“Perhaps…” McKenzie smirked, walking past the uniformed Sergeant, “but I didn’t see any curtains twitching.”
“Hello, it’s up here…” A voice caught them unawares from above, booming down the staircase and echoing loudly of the cavernous, empty, cold blue-painted stairwell, which was typical of almost all the more affordable tenement properties this side of Edinburgh. In some of the others in the more up-and-coming areas, the tenants had pushed up their property prices by making the stairwells warm and attractive, by hanging pictures on the walls, laying out fancy doormats, and filling plant pots with sweet smelling colourful flowers. There was none of that here though. As McKenzie looked up the stairwell and saw the anxious face of Mrs Weir peering down at them from above, he couldn’t help but exhale defensively out through his nose as the smell of stale urine accosted him from below, wafting up from the passage underneath the stair that led out to the communal gardens behind the main building.
Anderson pointed to a little empty clear plastic packet lying on one of the stone steps. “I wonder if someone in the stair is dealing?”
“It’s worth noting, but it’s unlikely there’s a connection to what we’re here for.”
“Definitely worth noting though,” Anderson said, bending down and picking it up, sniffing it with his nose. “I’ll run it by the boys down at Fettes to see what it is.”
Mrs Weir was waiting for them just inside the doorway of the flat.
“I’m DCI McKenzie, and this is Sergeant Anderson,” McKenzie introduced himself as they arrived on the third floor. “Thank you coming over to let us look around. I’m sorry for your loss, and I appreciate this will all have come as a shock to you.”
McKenzie studied her face as she replied. She nodded, swallowed hard, and for a second her check twitched.
She opened her mouth to say something, then hesitated. Then she coughed to clear her throat.
“I’m sorry, … Sergeant, … DCI McKenzie. It’s … just so hard to believe.”
“Can we come in?” McKenzie asked.
“Sorry, yes… absolutely. Sorry… ” Mrs Weir nodded again, then stepped aside, and waived her hand into the flat behind her. “Please. Please come in.”
McKenzie stepped past her. The inside of the flat was dark. Almost as if the woman could read his mind, Mrs Weir stretched out her hand and flicked the light switch on the wall.
They stepped through a short corridor, into a lounge. As Anderson behind him immediately started to engage David Weir’s wife, as instructed by McKenzie earlier, McKenzie started to scan the lounge for anything and everything memorable, drinking up the decoration and the contents of the room.
McKenzie noticed that his pulse was slightly raised. This was the first time in years that he’d been out doing this. In recent years he’d relied upon the reports of his team who had themselves gone out and done the legwork.
He’d missed it.
The lounge was clean, contained all the usual contents you would find in any lounge in any home in Scotland. But there was something about it. There were no photographs. Nothing too personal. It lacked soul.
As Anderson invited Mrs Weir to sit down so he could ask her some questions, McKenzie started to peruse the room: a large 55 inch TV, a Hi-Fi, and a wood-burner sitting against one wall. The focus of the room though, was the large window through which the flat commanded an amazing view across the old Leith docks to the sea behind, probably less than a quarter of a mile away.
From here you could see for miles, right across the Firth of Forth into the North Sea beyond.
It was an amazing sight.
“This why David bought the flat. He loved the view.” Mrs Weir announced.
“How long has he had it?” McKenzie asked, detecting that perhaps there was a story there. The way she had spoken the words had contained a hint of reminiscence.
“We bought the flat together years ago. We lived here for a while before we got married. But when the kids came along, it was too small, and to tell the truth we were a little worried about the area. We wanted something more for the kids, and luckily we were able to find it. I saw the Sergeant pick up the empty packet of drugs from the stair. That’s nothing new. The owner of Flat 11 at the top of the stair is well known to the local police. Always has been, and always will. He’s part of the local landscape now and nobody ever bothers to do anything about it. Or can do anything about it.”
McKenzie nodded, taking a mental note to learn more about Flat 11 later on.
“May I ask how long you’ve been separated? I understand you are…”
“Divorced? Well almost. It’ll be official in the next month or two once all the paperwork is signed…” she said before pausing and realising the redundancy of what she was saying.
McKenzie glanced around the flat, and back at Mrs Weir.
“I see you have a set of keys. Were you still on talking terms?”
Mrs Weir glanced at the keys in her hand and then back at McKenzie, before realising the significance of what the detective was saying. Most couples approaching divorce were not on talking terms, let alone letting the other person have free access to their home.
“Ah… yes,” she hesitated. “Actually, recently things had become a little stressed, and we haven’t really seen each other since Christmas… we went out for a meal with the boys on Boxing Day. But technically I still own half the flat, and I still have my own keys.”
“When was the last time you were here? Can you see anything odd or out of place?” McKenzie asked, glancing around the room.
