‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ one of them said. ‘I’ll be surprised if he wasn’t killed by the impact. Head’s at an odd angle. He was probably running to get away from the car. Maybe looking back when it caught him.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’ Clare asked. ‘Driver lost control?’
The SOCO shook her head. ‘Doubt it.’ She indicated the stone walls. ‘No damage here – or on the other side. I’d say the driver came up here, drove at our man – or rather over our man, then reversed back out again.’
Clare looked at the body and down the drive, imagining the victim’s terror as he tried to escape the car. The drive was narrow at this point. He’d have had no chance. His last moments must have been desperate ones. A wave of nausea swept over her and she began to regret the Danish pastry. She cleared her throat, then said, ‘Right over?’
‘Afraid so. Both sets of wheels, I think. And then back over as the car reversed away. See how the body’s been forced into the ground?’
Clare forced herself to look at the mangled body. The victim’s white shirt was marked with what looked like tyre tracks. ‘Think you can get something from that shirt?’ she asked. ‘If we can narrow down the tyre…’
The SOCO nodded. ‘Should do. And if the shirt’s no good, there’s a pretty good mark where the gravel’s been scraped away. Might be able to cast it.’
Clare turned to Chris. ‘Any marks out on the road?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Skid marks, mainly. Obviously a quick getaway.’
‘There’s something else, Inspector,’ the SOCO interrupted. ‘Chris has seen this already, but you really should take a look.’
Clare raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s an odd one.’
‘How so?’
The SOCO reached down and lifted an evidence bag. ‘Found this on the victim’s chest. Pinned to what was left of his shirt.’
Clare peered at the bag. It appeared to contain a white card, about the size of a postcard with a number five written on it, probably with a broad-nibbed marker pen. She turned back to Chris. ‘What’s it for?’
‘No idea.’
‘Party game, maybe?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Chris said. ‘I’ve already asked the groom. There wasn’t anything like that.’
‘Table number?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Tables were named after tartans. McPherson, McLeod… that sort of thing.’
Clare frowned, turning it over in her mind. Maybe the wife could shed some light on it. She looked back up the drive at Angela Robb who was grinding the end of her cigarette into the path with an orange and cream sandal. Clare walked towards her and flashed her badge as she approached. The woman looked up, her expression still blank.
‘Mrs Robb? I’m Detective Inspector Clare Mackay. I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this.’
Angela didn’t meet her gaze but continued pushing the gravel back and forward with her foot. ‘S’all right. Got your job to do. Suppose he really is dead?’
‘We’re waiting for the doctor but, yes, I’m afraid there’s no doubt.’
‘Hit-and-run then?’
‘He was struck by a car, yes.’ Clare hesitated then pressed on. ‘Have you any idea what he was doing out here? Down the drive I mean? It’s a bit far for a smoke.’
Angela gave up on the gravel and lifted her gaze to meet Clare’s. ‘If I know Andy, he was probably after a quickie in the bushes. Wouldn’t be the first time. He disappeared while I was up dancing. I sent a text asking where the fuck he was, but he never replied.’
‘We’ve discovered a pair of boxers in a hedge, near where your husband was found. Would you feel up to identifying them?’
Angela nodded and made to move but Clare put a hand on her arm. The body hadn’t been moved yet and she didn’t want to upset Angela unnecessarily. ‘You stay put. I’ll ask the hotel to let us have a room and we’ll show you there. Away from the other guests. Is there someone who can keep you company while we sort it out?’
‘Francine. My friend. She’s the bridesmaid – over there.’ Angela indicated a tall woman in a long red dress. Clare motioned to her to come over. ‘If you could just stay with Mrs Robb for a few minutes?’
Francine nodded and moved to put an arm round Angela.
Clare walked back to where Chris was hovering, awaiting instructions. She noted with some relief that his breath now smelled mostly of mints. ‘We’ll need a couple of rooms to interview guests, Chris. You and I will take Mrs Robb and the immediate family. Jim and the rest of the uniformed cops can make a start on the other guests. Get contact details for them all plus the usual stuff – where they were, what they saw, did they hear anything. Particularly any smokers who were outside at the time. Staff too. Was there a band or a disco?’
