‘Sadly, it didn’t survive the accident,’ Clare was choosing her words carefully, ‘but we’ll get his call records from the phone company.’
Angela went to fetch the laptop and Clare took the opportunity to look round the room. The pottery angels were everywhere. Angela must collect them. But there was little evidence of Andy, as far as she could see. No photographs of the couple, no discarded sweaters or jackets, slippers even. And the DVD collection was mostly chick flicks. She wondered if they had separate sitting rooms, but the house didn’t seem large enough. Maybe he…
Angela burst in on her thoughts, carrying a laptop bag with a cable trailing behind. She put it down beside Clare. ‘That’s Andy’s laptop. You’ve got his mobile number?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Angela sat down, tucking her feet under her legs again. She picked up her coffee cup and put it to her lips then pulled a face. The coffee had gone cold. She set the cup down and picked up a cushion instead, clasping it across her front.
Clare smiled her thanks. ‘We’ll get the laptop back to you as soon as we can.’
‘No rush. I don’t use it. The iPad does me fine.’
Clare pressed on. ‘How long were you married?’
‘Sixteen years.’
‘Long time.’
‘Too long for Andy. Should have called time really, but it’s convenient. It was convenient.’
Clare sat forward. ‘I’m so sorry to ask, Angela – I know you said last night you didn’t know who the other women were, but if you could remember any of them it would be such a help.’
Angela waved the apology away. ‘Don’t worry – I’m under no illusions about Andy. But I can’t help you. I don’t know who they were. Didn’t want to know, to be honest. He lived his life and I lived mine.’
Clare tried another tack. ‘Could any of them be work colleagues? Or might his friends know?’
Angela shifted and clutched the cushion again. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I don’t even know who he was pally with these days. We shared a house, but that was about it.’
‘I believe Andy worked for a taxi company?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Swilcan Taxis.’
‘Swilcan – it’s unusual. Is that the name of the owner?’
Angela laughed. ‘You’re not from St Andrews, are you Inspector?’
‘Glasgow,’ Clare said. ‘And I thought I was getting the hang of this town.’
Angela reached forward and picked up her cigarettes from the coffee table. She fished one out and offered the pack to Clare who looked it with something approaching regret.
‘Better not. Been stopped five years.’
Angela lit her cigarette, drew deeply on it then exhaled. ‘The Swilcan Bridge is a wee stone bridge over a burn on the Old Course. You know what that is, right?’
‘The golf course by the hotel, yeah. The famous one.’
Angela nodded. ‘That’s it. So the bridge is a bit of a tourist attraction. And on Sundays, when you can walk on the golf course, it’s full of tourists having their photos taken on the bridge. Christ knows why.’
‘But Swilcan Taxis?’
Angela shook her head. ‘They’ve pinched the name; probably ’cause it’s well known. Tourists can say they saw the bridge then took a ride in a Swilcan cab.’
‘Ah okay. So where’s the office?’
Angela took another drag. ‘Up North Street. Albany Place, to be exact.’ She saw Clare’s confusion. ‘It’s a short section of North Street. Down from the pictures. You can’t miss the sign.’
Clare noted this down then said, ‘Had he been there long?’
Angela considered. ‘About five years, I think. He was on the rigs before that but got fed up with it.’
‘If you could jot down the number in Albany Place – phone number too.’
‘Sure.’
Clare paused to let Angela write on a Post-it, then continued. ‘Sandra said something about Andy going out on Thursday nights. You wouldn’t know where he went, would you?’
‘Sorry, no. I never asked. He did go out on Thursdays, though. Most weeks.’
‘Dressed up?’
Angela thought about this. ‘Not jeans, but not a suit either. A bit in between, probably.’
Chris opened the door and Francine followed him in, carrying a tray of mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She handed out mugs then sat down next to Angela.
‘I’m goin’ home in a bit, if that’s okay, hun,’ she said. ‘Need a change of clothes ‘n’ that, but I’ll be back.’
Angela waved this away. ‘I’m fine. I’ll phone work and let them know I’ll be off for a day or two.’
‘Will you hell! I’ll phone them. And, when the doctor comes in, we’ll get him to give you a line.’
‘We can arrange for a constable to be here, if it would help,’ said Clare.
Angela shook her head. ‘I just need some peace. Sort myself out, ye know?’
Chris cleared his throat. ‘Do you have an up-to-date photo of Andy we could have? On your phone, maybe.’
