I sat beside him, but deliberately I drew my chair back a little, as if to make it clear that I was only an observer.
Each of us had been given a folder. It had been compiled by Haddock and Provan, under my unofficial supervision, and contained a comprehensive review of the spider’s web that the case had become. Mario tapped his. ‘Take us through it, DCI Pye,’ he said.
The timeline began with the collapse of Mackail Extrusions, and Higgins Holdings’ purchase of the wreckage.
It started to move with Hector Mackail’s reported visit to Eden’s office and the assault which had left my client with a fractured ankle, treated, as young DC Wright had discovered, at a private hospital near Edinburgh Zoo.
A few weeks later, Jock Hodgson visited Dunbar, where, it was believed, he had lunched with Mackail, and another naval colleague, David Gates.
A further week elapsed and the Princess Alison was stolen, with a two-month abortive police investigation ensuing. A swift internal inquiry by DCI Sandra Bulloch had established that its shoddy incompetence had been covered up, by the outgoing Assistant Chief Constable Bridget ‘Bridie’ Gorman, but that was not part of the folder.
The day after the police search was declared closed, Jock Hodgson’s home was burgled. The crime was reported, but it fell into the ‘probably no chance’ category, and wasn’t prioritised by the local CID division.
The same weekend Eden and Rachel attended a business symposium in Mackiltee Lodge, where her jewels were stolen from the safe, having been put there under the supervision of Walter Hurrell.
A few days later, the Higgins family and Hurrell attended Callum Sullivan’s celebration in North Berwick, where they crossed paths with Dean Francey.
Five days after that, Jock Hodgson was tortured and murdered in his home.
Two weeks and three days later, Hector Mackail was knocked down and killed by Dean Francey, driving his father’s van.
Six weeks on, Grete Regal was attacked and her daughter Zena abducted, by Dean Francey, only for the idiot to screw up by colliding with me in the Fort Kinnaird car park.
Hours later he was silenced, along with the unfortunate Anna Harmony, who should have stuck to pole-dancing.
Two days later, Hodgson’s body was discovered.
Finally the trail led to Walter Hurrell; but not before he shot himself. The gunshot residue test had proved conclusively that he had fired the pistol found on the bed.
‘Let’s not kid ourselves here,’ I said, after Sammy had finished. ‘Despite Eden Higgins’ protests, we’re all asking ourselves, me included, whether Hurrell was acting alone, or on his orders.’
I paused; five people were looking at me. ‘The answer?’ I continued. ‘Truthfully, I don’t know. He might have; he did start the ball rolling by bankrupting Mackail, because he refused to be bought out.
‘But it doesn’t matter a damn, as all of you must realise. Suppose Eden was behind it all, you will never prove it. This gathering is about finalising a report to the Crown Office, end of story.’
‘What’s this jewel theft doing in the timeline, Bob?’ Mario asked.
‘Maybe nothing,’ I replied. ‘But . . . Francey was paid five grand, probably to kill Mackail, and he’d have been getting more for snatching the child. That wasn’t going to be done by bank transfer. It’s possible that Hurrell opened that hotel safe during the night and took the jewels . . . pretty easy since he’d seen the combination . . . then flogged them to raise some black cash, knowing that the loss to Rachel would actually be a hit on the Edinburgh Co-operative insurance company.’
‘Makes sense,’ he admitted. ‘But here’s another question. Why would Higgins hire you to find his boat if he knew that Hurrell was in the process of killing off the people who stole it?’
‘He didn’t hire me to do that, not really,’ I told him. ‘He hired me to review the police investigation and to cover any bases that Inspector McGarry hadn’t, so that he could compel his marine insurer to settle for the full amount of the loss. And suppose he did know, when he and I met he had no idea that Zena Gates had been found dead or that you were on to Dean Francey and his girlfriend.’
I looked beyond Mario, at Provan. ‘What do you think, Dan?’ I asked.
The sage frowned. ‘Ask me again when they’ve compared that bullet wi’ the others.’