‘Band. They’re all packed up and waiting to go.’
‘Then they’ll just have to keep waiting. Immediate family first, then staff.’
‘Band were on a kind of raised bit at one end of the ballroom. They’d have had a good view of anything going on.’
Clare considered this. ‘Okay, then let’s do them after the family. And prioritise the bride, for God’s sake. She’ll wake up every dog in the town with that racket.’
They crossed the gravel and pushed through the revolving door that led to the hotel reception. A neatly dressed man in his late twenties was hovering by the desk. His badge said Pawel Nowicki – Duty Manager. Clare explained their requirements and he led them to a side room, opening the door and flicking on the light. The room wasn’t large but had a table and six chairs. Clare ran her eye round it and nodded to the man. ‘Perfect. Is there another one like this?’
He motioned to them to follow him and he opened another door, revealing an identical room. ‘We use these for clients who have business meetings.’
‘Thanks, Pawel. These will be fine.’
He smiled and left them to it.
‘Right,’ Clare said. ‘Jim and the uniformed guys can have this room. You and I will take the main players next door. We’ll start with the wife.’
Clare thought Angela Robb might be in her early forties. Her blonde hair owed more to her hairdresser’s attentions than to nature, and her fake tan was almost as orange as her dress. But, despite the tan, she looked pale and drawn and seemed numbed rather than distressed by her husband’s violent death. Clare was concerned enough to offer a doctor.
‘I’m fine,’ was all she said. ‘Francine’ll see me home.’
‘We’ll run you back, don’t worry about that,’ said Clare.
Angela identified the boxers as belonging to her husband and was quite clear that she didn’t want them back. She answered their other questions mechanically. No, she didn’t know why Andy was outside but, yes, it was probably to meet another woman. Yes, he was in the habit of having affairs and she was well used to it by now. Yes, she’d had affairs of her own and, yes, she did currently have a boyfriend.
‘Billy Dodds,’ she told them. ‘Lives in Cupar.’
Clare glanced briefly at Chris.
‘Small market town,’ he said, his voice low. ‘About ten miles west of St Andrews.’
Clare smiled her thanks and pressed Angela further on Billy Dodds.
Yes, she went on. She could give them Billy’s address and mobile number, but she very much doubted he cared enough to run Andy over. No, she didn’t know who would, but Andy had probably upset enough husbands in his time. No, she had no idea who all his women were. She didn’t care. No, she couldn’t think of anyone he’d fallen out with. Maybe his sister could tell them, if she stopped fucking howling long enough.
Clare then brought up the question of the number five card found on his body.
At this, Angela registered genuine surprise. The first real sign of a reaction. ‘What, like a figure five?’ she asked.
Clare sent Chris to fetch the numbered card and when he returned with it, safely stowed in the
clear, evidence bag, she placed it on the table in front of Angela.
Angela gaped at it. ‘And this was pinned to his shirt?’
Clare nodded.
Angela looked at a loss. ‘Honestly? Not a clue. He must have had it on him when he went outside. Sorry, I’ve no idea.’
Outside, the police doctor had arrived and, having pronounced life extinct, spent a few minutes with Angela, at Clare’s request. He gave a sleeping tablet to Francine with instructions not to give it to Angela until she was safely inside her house. Clare arranged a car to take the pair to Angela’s home in Scooniehill Road and promised to call in on Sunday morning.
The bride, now Mrs Sandra McDade, had exhausted her supply of tears and was nursing a large vodka and lemonade. Her face was tear-streaked and one of her false eyelashes was starting to come loose.
‘I’m so sorry to trouble you Mrs McDade,’ said Clare. ‘Just a few questions and we’ll let you go.’
Between sniffs, Sandra confirmed that she had been inside dancing and only came out when one of the smokers said there had been an accident. At this, she began to cry again.
