Grievous Angel bs-21

by Quintin Jardine

  I leapt out of my chair. ‘Come on, you two boys, with me. Fred,’ I called to Leggat as we headed for the door, ‘we’re off out.’

  We were in Frederick Street before McGuire ventured the question. ‘Where are we going, boss?’

  ‘You’re a detective, Mario,’ I chuckled. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Back to see Alafair?’

  ‘Good try, but not yet. Andy?’

  ‘Register House.’

  ‘Nearly. In fact, it’s New Register House, but you’re on the right track.’

  I parked in Register Place; on that occasion I did leave a ‘Police business’ card, with the force crest and the chief constable’s facsimile signature, showing on the dashboard. It wasn’t there to be abused, but it was easier than having tickets written off. I led the way round past the Cafe Royal and the Guildford Arms, where Charles Redpath had encountered Don Telfer, and through the front entrance of New Register House. It’s a fine edifice in its own right, although it was created by the Victorians as a mere overflow from, and is hidden behind, Robert Adam’s Register House, built in the previous century, a public building in which Scotland’s national archives are housed.

  As a cop you make some professional friends, and if you’re wise you’ll keep them throughout your career. Jim Glossop was one of mine; I’d known him for ten years and during that time he’d cut a few corners for me. I asked for him at the front desk. As we waited, I explained to the boys the reason for our rush from Fettes. ‘When Violet McGrew and her kids lived in Hamilton, she led the neighbours to believe that she was a widow. Maybe that was true, but then again. ..’

  ‘Mob-handed, are we, Bob?’ Jim Glossop exclaimed, as he appeared through a door on my right.

  ‘New playmates. I thought they should meet you; Mario McGuire and Andy Martin, detective constables both. I need a parentage check, Jim. Two people, brother and sister: Peter Hastings McGrew, date of birth March fifteen, sixty-five, birthplace uncertain, and Alafair McGrew, no d.o.b. but she’s seven years younger than him. Mother’s name Violet, now deceased; I’d like to know who Daddy was… or rather, is.’

  ‘Or daddies,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re making an assumption.’

  ‘There’s a good reason for it,’ I assured him

  He made a few notes on a small pad he was carrying. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  Rather than wait idly, we went for a stroll down into Princes Street. The two DCs spotted a sandwich stall and headed off in search of coffee; I went in the other direction, to a nearby book store. I was short on reading matter, so I picked up a couple of paperbacks; one of them was called Let It Bleed, a yarn featuring the latest adventure of a fictional Edinburgh cop who was beginning to gather attention. I didn’t know if he was based on a real-life character, but if he was, I’d worked with a few candidates.

  I was a minute or two late returning; Jim and the boys were all waiting for me when I stepped into the foyer. ‘Results,’ my friend announced. He handed me two photocopied extracts. ‘Both children were born in Rottenrow, that’s the main maternity hospital in Glasgow. You were right, same father, but he and Miss McGrew never went through a marriage ceremony. Indeed, as you’ll see, they don’t appear to have lived at the same address.’

  I turned my back on the trio and walked across to a corner. I closed my eyes for a second or two as I laid a private bet with myself, then opened them and stared at the top sheet, ignoring everything else and focusing only on the section headed ‘Father’s name and address.’ And there it was: I’d won my bet. Peter Hastings McGrew and Alafair McGrew were the children of one Peregrine Holmes, better known as Perry.

  I was smiling as I faced my officers once more. I handed one of the extracts to each of them. ‘There you go, lads,’ I exclaimed. ‘The whole bloody world, me included, thought that Holmes disposed of all his dodgy businesses after he was shot, all the stuff that was linked to the drugs trade, the prostitution, the protection, the money laundering. But he didn’t; he simply transferred them to his kids, and nobody noticed. We thought he’d gone away, but he hasn’t.’

  ‘So where’s Peter?’ Martin asked.

