Franklin checked her watch. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘He’ll be dragging it out as long as he can. He’s lost, and he knows it. Keeping us waiting is the only way he can exert power.’
‘Hrmmm …’ She paced to the fake rubber plant and back again. ‘Even if he gives you a name, there’s no guarantees. A lot can happen in twenty-six years.’
‘Will you sit down? You’re making me itchy.’
‘And what if he’s just messing with your head, did you think of that? Maybe he didn’t see anything at all, and this is just him playing games.’
‘I’m not kidding, sit your backside down and …’ Callum sat up straight as the door swung open and the little man in the ugly jumper came back in.
‘Now, I know you were here yesterday, Detective Constable MacGregor, but this bit is like the safety announcement on aeroplanes: we have to do it.’ Duncan took a deep breath. ‘You’re not to give the inmate anything, and you’re not to take anything from him. That includes messages to, and from, the outside world. You’re not to let him use your mobile phones. We disapprove of physical contact. And a staff member will be present at all times. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘OK.’ A smile. ‘Now, please make sure your seats and tray-tables are in the upright position.’ He poked his head back out into the corridor. ‘All right, Rachael, bring him in.’
And there was Gareth Pike again, ducking to get in through the door, lowering himself into the seat opposite like a shaved bear. Sitting with his shoulders forward and his back hunched. Lights reflected in his bald head. His mouth turned down at the edges, as if he’d just swallowed something nasty. ‘Before we begin this exercise in completely unfair manipulation, I want it made clear that I am only providing this information under the most terrible duress.’
Callum reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of folded paper. Laid it on the table between them. ‘You’re looking well, Gareth. Have you been polishing your head?’
‘Furthermore, I must protest in the strongest terms about being kept waiting for so long. I’m not a well man and the stress is harmful to my conditions.’
‘You have a name for me.’
The mouth turned down even further. ‘I want assurances that I will not be given a community service order.’ A small shudder set his jowls wobbling. ‘Like some sort of track-suited youth caught shoplifting from Lidl. I will be placed in a suitable residential facility designed to cater for people with my proclivities.’
Callum tapped the piece of paper. ‘Things have changed a bit, Gareth. We’ve found another witness. You’re nothing but corroboration now.’
‘And I want a south-facing cell.’
‘Nope.’ He put the sheet back in his pocket and stood. ‘Have fun cleaning out those cages. I bet the dogs and cats make one hell of a mess.’
Pike glared up at him.
‘Last chance.’
He bared his teeth. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? After all this time, being the one with the power. No more the scared little boy, cowering in his daddy’s caravan, sobbing like a baby and wetting himself.’
‘Bye, Gareth.’ Callum turned to Franklin. ‘Shall we?’
‘All right! All right.’ Pike balled his chubby hands into two enormous fists. ‘I recognised the man who took your parents and brother. He was … I suppose in some circles he probably still is, famous. He’s certainly in all the papers right now.’
Callum gave a big theatrical sigh. ‘Come on then, Gareth: tell me who you saw and I guarantee you’ll go to prison. No point kicking a man when he’s down. Even a piss-poor excuse for one, like you.’
‘I told you he was a lion, didn’t I? That big blond mane of hair, the strut and swagger. A man used to being worshipped and adored.’
Franklin curled her lip. ‘Stop milking it.’
Pink flooded Pike’s cheeks. ‘His name’s Leo McVey.’
‘No.’ She stared. ‘Wait, the rock star? The Leo McVey? Leo McVey abducted his parents?’
Pike’s eyes widened. ‘I know, isn’t it delicious?’
64
‘Wow …’ Mother made a hissing noise. ‘Leo McVey? The Leo McVey?’
Callum tightened his grip on the phone. ‘That’s what Pike said. Said he attacked them with a length of metal pipe and forced them into the boot of his Range Rover.’
‘Wow …’
‘Can you stop saying that? It’s not like this is a claim to fame, here.’
Franklin took them over the Dundas Bridge, windscreen wipers on full pelt. The cars coming the other way populated by hunched men and women, their faces soured by rain.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just: Leo McVey. I had all his albums.’
