‘I know that,’ I chuckled, ‘but have you got anything positive from it?’
‘Not so far,’ she admitted. ‘Actually you saved me a phone call,’ she continued. ‘I’d like you to loosen the strings you put on me yesterday.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘There’s a hint of something I’ve picked up in a newspaper report on one of the companies on your list. I’d like to look into it in more detail, but to do that I’ll need to speak to someone. It’s a guy I know, but the problem is he’s a business journalist, and you said no press.’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘Very well; we were at school together. I used to give him information when I was with the insurance company.’
‘Can you talk to him without bringing me or our client into it, and without giving him any clue of what this is about?’
‘Mr Skinner, you’re forgetting; I don’t know what this is about. I’m just running down a list of people and companies you gave me.’
‘Maybe so, but can you talk to him without making him too curious?’
‘Yes, I can. If he did get difficult,’ she added, ‘I know who his newest lady friend is, and he knows I know.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘She’s a television presenter, and she’s married.’
‘Tread carefully,’ I warned her, ‘but go ahead.’
The snow disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and I was able to pick up pace. Since I ceased to be a cop I’ve always been careful to stick to the speed limits, or at least to stay within the unofficial tolerance zone. Too many tabloids would love to report on a Bob Skinner court appearance. Even at that gentle pace, I had time on my hands so I made a detour to the Mercedes dealership on the edge of Edinburgh to pick up a detailed estimate for the repair of my damaged car.
I was almost home when my phone sounded again. I hadn’t expected to hear from Lottie Mann for at least twenty-four hours, and so I was taken by surprise.
‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Was there something we forgot to cover over lunch?’
‘No,’ she said breezily. ‘I thought I’d give you a heads up on what we’ve got so far. We’ve still got a way to go before we have the complete picture, but we know some of it. Hodgson was fifty-four; he graduated in marine engineering from Heriot Watt Uni in Edinburgh and joined the Navy aged twenty-four. He served in the surface fleet, including some time in aircraft carriers during the first Gulf War. He retired, or he was retired, ten years ago and joined the Royal Fleet Auxiliary: that’s a civilian support . . .’
‘I know what it is; it gets people and things to wherever they’re needed by the military.’
‘That’s right. He turned that in when he was fifty, and moved to Wemyss Bay from the Portsmouth area. He was married from nineteen eighty-nine to twenty zero two. That ended in divorce; no children.’
‘Where did you get all this?’ I asked.
‘Department of Work and Pensions . . . if that’s what it’s still called,’ she chuckled. ‘He’s been paying self-employed National Insurance contributions for the last four years. We don’t yet know who his clients are apart from Mr Higgins, but when we can access his bank details and see where his payments have been coming from, that’ll give us a better idea.’
‘Where did he bank?’
‘We found an ATM card for a Santander account among his effects in the house. He had one of their credit cards as well, and a Barclaycard. Dan’s on to the bank now; as usual, they’re being difficult.’
‘Let DCC McGuire know if it becomes a problem,’ I suggested. ‘He has a special way with difficult jobsworths, plus he knows the Data Protection Act inside out.’
‘Will do, Mr Skinner, thanks,’ Lottie said.
‘Were there no papers in the house to help you?’ I asked.
‘Precious little. He had a file with council tax details in it, and another for insurance, but no receipts for utilities, gas, electric, the phone.’
‘Me neither,’ I confessed. ‘Everything in my household is online, and settled automatically by direct debit. But if that was the case with Hodgson,’ I pondered aloud, ‘it should be on his computer.’
‘And it probably is,’ she agreed, ‘but we don’t know where that is. A week or so before his death, he reported a break-in at his house. The missing property listed in the investigating officers’ notes was a hundred and fifty quid in cash, an inscribed Omega watch that was a leaving present from his Navy pals, some gold men’s jewellery, a valuable ring that he said was his mother’s, and a Dell laptop computer.’