Clare waited while she composed herself then pressed on. ‘Did your brother have any enemies? Anyone that might have upset him?’
Sandra’s eyes widened, and the eyelash slipped a little more. She tried to press it back into place. ‘Enemies? But it was a hit-and-run, wasn’t it? Somebody knocked him over and drove off?’
‘At this stage we can’t be certain. We have to investigate all possibilities. So, is there anyone he might have upset?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘Everyone loved Andy. He was a great lad. Great brother.’
The eyelash was coming loose again and this time Sandra gently eased it off. She cut a comic-tragic figure now with just the one thick eyelash.
‘Was his marriage a happy one?’
Her face hardened. ‘What do you think? You’ve seen her. Bloody nightmare to live with.’
‘Did he have other girlfriends?’
‘A few. I think he and Angela stayed together for convenience. Separate bedrooms for years now. But neither of them would leave. They both mucked about with other folk, though.’
‘Would you know any of your brother’s girlfriends?’
‘The lads at his work might. And I think he went out on Thursdays to some club. Not sure where, though. But she might know.’
Clare noted the name of Andy’s workplace, and after a few more questions she let Sandra go. Her new husband, Davie, could add little more, other than confirming that Andy was a bit of a lad. He thought he was doing a line with a lassie in the town but not sure if it was still going on or not. Clare asked him for Andy’s mobile number then let him escape to his bride and her one good eyelash.
Interviews of the remaining bridesmaids, ushers, parents and friends all yielded much the same story. Andy was known for having a few women, Angela knew about it and didn’t seem to care much but no one thought he was the kind of guy to get himself killed. A few of the smokers had seen him striding down the drive but not paid much attention. One said he thought he heard a car pulling away and assumed Andy had jumped in and gone off somewhere with the driver. Two of the band members, the accordionist and the drummer, had seen him tapping on his phone before walking down the hall and out of the door.
‘We need his phone records as soon as,’ Clare said to Chris. ‘Can you get onto it?’
‘No problem. I’ll do it now. Anything else?’
‘Traffic cams. Any round here?’ It was said more in hope than in expectation.
‘I doubt it. In the town, yeah, if the driver went that way. But there are so many back roads here.’
‘Well, we have to try. At least we have a pretty accurate time of death. The roads must have been quiet at that time of night. Let them know we need footage for an hour before and an hour after. If SOCO can give us an indication of the vehicle we can look at the footage.’
Clare looked at her watch. It had gone three in the morning and most of the guests had either retired to their rooms or left in a succession of taxis. The main drive had been taped off and a white tent erected over the spot where Andy had died. An ambulance had borne his body off to the mortuary in Dundee for a post-mortem, although the cause of death wasn’t much in doubt. SOCO were packing up for the night and there seemed little left to do until they had forensic information. She looked back up to the front of the hotel, lights still burning in most of the windows. It really was a lovely old building. She wondered what the restaurant was like, and then reminded herself she had no one to dine out with. Suddenly she was tired and longing for her bed.
‘I think we’ll call it a night, Chris.’ She stationed a couple of cops on duty at the site and climbed wearily back into her car. So much for straightforward.
Chapter 3
At just after eleven on Sunday morning Clare and Chris drew up outside Angela Robb’s semi-detached bungalow on Scooniehill Road.
Clare had slept fitfully, and it seemed that she had only just dropped off when the alarm sounded. Peering in the bedroom mirror, she saw dark circles beneath her hazel eyes, the product of a few sleepless nights lately, and wondered if her sister had been right when she’d suggested a short course of sleeping pills.
Fortified by strong coffee and the desire to prove to her new colleagues that the girl from Glasgow was up to the job, she hoped she sounded brighter than she felt. Stopping outside the address Angela had given them, she killed the engine and glanced at Chris. ‘You look better than last night, at least.’
Chris began fiddling with his mobile phone. ‘Yeah, sorry about that, Clare. Just a slip up. You know how it is.’
