by Ian Rankin
‘I thought he got rid of them at his scrapyard. ’
‘Maybe.’
Bob left her to think about it. He knew she would think about it. The guy who’d been wounded . . . someone would know. A doctor or hospital. An all-night supermarket where he could buy compresses and bandages. Someone would know. Or he could be nearby, hiding, biding his time. Maybe in a garden or a flat. He could have burst his way in. Jane knew that the first few hours were crucial, knew that the trail started to go cold after that. She needed people to go knocking on doors. She needed at least a couple of sniffer dogs.
One member of the forensic team was taking a photo of a footprint. The footprint was bloody. It got fainter as it neared the garage doors. The wounded man? No, because he’d been twelve feet further away. But the pool of blood vanished too. There were no signs that it led outside. So, one man heading outside, one man taking a car. Had they been partners? Or was one a bystander?
‘Might be a car theft after all,’ another detective said, emerging from the office. ‘Full valet this afternoon on a big Bentley. They cost a hundred grand plus. Owner’s number’s in the diary. I’ve just talked to him. He was picking the car up in the morning.’
‘Put out a call,’ Jane said. ‘Let everyone know the registration. Box of chocolates for the first one who spots it.’
‘And a hug and a kiss from yourself, Jane?’ Bob joked.
‘Unless you’re the winner,’ she told him. Another officer had appeared from the forecourt.
‘Parked car, recently damaged. Maybe by the getaway vehicle.’
‘Get forensics on to it,’ Jane said.
An hour later, she was heading back to HQ. Her boss had been woken up and was on his way there from his home. He would want a report. She would ask him for more officers. He would start doing the sums. Everything cost money, and even murder came with a budget attached. Jane parked in an empty bay, just as a police van was drawing up. People were singing inside. Drunks, probably, on their way to a night in the cells. She pushed open the door to the police station and went in. The desk sergeant nodded and waved.
‘Busy night?’ he guessed.
‘You heard about the shooting?’
He nodded. ‘Thought it was funny, actually . . .’
She stared at him. ‘Funny?’
‘Odd, I mean. You know that Ray Masters has links to George Renshaw?’
‘Bob told me.’
The desk sergeant smiled. ‘Well, Bob knows everything, doesn’t he?’
‘Meaning I don’t?’
‘You’re a quick learner, though, ma’am. So tell me this, who’s Don Empson?’
She walked towards him. ‘No idea,’ she confessed.
‘Only, we had him in here a few hours back. Patrol car picked him up in a graveyard. He spun them a story and we had to let him go.’
‘So who is he then?’ Jane asked.
‘He’s George Renshaw’s right-hand man, that’s who . . .’
Jane at the graveyard
As soon as it was daylight, Jane drove to the graveyard. The gates had been broken open. A chain and padlock lay on the ground next to them. The car was parked over towards a workman’s hut. Empson had said it wasn’t his. Fair enough. If he was telling the truth, his fingerprints wouldn’t be all over the inside. She’d got the licence plate number from the officers who’d found Empson. The computer had come up with an owner’s name and address, but the car had been sold by this man for spare parts.
Sold to George Renshaw. Now wasn’t that a coincidence?
It wasn’t much of a car. The paintwork was the only thing holding it together. She pushed a finger against an area of rust and the finger went straight through. She wiped the finger clean and took a walk around the graveyard. The grass was damp with dew. Birds were singing. She could count the number of clouds in the sky. She checked her watch. She had woken up someone from the council and asked them who would be in charge of the graveyard. He would meet her here. By now, he should have been here.
She kept walking. Behind a hedge she found a compost heap. There was a digger, too, and a wheelbarrow with a rake in it. The wheelbarrow had stains on it, not rust this time but something more like blood. Jane made a note to herself: get forensics down here. They could check the car at the same time. Maybe there’d be blood there too. As she continued her walk, she saw that back towards the gates the grass was stained. She crouched down. Again, it looked like blood. Someone had dripped blood along here. Someone wounded.
