Autographs in the Rain

by Quintin Jardine

'Just what I told you on the phone. He put the time of death at shortly

  after midnight, and said that the cause was probably cerebral injury rather

  than drowning. She was battered about the head with something solid, then

  chucked in the tank.

  'We found this, just beside where the body was floating. We've been all

  over the place looking for a murder weapon; everywhere save the tanks.

  They're not all that deep, but given the cold we'll need to use divers in dry

  suits if we're going to search them properly.

  'The sub-aqua team's on the way down from Edinburgh right now. Effing

  and blinding all the way, I'll betcha.'

  'Why the hell did the bastards have to kill her?' Martin muttered grimly.

  'We'll maybe have an answer to that when we have a look at the tapes.'

  'Maybe we'll have an answer to everything. Do we know if she received

  any phone calls, or tried to make any?'

  Pringle frowned. 'Not with the cable cut, she didn't.'

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  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  The chief superintendent looked sharply at him. 'Where's the Alvarez

  woman?' he asked.

  'I don't know. She lives in Coldstream, but she's not there.'

  'Well you find her, Dan. Wherever she is; something stinks about this,

  and I don't mean the fish. I gave her till Friday to have her security installed,

  and this happens two days before.'

  He shook his head, and slammed his left fist painfully into his right palm

  in sudden remorseful anger. 'That girl in the van. I told her not to leave the

  farm unattended; I read her the bloody Riot Act and told her that, whatever happened, she shouldn't leave the fish.

  'I'm going to have these guys, mate,' he said, evenly, 'and if Ms Alvarez

  does have anything to do with it, then God help her. Send McGurk and

  however many people it takes out to find her. Meanwhile, you and I are

  going up to Edinburgh to see the technical people and get as much as we

  can out of those tapes.'

  The head of Human Resources stared at Mackenzie as if he had just asked

  he- to undertake a free climb, in winter, up the north face of the Eiger. 'You

  cannot seriously expect me to tell you that, off the top of my head,' Margaret

  Mair exclaimed.

  The inspector looked at the top of her head, on which her hair was drawn

  into a tight grey bun. She reminded him of his first primary teacher, a warrior

  quite literally of the old school. For all his urbanity, for all his authority, he

  felt a memory of infant intimidation run through him.

  He braved her glare. 'Of course I don't, Miss Mair,' he assured her. 'But

  I would like you to find out for me.'

  'It's easy to say that, young man, but not nearly as easy to do it. You're

  talking about the old days of British Railways. This man McConnell retired

  fifteen years ago. Things have changed since then. We're privatised now,

  and many of the old personnel records simply don't exist any more.

  'Those that do might have been transferred to Railtrack, or to ScotRail

  or to another of the operating companies. It would all depend on what Mr

  McConnell did.'

  'Someone would be paying his pension, surely.'

  'That's a different thing altogether. And besides, there are thousands

  upon thousands of pensioners.'

  Mackenzie decided to change tack. 'But Miss Mair, I'm not necessarily

  talking about personnel records alone.'

  'Human Resources now,' she nit-picked.

  'Not even them. I simply want to speak to anyone who might have known

  this man, and with whom he might have had continuing contact over the

  years. Okay, he's been gone for fifteen years, but there must be some people

  still around in the organisation who remember him, and remember who his

  friends were.'

  Her lips pursed. 'Mr McConnell didn't necessarily have any friends,'

  she said, unexpectedly.

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  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  'You remember him?'

  'Yes, Mr Mackenzie, as a matter of fact I do. I didn't know him, you

  understand ... He was a senior manager then, and I was only a junior

  executive . . . and I don't recall what section he worked in. However . . .

  assuming that it's the same man, and I suppose it must be... I do recall that

  he was not regarded as a very nice man.' She gave a brief, but severe nod of

  her head. 'Particularly by the female members of staff.'

  The policeman saw her embarrassment, and took secret delight in it.

  'Why was that, Miss Mair?' he asked ingenuously.

  She sniffed. 'He had a bit of a reputation, among the younger girls at any

  rate. They used to call him ...' She paused, and for that second he thought

  he saw her blush. '... they used to call him "Feely John". He had the name

  of being a bit of a toucher. Always accidental, of course, and given his

  rank, no one ever complained, but most of the girls didn't like to get too

  close to him.'

