Blindside acalf-3

by G. J. Moffat

  ‘I’ll check if they’re available. Can I tell them what it’s about?’

  ‘We’ll explain it to them,’ Armstrong said.

  They stood in front of the woman’s desk while she called through to each of the men in turn. The conversations sounded calm enough to Irvine from what she could tell from the receptionist’s side of it.

  Irvine looked around the place and saw that the furnishings were expensive and that there were original pieces of art on the walls. She couldn’t tell if they were worth anything or if they were junk. But it didn’t look like the kind of place that hung any old rubbish up on the walls.

  After a few minutes, a door opened to the right of the woman’s desk and a slim man in his early forties walked over to them and held out his hand. His handshake was firm and he maintained eye contact the whole time. He had neat, fair hair, tanned skin and a navy suit that fitted him very well.

  ‘I’m Paul Scott,’ he said. ‘Come on through and we can have a chat.’

  4

  The other accountant introduced himself as Lawrence Marshall. He looked a little younger than Scott, but not by much. He had the same air of health and prosperity about him, dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit with thinning hair swept back on his head.

  The two men sat together on the near side of a table in the office boardroom. It was on the ground floor and had two long windows which looked out towards the motorway in the distance. They were both doing their best not to look at Irvine’s bruises.

  ‘Can we get you anything to drink?’ Scott asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ Irvine replied, sitting two seats away from them.

  Armstrong walked around to the far side of the table and sat opposite Irvine. Scott looked from Irvine to Armstrong and back.

  ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘You own a property company. ScotLets. Is that correct?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘Yes. Is there a problem with it?’

  ‘Not that we’re aware of, no.’

  ‘You have a flat in Bridgeton?’ Armstrong said.

  Both men looked at him.

  ‘You rent it to a couple of women.’

  Scott shifted in his seat. Marshall remained still.

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ Scott asked.

  ‘You know what they do for a living?’

  ‘I do now. But not when we rented to them.’

  Irvine raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Come on. Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘It’s the truth. I mean, we have an agency that rents all the properties for us. We trust them to get all the references and stuff.’

  ‘So long as the money rolls in you don’t care.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. It’s a respected agency. We don’t have the time to do all of that ourselves.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Marshall added.

  ‘But you know about these particular tenants. About what they do to earn a living and pay your rent?’

  ‘We started getting complaints about them from one of the other tenants in the building,’ Scott said. ‘They got the company name from the lease and called here direct to complain rather than going through the agency.’

  ‘And you didn’t do anything about it?’

  ‘We left it to the agency.’

  ‘It’s been tough in the property market,’ Marshall said.

  ‘So any tenant is a good tenant?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Irvine believed what they were saying, didn’t see any ‘tells’ to indicate that they were lying.

  ‘Can you give us details of the agency?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, I’ve got it here.’

  Marshall reached into his jacket and took out a business card which he handed to Irvine. She looked at it briefly, saw that it was one of the big commercial agencies with an office in the city centre.

  ‘One of the women died,’ Armstrong said. ‘Joanna Lewski. We’re treating it as murder.’

  ‘My God,’ Scott said, his tanned face going pale.

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ Marshall asked. ‘You think we had something to do with it?’

  ‘We follow all lines of inquiry. This is one of them.’

  ‘If we knew anything, we would tell you.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Scott said, almost as though he was no longer listening.

  ‘You seem awful upset about a woman you didn’t know,’ Irvine said.

  Scott looked at her.

  ‘It’s just… I don’t know.’

  Irvine stood.

  ‘We’ll be speaking to your agency.’

  Outside in the car, Irvine asked what Armstrong thought about Scott’s reaction to the news of Lewski’s death.

  ‘Yeah, I saw that.’

  ‘What do you think? Did he know her?’

  ‘It’s funny. His reaction. Those two uniforms we spoke to.’

  ‘I know. This girl seemed to have an effect on men.’

  ‘Difficult to tell why from the way we found her.’

  ‘I didn’t get the impression he was lying to us.’

  ‘I agree. So what do you want to do about it?’

  ‘It wasn’t the reaction of someone who had anything to hide. More like he was shocked. Like he just found out about it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘If we can get the lab results and look at the CCTV recordings and then go see this agency…’ She waved the card Scott had given her. ‘Something’s going to break on this. I can feel it.’

  5

  Irvine put an elbow on her desk and propped her chin up on her hand. She could feel her lower lip pouting and tried to pull it back in. Armstrong was sitting beside her and tried his best to look sympathetic.

  Jim Murphy was used to pouting detectives.

  ‘You know how it is,’ he said to Irvine. ‘This blood stuff takes time. I’ve been up to the top floor twice already today but those lab guys can’t be rushed. It’ll be done when it’s done.’

  Irvine leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her eyes, suddenly feeling tired.

  ‘What about CCTV? They delivered the recordings yet?’

  ‘Oh, sure. I got an e-mail with all that stuff in digital format. Save me logging on to try to find it.’