‘Did the responding officers have the place dusted?’
‘Of course they did,’ she said, reprovingly. ‘And it was clean as a whistle. The ring was insured for five grand and Hodgson had a photograph of it. It’s a nice-looking piece. That was circulated to all the likely jewellery buyers, including pawnshops, but nothing’s shown up.’
I could see her frown, and her pursed lips, in my mind’s eye. ‘Go on, Lottie,’ I challenged, ‘tell me what you’ve got in mind. See if you’re wondering the same as me.’
‘If you insist,’ she responded, ‘although I’ll only have your word for what you’re thinking. I’m wondering whether all the other items were stolen to disguise the fact that the laptop was the real target.’
‘Then take my word for it,’ I told her. ‘But I’m not even wondering. I’d bet your house on it. A laptop’s worth bugger all in sell-on value. The dogs in the bloody street have got laptops these days. You may assume that Hodgson’s burglar was after the Dell, and I reckon that you can assume also that either it was password protected and he couldn’t crack it or there was nothing on it apart from email files of his phone bills. And so he came back,’ I concluded. ‘And here’s where I leave you behind, DI Mann,’ I went on, ‘for I might even hazard a guess at who he was.’
‘Are you going to share that?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. Do something else for me first. If the CSIs did their job, they went over the garage and they found a Samsung Galaxy phone lying in his car. If they didn’t, it’s still there. Either way,’ I said, ‘you should get hold of it and see what’s on it. If I’m right, then I’ll share, and as far as Chief Constable Martin’s concerned it was your idea all along.’
Forty-Two
‘Thank you for joining us, Mr Sullivan,’ Sammy Pye began as the visitor took a seat in his small office, facing him across his desk. Haddock made up a threesome, looking on from a chair beside the window, through which the low morning sun shone into Sullivan’s face.
‘You’ll remember us, DCI Pye and DS Haddock.’
‘Of course, and thanks for the lift,’ the man replied, taking a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses from the top pocket of his sports jacket and slipping them on. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured. ‘Now I can see you guys properly.’
‘Sure,’ Pye said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine. Anyway, I’m not here for coffee, am I?’
The DCI smiled. ‘Not exactly. We want to give you an update on your stolen car. And we have a couple of questions. We’re recording this for the purposes of our investigation. Although you’re here voluntarily, we’ll be happy if you feel you want to have legal representation.’
‘To hell with that,’ Sullivan retorted. ‘I have nothing to worry about, so I don’t need a lawyer. As for an update, I’ve had that from the papers. You’re dead certain it was the lad Francey who stole it?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ Haddock replied.
‘I see,’ he muttered. ‘The other guy I told you about, the man King who came to see the Bristol: did you get anywhere with him?’
‘No, but frankly we haven’t been looking. He stopped being of interest quite early on.’
‘Good, for
he turned out not to be a time-waster after all. He phoned me on Monday evening and said he wanted to buy the Bristol, subject to a road test and independent inspection. We’ve done a deal.’
‘Then we’re happy for you.’
Sullivan frowned. ‘Okay, so you’re sure it was Dean Francey that took the Beamer, and used it to kidnap that poor wee girl. Are you working up to telling me you think our Maxwell might have been involved too?’
‘No, there’s no evidence of that at all,’ Pye said, ‘and it’s never been in our thinking. But that’s not to say that Francey acted alone. We believe that Anna Hojnowski was his accomplice.’
‘The girl that was in the car with him when he was found?’
‘The very same. You probably knew her as Anna Harmony.’
All the colour drained from Sullivan’s face, in an instant. ‘You what . . .’ he gasped.
‘Anna Harmony,’ Haddock repeated. ‘You did know her, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but . . . I never knew that was her real name.’
‘You had a party at your house about a year ago, and she was there, wasn’t she?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, so what?’
‘It wasn’t a casual invitation, was it? You knew her before that.’
‘Yes,’ Sullivan admitted.
