Private Investigations

by Quintin Jardine

  Forty-Nine

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Arthur,’ Sammy Pye said.

  ‘I fancied a trip to the seaside,’ the senior scene of crime technician replied, gruffly. Arthur Dorward was renowned for being no respecter of persons, a reputation he had earned even before he transferred from the police force to the new civilian central service operated by the Scottish Police Authority.

  ‘On your own?’

  The former inspector frowned at the serving DCI. ‘You call me out to look at a piece of pavement weeks after an incident occurred, and you expect me to come mob handed? Why should I waste another specialist’s time as well as my own?’

  Pye nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He recognised the near impossibility of the mission.

  ‘Where’s your sidekick? He called me, so I thought he’d be here.’

  ‘Sauce has gone up to Edinburgh. I sent him in search of a post-mortem report.’

  ‘Tell me what happened. Young Haddock didn’t go into detail; he just said it was a fatal RTA, driver left the scene.’

  ‘That sums it up.’

  ‘So why am I a couple of months late in getting here?’ Dorward asked, casually.

  ‘SFU,’ the DCI replied, tersely. ‘Somebody fucked up. I’m not looking for miracles, Arthur.’

  ‘That makes a change for you guys. But suppose you were, then as always you’ve come to the right man. What am I looking for?’

  Pye turned to a uniformed officer who was standing a few yards away, leaning against a patrol car. ‘Sergeant Brown,’ he called out, ‘draw an outline of where Mr Mackail was lying when you arrived at the scene.’

  ‘Sir.’ Solemnly he stepped forward and did as he was told, chalking a crude outline of a human form, tight against the high stone wall that ran along the inside of the pavement, with its midsection against a grey pole that held a yellow ‘No waiting’ sign.

  ‘What were the weather conditions?’ Dorward asked.

  ‘Dry. It was a clear night,’ Brown replied.

  ‘Was the victim bleeding?’

  ‘He’d a cut on the side of his head and there was blood coming from the corner of his mouth. There was a strong smell of booze and he’d been sick.’

  ‘Conscious?’

  ‘No’ really. He was moaning, but he didn’t respond to questions. My neighbour and I thought he was a drunk, and that he’d fell over and banged his head. I said as much to the paramedics and the doctor and nobody argued with us.’

  ‘It wasn’t their place to argue with you, Sergeant,’ Pye pointed out, ‘any more than it was yours to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘What was the victim wearing?’ Dorward asked.

  ‘A dark coat, it could have been black or navy; we couldn’t tell in the light, and they’d taken it off him when we saw him in the hospital. By that time he was dead.’

  ‘Was it a raincoat?’

  ‘No, it was heavier than that. Woollen, I’d say; it looked expensive.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea. They’d give it to the widow, I guess.’

  ‘Okay,’ the crime scene investigator said. ‘You’ve got a supposed drunk who turns out to be a hit-and-run victim. With that knowledge, if you think back to the scene, can you recall anything that might be of interest to me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Brown replied, instantly.

  ‘That took a lot of consideration,’ Dorward growled. He turned to Pye. ‘This guy’s in the wrong business, Sammy; he should be a chocolate fireguard salesman. They’re bloody useless as well.’

  ‘Hey,’ the sergeant exclaimed, ‘you hold on a minute!’

  ‘No,’ Dorward barked. ‘You hold on. You were at the scene of a fatal hit-and-run accident, but you never even considered that possibility. If you had, we’d have had something to work with, because it’s pretty much impossible to kill somebody with a motor car without leaving some sort of a trace. Now we’re several weeks down the road and everything is compromised.’

  He picked up his equipment case. ‘Sammy, you might as well leave me to it. There’s nothing you can do here other than get in the way, and listen to me swear. I won’t be long here, and if I find anything that might be relevant, I’ll let you know soonest. If I don’t, well, it’s a no-hoper, so you’re not going to be disappointed, are you?’