Angela snorted. ‘Like I’d have him on my phone pictures.’
‘Facebook, maybe?’ Chris suggested. ‘Or Instagram?’
Angela picked up her phone and began tapping and swiping. She handed the phone to Chris. ‘That do?’
Chris smiled. ‘Perfect. If you could just forward it to this number…’ He held out a card and Angela copied it into her phone. Seconds later there was a ping from Chris’s mobile. He swiped to check then said, ‘Thanks, Angela. Got it now.’
Clare went on. ‘Did Andy have a car? His own car, I mean? Or did he bring the taxi home?’
‘His own car. Parked outside. Red Mégane. Keys are on the hall table. Help yourself.’
‘We’ll take the keys if you don’t mind and send round a forensic team to look it over. There might just be something that will help us find the person responsible.’
‘Sure. Whatever.’
Clare picked up her mug. They had stayed long enough. ‘We’ll drink this and then maybe we could have a look round the house? Where Andy slept, any other rooms he used.’
When they had finished their drinks, Angela led them upstairs to a small bedroom. ‘He slept here,’ she said then turned. ‘Across the hall is his study. He sat there if he was at home, watching telly, gaming, that sort of thing.’
Clare thanked her and said they would be as quick as possible. Left alone in Andy’s bedroom, she and Chris pulled on latex gloves. She moved to the door and listened for the sound of Angela going back downstairs, then she spoke in a low voice. ‘Get anything out of Francine?’
‘Not much, other than she thought he was seeing a young blonde.’
‘Name?’
Chris scanned his notebook. ‘Vicky Gallagher. Works in a restaurant on South Street. Jensen’s Diner.’
‘Get her address?’
‘No, Francine thought she lived up by the swimming pool, but she wasn’t sure.’
‘No problem. We’ll get her at work. If she’s not there they can give us her address.’ Clare surveyed the room. ‘Okay. We’ll take any paperwork, anything that might give us a clue to what he got up to outside the house. Keep an eye out for anything that might indicate he was using.’
They began their search, working mostly in silence. It wasn’t a large room. Clare thought Angela had probably bagged the biggest bedroom for herself, relegating Andy to this smaller one. It was simply furnished – single bed with a small table to the side, radio, wardrobe and a chest of drawers. There were no ornaments or mementos, except for a framed photo of Andy smiling on a beach. A navy polo shirt bearing the logo of Swilcan Taxis lay on the bed and there was a small pile of clothes – dirty washing, she guessed – on the floor. ‘Yours,’ she nodded to Chris and he sighed as he moved to search through the clothing.
There were a few paperbacks on top of the chest of drawers and some receipts from petrol stations but very little else. This clearly wasn’t a room where Andy spent a great de
al of time. There was no evidence of drug use and the search was concluded within half an hour. Bedroom done, they moved across the hall to the small room Andy had used as his study. Here, there was more evidence of the man. A reclining chair was positioned in front of a large television screen and a games console. A collection of empty beer cans and an overflowing ashtray suggested this was where Andy came to relax.
‘Pretty violent stuff,’ Chris commented, leafing through a selection of Xbox games, ‘but mostly shoot-em-ups. Nothing too dodgy.’ He cast an eye round a shelf of DVDs. ‘A few porno films here, boss.’
‘Check inside the cases to see if any of them are home movies. Otherwise, just leave them.’
There was nothing much more of interest, so they moved on to the bathroom where the only things that seemed to belong to Andy were a contact lens cleaning kit and a toothbrush. Everything else appeared to be Angela’s.
Chris worked his way through the medicine cabinet. ‘She takes a lot of pills.’
Clare was about to answer when she heard the doorbell. She moved quickly to the hall in time to see Francine admitting a tall man with close-cropped blond hair, dressed in jeans and a light blue T-shirt. He stepped into the hall as soon as Francine opened the door, without waiting to be asked. Clare noticed that he fiddled with his car keys as Francine shut the door behind him.
‘Aw Billy, good you’ve come,’ they heard Francine say as she led him into the sitting room.
‘Billy Dodds,’ Clare surmised. ‘You carry on here and join me as soon as you’re done.’
Clare slipped quickly down the stairs. Francine had closed the sitting room door behind Billy.
‘Maybe just give them a minute, eh?’ she suggested.
