Grievous Angel bs-21

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘That’s a start.’

  ‘More than a start. Bob, this is the same man; I’m sure of it.’ Just what I did not want to hear. ‘He’s changed the hair, as you said he would, but the rest of the description matches Wyllie’s. And that’s not where it ends. When you called earlier we’d just left the home of the manager of the Giggling Goose, a man called Ferrier. We ran the description past him. He told us that it fitted someone who’d been involved in a dust-up in his pub, earlier on. What you have to understand is, his customers aren’t exclusively gay; there’s no sign over the door, and his clientele’s usually mixed.’

  ‘Bet on it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a pint in there myself before now.’

  ‘Okay, so you know what it’s like. Well, according to Ferrier, a wee bit before twelve, our man bought a pint.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Yes, as far as Ferrier could tell. Anyway, as he was backing away from the bar, he bumped into two guys and spilled his Guinness all over them. It was his fault, but he started to swear at the other two, and it got a bit heated. There were a couple of homophobic remarks, and Ferrier told them to shut up. Khaki jacket wouldn’t, though. He called them a couple of wankers, said they were hiding behind the barman’s apron, threw what was left of the Guinness in their faces and headed for the door.’

  ‘Did they go after him?’

  ‘Only one of them. The other one, his pal, tried to stop him, but he shook him off. He went charging out and he never came back.’

  ‘Did nobody go and look for him?’ I asked.

  ‘Ferrier said that about ten minutes later, his mate asked him to mind his drink and went looking for him. He came back though, and said he couldn’t see him. That’s not surprising. Just at the end of the lane, where it splits, there are a few steps leading down into the courtyard of the Jamaica Mews flats. The body was hidden down there in the shadows, out of sight of the lane. It was only found when a couple of girls tripped over it on the way home. It was a hell of a mess; multiple stab wounds, big ones, including one in each eye.’

  ‘So the khaki jacket would be pretty bloody,’ I suggested.

  ‘Not necessarily. He must have died very quickly, for there wasn’t as much spread of blood as the number of wounds would suggest.’

  ‘Have you got an ID for him?’

  ‘No, he had nothing on him. Ferrier didn’t know him by name and there was no wallet found. He had one when he was in the pub, so khaki jacket must have taken it.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘I agree, but what’s it to you?’

  I told her of my fear. There was a multiple murderer out there, or there would be when Weir’s life support was switched off. It was always possible that Alf Stein would take over the hunt himself, but that wasn’t his style, not when he had the Serious Crimes Unit up his sleeve to put a bit of PR gloss on it.

  ‘What should I do now?’ she asked.

  ‘You should tell Dan Pringle what you know, and then bring Alastair up to speed when he gets back from Perth. They’ll report to Alf, and next thing you know,’ I sighed, ‘I can see now, it’ll be pass the fucking parcel to yours truly.’

  I left her to follow my suggestions, or not, as she chose, and went back to my own day. Once everyone had arrived I pulled my team together, and brought everyone up to speed on developments in the Marlon murder investigation, the van, the Newcastle connection, my Friday visit to Lennie Plenderleith, what he’d told me about the reason for Tony Manson’s absence, and the speed with which he’d been moved in to ‘babysit’… some baby!… Bella.

  ‘What do we read into that?’ Fred Leggat wondered.

  ‘It says to me that Marlon’s death was as big a surprise to Tony as it probably was to the boy himself. We can expect that the man will be taking it very seriously, now he’s back. I’m going to see him this morning to make sure that he knows he’s in our thoughts.’

  ‘But are we any closer to understanding why Marlon was killed?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know about any of you guys, but I’m not. Newcastle: that’s all we’ve got.’ I looked across at Jeff Adam; he was at his desk, seated, leaning forward, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to his ear, in his left hand, scribbling in his notebook with the other. I waited till he was finished.

  He turned in his chair as he replaced the phone, with a small involuntary jump as he realised that every eye in the room was focused on him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, provoking a round of laughter. It made me feel good. I was brought up to believe that a happy team was usually a successful team. (Too bad that my dad didn’t realise what was happening within his own small squad.)