I nodded. ‘It’ll match,’ I said.
Lottie Mann spoke up. ‘Come on, Mr Skinner, what do you really believe? I can’t take “It doesn’t matter”, not from you. Did Higgins order everything, or was Hurrell acting on his own, without any instruction?’
‘How often do I have to say it?’ I retorted. ‘There’s no evidence to implicate anyone but Hurrell. That’s what I believe: it’s what I know.’
‘Then it’s done,’ she murmured, ‘because we can tie him to everything, but nobody else. In his flat, we found Hodgson’s laptop, and a couple of silver cups that were on the stolen property list from the Wemyss Bay break-in. We also found seventy grand in cash, old notes. DCI Pye says they’re similar to the money he found in Francey’s place.’
Haddock leaned forward. ‘Now that we know what we’re looking for,’ he volunteered, ‘we’ve been able to match a couple of partial prints on Dino’s stash to Hurrell.’
‘There’s something else,’ I confessed. ‘It’s not in the folder because my source can’t be named, but it’s a fact, nonetheless. Hurrell was kicked out of the Special Boat Service for being trigger-happy.’
‘That cracks it,’ Mario declared. ‘He planned it, he funded it and he paid for it. I’m calling it a result.’ He turned in his chair and looked me in the eye. ‘Are we agreed on that?’
I sighed as I picked up my folder and opened it. In fact that outcome was deeply unsatisfactory to me: Walter Hurrell had been other ranks, not an officer. He obeyed orders; he didn’t give them.
I flipped through the pages, letting each one fall on the one before, until notes gave way to photographs and they began to turn over less smoothly. Finally, they stopped, at a print I hadn’t seen before, and yet one that was strangely familiar.
‘Fuck!’ I whispered.
Then I slammed the folder back on the conference table.
‘No, Mario,’ I said, ‘we’re not.’ I pointed at the four detectives. ‘You lot,’ I ordered forgetting my civilian status, ‘get back to Hurrell’s place, get down on your hands and knees and start looking.’
‘Looking for what?’ Haddock exclaimed.
‘Another bullet hole,’ I told him. ‘I’d join you,’ I added, ‘but I’m taking my other half to dinner.’
Sixty-Three
No, I hadn’t said anything about Gates being back from his mission. At that moment it wasn’t relevant, and there was a further possibility holding me back; if I’d told Mario that the Ministry of Defence had banned ScotServe from its premises, it might have triggered a pissing contest that would have got in the way of progress.
Sarah and I made it to La Potinière. The Hurrell post-mortem had been uncomplicated, so routine that she even had time to write up her report. She’d printed a copy for me, but absolutely forbade me from reading it over the dinner table.
Next morning, I had Saturday breakfast with the family, light, to preserve the glow of a superb meal the night before, read the online papers, and then headed west. For company I chose an album by John Legend, because it matched my mood; contemplative.
I had switched off my phone the night before, and I left it that way. I didn’t want to be disturbed by feedback from the search of Hurrell’s flat . . . not least because I knew what they’d have found there. I didn’t want to be interrupted by a call from Sir Andrew Martin, who had left a testy message with Trish while Sarah and I were at the restaurant, asking, nay, demanding, that I phone him. I had a serious day ahead of me and I didn’t want to be diverted b
y anything, friend or foe.
As I drove, I found myself thinking about fatherhood. I’d left home feeling guilty about missing any part of a termtime weekend with my children, but what I was going to do could not be put off. I was going to see a father, and I was going to give him the worst news he’d ever had. I couldn’t imagine myself in his shoes.
Being a parent is maybe the only thing in my life that I believe I’ve done well. When I turned fifty, Alex gave me a ‘World’s best Dad’ mug, among my presents. Inside it was a handwritten note that said simply, ‘I really mean that, Love A.’
I’ve never raised my voice to any of my children, far less raised a hand, because I’ve never had to. Since I’ve never had to, logic suggests someone must have been doing something right. With Alex, there was only me for most of the time.
