‘Most important of all, I can find absolutely nothing to connect him with Grete Regal. Nothing, period. That’s it, sir, Sarge.’
‘Who bought the company?’ Haddock asked.
‘It’s now a subsidiary of Higgins Holdings,’ the DC replied. ‘That’s the holding company for Eden Higgins, the guy who used to be a furniture tycoon and now does even better as a venture capitalist.’
‘Never heard of him,’ the DS admitted. ‘I don’t read the business press.’
Pye shifted in his chair. ‘Ever heard of Alison Higgins?’
‘Yeah. She was a detective super, wasn’t she? Killed on the job?’
‘That’s right; she was also Eden Higgins’ sister. And Bob Skinner’s . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘What?’ his colleague asked.
‘Never mind. It was fifteen years ago, and more. Ancient history now.’
‘Okay, so back to the present,’ Haddock declared. ‘If we’re all agreed that Callum Sullivan’s a paragon, now can we have a look at Hector Mackail?’
‘Okay,’ Pye laughed. ‘You win.’
Forty-Four
‘You do realise we might as well have interviewed Sullivan at home,’ Sauce Haddock grumbled as he stared into his cup. ‘Two hours later and here we are in bloody North Berwick . . . again. They should change the name to fucking Punxsutawney.’
‘Puncture-what?’ Pye laughed.
‘Punxsutawney. Have you never seen Groundhog Day? It’s about a town where the same thing happens over and over again. That’s us, Sammy. We’re trapped in a fucking time loop.’
‘There are worse places to be trapped, mate. This Sea Bird Centre coffee’s quite acceptable, and so are the scones. I’ll tell you what; there are a couple of holiday parks here, why don’t you and Cheeky buy a wee cabin? Then you can nip down for the weekend.’
‘Why don’t you . . . ’ He threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Sir.’
Pye reached down and picked up a document case from the side of his chair, then produced an iPad. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at Dickson’s report on Mackail.’ He opened a Pages document and read through it. ‘The business was called Mackail Extrusions,’ he began.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Haddock asked, puzzled.
‘It made window frames for the double-glazing industry,’ Pye explained. ‘It seems to have been a victim of the slump. It suffered three consecutive years of trading losses, until finally its bank pulled the plug. Quite a few suppliers caught a cold in the collapse, Grete Regal Graphics among them, but she was the only one who pursued the directors personally. Actually there was only one director, Hector Mackail. His address is given in the final court decree as Seventy-five Adelaide Avenue, North Berwick, and he’s described as unemployed. Dickson checked the electoral register; also listed as voters there are his wife, Gloria, and daughter Hazel.’
‘Did William come up with anything else?’
‘No. That’s it.’
‘Does he know we’re coming?’ Haddock asked.
The DCI shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want him forearmed.’ He drained his coffee and finished the last of his scone. ‘Come on, let’s give him a pleasant surprise.’
Adelaide Avenue was not the prettiest street in the coastal town, but it looked respectable and its houses were well maintained. The street had begun life as part of a council estate, but most of its homes had been purchased by their tenants in the right-to-buy surge of the nineteen eighties, and so their appearance was less uniform than once it had been, with a variety of window designs and decorative colours and one or two substantial extensions.
‘I grew up in a street like this,’ Haddock observed.
‘Me too, funnily enough,’ his colleague said. ‘It’s ironic, that the Mackail family should wind up here. It’s a monument to the double-glazing industry, where he made and lost his money. I’m older than you, so I remember when the C. R. Smith and Everest vans were everywhere.’
Number seventy-five was a semi-detached villa, painted in off-white Snowcem. A privet hedge enclosed the garden, and the drive to the side was laid in brick.
The detectives walked up the path to the front door, and Haddock rang the bell. They had been waiting for no more than a few seconds when a gruff male voice called to them from the pavement. ‘They’ll be naebody in.’
‘Do you know where we could find them?’ the DS asked the grey-haired septuagenarian shuffling along with a Co-op bag in each hand.