‘She worked for you?’ Pye asked.
‘In the factory, that’s right. But I never knew her real name; I didn’t hire her personally, or do the wages. She was always Anna Harmony to me . . . although I did hear people calling her Singer.’
‘And she babysat for you?
‘Once or twice.’
‘And you had a relationship?’
He nodded. ‘For a while.’
‘Was she the cause of your marriage break-up?’
‘Hell no. Janine never knew about her, and anyway there were others. What I told you before, it was true; Janine and I just weren’t suited. We both wanted out. It was amicable, and Anna had nothing to do with it. When the divorce went through she and I weren’t seeing each other.’
‘But you thought you might re-start it?’ the DCI suggested. ‘Was that why you invited her to your party in North Berwick?’
Sullivan’s smile was fleeting, and had a touch of shyness about it. ‘Maybe.’
‘So you must have been pissed off when she and Dean Francey hit it off.’
‘You could say that,’ he snorted. ‘I didn’t even invite him, Maxwell did. I barely knew the guy, and anything I’d heard didn’t impress me. As it’s turned out, I was right. There was an incident,’ he continued. ‘One of my Edinburgh guests had a bit too much and got fresh with Anna. She could have handled it herself, but Francey rode in to her rescue like the Lone fucking Ranger. Maxwell and I had to pull him off the bloke. Anna was impressed, of course; so impressed that she left with him. That was that . . . and it got her killed.’
‘Eventually,’ Haddock agreed. ‘But let’s get back to wee Zena. Does the name Grete Regal mean anything to you?’
‘No. Why? Should it?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I asked. Thing is, she was Zena’s mother, and at the moment she’s lying in the Western General, unconscious, having had her skull fractured by Dean Francey.’
‘That’s very sad, but . . . so?’
‘So, Mr Sullivan,’ the DS said, ‘you knew Francey, and you knew Anna Harmony. He assaulted the mother and kidnapped the child. She was going to help look after her in a rented cottage up in the Pentlands.’
‘Does that mean they were going to hold her for ransom?’
‘They weren’t taking her on her holidays,’ Pye snapped. ‘She was going to be exchanged for money, or something, that’s for sure, but what’s equally certain is that those two young people, Dino and Singer, weren’t acting on their own initiative.
‘They were being paid to do it. We know that beyond doubt. And what we believe is that when Francey screwed up, the person who paid them shot them both, to silence them for good and all.’
‘Okay,’ Sullivan protested, ‘but why the hell are you talking to me?’
‘Because we have a problem,’ Haddock told him, his ‘good cop’ tone calming the situation. ‘You bank with the Clydesdale in Lothian Road, sir. We know that. It’s quite a way from North Berwick, isn’t it?’
‘Yes I do,’ he agreed. ‘You want to know why? When I sold my company, I had to stay in there for two years because the price was profit-related, over that period. It’s called an earn-out. One of the sale conditions was that its banking had to be integrated with that of the new parent company. So the business accounts moved from HSBC to the Clydesdale. When it happened I was offered sweeteners to shift my personal accounts there as well, so I did. That’s what’s behind it. However,’ he added, ‘my car business accounts are still with Bank of Scotland in North Berwick. Satisfied?’
‘Not quite,’ the DS said. ‘In the middle of last month, you withdrew twelve thousand, in untraceable used notes of the bank’s own issue, from your Clydesdale account. When we searched Dean Francey’s flat on North Berwick Mains Street, we found five thousand, also in untraceable used notes, many of them from the Clydesdale. Given that it’s a relatively small bank and there aren’t a hell of a lot of those around, you might understand our curiosity.’
Sullivan ran his hand over his chin, muttering a muffled, ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Does that mean, “Oh fuck, you’ve got me”, sir?’ Pye asked.
‘I think I want a lawyer,’ the other man replied.
‘If you feel you need one, we’ll suspend this informal discussion and resume it under caution, where everything you say will be on the record.’