  ‘That’s one question, but we’re cooking by gas here, lads, so let’s see if we can answer another first.’ I glanced at Jim, and took out my mobile. ‘Mind if I make a call?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  I found McFaul’s number and called it, then jumped on him when he picked up. ‘Ciaran, Bob Skinner. I need to know something. The Seagull Hotel: I know there’s no CCTV coverage inside, but what about the car park?’

  ‘That’s the second thing we checked,’ he replied. ‘Yes, there’s a camera outside, but it’s no great help. People come and go all night, it’s poorly lit and the coverage isn’t complete.’

  ‘Be that as it may, can you access the tapes?’

  ‘There aren’t any. It records on to a computer hard disk, stores automatically for two weeks then deletes, a day at a time.’

  ‘In that case we’re within the window. Don’t get your hopes up, but I’d like you to look at the night we’re interested in for the following vehicle: a black VW Golf GTI, registration number L712FTG. See what you get.’

  ‘I’ll put people on it. Is this just a kite you’re flying, Bob?’

  ‘Some might call it that; I’d call it a fucking jumbo jet. Make sure they’re your best people.’

  When I finished, Jim Glossop was beaming. ‘This sounds like proper police work,’ he said.

  ‘And we’re not done yet.’

  ‘In that case, I did this as well.’ He handed me a third photocopy. ‘It’s an extract of the father’s birth certificate. His parents were Peter Holmes, and Alafair Hastings. That shows you where the children’s names came from. Will that be useful too?’

  ‘It might be,’ I told him, ‘where we’re going with this. It could give me an edge. Thanks, mate; till the next time.’ I walked back out into the sunlight, my faithful followers close behind.

  ‘Where is next, boss?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘For you, lad, back to the office. I need you to try to pin down Peter Hastings McGrew, in case I can’t find him by other means. He’s ex-army, but they don’t know where he is. You’ve got his date of birth, so start with the DSS; they’ll have his national insurance number and a contributions record. It might take you straight to him, but if not, go to British Telecom, and look for subscribers with that name. His car’s taxed, so it should be insured. By which company? Find out. Then there’s the electoral registers…’ I stopped; he nodded. ‘I’ll drop you at the office,’ I told him, ‘then Andy and I will go to the Murrayfield. I need to pay another visit to young Mr Drysalter. There’s something I have to ask him, and he might even know where Peter is, save us some time. He should be back in the land of the half awake by now.’

  He was, but not much more than that; his eyes were still heavy from sedation. The doctor on duty had been hesitant about letting us see him, indeed he’d refused at first, then relented when I’d threatened to call Mr Jacobs. ‘Don’t be too long,’ he said. ‘The man’s having a hard time. We have to move his knees every so often, and you can imagine, with the fractures, that’s a painful process.’

  ‘I hope the physios aren’t Hearts supporters,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh no,’ Derek Drysalter sighed when we walked into his room. ‘Not again. Look, whatever you say, I’m not changing my statement.’ The nursing staff had him out of bed, but on a chair with his legs in huge hinged splints, propped on stools and supported by pillows. It was the best they could do, but it didn’t look close to comfortable.

  I sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at him. ‘I don’t care about your fucking statement, Derek,’ I told him. ‘Anyway, you’d be wasting your time if you did change it, and ours, for we’d never get a conviction against the guy who worked you over. All I want is the answer to one simple question. When you found out that Alafair was planning an away trip while you were off on international duty, did you go crying to anyone?
Specifically, did you go crying to your father-in-law?’ I leaned forward. ‘Don’t lie to me on this, Derek. Don’t even let that idea cross your befuddled mind. You’re not important. This is. What future you have left could ride on you telling me the truth right now.’

  He turned his head away, looked out of the window and muttered something.

  ‘I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Yes!’ he cried out. ‘Yes I did. I phoned Perry.’

  I moved round to face him ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him Alafair was doin’ my head in, and I asked him, please, if he’d fucking talk to her.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He told me to leave it with him, that was all.’

  ‘How long have you and Alafair been married?’ I asked.

  ‘Just over a year.’

  ‘How long had you known her before that?’

  ‘Seven or eight months.’

  ‘Did she tell you right away who her father was?’

