She picked her way through the dawdling tourists and headed for Jensen’s. It was an American-themed restaurant, with a vintage Harley-Davidson on a raised platform. The Beach Boys were playing from faux-retro speakers and the restaurant was buzzing.
A waitress in a 1950s style uniform approached with a smile. ‘For one?’
Clare took out her badge and asked for Vicky. The waitress looked around.
‘I think she must be on a break. I’ll check.’
The aroma from the kitchen was irresistible and, although she had eaten breakfast, Clare wondered if she might have time for a quick snack. She glanced at the menu to see if they did takeaway food, but the waitress returned before she had finished perusing it.
‘Vicky’s in the back,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you through.’
Clare followed her, through the swing doors that led to the kitchen, out another door at the back and into a small staffroom. The waitress made to leave.
‘If you could give me five or ten minutes with Vicky then come back?’
The waitress closed the door softly behind her. Vicky had been eating a hot dog and reading a magazine. She looked up when Clare entered and wiped a smear of ketchup from her lips. Clare was surprised by how young she was compared to Angela. She wondered why it was that men of a certain age felt the need to discard their wives in favour of younger models. But she could see easily why Andy Robb had fallen for this young waitress. Vicky’s uniform hugged and accentuated her figure and she was blessed with the kind of clear skin found on airbrushed models in magazines. Clare introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit. Vicky’s shocked expression told Clare that she either knew nothing about Andy’s death or that she was a damn good actress.
‘Andy’s dead? Are you sure?’
‘I’m afraid so, Vicky. And I’m sorry to tell you we believe his death wasn’t an accident.’
‘But, what…? Why would…?’ Her blue eyes filled with tears and she felt in her pocket for a tissue. ‘I’m sorry.’
Clare gave her a few moments to compose herself then spoke gently. ‘Vicky, we need to find out as much as possible about Andy. Where he went, who he saw. That sort of thing. We’ve spoken to his wife, but she didn’t really know who he was friendly with. If there’s anything you can tell us, it might help.’
At the mention of Angela, Vicky scowled. ‘Oh her. She probably did it. She hated him. Always having a go.’
Clare thought back to Angela, self-possessed, even in grief. She doubted very much if Angela had been troubled enough by Andy’s love life to have him run over. She had formed the impression that, whatever their marital arrangements, conflict didn’t play a large part. More likely Andy was angling for sympathy from Vicky.
She diverted the conversation away from Angela. ‘Can you tell me how long you’ve known Andy?’
‘Six months on Wednesday. Or it would have been…’
‘And were you in a relationship before that?’
‘Not for a couple of months.’
‘No ex-boyfriends pestering you? Anything like that?’
‘No,’ Vicky said. ‘My last boyfriend went off to join the Army. We agreed a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work but we’ve stayed friends.’
Another dead end. Clare noted down the ex-boyfriend’s details but doubted it would prove relevant. ‘Did your parents know about Andy?’
‘Oh yes. I mean I didn’t tell them he still lived with her. Just that he was married but separated. My dad wasn’t too happy to start with, but he came round.’
Clare wrote down Vicky’s parents’ names and address then turned the conversation to Andy’s interests. ‘Did the two of you go out much?’
‘Now and then. Neither of us earned very much so we’d quite often watch telly. Pub sometimes.’
‘Name?’
‘The Thistle. Down from my house. I live up by the swimming pool.’
Clare knew the pub. She tried to keep her tone light for the next question. ‘What about Thursdays? Did you see Andy then?’
‘Not on Thursdays. Saturdays, usually, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday through the week but Andy went to a club on Thursdays.’
‘Which club?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He never said. We didn’t really talk about it.’
‘Okay, not to worry. Anyone he’d fallen out with recently?’
She shook her head. ‘Everyone loved Andy.’
And the tears began to flow again.
Clare moved to the door and found the waitress hovering. ‘I think Vicky might need to go home. She’s had some bad news and is a bit shaken.’
The waitress gave Vicky a sympathetic smile and scooped her up. ‘C’mon, Vic. We’ll get your coat.’
Clare sat on in the staff room for a few minutes after Vicky left. She couldn’t see the girl being involved in Andy’s death. Even if her father hadn’t approved of Andy, it would be stretching things a bit to run him over. And then there was that number five card – what did that mean? Or was it nothing to do with his death? She shook her head. Maybe the staff at The Thistle would be able to help.
Out on South Street the piper had changed to a rousing rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’. Further along the street, a small crowd had gathered to listen to a Hellfire and Damnation preacher and Clare could hear some good-natured heckling. She reversed out of the space and drove on, turning right at the end in the direction of the swimming pool. Half a mile along the road she saw The Thistle and drew into the side, just beyond the entrance.
