I left Mia to her clubbing and tried to get some sleep, but as I’ve said, I didn’t get close. I gave up around 1 a.m. and spent the waking hours studying, then listening to music after my eyes ceased to focus properly, but my brain couldn’t shed the image of a dead man staring up at me from an armchair.
I’ve never felt as lonely as I did that night, and yet somehow, once it was over, I felt stronger too, and more independent.
As the day started to make its presence felt, I could see that it was pissing down outside, so a run wasn’t an attractive prospect. Instead, I took the car up to the Royal Commonwealth Pool, and swam for a good thirty minutes. I felt more awake after that, and a cold shower.
Back home, I put a pot of coffee on the stove, then fixed myself a couple of bacon rolls. When they were done, I settled down in front of the telly to catch up with current affairs on the BBC news channel.
I nodded off halfway through the second roll, and with the coffee untouched. I have no idea of how long I slept, but it must have been less than an hour, for I was wakened by the ringing telephone at five past ten.
My head was mush as I answered, but I did my best to sound alert. After all, it could have been a client . . . Easson Middleton has many friends.
It wasn’t. Instead it was a cool, measured female voice. ‘Alex, this is Karen, DS Neville for the purposes of this call. Jack McGurk’s asked me to call on you to take your statement about the suspicious death in Portland Street.’
She sounded very formal, I wondered whether she wasn’t too keen about having to pay a house call. ‘I’ll come to you,’ I offered. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘No, we’ll do it as the DI wants it. What time would suit you?’
God, I’d promised to draft something before she arrived, but it had slipped my mind in the course of the night.
‘How about eleven thirty? Would that be too late?’
‘I’ll see you then.’
All of the renewed energy I’d found in the pool seemed to have disappeared. I felt drained and crotchety. Indeed I was so narked that when my dad’s mobile still showed up unavailable, I rang the house number in L’Escala and left a terse message for him to await his return from his mystery trip to Madrid . . . whenever the hell that might be.
That done, I booted up my computer and keyed in an account of the previous day: my hunt for Linton Baillie, without elaborating on the reason for it, my ‘undercover’ visit to his agent, and the appointment that had led to me finding Coyle.
I finished it at five to eleven, leaving time to brew some more coffee ahead of time for my visitor’s arrival. I can’t deny that I was a wee bit nervous. The relationships between Karen, Andy and me have been complicated, but in the eyes of most people, mine among them, she has never been in the wrong in any sense. She was sinned against and he and I were the sinners.
However, in my defence, Andy and I sinned just the once. He was in Edinburgh, he visited me in my flat in Stockbridge, and what happened took both of us by surprise. If it had stayed between the two of us, then probably I wouldn’t be talking about it now, but it didn’t, thanks to some nasty snooping bastard who found out and spread the story, with pictures.
The marriage hung together for a while after that, and it was only after it had ended, on the ground of mutual indifference, I was assured, that Andy and I began a new relationship. As far as I knew, or rather as far as he told me, Karen held no grudges, but I’d never heard that directly from her.
She arrived bang on time. I buzzed her in, told her where the lifts were, then went to the landing to greet her.
She was dressed pretty much as I do for work: dark suit, skirt rather than trousers, high heels but not precipitous. I was dressed like a slob, in tracksuit bottoms, my Yes for Scotland sweatshirt, and sheepskin-lined slippers. Her hair was immaculate, mine was a mess, just combed through and pulled back in a ponytail. If she’d ever seen me as a femme fatale, that illusion was shattered.
I didn’t know how to play it as I showed her into my home. If she’d been planning on keeping it strictly professional, she cracked after a couple of seconds.
She looked round the place, nodding. ‘Very nice, Alex.’ She walked across to the doors that lead on to my tiny balcony and peered through the glass. ‘Lovely view, too.’
She turned and looked me in the eye, properly, for the first time since she’d stepped out of the lift. ‘Do my kids come here?’ she asked.