Right at the roundabout, following the river, picking up a bit of speed for a change.
‘Of course, we’ve only got Pike’s word for it.’
‘So what’s your plan, Callum? The Sheriff won’t give you a warrant on the word of one paedophile, and after twenty-six years …’
‘We’re going to go see him.’
‘Leo McVey?’
‘One good thing about this music festival: we know where he’ll be right now.’ Getting ready to ponce about on stage with all his new showbiz mates. ‘Franklin and me are on our way there now.’
‘I see …’ Her voice sagged a bit. ‘Callum, this really isn’t a good idea. You’re too closely connected, you’re upset, you’re—’
‘Pike saw him.’
Silence.
A golf course drifted by on the right, trapped between the road and where the River Wynd emptied into Kings River. The fairway was more or less a lake now, punctuated with bunkers and the occasional flag.
‘Boss?’
A sigh, then: ‘Put me on speaker.’
He did and her voice crackled out into the car.
‘Rosalind? I’m relying on you to keep this under control. You don’t leave Callum alone with Leo McVey. You don’t let him say or do anything stupid. And most importantly, you don’t get me hauled up in front of the PIRC! Agreed?’
Franklin nodded. ‘We’ll tread lightly.’
‘Make sure you do. If there’s one thing the seventies taught us, it’s: celebrities sue. Even when they’re guilty.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
The man at the Portakabin door curled his top lip and stared down at Callum. ‘You’re kiddin’, yeah?’ He had to be at least six-five, with a crewcut, black bomber jacket, black jeans and Doc Martens. ‘HATE’ tattooed on one massive set of knuckles, and ‘MUM’ tattooed between the other.
A line of metal barriers sealed off this chunk of Montgomery Park from the rest of it, covered walkways keeping the important people’s feet out of the shoe-sucking mud and their trendy haircuts out of the rain. Two lines of yurts and tepees were broken up by fancy-looking portable loos and outside-broadcast vans. A marquee with plastic windows was laid out as a fancypants dining room: tablecloths, waiters in black tie, and a real-life chandelier.
But this side of the barricade, the park was a litter-strewn swamp, full of muddy people in ponchos, bouncing up and down to whatever band was currently on stage and belting folk-rock out through the PA system.
And above them all, that massive inflatable tartan tarantula waved its legs in the rain.
None of which seemed to register on the big lump in the bomber jacket. ‘You’re not gettin’ in. Now hop it.’
Callum checked his warrant card, then held it out to Franklin. ‘Does this look like it came free in a box of Rice Krispies?’
She folded her arms, eyeing King Kong up and down. ‘Are you interfering with a murder investigation, sir?’
He stuck out his chest. ‘You’re not on the list: you’re not comin’ in.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s on the—’
‘Hello, can I help you?’ A trendy-looking specimen with sideburns and a quiff sidled up, clipboard under one arm, three or four lanyards d
angling around his neck. Call-centre headpiece cramping his haircut.
King Kong jerked a thumb at Callum. ‘This one here thinks he can waltz in, just cos he’s a cop.’
‘I see. Right. Thanks, Charles, I’ll take it from here.’ Mr Clipboard clasped it to his chest. ‘Now, how can I help?’
‘We’re here to see Leo McVey.’
‘Ah … I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see Mr McVey’s on the main stage in just a little under thirty minutes. Twenty-seven minutes thirty-nine seconds, to be precise. And he’s getting ready in the green room.’
‘This won’t take long.’
‘Yes …’ The plastic smile got a bit more stretched. ‘Only he’s the closing headline act of the whole festival, and we’d rather like him to be at his best when he walks out there to entertain twenty-six thousand people. Not to mention everyone listening at home, and anyone who buys the CD or DVD. So you see …?’ A shrug.
‘I didn’t get your name, sir.’
Franklin reached out and took hold of one of the lanyards. ‘Ryan Keen.’
‘I see. Yes. Actually, it’s very much not a good time and—’
‘Have you ever seen the inside of a police cell, Mr Keen?’
He licked his lips. ‘Ah …’
Mr Not So Keen stopped outside the door to an oversized yurt – like a cake made of brightly coloured canvas, topped with a big pointy hat. ‘Now, please tell me you’re A: not going to upset him and B: not going to make him late.’