Sullivan leaned forward. ‘Look, that money you found in Francey’s, it didn’t come from me. But . . .’
The DCI held up a hand. ‘Stop. If you’re going to admit to criminal activity, yes, probably you do need a lawyer.’
‘I don’t know. Tell me something first. How do you guys relate to the taxman?’
‘HMRC handles its own investigations,’ Pye replied. ‘We don’t report everything we hear to them.’
‘Then don’t report this, and switch off the recorder.’
‘Okay.’ He pressed the ‘stop’ switch.
‘Remember the car I told you about, the Bristol?’
‘Yes.’
‘The twelve grand was for that. I bought it from a classified ad in the local paper. It was only described as a classic car, no make specified, and it was price on application. The seller wanted fifteen K, but he would only do a deal off the books. He said he needed money but he didn’t want his wife to know how much the thing was worth. She’d always thought it was an old junker, so he was going to tell her he got two grand for it and pocket the difference.’
‘Husband of the year, but go on.’
‘Normally,’ Sullivan continued, ‘I wouldn’t do that sort of deal, but the car was worth twenty-five, with a minimum of touching up. So I beat him down to twelve and we shook on it.’
‘As a matter of interest,’ Haddock asked, ‘what’s Mr King paying for it?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Jeez!’ the DS whistled. ‘Gaffer, are you sure that’s not criminal?’
‘Not unless there’s misrepresentation,’ Pye laughed. ‘If someone wants to pay that much for a forty-year-old car, good luck to all parties involved.’
‘That’s right,’ the dealer declared. ‘I’ve had people pay upwards of ten grand for a Mark One Escort, ten times the original costs.’
‘Not this fella,’ the DCI said, tapping his chest. He frowned at Sullivan. ‘You do realise we’ll need to confirm your story with the original seller of the car?’
The dealer shrugged. ‘Que sera, sera. His name’s Paul Cockburn and he lives in Longniddry. If you can do it whe
n his wife’s out you’ll be doing him a favour.’
‘We’ll try. Meantime, if you put that sixteen grand profit through your company accounts you’ll be doing yourself a favour. I’m not saying we’d go running to HMRC, but it’s never a good idea to give guys like us a club to hit you with.’
Sullivan winced. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can I go now?’
‘Yes,’ Pye said, ‘we’re done. We’ll arrange a lift back for you.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll hang around town till lunchtime and visit Kayleigh and her mum.’ He sighed as he stood. ‘It’s too bad about Anna; I’m struggling to get my head round that. She was a really nice kid; friendly too. If only I hadn’t let Francey come to that party, they’d never have met. She might even have been with me today.’
‘My granny used to say,’ Haddock murmured, with a wistful smile, ‘“If wishes were horses, we’d all get a hurl.” Maybe she would have been, but I’m not sure how you’d have handled your girlfriend being a pole-dancer, Mr Sullivan.’
The man stared back at him. ‘Why would it bother me? I own Lacey’s. How do you think Anna got the job?’
Forty-Three
‘That’s quite correct,’ DC William Dickson declared. ‘Callum Sullivan bought Lacey’s bar nine years ago; it was called the Peregrine then. His ex-wife’s owned fifty per cent of the place since the divorce, and she’s the licensee of record. It’s vested in a limited company called CJ Inns that owns a total of four pubs in the city.
‘The fact is,’ the DC continued, ‘he’s a very wealthy man; he sold his company, CS Compressors, for eight million. Since then all he’s done is play around with his classic cars, but that’s profitable too. His company accounts showed a taxable profit of a hundred and seventeen thousand pounds in his first year’s trading. He has no debt, he’s a member of the Renaissance and North Berwick golf clubs, and of the New Club in Princes Street.
‘He’s been single since his divorce, with no particular attachments. Everybody likes the guy, including his former brother-in-law, Sergeant Harris. I spoke to him and he’s full of praise for the way that Callum’s looking after his son.
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