by Val Penny
John agreed and rang Arjun Mansoor's doorbell. The door was opened on the second ring by a short woman in traditional Indian dress. Her expression said it all. She had certainly not expected a visit from Scotland's finest, and seemed less than delighted to see Jane and John. She did not appear to speak fluent English, but did recognise their police identification. She turned and shouted “Arjun” and something neither Jane nor Hamilton understood, but Jane guessed she knew what the woman meant. It was not complimentary.
Arjun Mansoor came to the door. His regular, handsome features broke into a wide smile that did not reach his eyes. He graciously held out his hand to John.
“We meet again, Detective Hamilton, and so soon. Please come in. And your lovely colleague. I was going to phone you. My wife will be happy to get you some tea.” His instruction to the little woman sounded abrupt. Jane was not surprised that she turned on her heels and stomped away.
“Detective Sergeant Renwick, Mr Mansoor.”
She held out her hand. Mansoor ignored the formal greeting and raised her hand to his lips to kiss it. Jane whipped it away and scowled. Mansoor smiled implacably, and indicated that the detectives should go into the living room to the right. It was a bright, neat room, lusciously decorated.
“Mr Mansoor, this is my boss, Detective Sergeant Renwick,” mumbled John as Arjun waved them through. He smiled warmly at John, but now completely ignored Jane.
“I was just about to contact you, Detective Hamilton. My car has been returned. It was borrowed by my friend. I did not know it had been borrowed. It was not stolen, my mistake. But it has been damaged. I believe my friend bumped into a bollard or something.”
“Why did you not phone us yesterday?” Jane asked. “You drove it home and you have left it parked in your street overnight.” She ignored the bewildered look on Arjun's face. “You drove it home from the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art in Belford Road. Can you tell us how it got there, and your friend's name? Is it Charlotte Fowler or Edna Hope, perhaps?”
Speaking to John, Arjun replied, “Your young lady colleague is mistaken. What has Edna Hope to do with this? You know I thought my car was stolen, Detective Hamilton. I told you. After my friend returned it, I had some business to attend to and drove home via Belford Road. Such a lovely part of the city.”
Jane ignored the slight and John's snide grin in her direction. He was clearly amused by Mansoor making it clear that he preferred to speak to him than to a woman, despite her higher rank. “The car is not registered to you, Mr Mansoor,” she said. She would deal with John Hamilton later. “Could you confirm your movements yesterday? My colleague, Detective Constable Hamilton, will take notes of our discussion.”
Mansoor shrugged.
“Okay, John?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Arjun's detailed account of his day did not accord with Jane's personal knowledge, but she chose not to contradict him immediately.
“Mr Mansoor, the vehicle is registered to someone called Charlotte Fowler. Does that name mean anything to you?” she asked.
“Previous owner. The change of ownership must not be through yet. I took the car in part exchange for a new Freelander and I am driving the old car for a while until my new Audi arrives. I often drive cars from the showroom. You can check.”
“Oh, we will.”
“I run Thomson's Top Cars. We deal in new and used quality cars from Land Rovers to Bentleys. They are lovely vehicles in my showroom.”
“Ian Thomson's business? Really? That would be how you know Edna Hope.”
“Of course. Ian and Edna are valued and dear friends.”
Jane did not think that Edna had appeared to be so friendly yesterday, but she held her counsel.
Mansoor wittered on. “No, I did not know Billy so well. I dealt mainly with Edna and Ian in relation to the business. Still, desperately sad for Edna about Billy's death. Edna is devastated. So sudden and unexpected.”
“Is that an entire account of your movements yesterday, Mr Mansoor?”
“Oh yes, dear lady, quite complete.”
No mention of meeting Edna. Jane's comment about the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art was only enough to make Mansoor aware that she knew more than she had said. He was lying, or at best being economical with the truth. Jane wanted to know why. Keeping her powder dry, she decided to say no more at this stage and do a bit more investigating before questioning Mansoor further. After asking him to read and sign the record of the statement, they went outside to examine the damage to the vehicle. It was all to the front and driver's side of the car.