She retraced her steps, taking more care this time. She was looking for evidence. She was looking for something like a fresh grave. A sniffer dog might help . . .
Then she saw the man standing at the gates. He was examining them and shaking his head. He saw her and started walking towards her, hands in pockets. There was a bag on his shoulder. Maybe it contained his work clothes and packed lunch. Jane introduced herself.
‘Paul Mason,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘A carjacking, was it? Boy racers?’
‘A man in his late fifties, actually. At least, that’s what we think. Can I take a look inside your shed?’
Mason nodded and led the way. He unlocked the shed and pulled open the door.
‘Nothing’s missing,’ he said.
‘What time did you leave work yesterday, Mr Mason?’
‘Usual time. Five o’clock.’
‘Do you work here alone?’
‘I’ve got an assistant. I call him Gravy.’
‘Gravy?’
‘Short for graveyard. He was always hanging around this place. Never seen someone so pleased to be offered a job.’
‘Was he here when you left?’
Mason nodded again. ‘It’s his job to tidy up and lock the gates.’
‘So what time would he finish work?’
Mason laughed. ‘He’d be here all hours if you let him. Gravy lives in a hostel. They sometimes have to come and fetch him. Time doesn’t seem to mean anything to him . . .’ Mason paused. ‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’
‘I’ll need to talk to him. Can you give me his address?’
‘He’ll be here in an hour or so. He’s mad keen to get started in the morning.’
‘I’ll still need his address.’
It was in a folder in the hut, along with a telephone number. Jane punched the number into her phone. It took a while before anyone answered. She realised she didn’t know Gravy’s real name.
‘Can I talk to Gravy, please?’ she asked.
The sleepy-sounding man went away, but was back within thirty seconds. ‘His bed’s not been slept in,’ he said, ending the call.
Jane stared at her phone. Mason asked if she was all right.
‘Fine,’ she assured him.
She wasn’t so sure about Gravy, though.
‘What’s his real name?’ she asked Mason.
‘Jimmy Gray. Gray and Gravy, not so very different when you think about it.’
‘He didn’t go home last night.’ She watched to see what kind of reaction she would get. Mason just made an O shape with his lips.
‘Do you know a man called Donald Empson?’ she asked. Mason shook his head. ‘How about George Renshaw?’
‘Everyone knows him, at least by reputation.’
She nodded and wandered back in the direction of the car. It didn’t belong to Empson, so why had he been driving it? And what kind of car did he usually drive? Jane reckoned it was time she had a word with Mr Donald Empson.
When she drove out to his home, however, the place was empty, the curtains looking as if they hadn’t been shut the previous night. No sign of a car. It was a nice house, detached, modern. Husbands in suits were passing in the road, just starting to go to work. They must have wondered what she was up to, but none bothered to ask. Jane got back into her own car and decided on her next stop, Renshaw’s scrapyard.
Jane at the scrapyard
A trailer was delivering two cars when she arrived. They had been involved in a crash of some kind, bo
nnets crumpled, radiator grilles smashed, windscreens shattered. She had been to plenty of accidents in her time. It was one of the worst things about the job. She gave a little shiver as she followed the convoy into the yard. There were a couple of dogs barking nearby, but she couldn’t see them. All she could see were dead cars. But then a man emerged from one of the buildings. He was chewing on a cigar. There was a scowl on his face as he neared the car. He had a shaved head, and gold rings on his fingers. Jane got out to meet him.
‘I can smell bacon a mile off,’ he growled.
‘You must be Mr Renshaw?’
‘Haven’t seen you before.’
‘I’m DI Harris.’
‘Bit young.’ He looked her up and down. Another man had emerged from the same building. He wore torn jeans and a red tartan shirt. He gave Jane a little whistle as he walked towards a nearby crane.
