asked.
'DCC Skinner,' Rose replied. 'You'll have heard of him.'
'Aye, vaguely,' Mackenzie chuckled. 'Have you an interview room for
us?'
'Use this office.'
'We need a tape, ma'am. This is an official interview.'
Pye knew Rose well enough to read the sign as her eyes narrowed. 'Very
well,' she said icily. 'Ruth. Would you like me to sit in with you?'
'I don't know if we can have that, ma'am.'
'Inspector,' she snapped, 'in my station you'll have what I tell you. Ruth?'
The woman shook her head. 'Thanks, Maggie, but it's all right. I just
want out of here with a minimum of fuss.'
'Okay. Mackenzie, there's a vacant interview room at the end of the
corridor. Use that, and bring Ms McConnell back here when you're finished.'
The big detective chuckled again. 'Aye, we'll have to see about that too,
ma'am.' Pye took half a pace towards him, until a glance from Rose stopped
him in his tracks. Instead, he stood aside and allowed the Strathclyde officers
to escort Ruth out of the office.
'There's something about that bastard,' Maggie Rose murmured as the
door closed on the trio, 'that reminds me of Flash Donaldson . . . and
we know all too well about him.'
The interview room was three doors along the corridor. Detective
Sergeant Dell held the door open for the other woman and ushered her
inside. The only furniture was a table, upon which there sat a black tape
recorder, and four chairs, two each on opposite sides.
'Sit down,' said Mackenzie curtly. He took a tape cassette from his pocket,
slipped it into one of the twin slots of the recorder, and switched it on. The
interviewee sat down with her back to the door, laid her handbag on the
table, then delved into it. Finally, satisfied, she produced a tissue and settled
back into her chair.
The inspector stared across at her coldly. This interview is being held at
Torphichen Place police office, Edinburgh, at five ten p.m. on November
27, 2000. I am Detective Inspector David Mackenzie, N Division,
Strathclyde Police. Also present are Detective Sergeant Gwendoline Dell
and Miss Ruth McConnell.'
Then he astonished Ruth by reading her a formal caution.
'What the devil?' she exploded.
'Quiet please, Miss McConnell,' barked Mackenzie. 'You'll answer
questions only, not ask them.'
'The hell with that. Have I been arrested here?'
'And why should you be?'
She blazed back at him. 'Don't fence with me. For that bloody tape,
what's my status here?'
Mackenzie nodded a concession. 'For the record, you are here voluntarily
to assist our investigation into the suspicious death of your uncle, John
McConnell, of number fifteen Glenlaverock Grove, Cumbernauld.'
'Suspicious? What do you mean?'
The detective reached across and hit the stop button on the recorder.
'There you go with the questions again. Listen, McConnell, I don't care
whose fucking secretary you are. As far as I'm concerned you're just another
fucking suspect.
'You know what my nickname is? They call me Bandit; not just the
other coppers, but our local villains too ... and believe me, through in the
west we have some real villains, not like the poofs...' He laughed, suddenly,
harshly, '.. .oh aye, and fucking fish rustlers you lot have through here. It's
a mark of respect, so they tell me; they call me that because I'm a bad
bastard and because I'll nick anyone.
They say about some coppers that they'd lift their own brothers. I did,
46
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
once. So be advised; behave yourself and don't try to pull rank or influence
on me.'
He switched on the recorder once again. 'Now, if you're ready, Miss
McConnell.'
She looked at him, then turned her head and spoke directly to the microphone.
'I am, if you've quite finished spraying the room with testosterone.'
The inspector glowered back at her. 'When was the last time you saw
your uncle?' he asked, abruptly.
'Last June. I took him a birthday present and took him out for lunch.'
'What? You haven't seen him since?'
'No, I have not.'
'You didn't see him on or around Saturday the eighteenth of November?'
'No. I went to see him last Saturday, as you know quite well. You're
getting your dates mixed up.'
'No, I'm not, lady. I meant the Saturday before.'
She shook her head. 'I did not see my uncle on that date,' she said,
loudly and firmly.
'We have information that you did.'
Then your informant is either mistaken, or a liar.'
The detective's face twisted into an ugly grin. 'And when your uncle
told a neighbour that afternoon that he was expecting a visit from his niece,
would he have been a liar too?'
'Either he or the neighbour would certainly have been mistaken.'