  ‘Anything on it?’

  He looked at his watch. Stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and looked back at Irvine.

  ‘Came over less than an hour ago. So…’

  ‘You haven’t looked at it yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know how to, right? I mean, you can read the angles, know where the cameras are pointed, judge distances.’

  ‘Yeah, I can do that.’

  ‘Any chance you can make a start on it today?’

  He looked at his watch again. Now rubbing at imaginary stubble on his clean-shaven face. He pushed his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘It’s a murder inquiry, Jim. Please.’

  ‘Fine. But it’ll just be a start. There’s a lot of stuff on there and it’s…’ He checked his watch. Again. ‘After three now.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Jim. I do.’

  Irvine gave him her best smile: figured if she couldn’t appeal to his sense of civic duty she’d try another route. Feminine wiles. Not subtle. Murphy didn’t go for it.

  So much for the killer smile.

  ‘Let me know tomorrow morning how you’re getting on?’ Irvine said.

  Murphy nodded, turned and walked away without saying anything else.

  ‘That was… helpful,’ Armstrong said.

  Irvine watched Murphy pull open the door to the stairwell at the far end of the open plan area.

  ‘Actually, he is very good,’ she said.

  Irvine looked at Armstrong, caught him staring at the injured side of her face. Realised that the pain was starting up again. She put her hand against her face and felt the swelling.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to accomplish much more today, do yo
u?’ Armstrong asked.

  She knew where he was going with this.

  ‘Before you say anything, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m not planning on contradicting you on that.’

  ‘But you are about to suggest that maybe I should go home early. After all I’ve been through.’

  She made quotation signs with her fingers as she said the last sentence. Remembered someone else who did that — Cahill. It was a sign that his particular brand of rough charm was starting to work on her.

  ‘Something like that. We can pick up with him tomorrow,’ he said, nodding his head to the side in the direction Murphy had gone.

  ‘What about the rental agency for the accountants?’

  She swivelled in her seat and lifted the card from her desk. ‘We could go and talk to them.’

  Armstrong took the card from her. ‘I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure I won’t get attacked in their swanky office.’

  Irvine narrowed her eyes at him, drummed her fingers on the desk.

  ‘It would give me a chance to pick up Connor early from the childminder’s, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘Connor’s your son.’

  She nodded, though he hadn’t asked it as a question.

  ‘So go. Do it. Take a couple of hours off and swallow some painkillers.’

  At home, Irvine made Connor his favourite dinner of spaghetti with cheese sauce and gave him a bath after watching a Scooby Doo DVD. He loved Scooby Doo. Maybe as much as she did.

  She let him splash around in the bath with his toys before taking him to his room and reading him a few pages of Winnie-the-Pooh. He listened rapt as she told him about Pooh’s and Piglet’s not-so-brilliant plan to kidnap Roo. She found herself vaguely disturbed — thinking that it was a little too much like a child abduction plot. Then Kanga gave Piglet a cold bath for his troubles. Order restored to the Hundred Acre Wood.

  Crime and punishment.

  If only it was that easy in reality.

  After Connor was settled in bed, Irvine checked her mobile, hoping that Logan had called. He had not.

  ‘Probably still in the air,’ she told herself.

  She ran a bath and looked in the mirror at the ever-expanding mass of black and purple bruising that seemed to be spreading across her face.

  Undressing in the bathroom and leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor, she slipped into the hot water and dipped her head, soaking her hair and pushing it back. After that she doused a facecloth with cold water from the tap, put it over her face and lay back, trying hard not to remember the fear she felt back in Suzie Murray’s building as the man who might have killed Joanna Lewski came at her.

  6

  Descending into Denver International Airport, Logan stared out of the window of the 747 jet at the vast expanse of the Great Plains. He knew that the city sat in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains and was surprised at how flat the land was.

  Cahill was still dozing in the seat next to him. In fact, he’d slept for almost half of the flight while Logan tossed and turned for an hour before giving up on sleep and watching two movies and some episodes of Seinfeld.

  The terminal building was visible on the left as they cruised in to land: a series of white peaks looking like snow-covered mountains. It was a unique design for an airport. Logan remembered Cahill telling him a while back that the roof had partially collapsed under the weight of snow one year.

  The big plane touched down and the pilot engaged reverse thrust. Logan felt himself slide forward on the leather of his seat. Cahill stirred and opened his eyes, blinking away the residual sleep.

  ‘We there yet?’ he asked, smiling.

  Logan tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He rubbed at his own eyes and felt the early morning start beginning to wear him down. His watch was still on UK time and it showed just after ten at night, totally at odds with the bright sunshine outside.

  ‘What’s the time difference?’ Logan asked Cahill.

  ‘Seven hours.’

  Logan fiddled with his watch until he got it to three. He stretched and yawned as the plane slowed and turned towards the terminal.