“I had a quick wee look around whilst I was waiting, just being nosey really, and everything seems fine. Nothing odd. Would you like to see the other rooms?”
“Yes, please. That would be helpful. After that Sergeant Anderson would like to ask you a few more questions, and if you don’t mind, I would like to have a look round the flat by myself, if I may? It’s standard procedure in cases like this. We need to learn as much as possible, as soon as possible. The first hours of a murder investigation are the most important.”
Mrs Weir glanced across at the Sergeant and then back at the Detective.
For a moment, McKenzie wondered if she was going to ask if he had a search warrant.
Luckily, she didn’t.
She spent the next ten minutes guiding McKenzie and Anderson around the two-bedroom flat, and then let herself be guided back to the small kitchen where Anderson was able to make a cup of tea for Mrs Weir, and sit her down at a small kitchen table.
Strangely, there had been no obvious unopened mail lying around, but when McKenzie asked Mrs Weir if she’d seen any, a look of intense guilt clouded over her, and she’d slowly reached for her handbag.
She pulled out a bundle of letters and handed them to the Detective.
“I was just checking… to see if there was anything from anyone else… ”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“Not that I knew off. My lawyer’s always pressing me to find out if there is. Maybe it might help my side of the proceedings.”
McKenzie reached out and took the bundle of envelopes from her, several of which had already been opened.
“It would be helpful if you could explain as much as possible to the Sergeant about both your circumstances and your husband’s. As much as possible. And if possible, also the details of your current partner and how we can contact your two sons. I think it’s likely that we may wish to talk with them at some point in the near future too.”
“The boys, John and Sam are coming up later today from London. They’ll be here about five, I think. They’re both very shaken by all of this.”
“Please pass them my condolences. It would be good if they could come into the station in the next two days, if possible, please? Along with your partner? The Sergeant will give you the address.”
McKenzie saw the register of alarm on the woman’s face, and anticipated the next question, but it never came.
Instead of the usual, “Am I un
der suspicion?” she looked away, towards the nearest window.
“I saw the videos on the internet of him falling from the building,” she whispered.
Then she started to cry.
-----------------------------
Outside in the white van, the driver pulled back the sleeve of his blue overalls, and glanced at his watch.
1.35 pm.
It was time to go. He’d done what he needed to.
However, he still had a lot more preparations to make, and time was running out.
Glancing once more back up at the third-floor flat, he saw the outline of the detective looking out from the window and waited a few moments before he retreated back into the room.
Then he switched on the ignition and pulled away.
As he drove away from the tenement, the driver smiled to himself as he counted two other white vans in the street.
Around here, man-in-a-van was the Invisible-Man.
Chapter 10
David Weir's flat
Leith
Saturday
13.35
While Anderson comforted Mrs Weir in the tiny kitchen, and did his best to make his way through all the questions that needed to be asked in a situation like this, McKenzie made his way systematically around the flat looking for anything that could tell him something which might help.
McKenzie trusted the Sergeant to ask the rights questions. He’d worked with him before, and although he wasn’t a detective, that was out of choice. The Sergeant could easily make the grade if he wanted to, and McKenzie knew that others had suggested it to him before, that were he to apply, he’d be highly recommended. In fact, he would be a very good detective, perhaps better than most of those who preferred not to trudge the beat and wear the uniform.
McKenzie knew that at the top of Anderson’s list would be some more questions around the divorce. Although his instinct told him that the woman was genuinely upset, from what she’d just told them, there was a possible motive right there. The divorce was pending, probably due for completion in the coming weeks or months. McKenzie’s investigation would now need to determine if there was any financial benefit to Mrs Weir if her husband were to die before the divorce went through. How much did she stand to inherit if he died? And how much better off would she be before the divorce, were they not able to find a will?
Unfortunately, it was a sad truth that many murders were committed by loved ones, and it could be that they’d just established the basis of a motive for Mrs Weir to end her husband’s life before the divorce was made final.
A possible motive.
Obviously, it was highly unlikely that Mrs Weir would have committed the murders herself, but she could have paid for others to help her.
After making a note to that effect in his little book, he started to look for a phone. Unfortunately, as was increasingly the case these days, he didn’t find one. Mr Weir didn’t have a landline. He probably only had a mobile phone, and used that for everything.
Which meant that it would be more difficult for him to check Mr Weir’s voicemail or text messages to find out what had been going on in Mr Weir’s life in the days leading up to his disappearance.
Not finding a physical phone, McKenzie started to look for any phone bills from which they could get details to contact the phone company. Luckily it didn’t take long before he found one on top of a pile of letters and other bills stacked on a shelf in the lounge.
He put it in his pocket and started to look through the other mail.
There were a few bank account letters, already opened.
He scanned the contents.
