Every time, he had been brought in for interview. But the man had his own interview technique, as effective in its way as that of the DCC. Whatever the question, however it was put, be it direct or indirect, softly spoken or shouted, Dougie Terry never answered.
That was not to say that he was silent. Throughout most of his interviews he had told jokes; quick gags, one-liners. ‘What’s the difference between parsley and . . .’, McIlhenney recalled, and had to suppress a smile. Occasionally he would lapse into a Chic Murray role. CID records still had a few interview tapes filled with the faultlessly replicated voice of the late, great, mystical Scottish droll.
Looking across the desk at Terry a memory jumped unbidden into the Sergeant’s thoughts.
‘I was driving past a farmhouse, and I ran over a cockerel. So I rang the doorbell and told the farmer’s wife.
‘“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “Can I replace it?”
‘“Fair enough,” she said, “the hens are round the back”.’
Involuntarily, a chuckle escaped from McIlhenney’s lips, making Detective Superintendent Donaldson look round sharply.
Eventually the police had given up asking questions. Whenever the Comedian was implicated, detectives would bring him in, put the allegation to him, switch on the recorder and sit back to enjoy the entertainment. When, occasionally, Terry was fresh out of jokes, he had other talents. One of the CID’s most treasured tapes was known simply as ‘Sinatra’, a flawless forty-five minutes of the Maestro’s best loved songs.
Once the performances were over, Dougie Terry was always released. He knew full well, as did the police, that no criminal case can be laid on the basis of an uncorroborated allegation. Once, Sir James Proud had suggested that he might be charged with wasting police time. ‘How could we?’ Bob Skinner, then Detective Chief Superintendent, had replied. ‘His defence would be that it was time well spent!’
Terry’s unshakeable confidence that there was never a case to answer was based on the fact that the police informants were almost invariably men with short memories. They had not forgotten what had happened on earlier occasions to those who had told tales. Two had been stabbed to death in prison, another slashed and scarred for life, and three more simply beaten senseless.
‘What’ll it be today, gentlemen?’ the Comedian asked as the two policemen took seats at the side of his desk, in his small attic office in Stafford Street, and as his secretary closed the door as she left the room. Without warning, he switched to Chic Murray mode.
‘My doctor asked me the other day, “Are you disturbed by improper thoughts during the night?”
‘“Not at all,” I told him. “I enjoy them, actually.”’
‘Now look . . .’ Donaldson began, but before he could go further he was interrupted by Neil McIlhenney, who reached into a pocket of his overcoat and slapped half-a-dozen large photographs on to the desk, under Terry’s nose.
‘I thought we’d give you a laugh for a change, Dougie,’ he said, with a friendly smile. ‘Take a look at those. See that big black thing? That’s Carole Charles. Remember her? Middle-aged, very attractive woman? Jackie’s wife?
‘Some of these were taken in what was left of Jackie’s showroom, after the fire on Wednesday night; the rest at the post mortem, when they had to cut her open to find out whether she was a man, a woman or just leavings from a barbecue. See there? That’s a good close-up of her jawbone. You can see her teeth.
‘I was at the PM yesterday. It was like watching someone dissect a lump of charcoal. I’m sure you’d have sung your way through it, though.’
Dougie Terry stared wide-eyed at the photographs. Beside McIlhenney, Donaldson heaved and turned away. For a second, the Sergeant thought he was going to be sick.
The ghost of Chic Murray had vanished. Terry turned the awful photographs over and pushed them, face-down, away from him. A sudden pallor had fallen across his broad, chiselled features, and his bright eyes had a shaken look, their confidence gone, for the first time that McIlhenney could recall.
‘All right,’ he said in a quiet flat tone. ‘You’ve made your point. Get on with it.’
‘Who did it?’ asked McIlhenney, directly.
The Comedian stared back at him across the desk, and answered, for the first time in the Sergeant’s career. A question with a question. ‘Do you think that if I knew that I’d be sitting here talking to you bastards?’
‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then, will I? Let me try another. Who’s taken the hump at Jackie Charles lately?’