‘They have done,’ I admitted. ‘Before you ask,’ I added, ‘when they have been, those doors were locked . . . always.’
I frowned, slightly. ‘It’s not something you need worry about from now on,’ I said, as I walked towards the tray where I’d put the coffee pot and two mugs.
‘Does that mean . . .’ she began, as I poured, but stopped short. ‘Sorry, none of my business what it means.’
‘Of course it is, Karen,’ I told her. ‘I’ve seen a lot of Danielle and Robert at the weekends, since you’ve been back in Edinburgh, and back in the job. You have a right to know about it. So go ahead, ask.’
She did. ‘Are you moving too?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m going nowhere. I was asked . . . in fact it was implied that I should.’ I felt an involuntary half-smile as I added milk to the mugs and handed one to her. ‘I didn’t react well to the lack of consultation, I’m afraid. We’ve had a bust-up.’
I thought I might see a little triumph in her eyes, but I didn’t, just genuine concern. ‘You’ll patch it up, surely.’
‘No, we won’t . . . at least I won’t. We should never have got back together.’
I paused, then added, ‘And here and now I apologise to your face for what happened between us when you and Andy were married. That was not planned, I promise you; I’m ashamed of it.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, as we seated ourselves. ‘I got over that a long time ago. There was history between you two, I know that; unresolved issues. Plus, Andy, for all his faults, was never a serial adulterer, and I don’t think you are either. The kids like you, and they tend to be good judges. They’ll miss you.’
‘And I’ll miss them.’ As I spoke the words, I realised the truth of them. ‘However, Andy is right; we’re two career-driven people. That was the problem first time around, and it’s happened again.’
‘That’s a pity.’ She grinned. ‘How did he take it?’
‘Not well,’ I admitted.
‘He wants me to move too.’
That took me by surprise. ‘But you’ve only just come down here from Perth,’ I exclaimed.
‘That doesn’t matter to Andy. He’s buying a house in Glasgow and he wants me to do the same.’
‘Just like that?’
She nodded. ‘Just like that. He’s even pointed me at a DI post I should apply for. The damnable thing is I probably will. There’s nothing to keep me here, and it will make things easier for the children.’
‘No new relationship?’ I ventured.
Karen laughed. ‘Hell, no. I did think I might have had something going, last summer. I was seeing a guy, but it ended in disaster. He was a widower, so we took it gently. Not gently enough, as it happened; the first time we got naked, he burst into tears. He just sat there on the edge of the bed and said he couldn’t do it. That was bloody obvious too, from what he had on show. I beat a hasty retreat. So much for Internet dating.’
‘I’ll make a note to avoid it,’ I promised. ‘Good luck, whatever you decide.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now to business, yes?’
‘Sure.’ I went to my desk and retrieved the draft statement that I’d printed. ‘I’ve put that together for you. If you’ve got any additional questions, fire away.’
She read it through, carefully, then looked up at me. ‘Everything?’ she asked.
‘Everything . . . including the part where I admit to having a look around the place while I was waiting for the police to arrive.’
‘In that case it’s fine. Print out another copy, we’ll sign
both, and I’ll leave one with you.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, then took her by surprise by asking if she had a business card on her. She did, and handed it over.
I went back to my computer and ran off the second copy. While I was there, I did something else.
As I returned to my seat, Karen looked up at me. ‘Jack says I can share some things with you,’ she announced. ‘He told me your father has an interest in what this man Linton Baillie’s been up to.’
‘That’s good of him. Dad’s in Spain just now, and out of touch, but when he does contact me again, it’s the first thing he’ll ask me. What have you got?’
‘We’ve established that the council tax on the property is paid by direct debit, drawn on an account with the First National Mutual bank, the holder being Linton Baillie. The same’s the case with the utilities bills, gas, leccy and phone. They’re all settled through the same account. Everything’s done online.’
None of that surprised me, but I didn’t tell Karen.
‘We’re looking elsewhere,’ she added. ‘Passport Agency, DSS and so on, but those buggers take their own time.’