“I will require crime scene investigators come to examine and photograph the car. Depending on what they find we may need to take it for forensic examination,” Jane informed Mansoor. “You must not touch or drive the car again before they have completed their work.”
Arjun shook John firmly by the hand as Jane and John took their leave.
“Thank you for your help, Detective Hamilton,” he gushed. “You do not need to do any more, my dear lady. I have my car back. I will just need a crime number for the insurance for the damage.”
“I will be the judge of that, Mr Mansoor,” Jane said firmly. “You said there had been no crime. Your friend just borrowed the car. But it has been damaged. If your account of your day is accurate then neither you nor I know how or where the harm was caused to your car. It may be more appropriate for you simply to make a claim on your insurance than for us to issue a crime number, especially if you are correct and there was no crime. However, as a crime was reported, I need to have the vehicle examined before either of us can make a judgement as to whether you might qualify for a crime number.” Jane turned her back and walked away.
Jane did not know why she decided to keep Mansoor's meeting with Edna under her hat. Somehow, she felt it was important. Arjun Mansoor shut the door behind them. Only then did Jane realise the little woman had not brought any tea for them. She admired that little victory by Mrs Mansoor.
Back at their car, she turned to Hamilton. “John, stay here and wait by Mr Mansoor's car, will you, until I get uniform and CSI over here? And I'll call Samantha Hutchens to take photos inside and out of the car. When you get back to the station, I'll also need you to check the CCTV cameras between the Gallery of Modern Art and here. Cover the period from 1330 yesterday to 0730 today, will you? And get Colin or Mel to help you. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. You can do that after the briefing this morning. I'll need our car keys too. One of the uniforms can bring you back. That man was lying, and I want to know about what and why. I'll see you when you get back.”
Hunter was grey when he walked into the briefing room, coffee in one hand, copies of his statement in the other. Only Jane Renwick (who had apparently already interviewed a car theft victim) looked truly smart when the murder enquiry team gathered. Most others were unkempt and chugging caffeine. Hamilton was back, paper bag on his desk. He washed down a couple of doughnuts with his coffee. Bear was chomping his way through a bacon roll. Colin Reid had an apple. Did nobody have breakfast at home any more? Hunter yawned.
He noticed Tim Myerscough try to slip in discreetly at the back of the room. This boy was not his father. Sir Peter Myerscough was never discreet, Hunter thought. Bear caught Tim's eye and waved his half-chewed butty at him by way of a greeting. Tim smiled and moved towards him. Handsome face despite the broken nose, Hunter thought.
Jane made it clear she needed to speak to Hunter, but Mackay called the room to order before she could do so. It would have to wait. Mackay introduced Tim. He was sycophantic, and embarrassed the young DC greatly before asking Hunter to start the meeting.
Hunter Wilson was exhausted. He had not slept well since Billy Hope's murder, but he stood up and stared at the back of the room as he delivered his information. He dealt first with the woman's post mortem. He explained her injuries and the cause of death: hypothermia following blunt force trauma. He said she was dumped, and, as yet, nobody knew her name. They
would have to get a police artist to produce a picture they could circulate. Photographs would be gruesome.
Hunter spoke flatly and without emotion. He was too tired to offer a performance. He paused, swept his glance around the room, then proceeded to deal with what he saw at the time of Billy Hope's death. That post mortem would be later this morning. He’d hoped to take Tim Myerscough, but Mackay allocated Bear. Hunter saw his only hope of fun today was that Meera was wielding the knife. Maybe he would ask her out this evening.
When Hunter came to the end of his statement, Mackay assigned DS Jane Renwick to go to interview Billy Hope's widow, and instructed DC Mel Grant to go with her. Mel caught Hunter's eye and he knew she was wondering if the post mortem examination would have been a better choice. Jane indicated that she would need to catch up with him later.