  Leaving the investigator to his nearly impossible task, Pye had Sergeant Brown drive him to Edinburgh. He sat in the back of the car and the journey was spent in silence.

  When he walked into the squad room in the Fettes building, Haddock followed him into his office.

  ‘Did you get it?’ the DCI asked, as he hung his coat on a hook behind the door.

  ‘Yes,’ his sergeant replied. ‘One of the deputies had the case file in his out tray, ready to go to the fiscal with a recommendation that they write it off as an untraced hit-and-run, with no fatal accident inquiry necessary. He seemed a wee bit nonplussed when I told him we were taking an interest in it. The cheeky bastard asked me whether we were having to invent crimes to keep ourselves busy.’

  ‘He sent you the file, though?’

  ‘Oh yeah, once he’d had his wee moan. I’ve been through it; there’s not much to it. Apart from the PM report, there’s the two cops’ statements, and another from the barman in the Nether Abbey. I’m a bit suspicious about that. He was interviewed by Brown and Raymond, and the way it reads . . .’

  ‘You think they were coaching him?’ Pye asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. One minute he’s saying he’s not sure how much Mackail had to drink, the next he’s saying he was unsteady on his feet when he left.’

  ‘What about his pals? What did they say?’

  ‘They weren’t interviewed.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Do I have my Joker mask on?’ Haddock retorted. ‘They’re not even named on the report. The way I see it, Brown and Raymond preferred the official version to be that Mackail might have been partly culpable himself, so that the fiscal wouldn’t look too closely at their performance.’

  The DCI nodded. ‘You could be right. Brown certainly wasn’t in a rush to help Arthur Dorward, and he got quite aggressive when he was challenged. What did the post-mortem say about Mackail’s blood alcohol level?’

  ‘A hundred and thirty milligrams per hundred millilitres; not quite three times over the driving limit. In other words, he’d have been a bit pissed but he shouldn’t have been falling about.’

  ‘What about the rest of it?’

  ‘He died from massive internal bleeding; his spleen was ruptured, and his liver was torn. Several ribs were fractured and one had pierced his lung. He’d a broken right hip as well.’

  ‘Poor guy,’ Pye said. ‘CID should have been informed on the night. I’m going to have that pair,’ he promised, ‘and their inspector too.’

  ‘How long is it since you’ve been in uniform?’ Haddock murmured.

  ‘Come again?’ his boss retorted.

  ‘You heard. Brown and Raymond reacted to what they saw, a badly injured man on the pavement. The priority was get him to hospital; that’s what happened, but his injuries were unsurvivable. They were in the middle of a hectic night shift, and they followed their instincts.’

  ‘What about Laird?’

  ‘She was off duty at the time,’ the DS reminded him. ‘When she was advised she probably realised straight away there had been a screw-up, but she hid behind protocol to protect her guys.’

  ‘Nobody’s protecting us.’

  ‘Are you sure? Big guy, half Irish, half Italian, wears a DCC’s uniform and hates it?’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe.’

  ‘No maybe about it,’ Haddock declared. ‘Look, Sammy, we were talking about priorities. Pursuing two fellow cops who might have bee
n sloppy under pressure isn’t one of ours.’

  ‘Okay,’ Pye admitted, ‘you’ve got a point. I feel under pressure myself, and probably I’m lashing out.’

  ‘Well, I’m buggered if I do. Have we done anything wrong in this investigation?’ The question was bluntly put.

  ‘No,’ the DCI replied. ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Are we following every possible line of inquiry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then where’s the pressure? It’s not coming from big Mario. It’s not coming from Mary Chambers.’

  ‘No, it’s coming from the man at the top, because I crossed him over that media briefing. That would . . .’

  Haddock laughed. ‘I know what you’re going to say: that would never have happened in Bob Skinner’s time.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Probably not, but that time is over. Now, it is what it is, but one thing remains: all we can do is our best. So, remind me. Why are we looking into Mackail’s death, when there’s every chance that he was hit by a driver who was even more drunk than he was, and who buggered off into the night when he realised what he’d done?’