‘You didn’t find a computer?’
‘No, but you didn’t expect us to, did you?’
‘Not unless he’d hidden it in the toilet cistern, like they did with the gun in The Godfather. It does confirm something, though, doesn’t it? Or rather its absence does.’
She frowned. ‘What?’
‘It knocks on the head the outside chance of Coyle and Baillie being one and the same. Coyle was in the flat, but the laptop wasn’t. I’ve been in his office; he has a computer there, an old Windows thing. Baillie’s laptop, the one described in the receipt I found, is an Apple; hardly compatible, so I doubt you’ll find it there.’
‘Wherever the laptop is, so is Baillie?’
I nodded.
‘I have something I can share with you,’ I told her. ‘My father sent me a couple of images that he took off the silly woman who was paid to trail him. They include one of a man; we don’t know who he is for sure, but he might just be Mr Baillie. I’ve just emailed it to you; you might want to show it to the neighbours.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks, Alex. I’ll discuss that with Jack, as well as your thought about the missing laptop. Speaking of the acting DI . . .’ she finished her coffee and rose to her feet, ‘he’s expecting me back before lunch. If anything else occurs to you,’ she said, as I showed her to the lift, ‘let us know.’
Actually something else had, but I planned to check that out for myself.
As soon as Karen had gone, I went into my bedroom and smartened myself up. I could have done so earlier but I’d chosen to let her see the other Alex, the one behind the quality clothes, the expensive hair and the make-up.
I didn’t go the whole hog in changing, but chose jeans, a plaid shirt and a long waxed raincoat, with a matching hat, and my beloved Panama Jack boots.
The rain had gone, but not too far away, as I set out. I walked through Holyrood Park, heading east, sticking to the grass rather than the roadway, as I didn’t want to be splashed by passing traffic. On another day I might have stopped to count the swans in the loch, but I had business in hand.
I’d been to Meadowbank House before. It’s an ugly seventies office block, on London Road near the Jock’s Lodge junction, but it’s screened off by greenery and the only thing that most people notice is the entrance. Its looks belie its purpose, for it houses one of our most valuable public resources, the Land Register of Scotland.
I walked in off the street, found the customer service centre and put a request to the desk officer. Ten minutes later I walked out of there with a history of the ownership of twenty-seven slash two slash c Portland Street, from its construction in the first year of the new millennium to the present day. It didn’t answer all my questions, indeed it begged a couple, but it told me one thing. Linton Baillie might pay the council tax on the property, but it wasn’t his.
I took the bus to my next port of call; while Meadowbank House will tell you all you want to know about Scotland’s property, Register House is the place to go for answers about its people.
I spent half an hour in there; when I came out I knew quite a bit more; although it didn’t relate to anything else in the inquiry, it did leave me feeling pleased with myself.
Back home, there was a message showing on my phone. I’d hoped it was from Dad, but no, it was Roger McGrane, telling me he’d booked a table for a pre-show dinner in a restaurant near the Festival Theatre, and offering to pick me up.
When I called him back, Mrs Harris told me he was busy, so I left a message with her saying simply that I’d see him there. I wasn’t ready for him to know where I lived. It would take another couple of dates for us to get there, if we ever did.
I’d planned to go to Torphichen Place with what I’d found, so I was surprised when it came to me, just after three thirty, in the person of Jack McGurk.
‘I thought I’d drop by to say thanks,’ he explained, as I let him in. ‘I had that image shown to as many neighbours as we could raise, three to be exact. Two of them identified him as Linton Baillie.’ He sighed. ‘Mind you, it’s the only bloody positive we’ve had today. Baillie doesn’t have a UK passport or a UK driving licence; he doesn’t even have a National Insurance number. It looks like he isn’t a UK citizen. I’ve spoken to his publisher, but she was no help. She told me that when a writer sells as many books as Baillie for a small house like hers, he can be as mysterious as he fucking likes.’
‘Then add this to the mix,’ I said. ‘He might live at Portland Street, but he doesn’t own it.’