  ‘A name,’ Adam announced. ‘I have a name. The Transit was bought by one Glenn Milburn, number seventeen Woodvale Avenue, Wallsend, Newcastle.’

  ‘Real name, or could it be a fake?’ I asked.

  ‘Not very likely, boss. The auction house insists on proof of identity from all buyers. Milburn produced his passport, so unless that was a phoney, it’s him. The manager even gave me a description. Big bloke, face like a front-row forward, he said. Whatever that means.’

  ‘Usually it means that only a short-sighted mother could love it,’ Martin chuckled.

  ‘Excellent, Jeff,’ I told the DS. ‘A good start to the day.’

  ‘How do we play it, boss?’

  ‘You talk to your Newcastle CID contacts; check with NCIS to see if this Milburn has a record, known associates, and so on. You’d better get down there.’ I looked around the team and settled on McGuire. ‘Take Mario with you. I want this guy lifted, I want a name for the second man, and ideally I want the pair of them in our custody by this evening. As a minimum, I want Milburn. Before you set off, though, you must see the fiscal’s office about getting a warrant from a sheriff to arrest Milburn, and his pal if you can put a name to him, and bring them here. The rights to legal access are different in England and I don’t want this investigation hindered by some fucking lawyer arguing about jurisdiction.’

  He nodded. ‘Understood, sir. I’ll speak to Davie Pettigrew. He’s my tame fiscal.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘Mario, you make the call to Newcastle. I’ll give you a name.’

  ‘Good enough,’ I said, just as the phone rang in my room. I went back to my desk and picked it up.

  ‘Jesus, Bob, that was a bit embarrassing last night,’ Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant began. ‘I didn’t know about you and Alison Higgins.’

  ‘You still don’t, buddy,’ I warned him.

  ‘Sure, that’s a given. But still, it was a surprise, especially after she cut you like a knife on Saturday in the Sheraton. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘it does explain why she cut you like a knife. Who was that gorgeous brunette you had on your arm?’

  ‘A witness,’ I replied, abruptly.

  ‘She’s not a hostile witness, that’s for fucking certain.’

  ‘Listen, Alastair,’ I warned him, ‘if all you’ve got to do with your day is get yourself on my shit list, you want to find something else, sharpish.’

  He laughed. ‘When the man of mystery gets caught out twice in two days, you can’t expect it to go unremarked.’

  ‘Fine,’ I retorted, ‘but if it doesn’t go unreported I’ll come looking for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my mouth will stay shut…’

  ‘And nothing will be said to Alison.’

  ‘Absolutely not, no.’

  ‘Good. Now,’ I asked, ‘is there another reason for this so far annoying phone call?’

  ‘I take it she told you what it was all about,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t assume that.’ I paused. ‘But let’s say that I forced it out of her.’

  ‘It’s the same bloke in each case, we’re sure,’ he volunteered. ‘I’ve suggested to Dan Pringle that we should take the lead in both inquiries, but he’s on his high horse. He says that his is a murder, while ours is only attempted, or maybe even just serious assault.’

  ‘That’s a crap argument and we both know it. You o
utrank him; don’t suggest, man, bloody tell him.’

  ‘I would, but he’s been to Alf.’

  I laughed, softly, seeing a bandwagon heading in my direction. ‘Go on,’ I murmured.

  ‘And Alf says-’

  ‘That he’s not holding your jackets while you sort it out,’ I offered, ‘and that the lead in the investigation passes to me?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Grant admitted, after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Does he want me to go and see him?’

  ‘No, he’s at what he calls an inter-force CID exchange today, although I’m sure I heard the swish of swinging golf clubs in the background when I spoke to him. He asked me to pass it on to you, and also to give you any assistance that you need. By that, he meant manpower.’

  Since I had known what was coming, I had thought it through. ‘Make that woman-power,’ I told him. ‘I want Alison to lead both stabbing investigations, working out of your office, but reporting to me.’

  ‘Shouldn’t she move to Fettes for the duration?’ he asked.