Clare gave her what she hoped looked like an apologetic smile then tapped gently on the door and went in. Billy stood in the middle of the room, his arms round Angela, holding her in a tight embrace. She thought she heard Billy whisper free now, but she couldn’t be sure. She cleared her throat and they broke apart.
‘DI Clare Mackay. Maybe we could have a word, sir?’
Clare led Billy out to the back garden where there was a white, painted bench. Chris, having completed his examination of Andy’s clothes and possessions, came downstairs and went out to join them. Francine was watching from the kitchen window. Clare knew Angela would be close behind.
She turned to Billy. ‘You’ll be aware by now that Angela’s husband died in a hit-and-run accident last night.’
Billy stroked his chin. ‘Aye, awfa business. Terrible for Angela, even though they weren’t—’
‘We have reason to believe Mr Robb was targeted. That his death was deliberate.’
‘Deliberate?’ He shook his head. ‘Like some’dy meant it? Fucksake. I mean, dinnae get me wrong, he was a right one for the lassies. Never done chasing them. But that’s no reason to run the bastard over.’ He shook his head again.
Chris took up the questioning. ‘How did you and Mrs Robb meet?’
‘We both work up at the hospital. She’s a receptionist and I’m a delivery driver. She caught my eye. Good-looking woman, Angela. I was delivering one day, and she was just leaving for her break, so I said come and get a coffee over the road.’
Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘Somewhere nice?’
‘Just the supermarket. Has a cafe, ye ken. We hit it off straight away, and the rest is history.’
‘Did you meet Mr Robb at all?’
‘Naw. Kept out of his way. I only came over here on Thursdays, when he went out. Mostly we went to my place or out to the pictures and that.’
Clare took out her notebook. ‘Where is your place, Mr Dodds?’
‘Cupar. Wee bungalow, just off the Ceres Road. Does me fine.’
‘Just you?’
‘Me and the dog.’
Chris saw his opportunity. ‘I’ve a wee dog myself. Just got him. Border Terrier.’
Billy smiled. ‘Cracking wee dogs but they bark a helluva lot.’
‘Tell me about it. What have you got?’
‘German Shepherd. Had him three years. Great company.’
Billy was sitting back now, one ankle crossed over his knee. He seemed set to continue chatting to Chris about dogs. Clare took her chance.
‘Obviously we have to ask everyone, Mr Dodds,’ she said, ‘but can you tell us where you were on Saturday evening?’
The corners of his mouth kinked into a smile. He looked Clare straight in the eye. ‘Frankly, Inspector, I didnae care enough to risk damaging ma car.’
‘What do you drive, Mr Dodds?’
‘Qashqai. It’s outside if you want a look.’
‘And last night?’
He took a moment before answering. ‘At home all night. Me and Caesar.’
Chris’s tone was light. ‘Doing anything particular?’
‘Telly mainly. Can’t remember what else. Ordered a curry from Spice Palace. Came about half eight.’
Chris frowned. ‘Spice Palace in St Andrews?’
‘Aye.’
‘Not Cupar? There’s a couple of curry houses there you could have ordered from, surely?’
Billy smiled. ‘I know the lads at Spice. Good bunch. They always throw in a bit extra, ye ken. Makes it worth paying the delivery.’
Chris nodded and went on, his tone light. ‘Sounds good. I missed Match of the Day myself. See anything of the Spurs match?’
A ghost of a smile played on his lips again. ‘You need to keep up, son. Match of the Day wasnae on last night. The league finished a week ago. Last night was that Eurovision shite.’
Chris had the grace to blush. ‘Who won?’
Billy met his eye for a few seconds. ‘The Netherlands. The Netherlands won. Okay? Satisfied?’
Chris smiled but said nothing.
Clare rose to her feet. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Dodds, we’ll take a look at your car then be on our way. I’ll send someone round to see Mrs Robb later on and we will of course keep her fully informed.’
Billy followed them back into the house. ‘I’ll see she’s all right. Don’t you worry.’
As they walked towards the car, Clare said, ‘He was certainly ready with his answers – about that Eurovision thing.’
‘Wasn’t he just.’
‘Too ready?’
Chris shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
They walked past Andy’s red Mégane and approached the dark grey Qashqai. As they looked at it, Clare said, ‘I think I’ll pay Spice Palace a visit. Find out if they did deliver to Billy last night. And, more importantly, what time.’
Chris began walking round the Qashqai parked outside Angela’s gate.