  ‘Best way to beat the jet lag is to try to get acclimatised now. Stay awake as long as you can.’

  Logan nodded, knew he was right. He also knew that he was going to struggle to make it much past dinner.

  ‘Trouble with this place,’ Cahill went on, ‘is you’ve got the altitude to adjust to as well. You’ll probably feel nauseous for a day or two till your body gets used to the thin air.’

  ‘Great.’

  Cahill clapped a hand on his shoulder and unbuckled his seatbelt. The plane was still moving. Logan had a thing about keeping his belt fastened till the light went off. Cahill was not so much one for the rules. He stood and opened the overhead luggage space, drawing a look from one of the female stewards at the front of the cabin. He smiled at her sheepishly, a look Logan guessed he’d perfected over many years. The woman shook her head and smiled. The benefits of looking a bit like Bob Redford.

  All his friends call him Bob.

  They trooped off the plane and walked with the other passengers through a series of long corridors. Logan noticed a lot of Native American images on the walls and heard chanted music. He asked Cahill what it was about.

  ‘American guilt. Like all this makes up for everything that was done to the native population. You’ll see when we get into town that a lot of the streets are named after tribes as well. Champa, Arapahoe and the like.’

  The arrivals hall was like any other place: everyone was tired and desperate to get to their end destination. Logan was glad that they had packed carry-on luggage only as they walked towards the immigration lines.

  ‘This is where we find out’, Cahill said, ‘if we are persons of interest.’ He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

  ‘Nice euphemism,’ Logan said.

  ‘You ready to be locked away in a room for several hours?’

  ‘Not really. Unless there’s a couch I can crash on.’

  ‘There will be a floor. Beyond that, who can say.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’

  There were separate queues for US citizens and foreign nationals so Logan and Cahill split up and waited in line. Logan looked across at Cahill and saw that he would be at the desk before Cahill.

  He stood nervously behind the white line, watching as a German family in front of him went through the process: the parents having their fingerprints scanned and recorded digitally. The young man behind the desk wore a navy blue uniform with Department of Homeland Security insignia and a sidearm in a belt holster. His shirt was tight on his muscular frame.

  When the family was done, the officer waved Logan forward. Logan glanced quickly over at the US queue and saw that Cahill was third in line.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ the officer said as Logan handed over his passport.

  The name badge pinned to his shirt read ‘Whitaker’.

  He looked at the passport and up at Logan. ‘What brings you to Denver, sir?’

  Unfailingly polite.

  ‘I’m here with a friend. He’s over here to see some family.’

  Whitaker looked at the line of people behind Logan.

  ‘He’s an American citizen,’ Logan said. ‘He’s in that line.’

  Whitaker nodded and tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. He looked at a monitor screen hidden from Logan’s view under the desk. After a moment he asked Logan to register his fingerprints on the digital scanner. Logan did what he was asked, noticing that the officer had kept hold of his passport. He tapped some more on the keyboard while Logan went through the fingerprint process.

  When he was done, Logan looked over again at Cahill and saw that he was now at the immigration desk as well.

  Whitaker handed Logan his passport.

  ‘Welcome to Denver, sir. Have a nice stay.’

  Logan smiled and said thanks, his heart beating hard enough to bruise itself against his ribcage.


  He walked past the desk and over towards the US citizens desk to wait for Cahill. When he got there, Cahill looked over and winked. Logan was amazed that he looked so calm.

  Logan went to the far wall and leaned against it, propping his bag up and closing his eyes. He felt exhausted, but knew Cahill was right about beating the jet lag. He couldn’t afford to go to sleep now — or in the next few hours.

  When he opened his eyes, Cahill was at the immigration desk. The officer was speaking into a radio mike attached to his shirt. Logan came off the wall and felt his pulse start to accelerate again. What if they took Cahill and left him? He didn’t know much about US law — had visions of Cahill being transported to Guantanamo Bay in an orange jumpsuit and made to sit on the ground outside all day with a bag over his head.

  But the officer finished his radio conversation, looked at Cahill and smiled before handing over his passport.

  ‘See,’ Cahill said as he walked up to Logan. ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘I’m glad. Orange isn’t your colour.’

  Cahill frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Never mind,’ Logan said, grabbing the handle of his bag. ‘Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.’

  7

  There was more Native American art on the walls of the main terminal building when they came out of the customs hall. Cahill pointed to a sign suspended above them indicating the way out.

  ‘Let’s go find a cab,’ he said.

  Logan nodded and followed after Cahill. They went down a short, wide corridor to automatic doors leading out of the terminal concourse. Logan was suddenly aware of two DHS uniformed officers behind them. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt as if they were being shadowed by the two men.

  ‘Are we being followed?’ he asked Cahill.

  ‘Yeah. You just noticed?’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Since we left the immigration desks.’

  ‘But why didn’t they detain us there? I mean, wouldn’t that have made more sense?’

  ‘Maybe they want to wait. See what we’re going to get up to.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’