  ‘No fucking way, man,’ I retorted, ‘and I shouldn’t have to spell out why.’

  ‘No, maybe not,’ he conceded. ‘Do you want anyone else?’

  ‘Assistance as necessary, but for the moment I’ll assign a couple of people to work with her. Tell her what’s happened… it won’t come as a surprise… then ask her to come up here right away, so I can brief them all together.’

  As I hung up, I turned my thoughts to planning my day. While I’d been speaking to Grant, the force press officer had left a message with Fred Leggat, wanting me to update the media on the Watson investigation, but my new inquiry would have to be dealt with too, and that would grab most of the headlines. I could have done without it, but I didn’t trust the press guy to handle it on his own. He was a police officer, a veteran uniformed inspector, who’d been put there to see out his time. He was known among the senior ranks as ‘Inspector Hesitant’. He was fine for reading out prepared statements, but I couldn’t trust him to handle questions without pissing in the soup.

  I’d been lobbying Alf Stein for a while about the need for a specialist professional in that office, and he’d taken it to the Command Corridor, but he’d run up against the age-old blocker, ‘budget considerations’.

  I called Inspector Hesitant back and told him to call the media in for ten thirty, then went outside to see Brian Mackie and Stevie Steele. Brian knew Alison from our drugs squad days, so it made sense for him to work with her, and I wanted to see how the younger DC functioned under a bit of pressure.

  I was impatient to get it all over with; I had a visit to pay that day, as soon as possible, and the enforced delay was annoying me. On top of that, there was something else I had to do, a call I’d forgotten about until Alastair Grant had reminded me, inadvertently.

  I might have decided to forget about it altogether, if it hadn’t been for my daughter, and a promise made to her, and… a tingling curiosity inside me that I couldn’t quite manage to suppress.

  I rang the Airburst studio, although I wasn’t sure when Mia’s working day began. At nine thirty, it turned out, on that day at least; she was in, and took my call. ‘Hi, Bob,’ she said, in the warm voice that worked so well on radio, and that tingling grew stronger. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Good, and busy,’ I replied.

  ‘Before you say anything more,’ she continued, ‘I haven’t forgotten about that demo CD for Alex… but what I did forget was to bring it with me this morning. I’m putting my programme together for this afternoon, then I’m going back home, so if you were free around lunchtime, you could call in and pick it up. And,’ she paused for a second, ‘we could finish that discussion we left hanging in the air on Saturday.’

  I ran through my mental diary. Brief Alison; media conference; my priority visit. ‘How much time do you have?’ I asked. ‘I couldn’t make it till one, at the earliest; even then it would depend on where you live.’

  ‘One would be fine,’ she said. ‘I’m renting a cottage in Davidson’s Mains.’ She gave me the address; it was on the right side of town for where I’d be going.

  ‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘If anything gets in the way, I’ll call you. By the way, I’ll be talking to the press soon, about Marlon. I’ll be careful what I tell them, but we do have a lead.’

  I heard her sigh. ‘Bob, to be honest, I don’t care. Now that you’ve got me extricated from my mother’s clutches, I don’t want any more to do with my family, alive or dead.’

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and Alison, all crisp efficiency in spite of her one-thirty start, came into the outer office; she looked around and spotted me almost at once, behind my desk, beckoning her to join me.

  She closed the door behind her, and took the seat facing me. ‘You never said you were going to ask for me,’ she said, frowning. ‘First you move me out of drugs, then you second me here.’

  ‘You’re not seconded,’ I corrected her. ‘You’re working on one specific investigation… the Gay Blade, I’ve decided to call him within this office… and that’s all. You won’t even have a desk here. I’m not messing you around here, Alison. If anything, I’m giving you a real opportunity. Officially, I’m the lead officer, but in practice, you are.’

  She frowned. ‘It could be an opportunity to strengthen that glass ceiling if I make a bollocks of it.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not going to expose you to any flak. Officially, I’m out front. If the investigation gets bogged down in quicksand, I’ll take any blame that’s attributed. But when you make an arrest, I’ll be nowhere to be seen, and you’ll be the one on telly. That’s a promise.’