‘Nothing visible,’ he said. ‘No obvious mud on the tyres.’
‘He could have put it through a carwash,’ Clare said. ‘Take a photo of the tyres, would you? See if you can get the number on the rim. Front and rear. Tread, too.’
Chris took out his mobile and photographed the front of the car and each of the tyres.
Clare stared at the car. ‘It’s certainly big enough to run someone over. Let’s get back to the station and see what SOCO have turned up from those tyre tracks.’
Clare handed him the keys. ‘I’ll let you drive back. For a special treat.’
They climbed into the car and Chris started the engine. As he pulled away, Clare said, ‘Like you could look after a dog!’
Chapter 4
The police station in Pipeland Road was a long, low, red-brick building, with parking to the side. The street was usually a quiet one but today, in the May sunshine, the gardening brigade were out in force. As Clare and Chris stepped out of the car the aroma of barbequed meat reached their nostrils.
‘I could murder a burger,’ Chris said, as the automatic door slid open.
Inside, Jim was manning the public enquiry desk. ‘Phone records are back,’ he said.
Clare shrugged off her jacket and hung it on a coat stand behind the desk. ‘Great, Jim. Can you and Chris get together and compare notes on his contac
ts? Calls and texts from yesterday, in particular.’
Jim nodded then the phone rang. He answered it and began scribbling notes. Clare waited until he had finished. He put down the phone and ripped off the note, handing it to her.
‘Bit of luck with the tyre tracks,’ he said. ‘It’s a big tyre – 7.5 Latitude Cross, they said. Need to check with a tyre seller but they reckon we’re looking for a 4x4 or another kind of off-roader.’
‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Clare looked round the station and her eye fell on one of the younger, uniformed officers. ‘Sara, can you phone round tyre centres, please? If we can narrow down the vehicle it’ll save a huge amount of time, trawling through ANPR footage.’
Sara smiled. ‘Will do.’ She rose and Clare noticed Chris’s eye following her as she moved to a desk to begin making calls. Sara had a new haircut, a neat dark bob that swung softly as she moved. It suited her and this hadn’t escape Chris’s notice.
‘Oy, Romeo,’ Clare called after him, ‘phone records!’
Chris sauntered over and looked at the note Jim had given Clare. ‘Could be a stolen car, boss,’ he said.
‘Good point. Okay, you get on with the phone records. Jim, can you check for stolen cars in the past two weeks? Any large vehicles – I want to know. If there’s nothing within two weeks go back another two. In fact, go back three months. There can’t be that many of them. Cross-reference with the ANPR footage. And see if Sara can help narrow down the type of vehicle.’
Chris’s expression told Clare he’d far rather be chasing up stolen 4x4s than the tedious job of trawling through phone records.
‘Just Fife?’ Jim asked.
Clare considered this. ‘Might as well take in Tayside and Lothian too. The car could easily have come from another county.’
‘Could be a lot of cars, if we have to check them all out.’
‘Needs must, Jim. But if Sara turns up the vehicle type, that’ll cut the work down.’
She smiled at them. ‘Right, that’s it. Let’s get to work.’
Clare went through to the staff area and into the small kitchen where she made herself a quick coffee in her travel mug. Calling to the team to radio if they turned anything up, she headed out taking the keys to one of the pool cars with her. The sun was fully out now, and Clare regretted leaving her sunglasses at home. Still unsure of the back roads, she drove out onto the main Largo Road towards the historic West Port, the gateway that led to bustling South Street. It was Clare’s favourite part of the town, running all the way from the West Port to the ancient St Rule’s Tower, the site of a medieval cathedral. The pavements were broad and the street strung with quirky, individual shops and cafes with student flats above. The students, often seen wearing their traditional red gowns, were conspicuous by their absence today and Clare wondered if it could be exam time. She slowed to a halt as a gaggle of tourists stepped out onto one of the many pedestrian crossings. As she waited for them to cross, she admired a neo-Jacobean school building set back from the street. Just beyond the crossing she saw Jensen’s Diner. She scanned the street, left and right for a parking space then saw the white reversing lights on a car just ahead. She hit the brakes and flashed the driver out, driving quickly into the space before anyone else could take it. As she emerged from the car she heard the strains of bagpipes playing the ubiquitous ‘Highland Cathedral’. Having worked the centre of Glasgow on many a busy Saturday, Clare would happily go to her grave never hearing a piper play that particular air again.
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