‘How would I know? And why are you asking me, anyway?’
McIlhenney shook his head. ‘Dougie, you’re new to this game. The idea is that we ask the questions and you answer them.
‘Let’s try again. You are Jackie Charles’ Vicar on Earth. While he ponces about as a fashionable merchant of fashionable motors, you are the general manager of all his downmarket businesses, the five John Jackson Bookmaker betting shops and the taxi businesses. Now, to your knowledge has Jackie upset anyone in those businesses, to the point that they would try to kill him? Straight answer, yes or no, and look me in the eye when you give it, please.’
Terry straightened up in his chair, tugging briefly at the lapels of his Hugo Boss suit. He looked McIlhenney hard in the eye. ‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘Is everything in order in those businesses?’
‘Yes, as far as I know.’
‘You don’t have a betting-shop manager who’s been into the till and is about to be rumbled? Or a taxi controller who’s been creaming off the takings?’
‘No.’
McIlhenney looked sideways at Dave Donaldson. The Superintendent, still white-faced, nodded to him to carry on. ‘This is all very new for us too, Dougie,’ he said, ‘your answering questions like this. We’re not used to believing you. So just to be on the safe side, we’d like to have our experts look at the books and records of the businesses you manage for Jackie Charles.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Terry. ‘If Mr Charles agrees.’
‘He will, though. I mean, we’re investigating his wife’s murder.’ McIlhenney paused. ‘When we do that, Dougie, we’re not going to find that you’ve been at it, are we? It wasn’t you that tried to kill Jackie, was it?’
The man’s jaw clenched. He seemed about to explode. ‘Listen you . . .’
McIlhenney held up a hand. ‘I know. I know. You’re going to say that Jackie Charles is like a brother to you, and anyway, you’re an honest businessman with a professional reputation and all that stuff.
‘In that case, we won’t bother to ask you about all the other things that we know you do for Jackie. There’d be no point in asking if somebody was after a share of the big money to be made out of the minicab business, or if somebody else wanted to take a percentage for funding armed robberies.
‘If we did that, you’d just start telling jokes again, wouldn’t you.’
Dougie Terry, his composure recovered, smiled at McIlhenney and sang the first four lines of ‘My Way’.
The Sergeant applauded, silently. ‘Pitch perfect, Dougie. The voice is as good as ever. Sorry we can’t stay for more. We’re off now, but do us a favour, will you? Make sure that all the books and records of Jackie’s businesses are ready for our people by close of play today.
‘Oh aye, and that includes the details of his property investment company, the one that holds those flats he lets out. Rent books and everything, so we can see what’s occupied and what isn’t. You never know. Damp housing can drive tenants to extreme measures!’
The policemen stood and made to leave. Donaldson was at the door when he turned. ‘I wonder if you’ve considered this, Mr Terry. Hypothetically, of course. If Mr Charles did have criminal connections, and some of them were upset with him, you don’t suppose, do you, that if they found they couldn’t get to the organ-grinder, they’d come after the monkey instead?’ He smiled, but in a way that was more threatening than anything else.
‘Do you know the
words to “Mack the Knife”?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you should add that to your repertoire.’
With McIlhenney at his heels, he stepped out of the office, leaving the Comedian at a loss for a punchline.
17
‘Have you ever gone in for weights and the like, Sammy?’ asked Detective Chief Inspector Rose.
‘Me, ma’am? No, I’ve never fancied it. Running’s my game; that and a bit of squash. I did karate when I was younger though.’
‘You should start again. Join the club at headquarters; Mr Skinner helped start it years back. He still keeps it up; says it’s the best combined physical and mental exercise there is.’
Detective Constable Pye nodded down the line of weight-training apparatus. ‘That’s right, ma’am. I reckon that the guys who go in for this sort of stuff are only trying to make up for other shortcomings.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Maggie Rose. She paused. ‘My husband lifts weights. Have you met him? DI McGuire in Special Branch. Big bloke. I must tell him about your theory.’ Sammy Pye fell suddenly silent.