  Without allowing his boss a moment to reply, he answered his own question. ‘The investigation that began in the Fort Kinnaird car park has turned into a hunt for a double murderer. Now we’re looking at the outside possibility that he might have been responsible for a third.’

  Pye smiled. ‘Do you want to swap desks, Sauce? You’re enjoying this job a hell of a lot more than I am just now, and you’re better at it.’

  ‘Not a prayer. I’m still learning from you. Gaffer, if anyone can catch this bloke it’s you and me. If we don’t, it won’t be your fault, and if our fearless leader tries to follow through on his silly threat to take it out on you personally, I will personally go to Stirling, kick his fucking door in and tell him that he’s not fucking on.’

  The chief inspector sighed. ‘Thanks for that, Sauce. You’re right; it’s our investigation, not his, so let’s focus on it. Have you heard from Lucy Tweedie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, she called a couple of minutes before you got here. She’s recovered the coat; Mrs Mackail still had it, although twenty-four hours later it would have been off to the dry cleaners, then the charity shop.’

  ‘Good. It must be a chunky garment if it’s still wearable after what happened to its owner. Maybe forensics will be able to . . .’ Pye stopped in mid-sentence as his phone sounded. He snatched it from his pocket and took the call. ‘Arthur,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘The impossible I do at once,’ Dorward said, in his ear. ‘Miracles take a little longer and need a bit of imagination. Before I go any further, the caveat to what I’m going to tell you is that everything I’ve found could relate to a completely different incident, or incidents, but here goes. Is your pencil poised?’

  ‘As it ever will be; go on.’

  ‘Right. First, on the pavement, just beside your man’s crude chalk victim, there are traces of rubber, burned into the slabs. It’s consistent with marks left by wheelspin, and it could have been there from the time of the incident, fading gradually, but still just about visible.

  ‘Second,’ he continued, ‘I was able to extract from the stonework of the wall against which the victim lay traces of white paint, consistent with a vehicle having scraped against it. The height of these marks indicates that they weren’t made by a saloon, but by a mid-sized van, a Transit or something similar.’

  ‘Well done, Arthur,’ Pye exclaimed. He looked up at Haddock. ‘Remember Chic Francey’s van?’ he asked. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Vauxhall Vivaro,’ the DS responded, immediately. ‘Dirty white; it’s seen better days.’

  ‘Have I made your day?’ Dorward asked.

  ‘Potentially.’

  ‘Well, here’s some more.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have to tell you that I’ve forgotten more about crime scenes than you high-flyers will ever know.’

  ‘Can you hear me touch my forelock, Arthur?’ Pye chuckled.

  ‘I wondered what the grovelling sound was,’ the scientist retorted, deadpan. ‘Anyway, based on a career’s worth of experience, I took a look at the broader scene. The fact that two CID bigwigs are involved in this told me that it isn’t your standard knock-down, panic, and drive away, like we see most of the time. So I asked myself, if this bloke was hit deliberately, how was it done?’

  ‘We . . .’

  ‘Shush! Don’t interrupt. From what young Sauce said I assumed that the driver knew of, or had worked out, the victim’s habits, and knew his route on his way home. I reasoned that he was hardly going to follow him all the way, looking for a chance. No, he was more likely to have waited for him, somewhere along the road. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Right. If you remember the location, you’ll recall there’s a wee street joins Station Road from the left, at an angle. I went and had a look there and I found, in the gutter, three cigarette ends. They’d been there for a while, and been stood on, squashed, rained on and run over, but one of them was still recognisable. If a vehicle was parked there, on the wrong side of the road, and the driver was smoking, that’s where he’d have dropped the ends. The brand is Camel, filter tips. Again they could have been left by any bugger, but . . .’

  ‘Will there still be extractable DNA on them?’

  ‘I’ll find that out when I get them back to the lab, but in theory yes.’