The pub had been an old, stone-built cottage at one time and was now extended and modernised. It was light and airy inside and as busy as Jensen’s had been. At one side of the bar there were tables filled with customers eating Sunday lunch. A plump waitress breezed past, carrying two plates of roast beef, and said she’d be there in a minute. Suddenly tired from her broken night’s sleep, Clare looked round for a vacant chair but couldn’t see one, so she leaned against a wall, taking the weight off her feet. As she waited, she took in the clientele, mainly couples in their thirties and forties. Not exactly the kind of pub she imagined Vicky Gallagher being drawn to, but Andy was probably right at home. And it was handy for Vicky’s flat.
‘Hi,’ the waitress said. ‘Bit of a wait for a table, I’m afraid.’
Clare showed her warrant card. ‘I’m not after a table but I’m hoping you can help me.’
‘I’ll try.’
Clare took out her phone and showed the waitress Andy’s photo. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
The waitress nodded. ‘That’s Andy. He comes in with his girlfriend. Vicky, I think she’s called.’
‘Does he always come in with Vicky?’
The waitress looked doubtful. ‘I’d have to ask the other staff. I don’t think I’ve seen him with anyone else. Not for a few months, anyway.’
Another two plates loaded with roast beef appeared through a hatch to the kitchen and the waitress eyed them. ‘I’d better get these to the customers. But if you can hang on for a bit, I’ll ask the manager to come out.’
‘Thanks.’
Len, the manager was as spare as the waitress was plump. His trousers, shiny with wear, hung loosely while his shirt gaped at the neck. He tapped his fingers together unconsciously and his eye kept straying round the restaurant. He followed Clare with some reluctance to a quiet corner where a table had just become vacant and sat, perched on the edge of a chair. He remembered Andy well and looked shocked when Clare told him Andy had died.
‘Good lad, Andy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Hard to take it in. Heart attack, was it?’
Clare ignored the question. ‘Do you know his girlfriend?’
‘Aye, Vicky. Nice kid. A bit young for him, I’d say, but he has an eye for the young ones, I reckon.’
‘Any reason you think that?’
He hesitated and shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not sure, really…’
‘It is important.’
He stared. ‘Was it not a hea
rt attack, then?’
He was fishing for information, but Clare wasn’t biting.
‘If you could just tell me.’
‘He had a couple of girlfriends before Vicky. Both young. Early twenties, I’d say.’
‘Names?’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Oh, now you’re asking…’
Clare waited and at length he spoke again. ‘Before Vicky, he was knocking about with a Polish girl. Marta, I think she was called. An au pair, or something like that.’
‘Would you know where she lives? Or anything else that might help us find her?’
‘Sorry, no. I think she went back to Poland. Something to do with her mother.’
‘And before Marta?’
The hesitation was enough to alert Clare. ‘We’re treating Mr Robb’s death as suspicious. Anything you can remember would be most helpful.’
He sighed. ‘One of our barmaids. Nice lass called Kayleigh. She was pretty upset when he dumped her for the Polish girl.’
‘Does she still work here?’
He nodded. ‘She’ll be in for the evening shift if you want to speak to her.’
Clare thanked him and said she would return later to speak to Kayleigh. ‘Oh,’ she added, ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t tell Kayleigh about Mr Robb’s death. I’d like to break the news to her myself.’
The manager raised an eyebrow but said nothing and Clare took her leave. The car was in full sun now and stiflingly hot. For a few seconds, she leaned back on the headrest, tempted by the thought of a quick nap. And then a picture of Andy Robb’s mangled body flashed across her mind and she was back in the moment. There was work to do. Time to check on Swilcan Taxis.
North Street, with fewer shops and cafes, wasn’t as busy as South Street and Clare managed to find a parking space close to Albany Place. Swilcan’s office was in the lower half of a house with a narrow lane to one side, just wide enough for a car to pass through. Wandering up the lane, Clare saw it led to a yard, surrounded on all sides by high stone walls. Faint markings on the concrete indicated five or six parking spaces, three of which were occupied by cars. She went back round to the front and pushed open the shop door which dinged. The receptionist, a dark-haired woman in her late forties looked up as Clare entered but she continued speaking into a headset microphone as she dealt with a succession of calls.
While she waited, Clare looked round the office. Its faux-pine walls were redolent of 1970s décor and the cork pinboard covered with business cards did little to elevate the interior. It was clean enough but in serious need of updating. Clare turned her attention to the receptionist whose badge said Jakki and decided she probably wasn’t one of Andy’s conquests. She was too near his own age for starters. She was not unlike Angela to look at, although her hair was darker. She had the same detached manner and seemed unperturbed by the length of time she was keeping Clare waiting. When, at last, she looked up, Clare showed her warrant card and asked Jakki to turn the phone to silent for a few minutes.
Jakki frowned. ‘The boss won’t like it.’
‘He will when I explain I’m investigating the murder of one of your drivers.’
Jakki’s mouth fell open. ‘Who?’
‘Andy Robb. So I’ll need to speak to everyone who works here. And I’d like to see the vehicles too.’