They revealed positive balances, nothing spectacular, but showing no debts either. One had eight thousand pounds in it, but nowadays that wasn’t much at all.
McKenzie pocketed that one too. Later, they’d contact the bank and try to coerce some details from them, checking to see if there were any other accounts that seemed significant.
There was a calendar on the wall in the hallway.
McKenzie scanned the dates of the past week, and the weeks ahead. There was nothing to show any obvious appointments made for the past week that Mr Weir may have attended, but over the next few weeks a few social events seemed to be highlighted, with names he took note of: over the next few days, they would start tracking down friends to see if they knew of anything that could be significant. No doubt, one or two would end up being invited down to the station to help with inquiries.
Rather poignantly McKenzie saw the red ring around today’s date, with a note pointing out the upcoming school Reunion.
Entering Mr Weir’s bedroom, he quickly made his way around the room.
It had been years since McKenzie had done anything like this, but he quickly remembered the routine.
He checked the bedside table and the pockets of any trousers or clothes lying around.
Then he looked through the drawers, paying special attention to the back of them, where people would often hide things.
Next, he looked for hidden spaces. Over the years he’d developed an uncanny ability to walk into a room, quickly assess the possibilities and then find them.
In circumstances like this one, the job of the detective was to find out as much as possible about the deceased and everything they had done in the last few days.
Who had they met? Where had they been? Why had they gone there?
Was there any motive for a possible murder? Was the deceased hiding something?
Where obvious answers were not forthcoming, then other questions needed to be asked: did the deceased lead another hidden life that others did not know about?
Was there a lover? A mistress? A boyfriend? An ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/ or spurned lover?
Was the deceased in debt?
Who were their enemies?
Why did they have enemies?
In the case of Mr David Weir, he found very little.
Yes, he did find a secret place, just inside the wardrobe, underneath a floorboard.
It contained several porn magazines.
It turned out Mr Weir had a slight fetish, apparently.
He liked high-heeled shoes, and naked, Amazonian women wearing them.
Sometimes McKenzie would feel guilty seeing into the lives of others in this way, especially when they were now dead.
Tonight though, McKenzie did not.
Instead he felt only frustration.
Returning to the lounge he scanned the contents of the book shelves, trying to ascertain more about the deceased’s interest or hobbies.
He noticed a number of books on sailing… was he possibly the member of a sailing club? Perhaps a study of his bank accounts would reveal details on subscriptions to clubs or societies he could then contact and visit.
There were a number of thrillers, some books by big names he recognised, and a lot by others which he didn’t.
After an hour McKenzie realised that he wasn’t learning anything new.
For once, the expression ‘dead men tell no tales’ was proving right.
A visit to David Weir’s flat had revealed almost nothing at all.
-----------------------------
Shortly afterwards, they all left the flat together, Mrs Weir requesting that they wait with her while she locked up and made her way down and out of the stair.
Once outside, they escorted her to her car which was parked close to theirs on the main street.
She got in, they thanked her, and she drove off.
“So?” McKenzie asked the moment she was out of earshot.
“She didn’t do it. Although you probably also picked up there’s possibly a motive for killing her husband before the divorce went through, she’d need someone else to actually do it for her. But why would she then also want to kill Mr Blake? Plus, I just didn’t pick up any negative vibes or false answers. She seems totally genuine. Her husband was murdered. She’s surprised and genuinely sad about it. I don’t think she’s going to be able to help us out much mor
e.”
McKenzie nodded.
“Thanks. I think you’re probably right, but can you brief me on what you asked her and what she replied, en route to Ronald Blake’s house?”
Their car was only a few metres away.
“I’ll drive,” McKenzie volunteered, reaching out to the windscreen to retrieve a flyer which had been left on the windscreen.
McKenzie was about to crush it up when he saw his name scrawled on it in red pen.
Or was it blood?
Climbing into the car beside Anderson he unfolded the sheet of A4 paper and read its contents.
It was two lines: a derivation of a popular children’s poem.
“One, two, buckle your shoes.
Three, four, watch out for more!”
As McKenzie digested the words, a chill coursed its way down his spine and he shuddered.
The meaning was obvious. The two deaths at Portobello High School were only the beginning.
But that was only the half of it.
The note was addressed to him personally.
The killer had been here. Had followed them.
Had written this note in advance.
And he’d placed it in full view of McKenzie to find personally.
Whoever had placed this note here, on his windscreen, was playing a game.
A game of death.
What worried McKenzie most was that the killer had thought about all of this in advance.
By announcing more deaths to come so publicly, so personally, to himself, the man was laying down a challenge.
“Stop me if you can.”
Clearly, the killer was convinced that McKenzie couldn’t.
Which meant that unless McKenzie could prove him wrong, at least one or two more victims were going to die!
Chapter 11
Remember Me 1 Page 8