,' said McGuire, beside him in the doorway. 'With that desk over there.' He looked around the rest of the room. Smith's clothes were gone, bagged as evidence and sent to the lab; the whisky glass was gone too. All of the ornaments which he had seen on the previous Saturday, each one carefully positioned, now stood together on the table.
The room seemed souless; Mario thought of a house which he and Maggie had looked at before their marriage — the home of a dead person, being sold by her executor. It had given them the same chill that came now from Alec Smith's cottage.
'That's an antique, that thing. There may be a panel in it, a secret drawer, that Arthur Dorward's lot missed.'
'It couldn't be big enough to hold much in the way of papers,' Steele pointed out.
'No, but there could be something inside it that tells us where they are.'
'True.' The Sergeant crossed the room and examined the heavy desk. He slid out every drawer in the two pedestals, pulling each one free from its runners and turning it over, looking for anything that might have been taped underneath. He looked inside the empty space which they had left, then examined the panel above the kneehole, pressing it but finding it unyielding.
Finally, he and McGuire lifted the empty carcass of the desk from its position beneath the window and examined its front. The Inspector leaned over, peering at the section which mirrored the central panel on the other side. He looked at it, at the line of its inlay to the rest of the woodwork, then he blew, gently, at the joints, sending motes of dust flying, and rapped on it with his knuckles, quickly and firmly as if he was knocking on a door.
With a click, the panel sprung two inches clear of its surround, revealing a shallow drawer. 'How about that then?' he said, beaming with undisguised pride.
'Papa Viareggio — my mother's father — had a desk like this with a secret drawer; and no-one knew about it but him… and me. When I was ten, he told me about it, and showed me how to open it. When he died, six years later, he left it to me in his will. He was a well-off man, my Italian grandfather; owned a chain of fish-and-chip shops. My uncle inherited the business, my mother got a big bequest, and he left ten grand each to my two girl cousins. I was his only grandson and yet all he left me was his bloody desk.
'My mother was bloody livid; she said he had always been a crazy man. She was going to ask my granny to keep the desk and give me ten grand like the girls, but I told her to wind her neck in. "That's what Papa wanted," I said, "that's what's going to happen." So they brought the desk to our house and I made space for it in my room.
'The first time my folks were out, I tapped the panel, just like Papa Viareggio told me, and the drawer popped out, just like that one. There was a key inside to a safe deposit box and a letter from Papa giving me the address of the bank where it was kept, and another addressed to the manager. My letter said, "When you turn twenty-one you can open this. Meantime, sell the bloody desk; it s a cumbersome thing but it 's worth a few quid." Some man, my Papa.'
'What did you do?' Steele asked, fascinated.
'I did as he told me. The desk was far better quality than this one. I got ten grand clear for it at auction, the same as he left the girls… he never liked them. When I was twenty-one, I opened the safe deposit box and found all the paperwork related to a trust fund in the Cayman Islands. Papa had set it up with fifty grand when I was ten and it had been growing big-time ever since: it still is. I won't tell you how much it's worth, but the income — all legal, tax paid and everything — will pay off our mortgage by the time I'm forty.'
'What happened to the business?'
McGuire laughed. 'Ah, Stevie son, that's another story. Just before he died, Papa put together this plan to float it as Viareggio pic and develop it, nationally and internationally, on a franchise basis. A week before he was due to push the button on it, he took a heart attack in his office and dropped down dead. My uncle didn't think it was such a good idea, so he cancelled everything.
'Every time I drive past a Harry Ramsden, I think of my Uncle Beppe, and I marvel at what a stupid fucker he is.'
He looked at the desk again. 'Alec's estate might get a couple of grand for this thing, but that's all. Still, let's be careful with it.' Gently, he drew out the hidden drawer. Inside, the two detectives saw a small cloth pouch, secured by a red drawstring, a box, and three keys on a ring. McGuire picked up the bag, loosened the binding cord, and slid back the cloth to reveal the muzzle of a small, black, oiled automatic pistol.
'Nine millimetre something or other, I'd say…' He looked closely at the barrel. 'Beretta, I think.'
Steele opened the box. 'Ammo,' he said.
'Aye, and just as illegal as this gun.' McGuire took the weapon out, checked that it was unloaded, then secured it in its pouch once more and slipped it into his pocket. 'Whatever Alec was up to, he must have perceived a threat, to have taken the risk of keeping this. Even for an ex-SB guy, possession of a firearm and ammunition would have meant prison for sure.'
