Private Investigations

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘You’re taking your life in your hands,’ I told him. ‘Lottie once entered a CID boxing night. It was men only but she insisted on fighting. She knocked her opponent out inside a round. The poor guy never had a chance. Now, tell me exactly what she said.’

  ‘She said that you’d suggested she find a phone that you’d seen in Hodgson’s car, and take a look at it.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘She said she’d done that and I asked her where it took her. That was when she said she’d have to get back to you before she could go any further. And that was when I blew up at her. This can’t go on, Bob. I made a mistake when I let you involve yourself; from now on it’s handled in-house. ’

  I came close to blowing up at him, but I managed to restrain myself. ‘If you want to be that petty, chum,’ I growled, ‘that’s your privilege. But before I hang up on you, tell me exactly what Lottie said.’

  ‘She told me that she’d found the phone among the effects recovered, and she’s looked at it. She said there wasn’t a hell of a lot on it. The browsing history was clean and there was no email account attached to it.’

  ‘That’s odd for a start,’ I remarked.

  ‘Is it? Maybe all that Hodgson did was make phone calls.’

  ‘Was it a pay-as-you go phone,’ I asked, ‘or did he have an inclusive package?’

  ‘A Vodafone account, Mann said; thirty pounds a month. So what?’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ I sighed. ‘When did you stop being a detective? For that amount of money he’s paying for internet access, and if so, he’ll be using it. What else?’

  ‘The only thing she found on it were photographs. They were of various engines and boats, motor yachts mostly. One of them, the most recent in the sequence, she said, was very large. Could that be the boat you’ve been hired to find?’

  ‘I’d guess that it is. It sounds as if Hodgson photographed the vessels he worked on.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ Andy agreed, grudgingly. ‘The only other images that Mann found were of the inside of a building. When I asked her what that was about, she said that she couldn’t comment without speaking to you first. And that’s when I blew up at her. ’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I gasped. ‘What she told you was the literal truth. She doesn’t know any more than she told you. I didn’t know what was on that phone but I’d a bloody good idea what might be. Rather than guess, though, I kept my thoughts to myself until Lottie had recovered it and checked.’

  ‘I see,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, so do I,’ I said. ‘I see that you’ve made an arse of yourself and alienated one of your best detective officers. But,’ I sighed, ‘it’s my fault.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Because you’re making exactly the same mistakes I made as a chief. Andy, in the history of modern warfare there’s a reason damn few generals were killed. They had to stand back from the action and see the broad picture, not just the hot spots. It’s the same with the police service. A chief constable’s a director, not an executive. That’s where I got it wrong; now you’re doing the same thing on an even bigger scale.’

  ‘You flatter yourself,’ he retorted. ‘I wasn’t checking up on DI Mann, I was checking up on you. So, are you going to tell me what you would have told her, if I hadn’t forbidden her to have any more to do with you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll only speak to Lottie, for it’s none of your fucking business really. All you need to do is bask in the glory of the clear-up rate; it isn’t your job to create it.’

  ‘Effectively,’ he laughed, bitterly, ‘you’re telling me to apologise to her.’

  ‘Yes I bloody am,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t you think you owe her one?’

  ‘Probably,’ he retorted, ‘because I shouldn’t have created a situation where she felt she had two masters.’

  ‘Over to you, then,’ I told him. ‘Just one final piece of advice: do it yourself, don’t get your exec to make the call.’

  Finally, I did hang up on him. I was feeling bad about Lottie Mann, but I was feeling worse about the future of the service to which I’d devoted too much of my life, putting it too often before the people I love.

  One of my favourite sayings, one I will repeat at the drop of the smallest hat, is as follows, ‘The noblest of all dogs is the hot dog; it feeds the hand that bites it.’

  I came upon it when studying the philosophy of a Canadian named Laurence Johnston Peter. The management theory that he defined is globally famous, yet he is not. Millions know of the ‘Peter Principle’, but most have forgotten the man after whom it was named.

