by Jeff Gulvin
‘Somebody took it?’ Morrison said.
‘Must’ve done.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘No, Sir. It could have happened any time in six weeks. A lot of people were in and out in that time.’
‘All recorded though.’
‘Oh yes, Sir. They all had to sign. Those records should still be there.’
‘So what happened?’
Taylor’s face clouded once again. ‘Well, Sir. I didn’t know what to do. I was two months from my clock. Forty years I did. Forty years and no mistakes.’
‘What did you do, Wally?’ Scammell interrupted him.
He bit his lip. ‘I signed it off as destroyed, Sir.’
He was quiet for a moment, looking at the pattern on the carpet. ‘I thought there’d be an inquiry you see. Questions. I’d done forty years. I thought they’d think I took it. I might’ve been sacked. I couldn’t face that, Sir. I might’ve lost my pension.’
Morrison sat right forward now. ‘So the gun was never destroyed?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘It definitely went missing from the strongroom?’
Taylor nodded.
Morrison was looking into space. ‘Taken—by a policeman.’
‘Must have been, Sir. Nobody else had access.’
They left him then and went back out to the car. Scammell watched the old man peering after them through the net curtains at the window.
‘I want those records, David.’ Morrison started the engine. ‘That six-week period, I want the names of every officer that went into properties.’
Vanner drove through the night, stopping only once for fuel. The length of the country, the winding road through the borders in the dark, and then the Forth Bridge in the early hours. Lights flashing in his face. Questions drifting in and out of his mind. Hands loose on the wheel.
At eight o’clock in the morning he stopped his car in the multi-storey car park by the Aberdeen docks and switched off the engine. Two container ships lined the berths closest to him, incongruous against the sixteenth-century building that tracked the cobbles down the hill opposite. Vanner kneaded weary eyes with his fingers.
He was woken by a car park attendant tapping on the window. He started, sat up and banged his head on the glass.
‘You all right?’ The attendant peered at him. Vanner blinked and opened the door.
‘What time is it?’
‘Twelve o’clock.’
Vanner rubbed his face with his palms.
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I’m a policeman.’ He took his wallet from his pocket and showed the man some ID.
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Yes. Maybe you can help me. Where do the roustabouts drink?’
The attendant grinned then. ‘Where don’t they drink?’
He opened the door fully for him and Vanner climbed out; stiff, pins and needles in his feet. The wind came off the harbour, thick with diesel fumes.
‘The Schooner,’ the attendant told him. ‘Market Street. Just walk down the cobbles there. You’ll not miss it.’
Vanner thanked him and locked the car.
‘Hey,’ the attendant said as he walked away. ‘Aren’t you going to buy a ticket?’
Vanner chewed on a cold pork pie and drank orange juice. The pub was half empty, a few hardened drinkers lining the bar alongside him. Their conversation murmured in his head. Disinterestedly he watched the barmaid glide among the glasses, short red hair clutched about the pale flesh of her cheeks. He called her over.
‘Do you know many of the men who drink in here?’ he asked her.
She looked at him with her head slightly to one side. Vanner smiled and pulled out his ID. He waved it under her nose. ‘I’m looking for someone in particular. His name is Hamilton. John Hamilton. Do you know him—who he works for maybe?’
The girl looked blankly at him. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m only part-time.’
Vanner nodded and ordered a whiskey.
Alongside him the drinkers were still talking, harsh Aberdonian accents, thick with a morning’s session. Vanner knocked back a mouthful of whiskey and gagged slightly as it tore at his throat. He looked sideways at the group nearest him and slipped off his stool. He moved to the elbow of a massive figure, who smothered his bar stool completely.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a man called John Hamilton. Spark. Works offshore.’
‘Don’t we all, pal,’ someone said and they laughed. Vanner smiled along with them.
‘I’m a copper,’ he said. ‘From London. I need to find Hamilton.’
They quietened. ‘Who does he work for?’ the fat man asked him.
