In Loving Memory

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Detective Inspector Laird here, sir. I have Chief Inspector Jowett of Haddington with me. He is reluctant to give me any assurances about confidentiality.’

  ‘Bring him to me.’ Such was his tone that Honey was tempted to enquire, All of him or just his head? She managed to resist the temptation. Mr Blackhouse was not noted for his sense of humour.

  Honey escorted the chief inspector to the superintendent’s door and left them to sort it out between themselves. She returned to her own desk. Chief Inspector Jowett returned there about thirty minutes later. He had lost some colour and he looked ten years older. ‘It seems that I am to take my briefing from you,’ he said stiffly.

  The opportunity to bully a higher-ranking officer was tempting but she decided to treat him kindly. Anyone who had suffered a mauling from Mr Blackhouse, and their name was legion, would be in need of consideration. Again she offered him a chair and this time he took it, lowering himself into it gently as if suspecting a trap.

  Honey painted a picture of Dougal Walsh. ‘He is dangerous,’ she said. ‘He will be armed. And he’s quick with a knife. We want him for two killings. But we want him alive. If recognized, do not under any circumstances alert him. Arrest him if you can do so safely and – this is important – inconspicuously. If not, or if you can track him to his lair, this office is to be advised and we will do it by the book. That is very much to be preferred. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You may have difficulty in getting your men to watch for him without risking word getting around. If word gets back to him that the police are taking a special interest in him, that could spell disaster. However, you were prepared to speak for the discretion of your men, so perhaps we can trust you to walk that particular tightrope?’

  The chief inspector seemed happy to make his escape.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Crime takes notice of the days of the week only so far as opportunities may come or go. Detectives in criminal investigation departments may therefore work much more flexible hours and days than officers on more routine duties. The Lairds, however, having set several enquiries in motion, had little to do but wait.

  The line of enquiry that Honey had considered most hopeful turned out to be, for the moment, a dead end. Planning officials, asked whether they had been consulted about planning approval for an oil refinery, revealed a variety of reactions – amusement from those whose territories were already fully developed, interest from those whose areas might benefit from such a development and blank denial from the rest. It was a fairly safe assumption that one of the latter group was dissembling, but that would not be unusual. Planning consents dealing with major industrial developments were as good as huge sums of money in the bank, so the applications were always considered to be slightly more confidential than the sex lives of the councillors, and considerably more important.

  Signs of spring were showing in the garden, but the weather gods seemed to have read a different book. The only relief from wind-driven rain was when it turned to short-lived snow. They stayed at home over the weekend. Honey nursed Minka while typing one-handed on her laptop, drafting notes on possible lines of enquiry. Sandy spent much time dozing in his favourite chair, sometimes somnolently taking over nursing duty; but Honey was fairly sure that he too was sifting through the facts and fancies.

  On the Sunday evening, while they were watching a totally uninteresting drama on the television, the phone rang. Honey lifted the receiver. The call had been placed from a public telephone. She and Sandy were sitting very close together in the big armchair, so he could hear every word. ‘Mrs Laird?’ said a voice. It was clearly articulated with only a trace of the Scottish central belt in it, but the voice had a nasal, metallic twang. ‘Mrs Laird, this is a very friendly warning. Your present enquiries are likely to be very bad for your health. You must, you really must, let up on your enquiries. If you just drop them you’ll attract all the wrong sort of attention. Here’s what you must report—’

  Honey was about to break in and ask which enquiries. To know whether the voice was referring to Haddington or to the site for the refinery or to the murder of Jem Tanar or any of the other lines of enquiry might have been enlightening. But at that moment Sandy took the phone out of her hand and broke the connection. ‘Never reply to that sort of message,’ he said. ‘Any answer is an acknowledgement, but if they can’t make the threat they won’t act on it.’

  ‘Next time,’ Honey said, ‘I’ll decide when to hang up.’

  ‘All right. Just so long as you remember my words of wisdom.’