‘Ye’ll look far for him, but she’ll be doon at the Eddington. She’s a nurse.’
‘Thanks. What’s the Eddington?’ the sergeant murmured.
‘It’s the health centre cum cottage hospital,’ Pye replied. ‘I know where it is; it’s not far from here.’
In fact it was less than half a mile away, along a wide road and beside a church. The car park was full, and Pye was forced to find a space in the street, uncomfortably close to a set of traffic lights.
The reception area was busy as they stepped inside, filled with people with heavy eyes and puffy noses. ‘Whatever they’ve got, I don’t want it,’ Pye whispered, as they approached the counter.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Mackail,’ he told the receptionist, quietly.
‘Sister Mackail,’ she corrected him, primly. ‘I’ll see if she’s free. Who will I say is calling?’
In reply, the two officers displayed their warrant cards. ‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘You’ve got somewhere at last, have you? Just wait here.’
She left her post and turned into a corridor behind her. Within a minute she returned. ‘Gloria’s available,’ she said, pointing behind her. ‘Along there, second door on the right.’
They followed her finger, to find the door ajar; they stepped into a square surgery, with a frosted-glass window behind a desk and an examination bench against the wall on the left. Gloria Mackail stood beside it, in uniform, eyeing them with a frown on her face.
‘Gentlemen,’ she began, ‘this is a surprise. I honestly thought the police had given up on me.’
‘Oh no, Sister Mackail,’ Pye replied. ‘We never give up.’
‘Does that mean you’ve caught him?’
The DCI felt his eyebrows rise. ‘Pardon?’ he exclaimed. ‘Caught who?’
‘Caught the man who knocked down Hector, of course!’ she snapped, then paused. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know that my husband was the victim of a hit-and-run? That you don’t know he’s dead?’
I’ll fucking kill Dickson, Pye thought.
I’ll fucking kill Dickson, Haddock thought.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the senior detective replied, deadpan. ‘We’re involved in another investigation altogether. I’m the senior CID officer in Edinburgh, not East Lothian, but of course, if you wish, I’ll make it my business to find out about the inquiry into your husband’s death.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ she said stiffly. ‘Nonetheless, I’d have expected you to know about it before you turned up here.’
‘I can only apologise.’
‘No matter. What is this other investigation?’
‘In the circumstances,’ Pye said, waiting for the ground to open beneath him, and half hoping that it would, ‘we’ll be quite happy to postpone this.’
Gloria Mackail shook her head. ‘That won’t make it go away. You’re here, so out with it.’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure whether you can help us. It relates to your husband’s former business, and to a claim against it by a woman named Grete Regal, a graphic designer who did some work for the company, then missed out on payment when it went into liquidation. You may not even be aware of it.’
‘Oh yes,’ the woman declared, bristling in her blue uniform, ‘I’m only too well aware of it. Ms Regal was late with her invoic
e, or rather her bloody aunt was. By the time it was received by the liquidator of the business, he had already closed his list of creditors and they had all agreed a payment schedule, to be met from the sale of the company’s assets. They were all going to get around fifteen pence in the pound, that’s all.’
She fell silent, sniffed, and for a few moments the detectives thought she might break down. ‘It wasn’t Hector’s fault,’ she murmured. ‘He was let down too, as badly as everyone else was. Those bloody bankers,’ she hissed, bitterly. ‘That bloody company. That bloody man.’
Composing herself, she carried on. ‘Anyway, Grete Regal didn’t take it lying down . . . or rather, her harridan of an aunt didn’t.’
‘What did the aunt have to do with it?’ Haddock asked.
‘She manages her business. Grete Regal couldn’t run a raffle; she’s a brilliant designer, but as a businesswoman she’s all over the place. Her work is excellent, her costs aren’t excessive and she never missed a deadline for Hector, but if she didn’t have the Rainey woman behind her she’d be lost. Grete’s a lovely girl; Ingrid Rainey is not. Have you met her?’