Looking back on my life, the years I spent bringing her up, as a single parent, were huge. Sometimes it wasn’t easy . . . the first task I ever gave Mario McGuire as a young PC was looking after her, when I’d had no choice but to take her to a crime scene . . . but I believe that giving her a solid platform on which to build her success has been my greatest achievement, so far. I’m determined to match it with all the others, even Ignacio, although I’m coming very late to the game with him. As for Sarah’s bombshell . . . a name she will carry until she puts in an appearance . . . I will be over seventy by the time she’s ready for her maiden solo flight.
David Gates and Grete Regal weren’t going to have the pleasure of those years, with their little Zena. They were going to have to live with her death, if they could.
John Legend had become Mary Coughlan by the time I cleared the village named Rhu and started heading up the Gareloch. I was close to Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, a lumpy title universally changed to ‘Faslane’ in popular usage, but there was one call I wanted to make on the way.
I’d only seen photographs of Eden’s boathouse, but it was on my way, surprisingly close to the base, in fact, and so I had to take the opportunity to see it up close. Thanks to Google Earth, I knew exactly where it was, only a few yards off the main road that ran along the loch side.
It was big, no doubt about that. A private black-topped road ran from the gated entrance down to a sliding double door, the only landward entry point. It was set in the west side, secured by a shiny new padlock, a replacement, no doubt, for the one they’d sheared off with a bolt cutter. Dead leaves were piled up against it, a sign that it hadn’t been opened for a while.
Having seen all I wanted, I drove on; a couple of miles down the road, I reached the roundabout at the north gate, the main entrance, where I was expected. The fences were topped with rolls of razor wire, sure, but I’d seen the same at many other secure establishments that I’ve visited during my career. There was no sign that read, ‘Home of your very own nuclear deterrent’, nothing to indicate that the place was different, and yet it was, even to me.
It may have been its incongruity in its beautiful location, or it may simply have had an aura of evil about it. Whatever, it gave me the creeps. With a sudden flash of insight, I knew that if my life had taken another course and given me the power of a prime minister rather than that of a mere chief constable, HM Naval Base Clyde would not exist.
Naturally, given what they were guarding, the MoD police at both gates, inner and outer, were armed. They had been told to expect me; the only credential that I had to present was my driving licence, that got me through each point, although my car was inspected at the second stage and I was given a pat-down search.
Once that was done, the officers at the second gate gave me clear directions to a building at the southern end of the massive base; they called it HMS Neptune. The people there weren’t armed, but they were still pretty straight edged. I was greeted by a petty officer and escorted to a room with a view of the loch, where a uniformed man was waiting. He was so sharp he looked as if he could have cut steel.
‘I’m Tim Boyne,’ he said. ‘Captain Boyne, Lieutenant Gates’s CO. I’m also his friend, and I’m concerned for him. I was asked to keep him on base without explanation, and I’ve done that. I gather you have some sort of connection with the Security Service, Mr Skinner. Perhaps you have the authority to tell me what this is all about.’
‘I have a very loose connection with MI5,’ I advised him. ‘It was the only way I could get in here, to see Lieutenant Gates privately. An easy alternative would have been his arrest as soon as he left this place, but there are circumstances that make that undesirable.’
‘Arrest David?’ Boyne exclaimed. ‘Why?’
‘This man’s your friend,’ I countered. ‘Do you want to keep him in a career?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘So do I,’ I said. That was true; it was the real reason, beyond Gates’s personal security, why I’d had him held before he stepped, officially, onshore. I knew what he’d done, and I knew why he’d done it. I knew also what had been done to him, and I reckoned that was punishment enough.
‘I need to have a private meeting with Lieutenant Gates,’ I continued. ‘We’re going to discuss certain matters, and then I’m going to have to give him some very bad news. I don’t want our conversation to be eavesdropped, not even by you, Captain, and I sure as hell don’t want it recorded. Are we clear on that?’