  'What about the others? Were there any who didn't mind?'

  'There were a couple of girls,' she said. 'There were rumours, shall we

  say. They were both flighty types, and neither of them worked here long.

  There was gossip once about someone walking into a room at an office

  party, but the detail of it never came to my ears.'

  '' bet it did,' thought Mackenzie, ''but it'll never pass your tight old

  lips now.'

  'What about male colleagues? Do you recall anyone with whom he was

  particularly friendly? For example, I'm told that his former sister-in-law

  married a colleague of his. Her name would have been McConnell too; she

  died about twenty years ago. Does any of that ring bells?'

  'No, it does not. As I told you, I did not associate with the man, nor did

  I even know his section.'

  'In that case, do you know anyone who might have?'

  'Mr Mackenzie,' she exclaimed, indignant once more. 'I am not a mine

  of information nor a hoarder of old office gossip.'

  'I never suggested that you were,' he said at once, in his best mollifying

  tone. 'All I was hoping to do was to draw on your experience.'

  The woman's stiff spine seemed to unbend just a fraction. 'Very well,'

  she conceded. 'If you leave the matter with me, I will search my memory

  rurther and consult other senior colleagues. Former sister-in-law, you said?'

  She pursed her lips again, as if she did not approve of sisters-in-law in the

  'former' category.

  'It may take some time, and I can make no promises. However, if you

  leave me your telephone number, I shall see what I can do.'

  184

  54

  'You realise, gentlemen, that you are not going to be seeing a seventy-mil

  movie here?' Tony Davidson pointed out. The force's Director of

  Telecommunications had a reputation for plain speaking. 'This is not

  Hollywood; we cannot trace fleeing criminals by satellite in the dark. We

  may be able to tell where a specific dust-cart is at any moment during its

  round, but that's about it.

  'What we're playing with here is way short of being even as advanced

  as that.'

  'Let's have a whack at it anyway, Tony,' said Andy Martin. 'We won't

  blame you for failing to work miracles, but there's a dead girl demanding

  that we all do o
ur best. Dan and I will have to take a press conference later

  on today and it would be nice to have something positive to say.'

  Davidson nodded and turned off the light in the small viewing room.

  'For best results . . .' He pressed the start switch of a big video player

  which sat on a table, cabled to a monitor screen on a tall stand.

  'This is the first tape,' he said, as a green-tinted image appeared on the

  screen. 'It has a twelve-hour slow speed capacity, so what we're looking

  for should be towards the middle. It has a time display, so ... I'll wind it

  forward to midnight.'

  They waited, watching as the tape wound on, little or nothing changing

  save for the blur of the white indicators in the bottom left corner of the

  picture as the hours, minutes and seconds flashed by. Finally the technical director pressed a button and the numbers steadied, showing the record

  time as four minutes past the midnight hour.

  On screen the shape of the compound could be made out; they could see

  the tanks with odd sparkles of green light from the ever-flowing water, as it

  caught the light from a single window in the cottage beyond. They listened,

  and could hear its constant soft tinkle and the dull sound of the pumps.

  Davidson ran the tape on, switching from slow motion to normal speed,

  sending the time indicator turning faster, but still legibly.

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  Suddenly, with 01:12 hours showing on screen, there was a different

  movement. Quickly he froze the picture, then returned it to its original

  running rate. Looking intently, they saw the green ghostly outline of a figure

  walking across the clearing towards the house, a tall-long striding man. He

  was dressed in boots, and a long hooded jacket, and he appeared to be

  carrying something light in his left hand.

  'What's that?' asked Pringle, of no one in particular.

  'Could be a sheet,' Davidson replied, 'or a sack, or a tarpaulin.'

  The man in the video walked straight up to the cottage. Right-handed,

  he banged on the front door... the knock was loud enough for them to hear

  above the splashing... then stood back, round the corner, out of sight from

  anyone who might open it.

  'Freeze it,' Martin ordered.

  The detectives and the technician studied the still frame on screen. 'I'd

  say that he wants the girl to come out, so that he can throw that sheet or

  whatever over her head. So why didn't she? Run it on, please, Tony.'

  The scene played itself out; the man stood waiting, tensed, the covering

  now held in both hands. At last, they saw another movement, another figure,

  a little smaller than him, but stocky, behind him, moving towards him slowly.

