He shrugged. ‘We will never be normal people, Cameron. You can be, Sauce can be, but not if I’m part of it. Your boy’s right: I’m the pitch that he cannot touch lest he’s seen to be defiled. The only thing I can do for the pair of you is be spotless from now on, and that I’m trying my best to be.’
‘In which case,’ I ventured, cautiously, ‘Sauce passed on your message to his boss, in just the way you asked. But it hasn’t been plain sailing. He’s been sent back with a couple of questions.’
Grandpa’s face changed; it seemed to darken. I’ll never be scared of him but when he looks like that I can understand why people are. Funny, I’ve met Sauce’s boss, the chief constable, and he makes me feel exactly the same. ‘Such as,’ he said, quietly.
‘First,’ I continued, ‘when you gave me your message for him about the man called Bass, did you know that somebody else, a man called Freddy Welsh, was involved in the business?’
‘Freddy Welsh,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Also, do you know this man, and if so, what do you know about him?’
‘I see. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s all. Sauce is waiting for me at the Discovery; we’re going away for the weekend from here. If you’ve got anything to tell him, you can tell me, and I’ll pass it on. He’ll phone his chief from Oban.’
His frown was deeper than I’d ever seen it before. His expression was . . . ominous. I’d expected that the answers would be short and sweet, ‘No’ and ‘No’, but it wasn’t shaping up that way. ‘Well?’ I asked.
He looked at me. His face softened and if it had been anyone else I’d have said his eyes went a wee bit misty. ‘What the hell have I done to you, love,’ he murmured, ‘with my fucking ruthless, reckless life? You and your boyfriend go on to Oban. If you’re not booked in anywhere, go on up that coast for a wee bit till you come to a country house hotel called Glen Cameron.’
The name was familiar. ‘Isn’t that . . .’ I began.
‘Yes, it’s one of ours; you’re a director of the company that owns it. I’ll call the general manager and tell him you’re coming. You two have a nice weekend.’
‘Thanks, Grandpa,’ I said, ‘but what will I tell Sauce about Welsh?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, firmly. ‘No, don’t do that. Tell him that he’s out the picture and so are you. Tell him that from now on I’ll be dealing with a higher authority.’
Lowell Payne
The man McGuire decreed that he and I would pay the call on the Varleys. He was head of CID so it was his decision.
I couldn’t argue with his reasoning. ‘It’s not one that I can delegate,’ he said, ‘but there’s no need for more than two of us. Lisa, Special Branch or not, you’re still on overtime and we have to keep an eye on that budget. DCI Payne, I still want an outside officer on this. So,’ he looked at Mackenzie, ‘David, thanks for your significant input to the investigation so far. For now, you can go home to Cheryl and the kids and collect some brownie points.’
The ex-Bandit nodded and murmured, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but I could tell he wasn’t happy to have been excluded. He’d wanted to be part of the end game, and share the credit. I thought I’d seen a certain frisson between McGuire and him earlier, and his reaction confirmed it. I’m a natural sceptic, and I’d been doubtful about the ‘reformed character’ story from the beginning. I’m pretty sure I’m right, but time will tell on that one. One thing I do know for certain; if it does come to a pissing contest between those two characters, Mackenzie will wind up wet and smelly.
We took McGuire’s car. It was a Lexus, four-by-four hybrid, brand new, the kind that gets attention, especially when a cop’s driving it. He caught me looking at it and read my mind. ‘It’s Paula’s,’ he explained, without being asked. ‘Company car. She runs the company, so she can have what she likes, and with a baby on the way she wants something big and safe. Mine’s an Alfa Giulietta,’ he added, ‘much more modest.’
It would have to be Italian, I guessed, since the Irish don’t make cars.
The Lexus was impressive, and very comfortable, but it couldn’t fly over the Saturday shopping traffic in west Edinburgh or in Livingston, where there’s an enormous shopping complex that attracts people from all over central Scotland.