Vanner shook his head. ‘Don’t know that. Nobody know the name?’
None of them did. ‘You want to get yourself out to Tullos,’ the fat man suggested. ‘The oil companies. They might know.’
He found the Shell office on the industrial estate and was shown, reluctantly, the personnel records. There was no John Hamilton.
‘Lot of firms up here,’ the woman told him. ‘A lot of rigs. What does he do?’
‘Electrical engineer.’
‘You could try BP or Mobil. A lot of the men are contracted though. He might be working for a small firm.’
Vanner thanked her and left. Back in his car he slept again and when he woke up it was dark. He felt drained, stubble grazing his chin; his mouth cried out for a toothbrush.
The Schooner was busier than lunchtime, a whole crowd of men hogging the bar. Vanner pushed his way through them and ordered a beer. He nursed it in a corner and watched the comings and goings. He saw the fat man from earlier come in with two others; red-faced, shifting his weight through the mass of flesh at the bar. Vanner sipped his beer and stared at the door. He kept thinking about Sarah. Did she know? How could she not know? Was it possible? The shock had looked real enough. But the killer in the flat above her for a year. The past grew up in his mind like a spectre; his past, her past, haunting. It troubled him: he wanted to believe her. Why shouldn’t he believe her? She had been committed to the investigation. There had been nothing lacklustre about her. But the information. It was feasible that he could have got it. If you want something badly enough. He knew there were ways: the papers, the legal press, the DSS on release.
He was still brooding on this when somebody blocked his vision.
Looking up he saw the swaggering bulk of the fat man lean a ham of a fist on his table.
‘You’re the copper.’
‘Yeah.’
‘D’ye find your man?’
Vanner shook his head.
The fat man stood straight and looked behind him. ‘BILLY!’ He bellowed the name across the room and a smaller man with receding hair came over.
‘D’ye ever come across a fellow called …’ He glanced back at Vanner. ‘Hamilton, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What does he do?’ the other man asked.
‘Offshore is all I know. Spark.’
The small man nodded. ‘There’s a couple of sparks over there.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ll find out.’
Vanner thanked him. The fat man sat down on the stool opposite. ‘What did he do, this fella?’
Vanner looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t know that he did anything.’
The fat man blinked. ‘But you want to talk to him anyway.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
The smaller man came over again and sat down with them. ‘Spark over there thinks he knows him. John Hamilton?’
Vanner sat straighten
‘Black-haired guy?’
‘Yes.’
The man grinned. ‘Try Mackintosh and Rayburn.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Electrical contractors. Office in Dyce, by the Heliport. They’ll be closed till the morning, mind.’
Vanner fished in his pocket. ‘What would you boys like to drink?’
> Morrison and Scammell stalked into the Incident Room at Loughborough Street. Nicholls and Berry were leafing through papers. McCague sat behind Vanner’s desk, on the telephone. Morrison went straight into the office and Scammell closed the glass door behind him.
‘I’ll call you back.’ McCague put down the receiver. Morrison took the file from Scammell and laid it on the desk before him. Gingerly McCague fingered it. He looked at Morrison. ‘What’s this?’
‘Properties records from Hammersmith.’
McCague lifted an eyebrow.
‘We’ve found the gun.’ Morrison sat down. ‘I told you I was checking the bullets with Lambeth—to see if we’d seen the pattern before?’
McCague sat back. ‘I didn’t even know they kept records like that.’
‘Neither did I.’ Morrison tapped the file. ‘The important thing is they do. And we have seen the gun before. It was used to rob a security van in Hammersmith in 1989. The gun was recovered when the arrest was made, and then signed off as destroyed after the two men were sent down.’
‘So?’
‘It wasn’t destroyed. It went missing.’
McCague’s mouth fell open.
Morrison told him about Walter Taylor and his retirement. When he had finished, McCague sat chewing the nail of his thumb. He was aware of Nicholls watching them through the glass.