Pye nodded. ‘Yes, but I can’t comment on that.’
‘I suppose not. But I will tell you that the woman pursued Hector through the civil courts, on the advice of a lawyer who should be ashamed of himself. The bloody sheriff found in their favour of course, with costs. He found that Hector had acted irresponsibly in commissioning the design work when he should have known that the business wasn’t viable any longer. He even banned him from acting as a director. It wasn’t fair; he had this idea that rebranding would help him turn the corner. If his biggest customer had paid him, and the bloody bank had given him another few weeks, that would have seen him all right.’
She paused, to dab at her eyes with a tissue. ‘It would have meant our house going on the market,’ she continued, ‘not the one in Gilmerton, that was long gone; no, the house here, although we didn’t have nearly enough equity in it to meet the claim. Our car too; Ingrid Rainey would have taken that too. We’d have been beggared, out in the street.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Haddock said, feeling that a show of sympathy was in order.
‘Damn right it was!’ Mrs Mackail snapped. ‘Rainey didn’t even stop when Hector was killed. Her lawyer tried to arrest the insurance money, but fortunately, that was tied to the mortgage, so he couldn’t. Instead Rainey told him to get a court order against me, personally, for Hector’s debt.’ She glowered at Pye. ‘That’s the background. Now, what does it have to do with your visit?’
‘Have you seen much of the news this week?’ he asked.
‘Some, why?’
‘Did you see the sad story of a child being found dead in a car in Edinburgh?’
‘Yes, I did. Awful.’ She frowned. ‘And wasn’t . . .’
The DS cut across her. ‘The child was Grete Regal’s daughter. Grete herself is in a coma, in hospital in Edinburgh.’
Gloria Mackail gasped. ‘And they’re saying that the young man Francey did it?’
‘We’re saying it, Mrs Mackail. Dean Francey abducted the girl and attacked her mother. That’s a given, although he’s beyond being called to account for it.’ He glanced at Pye, who nodded for him to continue. ‘Thing is, Francey was paid to do it. I’m sorry to be blunt about this, but we’re looking at anyone who might have had a grudge against Grete. By your own admission you’ve been in serious dispute with her, and in addition to that, your daughter Hazel knows Dean Francey. So you see, we have to ask the question.’
Silence seemed to engulf the room as the nurse stared at the floor. The tension that was building in her was almost palpable and it communicated itself to the two officers.
‘You have to ask the question,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Pye said, ‘we do.’
‘Then here’s the answer. Suppose I was the sort of sadist who’d use an innocent child as a weapon to right a grievance, suppose I was that sort of animal, I’d have had to pay Francey with Monopoly money, because I don’t have any of the real stuff! I have just spent my daughter’s pitifully small university fund on burying her father, after your colleagues finally deigned to release his body, and I am down to my last seven hundred quid. Having seen one mortgage paid off I’ll have to take out another just to keep myself afloat. It’s either that,’ she shouted, ‘or bloody Wonga!’
The DCI reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, as if his touch would draw the anger from her.
‘We had to ask the question,’ he repeated, gently. ‘And now we have, and we believe you.’
She shuddered and then she was calm once more. ‘Is Grete going to die?’ she asked.
‘We hope not. I can’t say any more than that. But the word coming out of the Western General is a bit more optimistic today.’
‘Then pray God she makes it, poor girl. I say that selfishly for if she doesn’t, I’m probably back to square one. Grete and I, and Ingrid Rainey, and Harrison, their damn lawyer, all had a meeting last week. Rainey and the bloodsucker wanted my house, but when Grete realised what I’d been up against, she said no, that enough was enough.
‘She said that she would take fifteen per cent of the debt, the same amount that the official creditors got, and she and I agreed a repayment schedule. I’ll still have to mortgage to pay off bloody Harrison’s costs, but the rest is manageable. She’s a decent, generous girl, and to have such a horrible thing happen to her . . . it puts my situation into perspective. Now I’m terrified that if she doesn’t make it, her awful aunt will revert to type.’