Clare’s face softened. ‘Chris, you’ll get over it. Emily, I mean. There are plenty of lovely girls who’d be much better for you.’
He tried to smile, his lips thin. ‘You mean plenty of lovely girls who wouldn’t carry on behind my back; with my ex-boss.’
Clare squeezed his arm. ‘Forget Tony McAvettie. He’s a Class A bastard.’
‘Correction. He’s a Class A bastard and a DCI who could very well be brought into this case if we don’t wrap it up quickly.’
‘Then we’d better get it done,’ Clare said. ‘I phoned ahead,’ she added, ‘so she’ll be expecting us.’
Chris looked out of the car window at the house. The blinds were still closed. ‘How did she sound?’
‘Matter-of-fact, I’d say. Maybe still in shock.’
‘Or glad to be rid of him?’ Chris suggested.
Clare unclipped her seatbelt. ‘Could be. Come on – let’s find out.’
The sun was breaking through the clouds, and the pavements were full of children buzzing to and fro on bikes and scooters. A boy in a red football strip came to a halt on his bike and sat, watching Clare and Chris as they emerged from the car. Across the road two little girls were drawing pictures on the pavement with coloured chalks, and somewhere someone was using a strimmer, its nasal whine cutting through the Sunday morning birdsong. It all seemed so perfectly ordinary to Clare and a million miles from the horror of Andy Robb’s death twelve hours before.
They mounted the stone steps, bordered on one side by a square patch of grass and on the other by a few straggly heathers. As they approached, the door was opened by Francine, still wearing the long, red dress from the night before. She had pulled on a navy sweater for warmth but her feet were bare, the silver sandals kicked to the side of the door. She stood back to admit them.
‘Saw you from the upstairs window,’ she said. ‘Keeping the blinds closed for now. Neighbours and all that.’
Clare nodded and asked about Angela.
Francine considered. ‘Quiet. Not like herself. But then it’s a lot to take in.’
She led them into Angela Robb’s front room. It was, Clare thought, not unlike her own rented house, a mile or so across town. Modern, boxy, 1960s-built; identical to the neighbouring properties. The sitting room was square with a picture window looking out to the
street, the cream lateral blinds pulled closed. The room was dominated by a large television screen and, looking round, Clare noticed a collection of pottery angels arranged on wall shelves. Angela was sitting on a cream leather sofa, her feet tucked under her, cradling a mug of coffee. She was watching a cookery programme and, as they entered, she looked round for the remote control. Francine passed it to her, and she sat up, slipping her feet into a pair of furry slippers.
‘Suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of something,’ she said.
‘You stay put,’ Francine said. ‘I’ll get it. Coffee okay?’
‘That would be lovely. Chris knows how I take it.’ Clare inclined her head in the direction of the door. He took the hint and followed Francine. Clare turned to Angela who gave her a wintry smile.
‘Funny, ye know,’ she began. ‘He could be a right bastard. Women, practically from the start. But he was my bastard. I didn’t think I’d miss him but…’ She dabbed at her eyes.
‘It’s a lot to take in, Mrs Robb.’
‘Angela. Just Angela.’
Clare smiled at her. ‘Sleep much?’
‘I did, actually. God knows how but I slept a good eight hours.’
‘Those doctors know their stuff.’
Angela nodded. ‘My GP phoned. Coming in later, he said.’
‘That’s good. Now, Angela, I’m going to give you my card. If you’re worried about anything – anything at all – or if something occurs to you about Andy, give me a call. Day or night. Okay?’
Angela took the card. She blew her nose and smiled again, her eyes bright. ‘So, you gonnae catch him? The hit-and-run guy?’
Clare squeezed her hand. ‘Oh yes. But we’ll need your help. We want to get a picture of Andy. Who he was, what he was like. Where he went, who he saw. Friends, work colleagues, that sort of thing. And, if there are any computers or laptops in the house, we’ll have to take them away. You’ll get them back of course.’
Angela nodded. ‘I’ll fetch them. His phone… Oh, he must have had it on him.’
See Them Run Page 2