‘We’ve checked the names of all the officers who went into the strongroom during the six-week appeal period,’ Morrison said. ‘After the gun came back from the court and before the instruction came down to destroy it.’
McCague drew a stiff breath. ‘Vanner,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m afraid so, Sir.’
McCague sat where he was for a moment and then he opened the file. Aimlessly he flicked pages and then closed it again. ‘This Irish thing, this Quinlon.’
‘Thomas Quinlon. 1984.’
‘Yes. Vanner …?’ McCague tailed off and he sighed. ‘You better call your guvnor,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and pick him up.’
Vanner found the offices of Mackintosh & Rayburn by the Heliport. He had spent the night in a small dockside hotel, where the continuous hum of ships’ engines kept him awake into the small hours. The morning had dawned chill and grey, with December rain drizzling half-heartedly over the city. He parked outside reception and was greeted by a middle-aged woman at the desk.
‘My name’s Vanner,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Vanner. I believe you have an electrician called Hamilton working here.’
‘We do,’ she said. ‘Which one did you want?’
Vanner’s heart sank. ‘You have two?’
‘Yes. William and John. Hamilton’s not an uncommon name.’
Vanner relaxed. ‘John.’
‘He’s not here at the moment.’
Again Vanner’s heart dipped. ‘He’s offshore?’
‘No, no. He’s on leave.’
‘Leave?’ Vanner frowned. ‘Where?’
She gawped at him. ‘At home I suppose, unless he’s gone away. He’s not back till after Christmas.’
‘Do you have an address?’
She hesitated then picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll just need to speak to a director.’
A few minutes later a grey-haired man came down the metallic, open-plan stairs that led to the first floor.
‘You’re looking for John Hamilton?’ he said. ‘I’m Tom Mackintosh. He works for me.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Can you tell me where he lives please?’
‘Can I not help you? If it’s to do with the company.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the company.’
Mackintosh still looked doubtful.
‘Is he in London?’ Vanner asked him.
‘London? No. He’s in Insch.’
‘Insch?’
‘A wee town. Up the road. It’s about twenty miles. Follow the signs for Inverness until you see the turn-off. If you wait I’ll give you his address.’
Vanner waited in reception with the secretary looking dubiously at him and then Mackintosh came down again with a slip of paper. He handed it to Vanner. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Is it something serious?’
Vanner took the paper from him and turned to go. At the door he paused and looked back. ‘Please don’t ring him and tell him I’m coming.’
Mackintosh’s eyes widened. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
Vanner nodded and went outside.
Insch was indeed a small town. Vanner pulled over beside the Spar shop at the crossroads and checked the address on the slip of paper. Turning left, he saw a sign which read Dunnydeer and he turned right. The bungalow was a mile further on, high up on the left, set right back from the road. He pulled into a muddy layby and stopped the car.
Two vehicles were parked in the drive; a red Citroën and a short-wheelbase Landrover. He watched the house for a few minutes; wood piled against the wall of the garage, damp with the drizzle. Smoke billowed from the chimney pot. In the garden he could see a set of children’s swings. A toddler’s tricycle lay on its side behind the Citroën.
Getting out of the car he flipped his collar against the rain and walked up the sweep of tarmac that led to the five-bar gate. The gate groaned as he opened it and clanged shut behind him. He walked slowly past the cars, past the fallen tricycle and the pile of steaming wood. He stopped at the front door. For a moment he waited, aware of a strange sensation in his gut. In his mind’s eye he could see a darkened flat above a London house, white room with a black desk and a rack of metal shelves. He saw a typewriter and the initials JH. He saw Morrison and he saw Sarah. Again he looked to the children’s playthings. He pressed his finger to the bell and waited.
He heard an inner door being unfastened and then voices. The front door was opened and a woman smiled at him. She wore a red headscarf and denim dungarees.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Mrs Hamilton?’
‘That’s right.’
A young boy appeared in the hallway behind her, grimaced at him and ducked out of sight again. Vanner could smell Christmas-type cooking smells coming from the kitchen.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman was wiping her hands on a cloth. She was not anything like Sarah.