Franklin put her hand on Keen’s shoulder and eased him to one side. ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ Then she opened the door and disappeared inside.
Keen fidgeted with his clipboard. ‘I’m going to get fired …’
Callum followed her into the cake.
Inside, the sweet-sweaty scent of incense mingled with orange and apple. Oriental rugs overlapped across the floor, and a row of fairy lights twinkled their way around the outside of the large open space. Leather sofas were artfully arranged, with standard lamps casting little golden pools of illumination in the luxuriant gloom.
A woman in full-on French maid costume stood just inside, with a tray of bubbling champagne flutes.
Clearly, people took a lot better care of musicians than they did police officers.
Franklin flashed her warrant card. ‘Where’s Leo McVey?’
That got them a fixed death grin. ‘Mr McVey’s in the Absinthe zone.’ She pointed at a small tunnel through the yurt wall. ‘He’s communing.’
‘Good for him.’ Callum marched over and through the tunnel, coming out in a separate domed expanse. Only this one was lined in pale green, with beanbags instead of leather sofas.
About two dozen people were gathered around a coffee table covered in mugs and glasses – some on the floor, some on the beanbags, others leaning back against the yurt walls. All of them beaming at an old man, as if he were the second coming.
Leo McVey looked just like he had on Breakfast News, Friday morning: tasselled jeans, cowboy boots, dark-blue shirt, leather buckles on his wrists. He leaned forwards. ‘So there we are: Mick, David, Noddy, Lemmy, Ozzy, Alice, and me in the hot tub, and the only one with any clothes on is Mick.’ He winked at them. ‘That’s Jagger, not Hucknall. And I have to admit I’d done quite a lot of acid at this point, so when Mick says—’
‘Leo McVey, Police.’ Callum held up his warrant card. ‘We need to talk.’
McVey’s smile grew. ‘Not quite, but you’re close, officer …?’
‘MacGregor. Now, let’s—’
‘Hey, cop!’ One of the acolytes stood, right shoulder forward, the other drooped, leather jacket hanging open to show off a shaved chest and a fox tattoo sticking out of the waistband of his underpants where they stuck out of the waistband of his baggy jeans. A golden dollar sign dangled around his neck on a shiny chain. Elaborate moustache and goatee decorating his chin. Both hands circled gangsta signs, pumping himself up with every word: ‘You better stop, cos this man rocks, / And you pair of cocks better hit the bookshops, / And learn some respect, cos you incorrect, / I checked, and he ain’t no goddamned suspect.’
A very large black man in a blue tracksuit nodded. An American accent so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut it. ‘Word.’
Franklin put one hand in her pocket – the one she usually produced her collapsible baton from, like a very violent magic trick. ‘I’m going to need you to sit down, sir.’
Gangsta Boy gave her a good hard leer. ‘Damn, bitch, you be fine!’
‘Word.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you just call me?’
He limp-swaggered closer. ‘Bitch, you know I like my women like I like my coffee: strong, sweet, and black.’
‘Heh, heh, heh. Word.’
‘I’ll give you strong, you pasty—’
‘Ladies, gentlemen: chill, yeah?’ McVey stood, both hands out as if he was about to bless them all. ‘Donny, it’s OK. I got nothing to hide from these nice police officers. I’ve not packed a stash since the noughties.’
But Donny just stood there, with his hairless chest puffed out. ‘You sure, Leo, cos I can open up a can of righteous deliverance on these sons-a-bitches. Say the word and they gone.’
Another nod from the massive sidekick. ‘Word.’
‘You’re very kind, but I’ll be fine.’ McVey smiled. ‘Now, officers, any chance we can get this over with? I’m on in twenty minutes, and my bladder’s not as young as it used to be.’ He threw his apostles a peace sign. ‘Chill here, guys. When I get back we’re going to rock this city’s socks off!’
They gave him a round of applause and some whoops.
Then Keen took McVey by the elbow and led him out into the main yurt, nearly bent double under the weight of his own obsequiousness. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mr McVey. They assure me it won’t take more than a couple of minutes. We’ll get you out on that stage bang on time, don’t you worry. You’re going to be magnificent.’