Smiling still, the Detective Chief Inspector looked around the Royal Commonwealth Pool fitness suite. Although it was late morning, six men and two women were exercising on the machines, making their way through arduous circuits, working on a different group of muscles each time. The heavy smells of sweat and analgesic sprays mingled in the air.
‘Hello.’ The voice came from behind them. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Simon Horner, the manager. What can I do for you?’
Maggie Rose shook the outstretched hand, introducing herself and Pye. ‘We’re looking for someone who used to train here,’ she said. ‘We don’t have a name, but we do have a good description. A man with a big moustache, and a distinctive tattoo of a vulture on his shoulder. Does that ring any bells?’
Horner pondered for few seconds, clutching his chin as if it were an aid to concentration. ‘A vulture, eh? We get a lot of tattoos in here. We had a burst of Pocahontases a year or two back, and a few Lion Kings before that. There’s loads of snakes wound round daggers, eagles and other stuff. I’ve even seen a unicorn. But I don’t remember a vulture.
‘When was your man here last?’
‘Around three years ago, we think,’ said Rose.
‘Mmm,’ said the manager. ‘I was only appointed two years ago. Maybe you should ask my predecessor, Calum Berwick. He’s down at Meadowbank Stadium now.’
‘We’ll do that.’ The Inspector paused. ‘If he can’t help us find this man, how many other weight-training places are there in Edinburgh for us to cover?’
Horner shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m guessing, but if you count the other sports centres, private clubs, colleges, office and factory facilities, there must be upwards of a hundred.’
Maggie Rose sniffed the pungent air. ‘Thanks,’ she said, wryly. ‘You’ve made our day.’
18
James Andrew Skinner cast himself off from the armchair which served as his leaning post, and stepped, teetering, tottering, towards his father, who was seated on the edge of the couch in the sitting room at Fairyhouse Avenue.
There was a look of triumphant achievement on the child’s face as his forward momentum carried him almost at a run into Bob’s outstretched hands.
‘What a boy!’ said his father as he caught him. ‘Going on ten months and practically running! We are going to have to watch you like a hawk from now on. Aren’t we, Tracey?’ He looked over his shoulder at the young Australian nanny, who stood in the doorway.
‘That’s right, Mr Skinner. Now that he’s found his feet, he’ll be all over the house. I think it would be a good idea to have a gate fitted at the top of the stairs. I put him in his cot for a sleep this morning, and the little so-and-so climbed right out again and headed for the door.’
Bob nodded, hefting his son up to his shoulder. ‘You do that straight away. Pick the nearest joiner out of Yellow Pages and ask him to fit something up right away, no later than first thing Monday.’ He peered at the baby, nose to nose. ‘Meantime, you stay away from the stairs, understand?’
‘S’airs,’ said Jazz, adding yet another new sound, if not quite a word, to his vocabulary.
The girl looked puzzled. ‘Joiner?’
He smiled. ‘Sorry, Trace. I suppose that’s carpenter in Australian. Let Sarah know about it when she comes in tonight.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll be out at the cottage for the next few days. I’ve got some things to do, and I’m better off out there.’
He knew that he was not fooling the sharply intelligent girl, but she simply nodded. ‘I’ll get the phone book. Meantime, Jazz’s lunch is in the kitchen. There’s a sandwich there for you too. Corned beef. That all right?’
‘Of course. Thanks, lass. You didn’t need to do that. Maybe I’ll come home for lunch more often from now on.’
He carried his son into the kitchen, fitted him into a high feeding chair, and began to spoon scrambled egg into his mouth. The child ate ravenously, demandingly. Bob’s sandwich lay untouched on the table.
Father and son were both so intent on the serious business of lunch that each looked round startled when the door to the garden opened. ‘Hi,’ said Sarah, unsmiling until she reached Jazz. ‘Hello, Big Boy. Got a new nanny, huh?’ She leaned over to kiss him, and ruffled his fine fair hair. ‘Mamma!’ said Jazz, spraying yellow crumbs of scrambled egg.