  Honey only had to turn her head to be in a position to give him a kiss on the side of the nose. ‘I love you when you’re masterful, but please confine it to the bedroom. You could at least have listened to what threat or inducement was being offered.’

  ‘It would have been the same old vague, ominous threats of unspecific but terrible consequences. Settle down and watch the play.’

  ‘You watch it,’ Honey said, ‘if you’re mindless enough.’

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Honey put out her hand and withdrew it again. After eight rings the answering machine kicked in. They had never put a personalized message on to it, so it was the standard recording that invited the caller to speak after the tone. Then the call-box noises, followed by the same voice, or one very similar, came over the speaker. The voice was still dispassionate, even slightly amused. ‘Don’t hang up again,’ it said. ‘Remember, your baby could have been inside.’

  Honey exchanged a puzzled look with her husband. The explanation arrived on the heels of the words. There was a muffled sound from the front of the house and orange light filtered through the curtains. A motorbike pulled noisily away. The light grew and alarmed voices penetrated from the street. Sandy said, ‘Fire!’ and dashed for the door. Honey followed her instincts and stayed with her baby but she grabbed up the phone. The voice was still talking on it. She found her mobile and keyed the emergency services.

  Once the fire service was alerted she had time to swallow the lump in her throat and sift her struggling thoughts. Sandy was the next priority. The curtains were negligible protection, but they gave her a small and precious amount of reassurance. She peeped between them. On the brick-paved parking area that had replaced most of the insignificant front garden, the Range Rover was ablaze. She could feel the heat even through the new double glazing. Sandy seemed to have vanished. Heart in mouth, she decided that he could not possibly have been consumed already. Then she realized that Sandy’s car, which had been parked beside the Range Rover, had also vanished. Her mind zigzagged. Had he set off in pursuit of the perpetrators? Then, with a surge of relief, she recognized his car, untidily parked across somebody’s driveway on the other side of the street.

  The first fire engine arrived and began to coat everything with foam. Traffic was backing up in all directions. Flames were replaced by smoke and smells. Drivers began to U-turn, making much use of horns.

  She had alerted the police. They seemed to be taking their time. Then she saw that two police Traffic cars had already arrived and Sandy was talking to the officers.

  She waited, disconsolate and alone. The world had gone slightly out of focus. The room, usually so comforting, looked strange. It was as if each decision, lovingly made to assemble the environment they craved, had been minutely wrong. She spent her days sorting out the tangles and deciding the rights and wrongs and the culpability of crimes directed against others, but when she herself was the victim there was a shift in perspective. The rules had been broken. Sandy’s had been, she conceded mentally, the sensible action – to save the one car that was not burning. All the same, she felt indignant that the car destroyed was hers, much the more expensive and just when she had got everything the way she wanted it. Some of her favourite CDs were stacked in the multi-changer. Her Barbour and green wellingtons had just been returned by hand of the Northern motorcyclist who was acting as courier, and with the manufacturer Hunter
in liquidation the boots might be difficult to replace.

  As always in times of stress, once the first panic was over her tidy mind began to arrange the future into a sensible pattern. She phoned her father. Having a rich father might sometimes be a drag but more often it could afford a huge relief. Happily, her father was at home. He came on the line just as Sandy, looking both drawn and soot-stained, entered the room. She studied him carefully but he had not lost any skin or hair.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, speaking as much to Sandy as to her father, ‘we’ve been threatened and to back it up somebody just fired the Range Rover. We don’t know what might follow, so Sandy and I will probably go to a hotel. Minka would be safer with you, with gardeners and gamekeepers all over the place. Could you send somebody through to collect her and June and all her chattels?’ She raised her eyebrows at Sandy but he was already nodding.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said her father.

  ‘And my wellies were in the back. There’s an old pair in the downstairs cloakroom. Would you have somebody add them to the load? Next, the Range Rover’s a write-off. If you’re still of the same mind . . .?’