  Peter argued that anything that works will be used in progressively more challenging situations, until it fails. In human terms, he argued, the potential of a person for promotion is commonly based on their performance in their current position, leading to their rising to their highest level of competence and ultimately to the one beyond, the level of their own incompetence.

  If I had spent more time studying management when it mattered, I would have realised much sooner that as a chief constable I was a classic example. I see it now, and with the benefit of that self-knowledge, I recognised that morning that so was Sir Andrew Martin.

  That’s when I knew for sure that he’d never cut it as head of ScotServe.

  I’d just been listening to a man who was out of his depth, and running out of the energy required to keep himself afloat. It was a matter of time before he drowned, or grabbed a lifebelt and was hauled out of there.

  I hadn’t expected Lottie to call me, any more than I’d expected Andy to call her, so when she did ring, half an hour later, I reached a logical but erroneous conclusion.

  ‘He saw reason, did he?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’ She sounded puzzled or a second. ‘You mean the chief?’ The pieces slotted together. ‘You know I’ve had a bollocking? He’s spoken to you?’

  ‘He’s spoken to me. We had a frank exchange of views. I told him he should apologise to you; I’m glad he’s taken my advice.’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ Lottie said. ‘My ears are still ringing from his one and only call.’

  ‘Then what the hell are you doing speaking to me?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I’m not.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, I am, but I dialled a wrong number. These damn phones; it’s too easy to auto-redial by mistake. But if I was speaking to you, I might want to ask you . . .’

  ‘Lottie,’ I warned her, ‘this is career-threatening stuff. You’re working for a seriously insecure man.’

  ‘And I’ve got a seriously unstable murderer to catch. I’ve had a look at Hodgson’s phone, like you suggested.’

  ‘I know. Andy told me what was on it and what wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you take from it?’ she asked.

  ‘It satisfies me beyond any reasonable doubt that Jock Hodgson was involved in the theft of the Princess Alison. I don’t even need to see the images of the building that your chief mentioned to know that they show the interior of Eden Higgins’ private dock on the Gareloch where the boat was kept.’

  ‘I can send them to you,’ she offered.

  ‘No you can’t. This might be a misdialled call, but if you email me photos it’ll be sackable. I won’t put you at that risk. Let me think aloud for a while.’

  ‘Think away,’ she laughed.

  ‘Okay.’ I paused to get some things in a row, then continued. ‘If I was running the Hodgson investigation, I’d be assuming that the dead man sent those images, and maybe gave other assistance, to a third party. The boat was normally crewed by two people. The other is a man called Walter Hurrell. Like Hodgson, he’s ex-Navy. However I wouldn’t waste time exploring whether he was part of the theft. If it had been a joint operation between the two of them, there would have been no need for the pics.’

  ‘Cou
ldn’t the third party still have been involved?’

  ’No need: three would have been a crowd in the theft. Hurrell wasn’t a party to it; trust me on that. But,’ I added, ‘if I was investigating I would like very much to know whether Mr Hurrell has been to a DIY store lately to purchase a blowlamp.’

  ‘You think . . .’

  ‘The man isn’t only ex-Navy, Inspector,’ I told her. ‘He was Special Forces. My investigation would focus very strongly on him; I’d be looking for his DNA and fingerprints. If they weren’t taken for elimination purposes at the time of the Princess Alison theft, then Bridie Gorman’s boyfriend really plumbed the depths of incompetence in his investigation. I’d be finding them and looking for them to show up in Hodgson’s cottage.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have been there anyway, if they were crew colleagues?’ Lottie suggested.

  ‘It’s possible,’ I conceded, ‘but if they were concentrated in the vicinity of the body, that would be significant.’

  ‘Would you be hauling him in for interview?’ she asked.