Update over, Hunter watched his colleagues disperse to various duties and desks to complete typing up statements and continue enquiries. He was anxious the car that drove into Billy should be traced quickly, and wished he could be sure of the full registration number. He racked his brains, but it would have to wait. The post mortem would not.
***
Jane and Mel left to go to pay their condolences to Mrs Hope before they tried to get some answers from her. Jane drove in silence. Would Edna's version of events accord with what she knew?
They pulled up in front of a modest semi-detached home in West Mains Road. It was not obviously the home of a crime baron. There were two cars in the driveway. Neither was silver. Neither was a 4X4.
Jane pushed the bell and a young man came to the door. His jeans were fashionably ripped and worn low on his hips. His brown hair was lank, his acne bad. Jane remembered those days and felt for him. His expression was not friendly.
Jane introduced herself and Mel, and asked if they might speak to Mrs Hope.
“Frank, Frankie who is it?” a woman called out.
“Fuzz, Mam. Lady Fuzz. Want to talk about Pop, I s'pose.”
“Well, let them in and put the kettle on. They might know something that will help.” The woman's voice broke and sobs echoed into the hall. “Offer them a cuppa, son.”
“Tea?” Frankie asked, nodding them into the living room.
The detectives thanked him and followed the direction indicated. A large woman was dabbing her eyes as she sat on the sofa opposite them. The room they entered was too narrow to hold the large, old, brown three-piece suite that took up most of the floor space. A fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air, adding to the oppressive feeling. The windows at both ends of the room were shrouded with dark brown curtains with a dated floral pattern and matching pelmets. Mel shuddered.
“Mrs Hope, I am so sorry to have to meet you under these tragic circumstances,” Jane began. “May I offer my condolences and those of my colleagues. It must have been a terrible shock for you. Our DCI is taking personal charge of this case.”
The greasy lad who had opened the front door snorted contemptuously from the doorway. The woman on the sofa began to wail loudly.
“And we only just learned our Frankie's to be a dad,” she said.
“Congratulations,” said Mel. Frankie shrugged. She thought that was a strange response.
“And poor Billy will never see the bairn. Oh my God! Poor, poor Billy. But the bairn will no' go without love, eh, Frankie?” Edna sobbed.
“Can you think of anybody with whom your husband had an argument or disagreement recently? Anything that might help us?” Jane asked quietly, returning to the subject in hand.
“Did your husband have enemies or former business associates who bore him a grudge?” Mel added, looking at the woman intently.
“Billy? No, everybody loved Billy, dear. Generous to a fault, my Billy. Always helping folk lending to the needy, even my wee nephew, Jamie. His pop's away because of your lot.” She shook her head angrily and started weeping again.
“Mam, that's just mental,” Frankie yelled from the doorway. “Uncle Ian robbed a bank and Jamie's a toe-rag. And you know Pop's not all sweetness and light.” He snorted as he walked in with two mugs of tea and handed them to the detectives. His mother grimaced at him and handed him her empty mug. Jane and Mel accepted the proffered mugs, both trying not to let Edna or Frankie see them grin in response to Frankie's outburst.
“You know of someone your father argued with recently, Frankie?” Mel said calmly.
“Yes. But only two or three… hundred.” The young man smirked at his mother and pulled up his jeans, but not enough to cover his underwear.
“Can you remember why, or even any names?”
“You don't know, Frankie. Be quiet. Say nothing.” Edna glowered at her son.
“No, Ma. Why should I? Why should I, if it helps?” Frankie whined. “Pop had a wee lending business with his pals, but they didn't all agree about what to do with those that didn't pay their dues. You know that, Mam. Be honest. It can't hurt. Pop's dead now, anyway.”
“Mrs Hope, Frankie is right. Did your husband lend money? Sell drugs? What do you know that would help us?” Mel urged.
“My husband was not always an easy man to like, Detective. But he was my husband. Yes, he did business. Yes, he had arguments. Yes, he had enemies. But he always tried to help those who needed help, giving them a hand up. I loved him. Nobody wanted him dead. I'm sure of that.”