Mackenzie glanced sideways at Sergeant Dell. 'It's amazing the number
of times people say that to us, Gwennie, isn't it?'
'It is, sir.' Ruth looked at her for a sign that she might be the soft cop in
the old routine, but found none.
They're usually the ones that are lying, though. Isn't that right?'
'It is indeed, sir.'
'Well this time she isn't, Inspector.'
'So when was the last time you spoke to your uncle?'
'A few weeks ago.'
'How did he sound?'
'Old, Inspector, he sounded old. He was eighty.'
'And what did you say to him?'
'I promised him a visit soon, but I wasn't specific about it, I couldn't tell
him any date for sure.'
'What kind of car do you drive?' Mackenzie asked abruptly.
'A Corolla hatchback.'
'What colour is it?'
'Blue.'
'So if a blue hatchback was seen outside your uncle's house on the day
he died, the day he told his neighbour that he was expecting a visit from
you, that wouldn't have been yours, then?'
'No, it would not.'
'What do you earn, Miss McConnell?'
'Mind your own business.'
t'It is my business, hen. Have you not worked that out yet? No point in
being coy anyway; could find out by picking up a telephone.'
'Okay; my salary is around twenty-two thousand.'
'Not bad, eh?'
'Reasonable. I work for two of the most senior police officers in Scotland,
on a confidential basis. I have their trust,' she added, pointedly.
Mackenzie laughed again, this time with undisguised mockery. He
reached across and switched off the tape once more. 'And your man
Skinner's never made a mistake about a woman has he? I seem to remember
he was all over the tabloids not so long ago. Something to do with him
shagging a woman detective sergeant on his staff.
'Does he give you one as well, now and again?'
'This is outrageous,' Ruth spluttered. 'Listen, Bandit, or whatever your
damned name is, unless you stop peddling innuendo and get specific about
the purpose of this conversation, I'm walking out of that door, and I am
going to see Mr Skinner ... and if that doesn't worry you, then you are an
even bigger fool than you are a playgroun
d bully.'
The Strathclyde inspector reached across and pressed the record button
of the tape once again. 'All right, let's just jump to the "Detective Sums
Up" bit. Your old Uncle John tells a neighbour on Saturday the eighteenth
of November, in a state of some excitement, that he's expecting a visit from
his niece... namely you, because I've confirmed that you're the only niece
he had.
'Later that afternoon, just as it was getting dark, a blue hatchback vehicle,
just like yours, pulls up outside his door. A tall, dark-haired woman, whose
description you fit perfectly, is seen to get out and walk straight into the
house.
'And right at that time, someone sticks the old man in a scalding bath
and drowns the poor old sod.'
48
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
She stared at him across the desk, speechless, truly shaken for the first
time.
'And there's more. Your uncle hadn't shown up at his golf club for a
while, so one of his cronies went to see him. He found him concerned and
confused, as if the ageing process had caught up with him, finally.
'But he noticed that things were missing from the house. There was a
silver trophy he won at golf years back; there was a very fine grandfather
clock; both missing. When your uncle's pal asked what had happened to
them, all he said was that his niece had money troubles.
'Then he told his old friend to bugger off and mind his own
business.'
Mackenzie paused. 'So you see, Miss McConnell. I'm engaged in a search
for a cold, cruel murderer, and all the evidence I have points straight at you,
his only niece, the sole beneficiary in his will.
'Yet when I ask a neighbouring force to do me a favour by picking you
up and bringing you through for interview, I get a call from some jumped
up woman refusing and telling me to report to her. I don't mind telling you
that pisses me off, and it doesn't make me inclined to go any easier on you
than on any other suspect.
'So... If you weren't drowning your uncle on November the eighteenth,
what the hell were you doing, Miss McConnell?'
'I was with my boyfriend.'
'Who is?'
'Detective Sergeant Pye; he's on the staff of Detective Chief
Superintendent Martin, the Head of CID.'
'There you go dropping those names again. Is he the lad who brought
you here? The same guy who found your uncle's body?'
She nodded. 'Yes, that was Sammy.'
'Do you live with him?'
'As of today, yes, I think I do. But not then.'
For the first time she sensed Mackenzie becoming more cautious. 'Did
you spend all day with him?'