  ‘First I’d try to establish his whereabouts at the time of Hodgson’s killing, and at the time of the break-in to his house. In his day job Hurrell is Eden Higgins’ minder; if he was off with the boss and can prove it on either or both of those dates, it’s an abortive line of inquiry. If he wasn’t, I might be having a chat with him, and trying to persuade a sheriff to give me a search warrant for his house to look for the laptop and other stolen items.’

  ‘Hold on, sir,’ the DI said. ‘If he’s close to Higgins, could he be involved?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, firmly. ‘Eden didn’t get to be a billionaire by being stupid enough to invite me to investigate a theft knowing that it might, that it would, lead me to other crimes in which he was involved.’

  ‘So why would Hurrell . . .’

  ‘I don’t know, and I’m not saying he did. I’m offering him to you as a suspect, that’s all. You might get lucky and find Hodgson’s ring in his house, but I doubt it. No,’ I concluded, ‘whoever did it, this is what I think happened. Hodgson was a suspect, because Hurrell wasn’t; that could make Hurrell the killer, but not necessarily. The first step that was taken was the theft of Hodgson’s laptop. Knowing what we do about his phone being clean says to me that the laptop didn’t give up anything either, so the killer went back and tortured him.’

  ‘Until he talked?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Who can say?’ I replied. ‘But we haven’t found the boat yet, have we?’

  ‘You are sure his death is connected to the Princess Alison?’

  ‘Have you and Provan come up with anything else in the man’s life,’ I challenged her ‘that could have led to someone torturing him and then shooting him?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ she admitted. ‘He was an ordinary man with no bad habits.’

  ‘Other than involvement in a multimillion-pound theft,’ I pointed out. ‘There’s just one thing,’ I added. ‘My hunch, and please do take my hunches seriously, is that he talked before he died. In my experience, and I’ve seen a couple, one last year in fact, torture murderers don’t stop until they’ve got what they want, but once they have, then it’s goodnight. Hodgson only had one burned foot; that tells me he didn’t hold out long.’

  ‘So what can we expect to find, Mr Skinner?’

  ‘That I really don’t know.’

  ‘So we might find it and never realise,’ she suggested.

  ‘That’s possible,’ I admitted. ‘There’s only one other thing I’d do,’ I added, ‘if I was leading this hypothetical inquiry. I’d go through Hodgson’s credit card and bank card activity in the weeks before the theft of the Princess.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d be looking to place him somewhere unusual, somewhere that was away from the norm for him. Put him there and see what shows up in the vicinity.’

  ‘We’ll do that, sir. Can I come back to you if I need to?’ she asked.

  ‘Not without DCC McGuire’s express permission. I’ve got too much on my conscience already without a broken career adding to it.’

  ‘Not the chief’s consent?’ She’s shrewd, is Lottie.

  ‘The DCC’s your line manager. If he’s fully in the picture he’ll make his own decision. That’s how it should be. And by the way,’ I added, ‘you should protect Provan from any fallout. If that wee guy thought you were being picked on, he’d go for whoever did it, regardless, and he’s got far too much pension to lose.’

  It wasn’t until I’d pocketed my phone that I heard a sound from behind me and turned, to see Alex standing in the doorway, holding a Costa coffee in each hand.

  ‘What the hell are you involved with now?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing if your ex has anything to do with it,’ I told her. ‘Is one of those for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I saw your car in the park, and I reckoned it was about that time. Who was that on the phone anyway?’

  ‘One of my former foot soldiers from Strathclyde,’ I replied, ‘Detective Inspector Mann; you’ll probably come across her in court one day. She has a formidable arrest record.’

  ‘I’ll look out for her.’ She handed me a coffee, then frowned. ‘I’ve just had a funny phone call myself,’ she said. ‘It was from a woman called Mackail; she said that she was calling on Sauce Haddock’s recommendation. Her story is that she’s in a situation and that she should really have a lawyer on her side. She should too; she’s up against a guy called Oliver Harrison, a very nasty piece of work with a whole string of Law Society reprimands to his name. I told her that normally I only handle criminal cases these days, but she sounded really anxious, so I said I’d think about it. Does the name mean anything to you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, nothing at all. I haven’t heard from Sauce or Sammy since Monday.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Pops?’ she asked, out of the blue.