‘I wonder if I can talk to Donald Empson,’ she told Renshaw.
‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know where I could find him?’
‘At home, maybe.’
‘I’ve just come from there.’
Jane was staring at him. The nickname ‘Gorgeous’ was obviously a joke. He was one of the ugliest customers she’d ever met.
‘What’s this all about?’ he asked. He had moved the cigar to a corner of his mouth, and bit down hard on it.
‘A routine inquiry.’
Renshaw rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard the same line? The crane’s motor was coughing into life.
‘Will he be here later?’ Jane shouted over the noise.
Renshaw just shrugged.
‘Can I ask you what kind of car he drives?’
‘Isn’t that the sort of thing your computers can tell you?’
‘Easier if I ask you.’
‘That’s what you think.’ Renshaw gave a grin. Jane could feel that her phone was vibrating in her pocket. She took it out and held it to her ear, pushing a finger into her other ear to block out the noise. It was Bob.
‘Got some news,’ he said.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Door-to-door got lucky. They were talking to one of the neighbours and he asked them if they could do anything about the car that was blocking his skip. He’s got a lorry coming this morning and it needs space so it can haul the skip away.’
‘With you so far.’ Jane had turned away from Renshaw so she could concentrate on the call.
‘Well, the neighbour doesn’t recognise the car. It’s bright green, some sort of sports model. It’s legally parked, and most times we wouldn’t bother, but this particular team is sharper than most. They ran a check. Car belongs to Mr Benjamin Flowers.’
‘Don’t tell me you know him?’
‘I’m better than any computer, Jane, and I’m looking forward to that box of chocolates. Soft centres only, please.’
‘I’m on my way to buy them, just as soon as you tell me who he is.’
‘He’s known as Benjy. He’s Don Empson’s nephew. And he works for Stewart Renshaw. Guess whose brother he is . . .’
Jane raised her eyes towards the sky. It was hard to take it all in. She saw that George Renshaw was looking up too. There was a huge magnet hanging from the arm of the crane. A large car swung from it. And though she could see mostly its underside and wheels, she thought she recognised the make. Ignoring Renshaw, and still holding her phone to her ear, she marched towards the crane.
‘Shut it off!’ she yelled.
The driver ignored her. She stuffed her phone back in her pocket and lifted out her warrant card, opening it and holding it up in front of the crane.
‘I’m ordering you to shut it off!’ she yelled. Then, turning towards Renshaw, ‘Tell him!’
Renshaw hesitated, then waved a hand. The crane driver saw him and stopped the arm. Jane had just turned back to Renshaw when there was an explosion next to her. The car had landed not five feet from her. Dust and stones flew up. The car’s windows blew out. Its tyres burst on impact with the ground. Her eyes blazed as she turned towards the crane operator.
‘Thought that’s what you wanted!’ he yelled.
Her hand was shaking a little as she took out her phone again. She hadn’t ended the call and Bob was asking what all the noise was. ‘I need a forensics team at Renshaw’s scrapyard,’ she told him, as she circled what remained of the car. Quite a lot of it remained, actually. They made Bentleys to last. She was relieved that she’d ID’d it correctly. And now that she could see it, the licence plate matched the car taken from Raymond Masters’, the murdered man’s, garage. She wondered whose prints would be inside. She wondered what else might be in there. Nothing that she could see, but there was always the boot . . .
‘So that’s one forensics team still busy at the garage,’ Bob was saying, ‘another wanted at the graveyard, and a third at the scrapyard. Tall order, Jane.’
‘And while you’re at it, how about checking the whereabouts of Mr Flowers?’
‘Is that my quota for the day?’
Jane didn’t answer. She was just realising that Renshaw had disappeared back into his office. She headed after him, walking into a single, chaotic room, at the far end of which was another door. The door was open. It led out into the scrapyard. When she went through it, a couple of guard dogs started snarling and straining against their leashes. They hadn’t barked for their owner. They knew him too well.