Automatically, Bob reached out a hand to her. Nimbly she rolled away from his touch.
‘Is this going to be the routine from now on?’ she asked quietly.
He nodded. ‘Whenever I can, I’ll visit him at lunchtime. After work too, if it’s not too late and it’s okay with you.’
‘It’s okay, on one condition. That we don’t discuss anything other than Jazz and any personal arrangements we need to make. I don’t want to hear another word about Myra, or her death, or your Goddamn misplaced sense of duty and loyalty.’ Her voice was cold and bitter.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said quickly, to placate her. ‘That’s agreed.’ A shout from Jazz took him back to his task. He fed the child another spoonful and looked up at Sarah. ‘What are we going to do, love?’ he asked earnestly.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And don’t call me love until you can make me believe you mean it again. I don’t know about we. I do know one thing that I’m going to do. In fact, I’ve done it already. I’ve quit my job at the University. Vacation starts on Monday. Next semester is all revision work for my students. I told the Principal today that if he can find someone to handle that, I’d like not to come back after the break.’
‘How did he take that?’
She shrugged. ‘He was disappointed, but he understood. I told him that my life was changing, that you and I had separated and that . . .’
He looked at her, taken aback. ‘You told that f--’ He caught himself at her frown, and fed Jazz the last of the scrambled egg. ‘You told that old windbag. Christ, it’ll be all over the New Club before the day’s out.’
‘Then maybe you’d better put in an appearance there, to confirm it.’ She looked at him, a touch of sympathy creeping into her eyes. ‘Bob, you’d better start thinking in those terms, because that’s what’s happened. That’s the choice you, okay we, made, and it’s only us, the two of us together, who can unmake it. Right now, even if you wanted that, I’m pretty sure that I don’t.’
He turned and reached for the apple purée which Tracey had blended as Jazz’s dessert. Keeping his voice as casual as he could, he asked, ‘Do you want to formalise things, then?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t see the need for that . . . not at this stage anyway. If either one of us decides later on that it has to be permanent, then we can get lawyers involved. Till then, let’s keep it between us.’
On cue, and as if maliciously, the phone rang. Sarah picked it up. ‘Hello. Yes, he’s here.’ She held the instrument out to him. ‘It’s Alan Royston.’
He took it from her. ‘Yes, Alan.’ As he spoke an image
of Royston and Pamela Masters came into his mind, taking him by surprise.
‘I’m sorry about this, sir . . .’ The police press officer sounded hesitant. ‘But I’ve just had a call from the Editor of the Scotsman. She’s attending a lunch at the University, and she was told up there that you and Sarah have separated. I asked for her source, of course, but she wouldn’t tell me who it was.
‘I hate to bring this to you, but--’
Skinner cut him off short. ‘Alan, tell the lady that my wife and I do not discuss private matters in the public press.’ He paused. ‘Tell her too that she should go back to her source and tell him that if I hear one more piece of gossip about this, then his life won’t be worth the living!’
19
‘Jimmy, don’t blame yourself. There’s no need. You were misled into doing something that you believed was in my best interests.
‘Sarah and I have screwed things up between us. We’ve both been at fault, and now we need to back off from each other, to see if we can sort it out. And,’ Skinner added, ‘to let me do something that I have to do.’
He paused, looking across the coffee table at the Chief. ‘Do you remember when my wife was killed?’
Sir James Proud sighed. ‘Never forget it. I was ACC Operations then. I saw the report myself.’
‘Can you remember how the incident was handled by the Procurator Fiscal? I was in a haze around then, but I don’t recall there being a Fatal Accident Inquiry.’
‘There wasn’t, Bob, not a formal court hearing at least. The officers at the scene reported that it was a straightforward loss of control due to excessive speed; no eye-witnesses but no indication of any other vehicle involved. The post mortem confirmed that death was due to crushing injuries to the chest and would have been instantaneous.’ He gazed at Skinner.
‘I ordered the report completed and sent it to the Fiscal in Edinburgh.’
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