‘Have you been to Varley’s place before?’ I asked as we broke clear of what I’d hoped would be the last traffic queue and headed towards a housing estate.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I’ve programmed the postcode into the satnav.’
As he spoke a male voice, not the usual patiently polite woman, told him to turn right in three hundred yards. ‘There’s a speech style option,’ he said. ‘It seems that Paula prefers the bloke; I must ask her about that.’
One turn later, we were in a cul-de-sac, and our navigator told us that we had reached our destination. ‘Obviously, mate,’ McGuire muttered.
He didn’t tell us which was the Varley home, though; we had to find that out for ourselves.
‘Number seven, wasn’t it?’
I nodded.
We had pulled up outside number three. The big man rolled forward, counting as we went, until we found ourselves in front of a detached villa, facing back down the short street. It was the last house in town, literally; behind it we could see open fields. ‘That’s it.’
There was a car in the driveway, a blue Nissan from the last century: not what you’d expect from somebody with going on for a hundred and fifty grand in an offshore bank account.
The chief superintendent didn’t give it a second glance as he braked, switched off and climbed out. I followed him up the path to the front door, crunching small white pebbles under my feet. He rang the doorbell and we waited.
And waited, then waited some more. I pressed the button second time around, with the same non-result. ‘Shopping, God damn it,’ I said.
‘Her maybe, but he fucking well shouldn’t be,’ McGuire growled. ‘Varley’s effectively under house arrest. We gave him police bail, but the condition was that he didn’t go out.’
‘Their car’s still here,’ I pointed out.
‘That heap of shit?’ he muttered. ‘They must have another. Maybe they’re in the back garden.’ He led the way again. I knew my role; independent witness more than anything else. ‘Inspector,’ he called out. ‘Mrs Varley.’ Considerate, in the circumstances, I thought; advance warning in case Mrs V was doing a spot of topless sunbathing; the garden looked secluded enough.
She wasn’t, though. There was nobody there, nothing, save some washing hanging on a line, a couple of shirts and a few tea towels. Actually the garden was smaller than I’d expected; much of it was taken up by the extension that had been described to McDermid.
Its size hadn’t been exaggerated; it must have made the ground floor fifty per cent bigger. The way the land sloped meant that it was large enough to boast a cellar. McGuire crunched his way up to the back door. It had a bell too, but the result was the same when he rang it. While he was doing that I peered through the kitchen window. There were unwashed plates and pans on the draining board by the sink; next to that there was a chopping board with vegetable scraps on the work surface.
‘They must have eaten before they went out,’ I said.
‘Well I hope Jock enjoyed it,’ the chief superintendent retorted, ‘for his next meal’s going to be fucking porridge. Come on,’ he said, and turned away from the door.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked him. ‘Go in?’
‘We don’t have a search warrant,’ he replied. ‘In other circumstances, I might be tempted to hear sounds of distress from inside and kick the door down, but in this case I don’t want Varley to have as much as one wee toe on the side of the angels. No, we wait. I’ll give him half an hour. If he’s not back by then, we bugger off and I’ll arrange for patrol cars to do regular drive-bys. The first one to find him in will have orders to arrest him and take him to Gayfield Square.’
‘Gayfield?’ I repeated.
‘Nowhere el
se. The guy’s fucked me about; he’s betrayed my trust in giving him bail, when a civilian would probably have been held in custody. He can reflect on the stupidity of that when I lock him up in his own station for breaching the conditions. He can stay there until Monday, when he goes before the sheriff. He won’t be getting bail then either; he’ll be on remand in Saughton, alongside his pal Kenny Bass.’
‘You don’t miss, do you?’ I observed.
‘Not when I take aim, Lowell, no.’
Griff Montell
I hadn’t been due for weekend duty, but all things considered I wasn’t about to complain about it. The DI had seen his team decimated and I was part of the reason, so when he asked me to work on Saturday, I figured that keeping my head down was best in all the circumstances.