  'It's the girl,' Pringle exclaimed. 'She's come out the back door.'

  She was almost on him when he dropped the sheet and turned. They saw

  the blur of movement as she swung at him, his hand coming up to catch

  hers, the two green-ghost figures together in a silent struggle. Then, as they

  watched, his right hand wrenched clear, with something in it. His arm rose

  and fell; there was a scream, another blow, another, fainter shout, then

  blow after blow after blow.

  'Oh my God,' Davidson hissed.

  That's it,' said Martin. 'The plan was to throw that sheet over her head

  and tie her up while the robbery went ahead. But the poor lass had a go.

  She saw his face, and he killed her.'

  'Someone she knew?' Pringle mused.

  'Maybe, maybe not; but someone she'd have been able to identify.'

  And then as they watched the screen was filled with green light, and the

  roar of engines came from the speakers. Four wide beams swung across the

  picture, two of them lighting up a dark shape, like that of a petrol tanker.

  Then the first shafts of light swung round and shone directly into the camera,

  obliterating all other images, even the time read-out in the corner.

  'Dammit!' shouted Pringle in frustration.

  186

  They watched the film for fifteen minutes seeing only green but hearing

  the sound of the farm's machinery, harshly throbbing diesel engines, and

  something else louder than the pumps, the whoosh of fish and water being

  sucked from the tanks. Occasionally an indistinct figure would be framed

  against the light, carrying what could have been a long flexible hose, then

  would move out of shot once again.

  Finally it was over. The noise of the suction engines stopped. As the

  three listened, they heard a single loud splash, then another, softer, then the

  slamming of vehicle doors. It seemed to take the camera some seconds to

  adjust to the darkness once more. When it did, the clearing was empty, and

  the scene was as it had been at first, save for the fact that the front door of

  the cottage now stood open, and that on the tank nearest to it, something no,

  someone - floated.

  The Head of CID punched the 'Stop' button on the player, killing what

  was left of the sound.

  'I'm sorry,' said Davidson, in the darkness, even before he switched on

  the light. 'As I said, there are limitations to this technology. Shining a bright

  light into the lens of a night vision camera will bugger it, for sure.'

  'The man, Tony,' asked Martin. 'Is there anything you can do to isolate

  and enhance that image, to get a face out of it?'

  'No. I'm afraid not. Even if he hadn't been wearing that hooded jacket,

  I couldn't get you the sort of definition you need.'

  'How about those guys who appeared in shot carrying the sucker hoses?'

  'Without the headlamps, probably, but with all that light behind them?

  Not a prayer.'

  'Ah, too bad,' the Head of CID sighed, then brightened up almost at

  once.

  'Still, Dan,' he said. 'It's not a total loss. We can wave those tapes about

  at our press conference. The killer and his pals; they're not going to know

  they're useless, are they?'

  55

  Neil Mcllhenney reflected on his day as he drove up Colinton Road. There

  had been an air of unmistakable tension about the place, and clear signs

  that something had happened. The ACC's new secretary, for a start, drafted

  in without warning; not a hint dropped by Ruth in his direction that Chase

  had won his unsubtle battle to increase his personal staff.

  Then there had been Jack Good; he never could stand the boiled-shirt

  bastard, and even less so since he had made inspector and had shown himself

  to be the sort who glared when a junior uniform failed to salute him, and

  who insisted on being 'sirred' all the time, even by his contemporaries,

  guys who had known him for years.

  But all that day, the same Jack Good had been a bag of nerves. He had

  bumped into him three times in the corridor; twice he had been coming out

  of the toilet, but on the first occasion, he had been leaving the DCC's room.

  On every encounter, he had been jumpy, like a man trying to get out of the

  path of a speeding car.

  Yes, something was up all right, and he deduced that it had to do with

  ACC Chase, and that peculiar grin which he had been carrying all day. Bob

  Skinner often told Mcllhenney more than he needed to know, but he never

  talked about anything that went on inside the Chief'
s room, unless there

  was a clear reason for it.

  He had never suggested that tension might possibly exist between Chase

  and himself. He had never needed to, of course; Neil knew his boss well

  enough to understand that coppers like Chase were anathema to him. He