  ‘No problem,’ said her father. ‘I can use one of the other cars until I can put my hand on the four-by-four that I really want. I’ll send the Range Rover through at the same time. That way the driver can come back with the rest of the menagerie.’

  ‘I’ll pass on the insurance money when it comes.’

  When they disconnected, Sandy said, ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Allowing him a little time to get organized, an hour, maybe more.’

  ‘You’d better break it to June as soon as she comes in. I’ll try to arrange for a couple of armed officers to stay here, just in case.’

  ‘Fine. Then book us into a hotel.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Then come and tell me what you want to bring with you, so that I know what to pack. And bring the tape out of the answering machine. Somebody may be able to tell something from it.’

  ‘Slow down,’ Sandy said. ‘You’re doing very well but you’re going hyperactive again. I suggest that you gather your wits and phone in a short report.’

  ‘The story of my life,’ Honey said gloomily. ‘Is the front of the house much marked?’

  ‘Nothing that won’t scrub off,’ said Sandy. ‘The insurance will cover it.’

  ‘I take it that nobody was injured?’

  ‘I think Humphrey Blake next door messed his pants. He can claim off our insurance if he doesn’t mind explaining how it happened.’

  *

  A room was reserved for them at a comfortable but not extravagant hotel, although it was after midnight before they were able to retire to it.

  June had arrived at the house in a state of shock after seeing and smelling the aftermath of the fire, but once reassured as to the safety of Minka, and then of her employers, she took the news that she was to return to Perthshire without complaint. It would mean working under her mother’s jaundiced eye, but on the other hand she would once again have almost a monopoly of both Minka and Pippa. No doubt the presence on the estate of several keepers, as many gardeners and two handyman/chauffeurs (not all of them ancient and married) was an added inducement.

  Mr Potterton-Phipps arrived after little more than the hour, driving the promised Range Rover but accompanying a Volvo estate. By that time the burned Range Rover had been removed to the police garage for study and only the scorched brick paving and a smell of burnt rubber and plastic remained as a sad reminder of what had been. A mountain of baby clothes and equipment took up much of the Volvo’s huge carrying capacity. Pippa’s bed filled one of the rear passenger’s seats. Mr Potterton-Phipps, travelling beside his chauffeur, refused to have her at his feet so she occupied her bed for the trip. June took Minka, in her travelling cot, on her knees. As the car drove off, Honey could see Pippa’s anxious eyes reflecting the headlamps of a passing taxi and she sent the dog telepathic messages of reassurance, that this was not a permanent parting or removal.

  Sandy’s attention was given over to answering questions from Headquarters, provoked by Honey’s first report. Whoever had threatened them and fired the Range Rover might be very interested in any such discussions so he made his answers very guarded, referring their colleagues to Mr Blackhouse if they wanted more details. This, of course, entailed a report in person to Mr Blackhouse, who lived halfway across the city. It was left to Honey, after the departure of her father and the rest of her family, to gather up everything that they would or might need in exile and to prepare for the two armed officers who were to occupy the house in their absence. She packed clothes. When the supply of suitcases ran out, cardboard cartons were called into use. She familiarized herself with the new Range Rover. This appeared to be even more luxurious than its predecessor and the colour, she thought, was quite acceptable though it was difficult to judge under the artificial lights. She emptied the ashtray and loaded luggage, files and computers, all this while reassuring solicitous neighbours that she and Sandy were unharmed and were not making a permanent evacuation.

  Back indoors there wasn’t time for fear or regret. It remained to get the house ready for strangers. Guns were already in the gun-safe, which itself was in a lockable cupboard behind a solid oak door. It was joined by all the wines and spirits in the house. Grateful as she was for the provision of the armed officers, she was not so grateful as to give them free access to the carefully chosen and expensively purchased drink. The beer, they could have and welcome.