I was glad to be getting out of there myself, truth be told. I’d been due to make DS and although no promises had been made, a nod and a wink from Luke Skywalker had made it pretty clear that I’d be Ray Wilding’s replacement after his promotion and move. There might have been a little jealousy from Alice, but I could have talked her through that. She’d have been a bridge between me and a new incoming DC, but she was gone, thanks to my misjudgement, followed by her own, then blown up to disaster proportions by her lizard of an uncle, a man the brass were determined to keep out of my sight, not just because I was likely to be a witness against him, but because I might have decided that taking the bastard apart was worth dismissal.
I saw my promotion as blown, possibly for good; if I’d stayed in Leith as a DC, that would have been tough to take. I’d have felt humiliated by a new guy taking my slot . . . almost certainly Sauce Haddock, if I read things right . . . I’d have been lonely, without both my old sidekicks, and maybe worst of all, I’d have been subjected to the usual Springbok grilling by Alice’s replacement. I don’t know why, but every Jock guy who meets a South African in my age bracket assumes that he knows Kevin Pietersen, the cricketer.
I’d called Alice that morning. I hadn’t slept much and it must have been obvious, for the first thing she asked me was whether I was hung over.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh yes. I got well smashed last night; what did you expect? You don’t want me breathing on you right now, I promise.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice. About the job and everything.’
‘Don’t be,’ she told me. ‘I should have known better than to trust my swine of an uncle. He’s let me down before. I don’t know why the hell I did that.’
‘I can guess,’ I told her. ‘You heard Welsh’s name and you thought you should give the man the chance to distance himself from him if necessary, before things happened.’
‘More or less,’ she sighed, ‘I suppose. How about your job? What’s happened? Nobody would tell me.’
‘I’m keeping it. I was worried though; I don’t mind admitting it. That’s why I went crazy on you, then froze you yesterday. I apologise for all of that; it was the last thing you needed.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I understood. Friends now, though, yes?’
I smiled. Friends. That’s what Alice and I were, more than anything else. There are a lot of things I like about her, not least her spikiness, and her ever-readiness to say what she thinks. ‘Yes. Friends.’
‘Want to come round tonight?’ she asked.
‘Yes. We’ll go for a meal, somewhere.’
‘Okay. But you’re paying. I’m unemployed, remember.’
I hung up, feeling glad that I’d taken the plunge, and headed for the office. I’d expected to be there on my own, but I’d underestimated Sammy Pye’s ambition. The guy’s around the same age as me, and he’s a DI already, even if he was accelerated when Stevie Steele was killed. He didn’t get there by leaving everything to junior officers; if there’s a slot to be filled he’s there and he’s sharp enough to make sure the bosses know it too.
‘Morning, Griff,’ he greeted me. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks. Backside kicked, moving on, then it’ll be business as usual.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ he volunteered, ‘I’m sorry to be losing you. I’d been looking forward to working with you as my DS, given your experience in the rank back home. You’ll enjoy your new job, though.’
‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘I had some of that in South Africa too, but like here it’s not something you can put on job applications. Pity about the DS, though: I can always use extra money. I fear I’ll be DC Montell for ever now.’
‘If you are,’ he said, ‘it’ll mean that nobody upstairs takes a blind bit of notice of anything I say. I sent DCS McGuire an intranet memo saying that I hope what’s happened won’t hold you back any further.’
I stared at him, taken aback. Ambitious yes, but I hope he makes it.
‘I tried to save Alice too,’ he added, ‘but there was no hope. She was too exposed. If Varley had gone to bat for her, then maybe, but he did the opposite. He claimed in interview that she was the one who called Welsh.’
‘He did what?’ That was news to me; I rose halfway out of my seat.
‘Sit down,’ the DI told me quietly. ‘Nobody’s buying it, but it could be his defence in court, given Alice’s history with Welsh. Oh shit,’ he murmured. ‘You did know about that, didn’t you? Short-term; a long time back.’
‘I’ve been told,’ I said, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, I still don’t know about it. It’s none of my business anyway, no more than me and that giraffe is hers.’