  She looked at her hands. ‘I appreciate that, Bob,’ she murmured. ‘But even if it does go well… I’m a bit afraid that I might wind up being accused of fucking my way to the top. Even if nobody says it outright, you know how sexist this place can still be.’

  ‘Who’s going to think that? There are only two people in the force who know about you and me. As of a few hours ago, Alastair Grant and, before him, Alf Stein. Neither of them will say a word. If anyone else is silly enough to even drop a hint, I will find out about it, and that sad person will find out just how ruthless I can be. Now, let me bring in your new team.’

  I went to the door, and called to Mackie and Steele. They joined us, and I filled them in on their new assignment. ‘You’ll be working where DI Higgins determines, and operating under her orders. She’s in complete charge of this unified investigation. Alison, would you like to give us an update.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she replied. She related the stories that I had heard already: first the attack on Weir and Wyllie, next, the provocation and ambush of that morning’s victim, and then she told us something I hadn’t known. ‘We’ve got a possible ID on the latest victim. Half an hour ago, the mother of a man named Albert McCann, aged twenty-seven, called Torphichen Place to report her son missing. She said that he went out for a drink with a pal last night. He didn’t come home, but she assumed that he was staying at the mate’s place. That was until she had a call from his foreman in the Lothian bus garage, where he works as a mechanic, asking where the hell he was. The description she gave matches him exactly, right down to the clothes.’

  ‘What’s been done about it?’ I asked her.

  ‘Nothing yet. Superintendent Grant called me to tell me about it just before I got here. He’d asked to be told about all missing person reports as soon as they came in.’

  ‘Then you know what to do.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at Mackie. ‘Brian, you call Torphichen and get Mrs McCann’s address. If there’s a husband, find out, locate him and get the poor sod to make a formal identification. I saw the body; I wouldn’t want the mother to have to do it if we can avoid it. DC Steele, Brian will get the name of the victim’s pal from his mother. You take a statement from him, and ask him to do a photofit, if he’s any use. Given the time of night that all this happened, his memory might not be too rel
iable. Once you’re both done, report to me at Torphichen Place. That’s where we’ll be based.’

  ‘Why not here?’ Mackie asked.

  ‘I don’t want to be distracted by the rest of this unit’s work,’ she replied, smoothly. ‘We’ll focus better if we’re somewhere else.’ She looked at me. ‘If that’s all, boss…’ I smiled as I nodded; I was relieved that she was beyond calling me ‘Sir’.

  When the three of them were gone I closed my office door again and thought about my approach to the media. I was left with only fifteen minutes to prepare, but I knew, pretty much, what I was going to say. I knew also that it wouldn’t involve Newcastle, not until I had the man Milburn in my custody. That didn’t matter, though, for as soon as I announced that the Grove Street and Jamaica Street stabbings were linked, I would be giving them their headlines for the day.

  That’s the way it worked out. I didn’t mention McCann by name, not without a formal ID, nor did I touch on the gay overtone, but John Hunter, the city’s top freelance, was shrewd enough to make the connection as soon as I said that the second victim had been in the Giggling Goose just before his death. He went down the wrong track, though, and I had to point out that there was no suggestion that either Weir, or the dead man, was a homosexual.

  ‘But we can call this guy a serial attacker?’ he persisted.

  His income depended on his ability to sell news stories to his media customers, so he was always after a hook to reel them in, but I wasn’t playing. ‘I’ll stick to suspect, John, if you don’t mind, and leave it to your subeditors to add the creative touches.’

  Afterwards BBC, STV and Sky wanted interviews for the telly news. It was part of the job, for all that I didn’t like it. Our professional trainers had told me that I look intimidating on camera, and that I should try to be more ‘viewer-friendly’. I told him in return that fearsome was all right with me, and that I wasn’t after Jon Snow’s lot. Still, I gave the people what they wanted, although I did try particularly hard to intimidate the bloke from Sky.