Ruth took a deep breath, and decided to tell the truth. 'No. I went round
to his place in the morning; we had a sandwich lunch, watched television
for a bit, and then I went shopping in Jenner's and John Lewis. I left Sammy's
at about two thirty, and I got back just after six. Later we went out for a
meal and a drink.'
'I see. And can you prove you were in Jenner's or in John Lewis? Do
you have any credit card slips, for example, with your signature and the
date and time?'
'No,' she admitted. 'I didn't buy anything. I didn't see anything I fancied.'
At once all the hardness was back in the dark-haired detective, as he
turned to his sergeant once more. 'I see. Piss poor cover story, Gwennie,
isn't it?
'Miss McConnell, even by your own account you had plenty of time to
drive through to Cumbernauld that afternoon, do the old man, then drive
back to the love-nest in time for a nice evening out.
", 'It was a really smart touch too, going back the following Saturday and
arranging for the boy Sammy to find the body.
'Miss, I want to see your car, I want to see any record you have of petrol
purchases, and I want to see all your bank accounts. I expect that when I've
done all that I will have more than enough evidence to justify a charge of
murder. In fact, I could arrest you right now, and take you back to
Cumbernauld, but that would just be too much fucking hassle. Since your
man's a DS, I'll trust him to be professional enough to ensure that you
don't do anything silly, and that next time, when I send for you, you're
delivered, gift-wrapped.
'This interview is terminated at five thirty-seven p.m.' He switched off
his tape. 'You can go. I'll tell Rose what's happening. Be available to us at
any time tomorrow.'
Ruth picked up her bag, looked down her nose at the two detectives,
then stood up from the table and left the room.
She was shaking as she walked up to Pye, who was waiting for her
outside the building, in accordance with Skinner's order. He saw her
agitation at once. 'What's up, love?' he demanded.
'Not here! I can't tell you here. I have to get out of this place, right now.
Sammy, love; please take me to Mr Skinner, wherever he is. I need to see
him, right now!'
50
12
Dan Pringle looked around as he stepped out of his car. It was eight thirty
five on a late November morning, and the sun had only just struggled above
the eastern horizon. Yet as he breathed in the clean, crisp, morning air, the
burly detective superintendent felt a sudden, strange burst of pleasure and
relief.
To his great surprise, he was discovering that, with each passing day, he
liked the Borders more and more. When Bob Skinner and Andy Martin had
invited him to move south, following John McGrigor's decision to hand in
his warrant card, he had felt that it was no more than a step towards his
own being put out to grass.
Sure, they had said all the right words; they had explained that the Borders
division was a mature area which required maturity and experience of its
senior police officers, even... especially, perhaps... those in the detective
branch. Yet he had felt a niggling suspicion that he was simply being put
out of the way, a belated punishment for his scarcely disguised annoyance
when the young Head of CID had been appointed over his head.
Now, only a few days into the new job, he realised that they had been
right. He took a sniff of the agricultural air and smiled. 'No bullshit,' he
whispered. Never before had his career taken him on to a farm of any
description. Never before had he consciously mixed with countrymen; a
different sort entirely, stolid, straightforward, undissembling men who
looked you straight in the eye, unimpressed by titles or authority.
He knew that no bright young lad, or fast-tracking young woman from
the city could hope to step into a place like this, particularly not to follow a
massive son of the soil like McGrigor, who had carried an awe-inspiring
reputation from the rugby field into the senior ranks of CID.
More than that, he knew that Skinner and Martin had done him a favour.
He thought back a year, to a time when he and Stevie Steele had visited an
office on the attic floor of a city centre building. The breathlessness which
had almost overwhelmed him at the end of the climb had been like a first
intimation of mortality, a quiet messa
ge, gasped, not whispered, that he
was a prime member of an 'at risk' category.
He had tried since then to improve his physical condition; however, being
in his fifties, and as prone to a drink as the next polisman... sometimes, he
had to admit, being prone as a result of it... he had found it difficult.
Now, translated with little warning from a city to a country copper, he
felt instantly the better for it. As he trudged up the curving track towards
the distant building, looking at the rolling hills all around him, he did not
regret for a second his decision to come in his own road car rather than a
"force Land Rover. He realised with astonishment that this morning walk
was the most pleasurable thing he had done at work... apart, maybe, from
belting that Russian... for more years than he could remember. He breathed
deep and drank in the physical and psychological good that it was doing
him.
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