He picked up the keys and tossed them in his hand. 'I wonder what these are for?' He looked at them closely. 'This one's for a Chubb mortise lock and this one's a McLaren; both top quality. All the locks in this place are either Era or Yale, so these are for somewhere else
. I wonder where? And the third key; see how thin it is? Odd-looking; not for a door, I'd say'
'For a safe-deposit box, maybe?'
'Maybe.' McGuire scowled suddenly. 'The fact that there's nothing else in the bloody drawer makes me fear that we ain't going to find anything in the whole bloody house. If there was a pointer to a stash of photos and records, this is where we'd have found it, I'm sure. On the other hand, these keys might be a pointer of a sort; maybe he did have an office somewhere and maybe Maggie's search will turn it up.'
He dropped the keys into his pocket beside the gun, then took off his jacket and laid it across the desk-top. 'Let's get on with taking the place apart, anyway. I've been wrong before, so you never know.'
Steele nodded. Carefully, he replaced the empty drawers in the desk, then helped McGuire to turn over the heavy sofa. They checked underneath it and under the rest of the furniture in the room but found nothing.
They continued the search through the rest of the upper floor of the house, turning over mattresses, rifling through drawers, turning out the pockets of every garment hanging in Alec Smith's wardrobe, even checking inside the pill and plaster boxes in the bathroom cabinet. They moved downstairs through the dining room and into the kitchen, finding nothing but a large supply of Baxter's soup, a fridge well stocked with soft drinks and small bottles of Belgian beer, breakfast cereal, tins of nuts and a large box of sunflower seeds.
'Liked his nuts,' Steele commented.
'Had them burned off,' McGuire countered, dryly.
Finally they made their way down into the cellar; apart from a bulk supply of dog food, stored on a high shelf, there was nothing there but tools, as Arthur Dorward had reported earlier. There were no windows, only a door; McGuire opened it and found half a dozen steps leading back up to the level of a small lawn. As he stepped back inside, he found Steele examining a white line which ran round the wall, about four feet above the level of the stone floor.
'What do you think this is, Mario?'
'Looks like a tide-mark.'
'Yes. I reckon this place must be susceptible to flooding, maybe when there are high tides and bad weather combined. No way he's going to store anything down here.' The Sergeant looked up. 'That's us then. What's left to do?'
'We go up into the attic. Then we go back to every room that doesn't have a fitted carpet and lift the floorboards. I promised you a long hard day, Stevie, and I meant it.'
26
The elderly Probation Officer stared across her desk at the Detective Chief Superintendent. 'I don't know if I like this, Mr Martin,' said Roberta Nelson. 'Ever since he's been under my supervision, Angus Morrison has been a model parolee.'
'I'm sure he has,' the policeman replied, evenly. 'Gus was pretty stupid as a would-be terrorist, but even he would know that the first rule of the turf, if the Parole Board gets soft with you, is that you're nice to your supervising officer.'
'That's a very cynical attitude.'
Martin sighed wearily. 'No, it's a universal truth. You see people like him at their best; all too often I see them at their worst.'
'I know Angus,' the woman insisted. 'He has a good job — I arranged it for him myself — as a van driver with Scottish Power.'
The Head of CID laughed. 'That's ironic; he was nicked trying to blow up one of their pylons.'
'He's paid for that mistake. He's a model employee; never a day's sick leave, never late for work. He never misses a meeting with me. No, no, no. I will not have you treat him as "one of the usual suspects". I refuse to co-operate with you, point-blank.'
'Ms Nelson, it isn't a matter of you co-operating with me. I don't even want to co-operate with you. I'm not asking you, I require you, to give me the present address of Gus Morrison, so that I can eliminate him from police enquiries into the murder of the man who arrested him and who gave evidence against him at his trial.'
She snorted. 'Hmm! I know how the police work. You'll arrest him, you'll intimidate him, and you'll leave him believing that there is no such thing as a reformed offender in your eyes. And we know where that leads, don't we? Straight back to prison.'
The detective leaned forward in his chair. 'Lady, you know damn well that a significant proportion of people convicted of crimes and offences in Scotland are under probation orders at the time, or re-offend shortly after completing a period on probation. I promise you I'm not going to railroad Morrison; I'm simply going to find out whether or not he killed Alec Smith.' He stood. 'Now: unless you'll swear under oath that he was with you all last Friday evening, I'll have his home address, please, and that of the depot where he works.'
The woman shot him a last look. She had said her piece, but they both knew that she was not in a position to deny him what he wanted. She went to a filing cabinet, took out some papers, and copied some details from them on to a note pad.
'There.'