Pye blinked, and then laughed. ‘Catch it kneeling by the pond, did you?’
I was still searching for a comeback when the phone rang. I snatched it up, welcoming the distraction of work, if that’s what it was. ‘CID, DC Montell.’
‘Griff,’ a seasoned voice boomed in my ear, ‘Bert here, front desk. I’ve just had a call from a panda patrol. There’s a burned-out van on that empty site opposite the Royal Yacht. You’re needed there.’
‘A burned-out van?’ I repeated. ‘Have it towed.’
‘No’ wi’ what’s in it, son. Like I said, you’re needed.’
I passed the message on to the DI. He was pleased, as I was. There’s nothing worse than sitting in the office on a Saturday, shifting paper and waiting for something to happen, knowing all along that nothing will. ‘My car,’ he said as we made for the door.
We didn’t have far to go, no more than a mile, but there was no way round the bottleneck at the bridge over the Water of Leith. Mostly it’s a stream, on its way through the city; it starts to qualify as a river only when it reaches my flat, which is right on it.
As it turned out there was no rush. The van wasn’t going anywhere unassisted, and neither were its passengers. I knew it was a bad one when I saw the younger uniform’s face; it was that pale, almost green colour that I’ve seen a few times in my career, but mostly in the southern hemisphere, where there is a history of people making statements with petrol.
The back doors of the van lay open and the windows had blown out with the heat. I didn’t need to look inside to know what was there, but I did so anyway. Black and crispy, definitely overdone.
Pye stepped up like a good leader and stood beside me. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘How many?’
‘Two,’ I replied.
‘How can you tell?’ he asked.
‘Simple, count the feet.’
‘We need SOCOs,’ the boss said, ‘and the duty pathologist.’
I’d known that, but I didn’t point it out. Instead I called the communications centre and relayed the instruction, leaving them to make the contacts. ‘Two corpses in a van on the other side of the Ocean Terminal lagoon; incinerated,’ I told them. ‘We can dispense with the medical examiner.’
‘Do you need Fire and Rescue?’ the centre woman asked me.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘The fire’s gone out and the victims are well beyond rescue. Everybody else ASAP though. Blues and twos.’ For the uninitiated, that means lights and sirens.
The D
I had stepped back from the wreck. ‘You two,’ he told the uniforms, ‘get yourselves up to the road end and guard it.’ He pointed towards the blocks of flats that overlooked the scene. ‘We’re in full view here, so there’s every chance that someone’s calling the press even as I speak. Keep them and everyone else at bay.’ The two left, glad of it, and he turned to me. ‘It’s a wonder nobody reported the fire,’ he remarked.
‘Not really, boss,’ I ventured. ‘The doors are facing Ocean Terminal and that’s empty at night. Besides, they were probably shut after the fire was lit. To do the job properly you’d turn the thing into a makeshift crematorium.’
‘We should back off,’ he said. The ground on which we stood was rough and unpaved bare earth, ready for housing development when the economy recovers enough to bring new buyers to the market.
‘Look.’ He pointed all around us. ‘Tyre tracks. We don’t want to mess them up any more than we have already. Whoever did this didn’t run away from the scene; they drove.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, after they’d taken the plates off the van. They’ve even taken the tax disc, in case it didn’t burn properly, I’d guess. They don’t want us to identify it too quickly.’
‘Or the people inside, possibly.’
The van had been white; it still was recognisably so but its sides were buckled and the remaining paint was bubbled. The tyres had burned as well and the vehicle sat on its bare wheels.
We moved away, as far as the DI’s car. ‘Gangland?’ I asked.
‘That’s what I’d assume. Maybe I should ask the SCDEA whether they’ve had any intelligence about tribal warfare on our patch and haven’t bothered to share it with us. Although,’ he added, on reflection, ‘I might put it a bit more discreetly than that.’
‘Or even better,’ I suggested, ‘have somebody else put the question. For example, DCS McGuire; I saw that he had the head of the agency with him yesterday.’
Funeral Note Page 26