  ‘If there is,’ the DCI said, ‘I want you to compare it against a body found on Monday night just outside Edinburgh, shot and left in a car that was burned out. Male, early twenties, went by the name Dean Francey.’

  ‘Will do. If I do get a match, it’ll be as well he’s dead, for it would be no use as evidence at any trial, any more than the paint scrapes would be.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. If we can find the van . . .’

  ‘Maybe,’ Dorward conceded, ‘but who are you going to try if your prime suspect’s a cadaver?’

  ‘I’ll tell you that when we catch him. Before you leave North Berwick, I want you to call by the police station. The victim’s coat’s there, waiting to be collected.’

  ‘How do you know it’s my size?’

  ‘Fuck off, Arthur,’ Pye laughed. ‘I’ll be back in touch when we have a vehicle for you to examine.’

  He ended the call, and turned back to face Haddock. ‘Think back to Dino’s flat,’ he said. ‘There was an empty cigarette packet on the coffee table. What brand?’

  ‘Camels,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Is that what . . .’

  He nodded. ‘This is beginning to pay off. I want Chic Francey’s van impounded for examination, today, and I want Chic, in a room with you and me, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘North Berwick?’

  ‘Hell no, even I’ve had enough of the place.’

  Fifty

  The family dinner was a strange affair. Sarah and I had decided that we were going to say nothing to the kids about the potential extra place at the table until the end of the first trimester, but I found it difficult to look at any of the three of them without a smile spreading across my face.

  It didn’t take Mark long to notice.

  ‘What’s up, Dad?’ he asked, in his newly broken voice. ‘You look like Phil Mickelson.’

  Nothing my middle son says will ever surprise me completely, but that came close. ‘Come again?’ I chuckled.

  ‘You know, the golfer. He’s always smiling, like he sees a joke that nobody else gets.’

  It wasn’t an original quote, but Mark has a brain like blotting paper. If he sees something and it registers above zero on his scale of interest, it’s there forever.

  ‘Or like he’s very happy,’ I suggested, ‘which I’m sure he is. He’s probably as proud of his family as I am.’

 
‘I like it when you smile,’ James Andrew, his younger brother, chipped in. ‘You didn’t always.’

  That almost cut the feet from under me. He’d never said anything like that before.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought I was always jolly.’

  ‘No. Sometimes you were sad. Before Mum came back from America.’

  That wiped the smile off my face. Had my marriage to Aileen been so bad that even my younger kids had noticed?

  ‘I had lots of things to worry me then,’ I said, to myself as much as to Jazz. ‘Now I’m not a chief constable any more I don’t have to look at serious stuff,’ the man who had spent his morning at a post-mortem added. ‘Now I can concentrate on happy things, like you three.’

  ‘And Alex.’ There’s something ferocious about James Andrew’s love for his older sister. She’ll never be without a champion as long as he or I are around.

  I nodded. ‘And Alex.’ I drew Sarah to me and kissed her. ‘And Mum.’

  ‘How are we going to keep our secret,’ she asked later, ‘with you grinning like a Cheshire cat over every meal?’

  ‘Hey,’ I pointed out, ‘could be it has nothing to do with the baby. I am happy, that’s all.’

  ‘A week like you’ve had and you’re happy?’

  ‘I know. Fucking weird, isn’t it?’

  I was still smiling next morning in my office in the Saltire building, when Andy Martin called and changed my mood . . . or to be completely accurate, when his executive officer called and told me that the chief constable was on the line. That’s what he said. Not, ‘Are you available to speak to the chief constable?’ just ‘The chief constable is on the line.’ As if refusal was not an option.

  ‘Andy,’ I said, when we were connected, not attempting to hide my irritation. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way we left things yesterday,’ he began.

  ‘Neither did I, but it is what it is. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve just asked Mann for a personal update on Hodgson. She took me through it step by step, and then she said that she needed to speak to you before she could go any further. She actually said that. I just blew up at her, Bob.’