  The two officers turned up before she was finished, in plain clothes and a car which, she was pleased to note, was just the kind that she might have hired in a hurry. They comprised a heavily built constable and a slim and rather effeminate sergeant who was undoubtedly male and turned out later to be proficient in every one of the martial arts. They appreciated the arrangements that had been made for them, but Honey made it clear that if there were any damages to Chief Inspector Laird’s house, their guns would not save them.

  She then took them exhaustively through all the idiosyncrasies of the house: the timer on the boiler and who to call if it leaked again; how to work the microwave and the dishwasher; how to programme the DVD recorder; the fact that two channels on the main TV were swapped over on the remote control and all the other little quirks that occur in the best regulated houses. The penultimate lecture was on the food in the two freezers; which they might eat and which were to be considered sacrosanct. In the event of incoming phone calls, every effort was to be made to check the identity of the caller and only those with impeccable identities were to be given her or Sandy’s mobile number.

  Sandy returned at last. Later, he excused himself for his tardiness by explaining that he had had to await the return of Mr and Mrs Blackhouse from the theatre and that, after some prompting from Mrs Blackhouse, he had been invited inside for coffee. He described Mrs Blackhouse as a charmer, which Honey already knew. He was about to start the briefing of the two visitors all over again until Honey told him, through gritted teeth, that she had said all that and she was now moving out with every intention of going to bed in the hotel. And, she added, she was not going to bed in a strange hotel with the door unlocked. Sandy wound up his peroration and they got on the road.

  *

  Lothian and Borders encompasses a lot of territory, so Sandy was quite accustomed to sleeping away from home, but Honey still found going to bed, and even more so getting up, strangely unencumbered with no dog to walk and no chores to do, as rather foreign. As a consequence, they arrived at HQ in unusually good time in the morning. Honey, seeing her new car in daylight for the first time, decided that her father was being unduly picky – or, at least, that the colour would stop making her feel bilious after a month or two.

  Sandy had an office to himself, which he had embellished with a few carefully chosen watercolours. For the sake of confidentiality, they had agreed to share this room and his desk for as long as they were working in harness. Honey visited her own desk to collect whatever h
ad come in over the weekend and then settled down while Sandy bustled away to make a fuller report of the current status quo and to deposit the answering machine tape with Forensics in the hope that somebody could extract some extra information about people or places. Working on the wrong side of the desk gave her inadequate knee-room but she could use her laptop where the designer had intended – on her lap.

  Police motorcyclists must have been buzzing about all night, or else rendezvous had been arranged between Traffic cars of different forces, because a lot of material had accumulated. Much of it, however, was negative. The post mortem examination on the dead girl, for instance, had been completed. The report ran to many pages without revealing more than that she had died of a single stab wound, that the wound appeared to have been inflicted by the knife that had been left in the body and that she had suffered from a facial blemish – but had otherwise been in perfect health. Her skin was otherwise unmarked, by which was meant that there were no signs of ligatures or violence. As already reported, she had died during the act of sex or very soon afterwards, prior to which she had not been a virgin but nor had she been unduly promiscuous. Bodily fluids, presumably those of her killer, had been recovered from the body and would provide DNA evidence.

  The other autopsy, that of Jem Tanar, had also concluded. He had suffered three stab wounds; any one of which might have been fatal and all of which might well have been inflicted by the same knife as was believed to have killed the girl, but that could not be confirmed. He had been a user of hard drugs although at the time of his death he had been almost clean. Apart from lingering traces of a sexually transmitted disease, the report said little else that could not have been said of a thousand others.

  The fee-paying school attended by Cheryl Abernethy had been traced. Honey’s spirits rose, only to fall again. The school was on the outskirts of Glasgow, close to a busy commuter railway station, so that only the vaguest approximation of the family’s location could be deduced. The school records had been transferred to computer by an incompetent and only partially literate typist and recovering them was proving to be laborious and sometimes a matter of guesswork. No Abernethy family had so far been found on either side of the Firth of Forth.