  ‘Nothing,’ I insisted. ‘What makes you think there is?’

  ‘Thirty years’ experience,’ she laughed. ‘You’re fidgety. Did you expect the guys to report back to you every step of the way? If so, that’s not how . . .’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I sighed. ‘It’s not how it works any more. That has nothing to do with it. If you must know I’ve had a couple of up and downers with Andy, over the thing I’ve taken on for Eden Higgins. It’s . . . grown legs, you might say. I’ve identified a prime suspect. The problem is, someone else identified him before I did.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Wow. Is that what the call from the DI was about?’

  ‘Yes. I landed her in the shit with her big boss. That’s what our most recent barney was about,’ I confessed.

  ‘Father,’ she said heavily, ‘has this fallout anything to do with Andy and me?’

  ‘Of course it has!’ I retorted. ‘I told him he’s made me his enemy for life.’ ‘Then you’re overreacting,’ she countered. ‘I chucked him, not the other way round.’

  ‘Because of his wholly unacceptable behaviour,’ I insisted. ‘He put you in that situation.’

  She looked at me and then she smiled, in the way she does that melts my heart. ‘There’s no reasoning with you, is there?’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, cheerfully, ‘not where you’re concerned. Thanks for the coffee; now bugger off and free a couple of victims of police oppression . . . or get stuck into the man Harrison, whatever gives you the most fun.’

  She nodded. ‘Will do, but there’s something else too, underneath the angst with Andy. You’re not quite as angry as you insist. Something’s pulling you in the other direction.’

  ‘As always,’ I said, ‘you’re right. Sarah’s pregnant.’ There can be no secrets between Alex and me. ‘But not a word about it, and beam with astonishment when she tells you.’

  My news achieved the near-impossible. It silenced her for at least half a
minute. When she had finished hugging me, and telling me that at our age we should have figured out what caused the condition, finally she went back to work.

  So did I, for the benefit of InterMedia, answering a question from the crime editor on the Girona daily. He was concerned about potential obstruction of one of his reporters by the Mossos D’Esquadra, the Catalan police force. I looked at his story, reckoned that he was absolutely right, and made a phone call to an acquaintance of mine who happens to be its director general. Xavi’s company pays me well for my experience and my contacts, but like David Ginola with that shampoo, I like to think I’m worth it.

  I had just sent off my email telling the editor that his problem was solved, when my phone sent me off in another direction.

  ‘Can we meet?’ Carrie McDaniels asked. ‘I can’t think of an excuse to screw any more money out of you, so I’d better report on what I’ve done.’

  ‘Fine,’ I told her, ‘but you come to me. My car’s parked and I’m not moving it.’

  I gave her directions to the Fountainbridge office, then told the front desk to send her up when she arrived. Like all newspapers, the Saltire is pretty choosy about who it lets into its building.

  She was with me inside fifteen minutes: I reckoned there would be a taxi on the expense account when she sent me her invoice. She looked pleased with herself, with an added sparkle in her eye that made me wonder if she and the boyfriend had patched things up.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ I asked, when she was settled into the chair that Alex had vacated an hour before.

  ‘A bonus,’ she began. ‘Remember that hotel robbery I mentioned?’

  ‘Rachel Higgins’ jewels? Of course.’

  ‘There’s one thing you don’t know about me. I still work for the insurance company; it’s my biggest client. That’s how I was able to set up on my own. As such I still have access to the stuff I’ve worked on. I thought you might like a copy of the report on the Higgins case, so I pulled it.’ She handed me a small black memory stick. ‘It’s on there.’ She smiled, adding, ‘It’s a freebie, by the way.’