Martin took the note from her, with slightly exaggerated thanks — no point in rubbing it in — and left her office.
Gus Morrison's work address was a Scottish Power depot in Portobello. Andy drove straight there from Roberta Nelson's Haymarket office, not in his MGF but in a white Mondeo which he had taken from the police pool. Detective Constable Sammy Pye was by his side, borrowed back from Dan Pringle's team for the occasion, and grateful to be relieved of door-knocking duty.
They found the Depot Manager's office without difficulty, just after midday. 'Angus Morrison?' said Walter Gough. 'Oh aye, Gus. He's out with an emergency crew just now. Due back in half-an-hour, though. He might be early, ye never know.
'What d' yis want him for? He's no' in bother again is he?'
'No. This is just part of the parole supervision process,' Martin lied. 'How's he doing, anyway?'
'Gus? He's fine. He's only been with us a few months, since he got out, but he's never been a problem. Quiet bloke, like, and there's something a bit sad about him. The probation woman said his girlfriend hanged herself in the jail. Is that right?'
'Yes, I'm afraid so. Some people just can't do the time; men as often as women for all that the papers would have you think.'
'Aye well, no wonder Gus is a bit odd then.' 'What do you mean?'
Gough hesitated. 'Ach. It's just that the rest of the lads are a bit wary of him. They catch him talking to himself every so often.'
'About anything in particular?' 'Nan, nothing they can make out.'
They heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, a noise of wheels on gravel. Gough glanced out of the window of his small office. 'That's his van now. How long will yis want him?' he asked as the two policemen stood.
Martin shrugged. 'Give him the rest of the day off?'
'Aye, that's no problem. One of the other lads can drive if we get another emergency call-out.'
The Head of CID glanced at his file photograph of Morrison and showed it to Pye as they strode towards the big van. They flanked him as he stepped out of the driver's door. He was big, over six feet and bulky. His nose had been badly broken once, and blue stubble showed on his chin. Real hard case, thought Pye.
Martin showed his warrant card, briefly, so that none of the other workmen could see. 'Gus,' he said in a friendly voice. 'We need to talk. Come on along with us.'
'What for?' Morrison growled.
'We want to buy you lunch, that's all.' One to each arm, gently but securely, they walked him across to the Mondeo.
27
'I think I should close down the headquarters van, Mario,' said Maggie Rose, 'and base the investigation out of Haddington from now on.'
Her husband nodded across the table at which he and Stevie Steele were sitting. Their faces were streaked with dirt and their clothes were dusty. Each was in the process of emptying a can of lager; four more lay in a bag at their feet.
'You might as well, Chief Inspector. I've dug up as much of North Berwick as I'm about to. What a wasted day!'
'Not exactly,' the Sergeant ventured. 'That desk might have gone for auction with a gun in it, and those keys
too if you hadn't known about that drawer.'
'No,' said McGuire. 'Absolutely not. The furniture specialist in any sale-room would have looked for that drawer right away. I'd rather it was us found the gun than him, though; that could have been embarrassing. We might have had a struggle keeping it out of the papers.'
'Aye,' laughed Steele. 'The Evening News is getting everywhere just now. Did you see their story yesterday on that other investigation. There was some very specific stuff in that. The guy who wrote that story, Blacklock: he's big Jack McGurk's brother-in-law. Did you know that?'
'I did not. I do know that big Jack better not have been talking to him, though. There are only three guys in this organisation allowed to speak to the press, and he's not one of them.' He considered his point for a moment. 'No, make that four; I suppose the Chief Constable can, too.'
McGuire drained his can, tore another open, then glanced at his wife once more. 'Did you get anything on the serial number of the pistol?'
'Drew a blank,' she said. 'Or should that be fired a blank? It isn't one of ours — it would have been posted missing if it was anyway — and it isn't registered to anyone in the UK. I suppose Alec must have acquired it on his travels and neglected to hand it in.'
'One more for us, then. We'll register it and keep it in our armoury.'
Maggie frowned at him. 'Not necessarily. We'll have to test fire a bullet from it; who knows, it might be a match for one in another open investigation somewhere, one with an untraced firearm.'
'We'll do no such bloody thing… Ma'am,' he retorted.
'But we have to! It's standard procedure.'
'It is not standard procedure to find an illegal hand-gun in the possession of a deceased former Special Branch commander. Suppose your test firing did come up with a match, in another force's area? What a can of fucking worms that would open!' He tapped the table. 'Tell you something, among the three of us. From what I've learned about Alec Smith, finding a match is not one hundred per cent impossible. No-one's testing that gun.'
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