  ‘No. I didn’t even know she had a father. She told me she’d been brought up by her mother, and that she was dead. She never told me about him till after the wedding. He’d just moved into his new house.’ He snorted. ‘House? Private nursing home, more like. She took me up there one day, in the close season, and introduced me to him. Poor bastard; spoon-fed by the one guy, lifted and turned and all his tubes changed by the other. He’s game, though, Perry. He’s still got a smile about him.’

  ‘Do you see him often?’

  He nodded. ‘I go there about once a month, just to say hello. I feel sorry for him. I take him videos of the Hibs games; the club films them all, for training. At first both of us went, but lately it’s just been me. I think he and Alafair fell out about something.’

  ‘Has he ever told you how he wound up in his wheelchair?’

  ‘No, but Alafair did. She said that a business rival tried to kill him.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I murmured. ‘And did she tell you what happened to that so-called rival?’

  ‘Yes, your lot shot him, didn’t they?’

  ‘Well now, that’s not exactly true, but never mind. Tell me, Derek,’ I continued, ‘when did things start to go wrong between you and her?’

  ‘Oh,’ he drawled, lazily, ‘it must have taken all of a couple of months. She started to complain about being left on her own when I had to train, then when I was away on Scotland trips. After that it was my gambling, although she never minded when I took her to the casino. I know why that was now. Her and Tony bloody Manson.’ He frowned. ‘When I get back on my feet…’

  ‘You’ll what? Derek, these people are in a different world from you. What you should do when you get back on your feet is go and take a coaching qualification, or get a nice job as a TV pundit. You got off with your life. Leave it at that.’

  He made a derisive noise. ‘Hmmph! That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘It’s easy because I don’t want to be there when they fish you out of the sea. I don’t want to be walking past those new offices at the west end wondering which one you’re underneath.’ I felt a burst of real sympathy for the poor naive lad. ‘You’re in an alien world, mate. You’re mixed up with some very bad people. You’ve already seen what Manson can do to people who upset him. Well, let me explain this to you in football terms. Tony’s a first division player, sure, but Perry, your wife’s old man, he is premier league.’

  He stared at me, wide-eyed, and then laughed in my face. ‘Perry? You’re kidding. He’s a property developer.’

  ‘Yes, and Mussolini was an MI5 agent: so what? Derek, you must have friends in newspapers.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, you get one of them… the Saltire would probably be the best source… to let you see its file on Perry, the stuff they’ve printed and the stuff they can’t.’ I stopped. ‘Do it if you can be bothered, but Perry isn’t the reason I’m here. You’ve answerd one of my questions. This is the other. Where can I find your brother-in-law?’

  He blinked and shook his head, as if he was trying to clear it. ‘He’s in fucking Swindon, and so’s my sister, and so are their kids. But what’s Jamie got to do with any of this?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about him, Derek. I meant your wife’s brother.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, man? Alafair doesn’t have a brother.’

  ‘Oh, but she does.’

  ‘Then I have never met him, and she’s never mentioned him. Neither has Perry. And that’s the God’s honest truth.’ It was, too. He was beginning to realise how far out of his depth he was, and he was scared. ‘Look, go away, please,’ he begged.

  ‘We will,’ I said. ‘But you don’t want to be on your own. Do you have parents?’

  He nodded. ‘My mum and dad. They live in Falkirk; that’s where I started out. They’re just ordinary people, though.’

  ‘So are you, Derek.’ He really was a sad figure. ‘Shame, but that’s how it is now. You want my advice? Stick close to your folks, and to your football club; they’re the only ones who’ll look after you. Forget you ever knew the crew you’ve been mixing with.’

  Martin and I left him to it. The DC said nothing until we were out in the car park. There he ventured, ‘Sorry, sir, but where are we on this?’

  ‘Wait till we make our next call,’ I told him. ‘If I’m right, it’ll become clear then. Fettes first, though.’

  We headed back to the office. When we got there, McGuire was looking more downhearted than I’d seen him. ‘I’m getting nowhere, boss.’ I hadn’t expected that we would need his research, but now that we did, I wasn’t too surprised by what he told me. ‘Peter McGrew’s not on the phone, his NI contributions are in arrears, and he’s not registered to vote anywhere that I’ve found. He’s vanished.’