‘It’s cool.’ McVey wandered over to the hospitality table and helped himself to a bottle of beer from the fridge. Cracked it open. Then pointed at a door, hidden away in an alcove. ‘Shall we?’
Callum followed him onto a section of decking set out with deckchairs and tables, beneath an awning covered in sponsors’ logos.
McVey took a swig and settled his elbows on the railing. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ Toasting the view with his bottle.
From here, the park sloped away towards the main stage – a big tessellated hemisphere surrounded by lights and speakers, flanked by a pair of screens three storeys high. Some sort of folk band were on the stage, leaping about and trying to get the crowd to join in.
There were thousands and thousands and thousands of them. All jammed together, waving flags, waving their mobile phones, waving their arms, apparently not minding the fact it’d been bucketing with rain for about a week and they were up to their welly-tops in sticky black mud.
Callum looked over his shoulder.
Franklin lurked nearby, her notebook out and pen at the ready. No sign of Mr Keen or his clipboard.
‘So, who was Captain Bare Chest, back there?’
‘Donny? He’s great, isn’t he?’ McVey laughed and shook his head. ‘Looks like he’s barely into his twenties: turned thirty last year. Suppose healthy living and Botox will do that for a man. Well, that and a face-lift, a nose job, and three hours a day with a personal trainer.’ Another swig of beer. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about Donny Sick Dawg McRoberts.’
AKA: Donald Newman. Willow’s dad. The man driving the black Mercedes. The ‘man’ who broke a little girl’s arm. The man who beat his ex-girlfriend and stole her sodding teddy bear.
The man in serious need of a stiff bloody kicking.
But not quite yet.
Callum reached into his jacket and pulled out his father’s wallet. Flipped it open. ‘Twenty-six years ago, there was a family of four, just back from a fortnight
in Lossiemouth.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a lay-by on the Aberdeen road, just outside Blackwall hill.’
‘Still listening, still not understanding.’
‘They were attacked, Mr McVey. Mother, father, and a five-year-old boy were abducted. Never seen again.’
He shook his head. Took another swig of beer. ‘Life can be pretty horrible, can’t it?’
‘Where were you on Wednesday evening, Thursday morning?’
‘This week, or twenty-six years ago?’ A shrug. ‘Because if it was this week, I was in Brussels with the band. We’ve not toured in about fifteen years, got the feeling we’d be a bit rusty, so off we lurched to the continent to get our swagger back.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘Hamburg, Friday. Berlin, Saturday. Dusseldorf, Sunday. Amsterdam, Monday. Rotterdam, Tuesday. Brussels, Wednesday. Cologne, Thursday. And back to Dear Old Blighty on Friday, cos I was on Breakfast News.’
‘And you can prove this, can you?’
McVey laughed. Shook his head. ‘Take a look online. There’s got to be ten thousand photos of us all over the whatchamacallit: social media. Honestly, nobody actually watches a gig these days – they just stand there filming it on their mobile phones. In my day it was autographs, now everyone wants a selfie.’
‘And what about the sixth of April, twenty-six years ago?’
This time he drained his beer. ‘Spent most of that decade off my tits on various mind-expanding chemicals. How am I supposed to remember one day?’
‘Because you were seen, Mr McVey. At the lay-by. You were seen assaulting the husband and wife with an iron bar. You were seen gagging them and tying them up with duct tape. You were seen loading them into the back of your Range Rover. You were seen abducting the young boy.’
‘Doesn’t sound like me.’
‘You were seen.’
‘Nah.’ McVey pitched his empty bottle, overhand, into a recycling bin eight feet away. ‘Ten points.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Because I wasn’t there. I didn’t attack anyone. And this conversation is like Glam Rock: ridiculous and over.’
Callum stepped right in front of him. ‘It’s over when I say it is.’
‘See, if you actually had anything on me, we’d be doing this down the station, wouldn’t we? You’re grasping handfuls of cloud and praying they’re a parachute.’ He raised his voice. ‘Mr Keen, ready when you are!’
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