“Aye, very good, Mam. So he did. A right wee Santa Claus, my pop. Eh? Or maybe a snowman?” Frankie snorted again.
“Mrs Hope, we have to know. Who were the business associates with whom your husband recently disagreed?”
Frankie nodded at his mother. Jane noted all three of the names the woman mentioned. Two she was not surprised by: the other one startled her. She could understand why Ian Thomson and Arjun Mansoor might have had run-ins with Billy Hope, but what was John Hamilton's name doing on the list? Did he have financial problems that meant he had had to borrow from Billy? Jane would have to find out what was going on with John that put him on a list with these low-lives.
She caught Mel's gaze but the imperceptible shake of her head prevented them from voicing that surprise. Discussion would have to wait.
Hunter introduced Bear to Meera. The huge detective constable towered above the petite pathologist. His hand engulfed hers as he shook it. Hunter was so happy she was doing Billy's post mortem that he almost looked forward to it. He hoped they would at last go for a curry later.
Bear seemed excited too. It was the first examination he had ever attended and he was pleased to be there to witness the action. Hunter doubted that the young DC's enthusiasm would last for long.
“Funny smell in here, isn't it, Boss?”
“Once smelled, never forgotten, lad.”
The detectives put on white tunics and the other covers required and moved into the examination room where Bear was introduced to Aiden Fraser. The dour Scot nodded at them and signalled for them to stand back from the proceedings. They stood close enough to see what Meera was doing, but far enough away to give the doctors the space they needed. Photographs of the scene of the crime covered her shelf.
“You don't need to confirm the method of killing, or the time of death, Meera. I was right there. I heard the car and saw him hit the deck.”
“Won't take you long to get the case to court then, if you've got the murderer.”
“I didn't say that. I just said I saw it happen.”
Meera looked up at him then turned back to business and began by dictating Billy's personal details and described his clothing and the position of the wounds. His badly-smashed skull figured large in the cause of death. “How can you witness a murder and not know who did it, Inspector?” She smiled at Hunter as she got out the knife to cut the standard Y-shaped incision. Hunter was racking his brains for a clever answer to her question when there was a loud thud beside him as Bear hit the deck.
Shit. Bang goes my bloody curry with Meera again, Hunter thought as he saw the chance of a delicious, cold Cobra beer with her evaporate in front o
f him. He was aware of Meera watching in silence as he brought Bear round sharply. There was no point in getting angry. This workplace was not normal to most people.
“Sorry Meera, I’d better get this boy checked out and then get him home. Will you email your report to me?”
Hunter smiled at her, but he could not hide that he was seriously pissed off with Bear.
“Of course, Hunter. I'll get it to you tomorrow. Perhaps we could have dinner? You do have to eat before then, I presume?”
“Aye, of course I'd love to, but I’d better sort the big guy out first. Can we arrange another time?” Hunter said sourly.
Meera nodded. “That would be nice. I'll look forward to it.”
The two of them bundled Bear out of the mortuary, and got him into the car with some difficulty. Then Hunter turned to Meera and asked her, “Some of the injuries on the mystery woman have come from being hit by a car, right?”
“Possibly. David examined her for me. I will ask him to confirm that and he'll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Meera. I'll see you soon. Come on Bear, you Cupid-killer.”
Meera smiled.
A furious Hunter got into the car with the DC. He rolled down the windows. Despite the cold November afternoon, he thought Bear would benefit from the fresh air.
When he got back to the station, Tim and Rachael, who had been searching DVLA records, had come up with no cars that exactly matched Hunter Wilson's memory of the vehicle that hit Billy. So Hunter was not a happy camper. He would speak to Jane tomorrow.
Hunter decided to knock off early. He had time off in lieu to use up. He had taken it instead of overtime payments, intending to go up North to see his kids. His son, Cameron, was at University in Aberdeen now, while his daughter, Alison, had taken a job in Shetland. He had never got around to making the visit yet. He wasn't sure they had really forgiven him for the divorce from their mother. But Cameron was coming down to a concert soon, and he would catch up with him then.