  There was no good news from Newcastle either, but there was a note on my desk from Fred Leggat passing on a message from, of all people, Tony Manson, letting me know that Marlon Watson’s funeral had been set for the following afternoon, a burial in Seafield Cemetery.

  It was almost lunchtime, but I wasn’t hungry. I sent the boys off to eat, then called Alison. ‘Fate is on my side,’ I told her. ‘It doesn’t want me to get on that helicopter.’ When I told her what had come in the way, she understood; she knew it was my practice to attend the funerals of murder victims in cases I was working.

  As it happened, it didn’t matter. ‘Fate’s working for you on two fronts,’ she said. ‘The Met Office have given the North Sea operators a bad weather warning for Wednesday, and possibly Thursday as well. All routine flights to platforms have been cancelled.’

  ‘I can smell another weekend on the water looming up for us.’

  She laughed. ‘I thought that was on the cards anyway. I’ve been expecting you to take me looking at boats.’

  ‘We’ve got four years to wait, remember, but I suppose we could start with something small.’ What a difference a day made. Less than twenty-four hours before I hadn’t been joking.

  She went all Robert Burns on me. ‘ Nae man can tether time or tide ,’ she quoted. ‘When I see you try, I’ll stop believing that, but not before.’

  I couldn’t come up with a poetic counter. ‘Until then you could take up golf,’ I suggested.

  ‘You’ll roast me on a spit first,’ she replied, cheerfully. ‘How did Lowell’s tip play out?’ she asked.

  ‘Pure gold, my love, pure gold.’

  ‘Stop calling me that, it’s unsettling. I’m glad you’re still moving forward, for I’m bloody stuck. If you were being objective, you’d have removed me from the investigation by now.’

  ‘Alastair Grant would love me to do that,’ I chuckled. ‘He can wait, though. You just need a bit of good fortune. Tell you what, you can swap Hugh Grant’s kid brother for McGuire if you like. He’s my lucky charm just now. Cherchez la femme indeed.’

  As I hung up, I felt the first pangs of hunger. There was still time to go up to the big boys’ dining
room. That seemed like a good idea, but just as I rose from my chair, my mobile sounded.

  No preliminaries. ‘I’ve got your car, sir,’ Ciaran McFaul announced. ‘It’s a shit camera, but there’s a clear shot of it arriving at eleven twenty-three, and leaving eleven minutes later. The driver’s a lean guy, and judging by his height against the vehicle, he’s around six feet. There is no chance of an identification, though. He’s wearing a black garment with a hood, SAS-style.’

  ‘That figures. Thanks, Ciaran.’

  ‘I should be thanking you,’ he said. ‘This is our investigation you’re working on. I want to be involved from now on, sir.’ He sounded serious. I sensed that I might be on the way to being sandwiched between two warring chief constables, but there was still the major problem of the earlier leak.

  I stalled him. ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘What’s to think about? You know who the man is, don’t you?’

  ‘I know who owns the car,’ I admitted, ‘but… Look, the same man is most probably responsible for ordering a murder here. I’m still staking a prior claim to him.’

  ‘I should be there, nonetheless,’ he insisted.

  When I thought about it he was right, but not on procedural grounds. He had information and if he took it into his own inquiry, might word not get back to the other side, as quickly as it had before? But what if McFaul was the leak himself? Shit!

  I made a decision; I had to trust somebody. ‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘but this is how it’s going to work. Who’s viewed this recording with you?’

  ‘Nobody,’ he replied. ‘I’m at the hotel now, on my own.’

  ‘Then get in your car and drive straight up here. Come to my office in police headquarters. Come on your own, and don’t tell anyone. When you get here you can phone your boss and tell him that you’ve had a tip about something, anything, I don’t give a fuck what but not this investigation, and that you need to go undercover.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ He laughed, incredulously. ‘He’ll skin me. Why the hell should I do that?’