The submariner nodded. ‘We are. Am I ever going to know what this is about?’
‘Only the bad part, I’m afraid,’ I replied. ‘I’d guess he might need to share that with you when we’re done.’
‘Then let’s get on with it. I’ll fetch David and leave you together. There are no hidden microphones in this room, I promise.’
He left, and didn’t return; instead, when the door reopened, David Gates stepped into the room, unaccompanied. I knew it was him; there had been a passport image in the investigation folder. Dark, lean, but shorter than I expected; he couldn’t have been more than five feet six.
‘Mr Skinner?’ he began, tentatively. It occurred to me that he was still uncertain how to play the game, back foot or front, cautiously or assertively. In his shoes, held on the base overnight without reason being offered, I’d have taken the latter approach.
I nodded, ushering him to a couple of seats beside the window.
‘What do I call you?’ he asked. ‘Is it plain Mister, Chief Constable, or what?’ He’d recognised me too; damn that media profile.
‘Anything you like,’ I said. ‘Call me Ishmael.’
He smiled. ‘I’m a submariner, not a whaler. But I did love Moby Dick. What’s this about, Mr Skinner?’’
‘Did you enjoy your lunch?’ I asked.
His face screwed up in bewilderment. ‘What lunch?’
‘Your lunch in the Rocks, in Dunbar, with Jock Hodgson and Hector Mackail.’
‘Fuck!’ he gasped. ‘You really are a spook.’
‘No I’m not,’ I assured him. ‘I’m not even a cop any longer. I know about your lunch because of some good work by real police officers, and I know this through my own instincts and experience. You and Mackail stole the Princess Alison, Eden Higgins’ five-million-pound motor cruiser, from its boathouse just along the road. You did it out of revenge, to get even for your pal Hector being bilked out of his business by Higgins Holdings, and maybe for your wife’s indirect loss for the same reason.’
He tried for an impassive expression as he stared at me, but fell well short.
‘We’re not going to bother with ritual denials, Lieutenant, are we?’ I murmured. ‘No, there would be no point, because I know and you know it’s true.’
‘I think I need a lawyer,’ Gates said.
‘No you don’t,’ I told him, ‘because, believe it or not, I’m on your side.’
He switched back to bewildered mode. ‘Why?’
‘Natural justice,’ I replied, ‘because this is where we get to the
bad part. Your friends are dead. You stole the wrong fucking boat, David.’
‘What? How? What are you saying?’
I explained exactly what I was saying, chapter and verse; that the truth had been burned out of Hodgson, then he’d been shot, his killing followed by the casual, non-accidental death of Hector Mackail.
‘If you hadn’t been at sea, you might be dead too,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, once you’ve heard the rest of the story, you’re going to wish that you were.’
I gave him a minute to gather himself, and then I told him what had happened to his partner and daughter, and who had done it. When I’d finished, he sat there, looking at me as if I was mad. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘terribly, terribly sorry. I hate being the man to give you this news, but I know the whole story, and I thought it was important that you heard it in context.’
Then he started to cry; I wanted to join him, but instead I left him alone with his grief. Captain Boyne was waiting in the corridor outside. I told him what had happened to Zena and Grete, then stayed where I was while he went in to comfort his friend.
After ten minutes, he reappeared. ‘David wants to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I’ll fix up coffee for us, and a brandy for him.’
I went back into the room. Gates was red eyed, but composed. ‘The guy who did it,’ he murmured. ‘You said he’s dead?’
‘Yes. The belief is that Zena’s death wasn’t meant to happen, and that the person who paid Francey to kidnap her silenced him after he screwed up.’
Gates’ eyes were icy. ‘Just as well. It saves me the trouble.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ I told him. ‘The girl, though, Anna; I’d like to think that she didn’t understand everything that was going on.’
‘I don’t care,’ he retorted. ‘They can all fucking die. You said that Higgins’ man paid for it, and for Hector to be killed.’
Private Investigations Page 36