‘Is your husband in?’
‘John? No, he’s out.’
Again the boy appeared. ‘Will he be back?’
‘Yes. Soon. But are you sure I can’t help you?’
Vanner shook his head. ‘I need to see him.’
She looked doubtful. ‘Well he won’t be long. He’s only walking the dog. Would you like to come in and wait, Mr …’
‘Vanner. Thank you, no. I’ll come back.’ He turned to go.
‘Can I tell him what it was about?’
Vanner hesitated. ‘No, better I do that.’ He half-smiled.
‘He’ll know who you are though—when I tell him?’
‘Yes. He’ll know who I am.’
He sat in his car with the windscreen misting before him. He could still smell the warmth, the cooking in his nostrils. She knew nothing, his wife. She didn’t even recognise his name.
Glancing up to the hills beyond the house, he started the engine and pulled back onto the road. He drove slowly past the bungalow and up the rise of the hill to where the road curved and the moorland dipped from the mountains. A rough footpath, skirting a drystone wall, lifted away from the tarmac. He thought for a moment and then pulled over.
The sky pushed low to the hilltops, clouds blackened at the edges. There was no wind, but the damp chill of the day settled like a weight against his clothes. Vanner picked his way up the track, avoiding the muddiest parts. Ahead of him a line of trees curled away to the right past a roofless, stone ruin. Somewhere up ahead he heard a dog bark.
At the edge of the trees the path twisted right towards the old house, decayed and silent now against the sky. Directly ahead the hills climbed, burned here and there by great slabs of rock. The wind was more evident, tugging at his hair and rustlin
g through the tops of the trees. Again he heard the dog bark and he scanned the length of the horizon. Something moved high to his left—an animal, a dog. It barked again and Vanner set off up between the boulders towards it. The ground was firmer as he stepped higher, the mud giving way to coarse mountain grass and vibrant purple heather.
Moist black granite bulged from the earth all about him now, narrowing the moor into a belt of green, yellowed here and there by the passing of booted feet.
Suddenly a dog bounded in front of him, black and tan Alsatian, long-haired. Vanner stopped. The dog bayed at him, ears laid back, lips lifting high over teeth.
‘Mac.’ A voice, gruff, from somewhere on the right, beyond the jutting of the boulder. Vanner looked the dog in the eye and walked on.
A man half-leaned, half-squatted amongst the slimmer fissures of rock, with the expanse of the valley stretching before him. He snapped his fingers and the dog trotted over to him. Vanner paused, hands in his pockets, and studied him. He was smaller than himself, more heavily built, black curling hair fragmented a little on top. No moustache. His eyes were reddened where they had been whipped by the bite of the wind.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Exuberant rather than dangerous.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Fine looking dog.’
‘MacKenzie. Macca. Mac.’ The man’s smile was lopsided, a hint of a slur in his words. He stared out over the valley.
John Hamilton. Vanner looked at him, his ease amongst the rocks, the distance in his face as he scanned the reaches of the valley. John Hamilton, father of Meggie Hamilton. The Watchman. Vanner took out his cigarettes. He flapped out the match and drew the smoke to his lungs.
‘Wild up here,’ he said.
‘Pretty though. In a savage sort of way.’
Vanner leaned on the rocks. ‘You live round here?’
Hamilton nodded. ‘Below there. That white bungalow.’ He looked up.
‘You?’
Vanner shook his head.
‘Where’re you from—Aberdeen?’
‘No. I’m from London.’
Hamilton nodded. ‘London. I haven’t been to London in years. Up for the holidays are you?’
‘Something like that.’
Vanner looked him in the eye and Hamilton returned the gaze, evenly. He smiled. ‘Enjoying your walk?’
‘Very nice.’ Vanner saw again the flat: chilled, metallic, functional. A file full of photographs of himself. He sat down on the rocks and offered Hamilton a cigarette. He shook his head. ‘No thanks. Those things kill you.’