‘You sure?’ he exclaimed.
‘I’m certain,’ I replied, handing him a foolscap envelope with all the information I’d dug up on my midday safari. ‘You can’t find Baillie, but that will give you someone else to look for.’
He beamed at me. ‘In that case, Alex, you’ve earned this bonus. We didn’t find Baillie’s laptop, either in the flat or at Coyle’s place . . . which was definitely his residence, by the way. However, we did find, in Baillie’s bureau, in a drawer that you must have missed, an external storage device, the kind you plug into a computer to make a back-up of the hard disk.’
He reached into a pocket and produced a memory stick. ‘There’s lots of stuff on it that’ll be of interest to the gaffer, so,’ he handed it over, ‘I made a copy and it’s yours, with my compliments.’
I’d have plugged the thing in as soon as he left, but he hung around for a while, and screwed up my timetable.
Out of politeness I offered him a drink, not thinking he’d accept, but he did, a bottle of Coors light, one of a few that I’d put in the fridge for Andy. I poured myself some of the previous night’s red and we chatted for a while.
I asked him about his fairly new second marriage, and he sympathised with me over my relationship; I’d dropped a big enough hint to him the night before that it was in the crapper, so it hadn’t come as a surprise when Karen confirmed it when she got back to the office.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but worry not. I’m fine about it, and so is he.’ I checked my watch. ‘As a matter of fact, I have a date tonight.’
He chuckled. ‘Same old Alex. I didn’t think you’d be lonely for too long, but twenty-four hours, that’s pretty quick off the mark.’
‘Just dinner and the theatre,’ I insisted.
‘What are you going to see?’
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘Whatever’s on at the Festival Theatre.’
Jack managed to grin and shake his head at the same time. ‘Like I said, same old Alex. Is this one a cop?’
‘No fucking way,’ I snorted.
Twenty-Nine
I dressed conservatively for the theatre, not too much glam; this was in part because I knew it would have been over the top in the restaurant Roger had booked, and also because I didn’t want to lead the guy on.
Before calling a taxi to take me there, I checked on the enter
tainment ahead: a musical based on sixties Californian pop. I’d have preferred Jersey Boys, but it was okay. I was definitely not in the mood for Wagner.
The taxi took longer than promised to pick me up so I arrived a few minutes late. My date was there; I could see him through the glass wall, studying his watch with a frown that I can only describe as impatient. The street light nearest to me was out and so he couldn’t have seen me, even if he’d looked straight at me. I paused, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
I was brought up to believe that the eyes are windows to the soul. In some people the face is an open doorway.
Have you ever caught a person off guard and seen something that you hadn’t suspected was there? That’s what happened to me, right there on that cold pavement in Nicolson Street.
I looked at Roger McGrane and I didn’t see the urbane, charming, attractive man that I’d seen in his own environment. I saw someone else; someone cold, calculating and predatory. I knew for certain that if I went to his car wherever he’d parked it, I’d find a bag, with a change of clothes for at least one day.
If he’d caught sight of me what would he have seen? I’ve no idea but it wouldn’t have been the Alex he’d met. She was, as I’d told him, in a comfortable long-term relationship. She’d also been in denial, unwilling to admit that said relationship was constraining and ultimately pointless, and possibly, no certainly, she’d been throwing out signals.
Hadn’t he said I was ‘wonderfully direct’?
A lot can happen in a couple of days, as it had to me. Andy and I had stopped pretending; in the process I’d re-established my identity, and asserted my ambition. I didn’t need to flirt with a superficially attractive man, who was, when seen off guard, distinctly unattractive on the inside.
And something else had happened.
Twenty-four hours before I’d dressed in another fashion to meet a man. I’d kept that appointment and been faced by a sleazy sexual predator, even though he was dead. (Jack had told me that afternoon that when they’d emptied Coyle’s pockets at the mortuary, they’d found a packet of condoms, and a till receipt from SemiChem.)
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