George Renshaw was gone.
She cursed under her breath and started to search the scrapyard. He could be hiding anywhere, but she reckoned he wasn’t that stupid. He was on foot, though, so she could follow in her car. But she couldn’t leave the scene. The Bentley might vanish into thin air, just like Renshaw had done. Or prints could be wiped clean, evidence removed. She got Bob on the phone again.
‘Donald Empson’s car,’ she told him. ‘I need its details.’
‘Hang on, I’ll start a fresh list . . .’ She could hear Bob sighing as he made a note to himself. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Not quite. George Renshaw has just done a runner on me.’
‘I’ll put the word out. Seems to me we might need some extra help.’
‘I’ll take it up with the boss.’
‘You think Gorgeous George had Raymond killed?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder.’
‘With Don Empson pointing the gun? Or the nephew maybe?’
Jane didn’t answer. She had reached in through a broken window and removed the Bentley’s ignition key. Walking to the back of the car, she took a deep breath before unlocking the boot. It was empty. No visible traces of blood, and none that she could see on the steering wheel or either of the front seats. In fact, recent damage aside, it was pristine. Yet the shooter had lost blood, hadn’t he? And Empson had sported no injuries when he’d been taken to the police station. Then there was the graveyard, the man called Gravy and his bed not slept in.
It didn’t add up.
‘Just tell forensics to get a move on,’ she said into the phone.
Chapter Eight
Gravy’s Story (3)
I liked the room. It was so clean, I almost didn’t want to touch anything. After all, none of it really belonged to me. Celine was different. She was wearing the white robe from the bathroom and a pair of white slippers. She’d used the shower and opened the minibar. Not that we were sharing a room, mind! Separate rooms, but with a door between them. Adjoining rooms, the woman on the desk downstairs had said. This was ‘one of the capital’s most deluxe hotels’. It had a swimming pool and something called a spa. It had big televisions and a kettle and an iron and ironing board. It had magazines and a bowl of fruit on the table. I’d fallen asleep on my sofa, hadn’t even managed to make it as far as the bed. When I woke up, Celine had been out shopping. She’d bought a clean shirt and trousers for me. The trousers were a bit too long, but fine at the waist. The shirt was fine, too. She told me I could stay for a day or two. ‘Just until I make my plans.’ But I wasn’t to speak to anyone
or phone anyone or go outside or anything.
‘Just pretend you’re on holiday.’
The view from my window was like something from a film, a big street and then Edinburgh Castle. There was a bar and a restaurant downstairs but Celine said I was to phone room service.
‘Meals in your room, Gravy. Don’t want anyone seeing you.’
I got the feeling that was why she kept the door between our rooms open. She was keeping an eye on me. She told me not to get any ‘funny ideas’.
‘Okay,’ I said.
I’d already drunk all the tea and coffee in my room. She let me take some of hers. The red bag was in the wardrobe in her room. She said she would give me some money before we split up. Benjy’s car was in the hotel garage. One of the hotel people had asked if I wanted it cleaned. I’d shaken my head.
‘Sure?’
I was definitely sure. Sure, sure, sure, sure. Five times for luck.
Celine was lying along her sofa, drinking another of the tiny bottles from her minibar. It was still morning. I wondered what my boss would be thinking. I wondered about the people I shared my house with. I had jobs that needed doing. I would lose a day’s pay. My gloves were still in the car. What if someone broke in and stole them? I didn’t even have the keys, one of the hotel people had kept them. That was bad, now that I thought about it. I stood in the doorway, staring at Celine. She was watching TV. People were in a room and they were shouting at each other. There was a man with a microphone who didn’t seem to be helping.
‘I need to fetch something from the car,’ I told her.
‘What?’
‘My gloves. They’re on the seat in the back.’
‘What do you need them for?’
‘I just do.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘I do.’
She looked at me, then sighed. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘Give me five minutes to get dressed.’