‘If she does survive, Sister Mackail,’ Pye said, ‘she’ll need friends. Maybe you can be around for her. We won’t trouble you any longer.’
As he turned to leave, Haddock picked up a pad from the desk. He scribbled on it, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to her.
‘That’s the number of a very good lawyer, and I have a feeling she’d enjoy eating your Mr Harrison. You might like to call her. If you do, mention my name. Hers is Alex Skinner.’
He followed the chief inspector outside, into the street. ‘Should we check out her bank details, for the record?’ he asked, a dispassionate cop once more.
‘That needs to be done,’ Pye agreed, as he started the car. ‘But we’ll get Dickson to do it . . . or what’s left of him when I’m finished chewing him out.’
Haddock nodded. ‘I want a bite too,’ he growled. ‘That was bloody embarrassing. When you’re asked to check someone out, the fact that he’s dead ought to show up fairly early on.’
They were waiting for the lights to turn green when an incoming call sounded through the Bluetooth speakers. Pye touched a button on the steering wheel.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, it’s Jackie.’
‘I knew that as soon as you opened your mouth,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘What’s the new crisis?’
‘No crisis, sir,’ the detective constable said. ‘The opposite really. Ms Iqbal from the Western General’s been in touch. Grete Regal recovered consciousness just after ten this morning. She’s stable and you can talk to her.’
‘Call her back,’ the DCI ordered, ‘and tell her we’re on our way.’
They were approaching Dirleton Toll, listening to Pablo Milanés, a Cuban singer who was a favourite of Pye’s wife, when Haddock cut across his Spanish anthem.
‘I’m just thinking, gaffer. I know someone, a girl I was at school with; her name’s Macy Robertson and she’s a business journalist so she might be able to give us some more background on Hector Mackail.’
‘Do we need that?’ Pye asked. ‘Doesn’t being dead cross him off the list of suspects?’
‘It didn’t get Francey off the hook,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘He could have set it up before he walked in front of that car. Hazel knew Francey; he was handy for the job.’
>
‘Then it went wrong and he came back from the dead and shot Francey and Anna?’
‘Bugger!’ the DS moaned.
Pye laughed at his frustration. ‘Talk to your friend anyway, Sauce,’ he said. ‘There’s no such thing as too much information.’
Forty-Five
When the chief inspector pressed the intercom at the entrance to the intensive care unit, and was told that Grete Regal was no longer there, his instant reaction was one of panic.
Relief took its place as the tinny voice continued, ‘She’s been transferred to the general ward; she’s still on high dependency nursing, but she’s doing fine.’
The two detectives followed the directions they were given; they were uncertain of the layout until Pye spotted Ingrid Rainey, seated in the corridor. ‘That’s the aunt,’ he whispered to Haddock, stepping aside and into the ward office before she saw him.
He showed his card to the senior nurse. ‘You’re here for Grete?’ the man asked. The DCI nodded. ‘Ms Iqbal’s with her just now; she’ll just be a few minutes. Her aunt’s waiting outside her room. Why don’t you have a wee seat with her?’
‘I want to avoid Mrs Rainey,’ Pye confessed.
‘On brief acquaintance I can understand why,’ the nurse murmured.
‘Does Grete know about her child?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ The man pursed his lips. ‘The bloody aunt came out with it as soon as she saw her. Ms Iqbal had arranged a counsellor to break the news, and she told Mrs Rainey as much, but the woman insisted it was her duty.’
‘How much does she know?’
‘The aunt told her that the child was suffocated, that’s all.’
‘That’s not strictly true, but there’s no way of softening a blow like that. How has she reacted?’
‘Ms Iqbal gave her a sedative, but she’s still conscious and responsive. She did say that she wants to talk to you.’
‘That’s right, Chief Inspector,’ Sonia Iqbal said, from the doorway. ‘She is very anxious to speak to you.’
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