Jakki said there were three drivers on duty. One was outside having a smoke and the other two should be back soon, if Clare could hold on. Clare went back out to the yard to examine the taxis while she waited. Two saloon cars and one seven-seater. She had a good look at all three but, judging by puddles on the concrete, they had been washed that morning. She took out her phone and photographed the tyre rims and tread on the seven-seater to check against the information SOCO had gleaned, but it was probably a long shot.
Ten minutes later the three drivers, all men, had gathered in a small staff room. Two of them, Harry and Robert, were around fifty, she thought, while Gil, the young lad, looked to be in his mid-twenties. They all wore polo shirts like the one she had seen in Andy’s bedroom but, other than that, they were an ill-matched trio.
Harry was what Clare called hefty. His polo shirt was tucked into his trousers, under protest, if the rolls of fat spilling over the waistband were anything to go by. He was perspiring visibly, mopping his brow with his hand before wiping it on his grimy trousers. On his knuckles were faded blue tattoos and his fingernails were grubby.
Robert, by contrast, was as neat as a pin. His hair was turning to silver but was neatly trimmed, as was his small moustache. He smiled at Clare and seemed as eager to help as Harry was reluctant.
Gil appeared ill at ease and avoided Clare’s eye. She wondered about him. He wasn’t your typical taxi driver. A quiet lad, possibly still living at home with his mother. She pondered whether he might have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. He struck her as someone who struggled with social situations, making taxi driving an odd choice of career.
Harry looked at his watch. ‘We’ve fares to pick up, Inspector, so if you could hurry it along…’
Clare decided she didn’t much like Harry. Had he and Andy had been friends, or had they had clashed? She delivered the news of Andy’s death carefully, watching their reactions.
‘Fucksake,’ Harry said. Then, ‘What – really? Andy’s dead?’
Clare nodded. Robert, she thought, looked shocked while Gil continued to stare at the floor. She let this sink in then went on.
‘And I have to tell you, gents, that we believe Andy’s death to be suspicious.’
Again, it was Harry who found his voice. ‘Suspicious? Like what? Some’dy had a go at him?’
Clare didn’t answer this directly. Instead, she asked, ‘Would that be unusual? Was Andy the kind of man who upset people?’
Harry shrugged at this but said nothing.
Robert shook his head. ‘Not really, Inspector. He was a bit of a lad, you know, but everyone liked him.’ He looked round at the others for confirmation. Harry looked noncommittal and Gil said nothing.
‘Did everyone here get on okay with him?’ Clare asked.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Harry said. ‘We all get on. Besta pals.’
Robert met Harry’s eye then glanced over at Gil but said nothing.
Clare wasn’t convinced but she let it go. ‘Anyone know where Andy socialised? Any of you go out with him? Pubs, clubs, that sort of thing.’
They shook their heads.
‘Not even Thursday nights?’
They looked genuinely surprised at this.
‘Why Thursday?’ Robert asked.
‘We believe Andy went out regularly on Thursdays, but we don’t know where he went.’
‘Somewhere he could pick up lassies,’ Harry said.
Clare looked at the three of them. They weren’t giving much away. Was that because they didn’t know much about Andy, or were they hiding something? Young Gil certainly was.
She asked a few more questions but learned little that she didn’t already know. Yes, Andy was a ladies’ man but, as far as they knew, he hadn’t upset anyone. He was a good driver who generally got on well with customers.
It didn’t look as if any more was forthcoming, so she took names, addresses and vehicle registration numbers, then let them drift off. When they had gone she spoke quietly to Jakki. ‘Could you ask that young lad to come outside for a minute, please? Discreetly.’
Jakki nodded and Clare went out into the street. A few minutes later the door opened. She saw Gil hesitate, then come out, closing the door behind him. She motioned to him to come further up the road, out of sight of the office.
‘It’s Gil, isn’t it?’ she said, perching on a wall.
The lad hesitated, then sat beside her, unwilling to meet her eye. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, Gil, I’ve been in this game a few years now and you get good at spotting when someone’s being evasive.’
Gil stared straight ahead. Clare thought she saw his lips thin. He glanced at her quickly then glanced away again.
‘You didn’t like Andy Robb, did you?’
He shrugged.
‘Any special reason?’
There was a silence. He swallowed and seemed to be considering what to say. ‘Guys like him…’
‘Yes?’
‘Think they own the place, don’t they? Think they’re God’s gift.’
‘With women, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
Clare was starting to understand. ‘Do you have a girlfriend, Gil?’
Gil began to worry a loose paving slab with the toe of his shoe. ‘Used to.’
‘Something to do with Andy?’
Another silence. ‘He didn’t even want her. Just wanted to prove he could.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Marta. Marta Mieszko. She was Polish.’
‘Was she a student? Or did she work in the town?’
‘She was an au pair. For one of the university professors. I think she’s back in Poland now, though. At least that’s what I heard.’
See Them Run Page 4