‘Take what you get, Detective Superintendent. Nescafe original only here.’
‘I’ll bring some, in that case.’
As it turned out they didn’t have any in the Stockbridge grocer that I called into on my way, but they did have a pretty decent Douwe Egberts instant, and I settled for that.
There was a probationer on the desk when I walked into the Torphichen Place office from the car park at the back of the building. He didn’t recognise me when I came in through the door behind him and wasn’t sure whether to ask for my ID, but I showed it to him anyway. His name badge read PC Ray Wilding. He seemed a bit overawed, and I wondered whether he’d make it through training.
I was halfway up the stairs when I met Alastair Grant, coming down, wearing a Barbour jacket and with his car keys in his hand. He stopped and said, ‘Hello.’ Normally that would have been it with Alastair, for he was a quiet bloke, but he continued. ‘When are you giving me my DI back, Bob?’
‘As soon as I can, mate,’ I retorted, stung slightly by his question. ‘Do you think I’m spinning out this investigation just to keep Alison close?’
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he insisted: four more than sincerity demanded.
He was a nice bloke, as well as a quiet one, and at once I regretted biting him. ‘One “No” would have been enough, Alastair. Are you pushed, flying one short?’
‘Just a bit,’ he admitted. ‘I’d an armed robbery yesterday, the third from a pharmacy this month.’
‘Drug thefts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wish I’d known earlier,’ I grunted. ‘I was with Tony Manson earlier; I could have told him it was becoming a problem. He’d put them out of business quicker than we can.’
‘Sure,’ he agreed, ‘but permanently.’ I think I made him nervous sometimes. ‘Ah, I’m just having a moan, Bob; don’t mind me.’
‘I won’t. The Weir murder started off as your inquiry, remember, before Alf slung it over to me.’
‘Very true. I suppose all I can do is wish you luck with it.’
I smiled. ‘I’d sooner rely on methodical detective work, myself. Anyway, I do not feel at my luckiest today. A door barely opens before it’s slammed in my face again. I hope Alison’s going to change that.’
I wished him luck, and carried on upstairs. The layout of Torphichen CID was pretty much like my own, which meant that the detective super had the private office, and the rest had desks in an open area. Alison looked up and smiled as I came in. I held up the Douwe Egberts. ‘This is yours,’ I told her. ‘To be taken home; don’t leave it here or it’ll be nicked. Nothing’s safe in a police office. But, before you put it in your bag, open it and make me a mug.’
‘Fair exchange,’ she agreed.
I watched her as she crossed the room, to the table with the kettle, the milk and the mugs. The place was empty save for a couple of DCs in deep discussion in a far corner, so my study was unobserved. She moved with the confidence of a person who was happy in her skin, on legs that were muscular but beautifully shaped, as if they’d been carved by a master from an unblemished piece of oak. The rest of her body was a good match, but it was the warmth of the being within that I found most attractive. She was too good for me, that was for sure. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, very softly.
She turned just at that moment, and saw my lips move. ‘I missed that,’ she called out. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, how would you like to come home with me tonight?’ How weak and indecisive was I?
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but that wasn’t it.’
‘No, I said sorry for not calling you earlier.’
She smiled as she placed a mug in front of me, on a Capital Copiers coaster, on her desk. ‘You boss, me underling. I’m meant to wait until you’re ready.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ I chuckled.
‘That’s the rule,’ she insisted. ‘Anyway, you sounded completely frazzled when you did call, so I took it that you’d had a bad time. Actually, you still look pretty wired.’
I sighed, heavily. ‘Do I? And here was me thinking I was supercop. Yes, we had a fairly testing experience, young Andy and I.’ I told her about our visit to Winston Church and what we had found. I left out the worst of the detail, but I didn’t fool her.
‘So you won’t be passing the crime scene photos round the table after dinner,’ she said.
‘No, I will not. I like my carpet the way it is.’
‘I see. Is there an upside to this?’
I sipped my coffee; I’d made a good choice, I reckoned. ‘For you, yes; you’re not part of the investigation team. For me, no; I thought I could see a way forward, but now I can’t. But that’s not why I’m here. What couldn’t you tell me over the phone?’
‘Not tell you. Show you.’
She sat behind her desk and took a file from a tray. ‘Before I get there, though, we have established a link between Weir and McCann, and it is Maxwell Academy. They were both there at the same time, but McCann was a year behind Weir, and that’s why Wyllie didn’t know the name.’
‘Were they pals at school?’
‘We don’t know. Brian and Stevie are both working on that. They’re interviewing all the classmates that we can find. What’s more important though, isn’t it, is whether they were pals after school, and that’s what we’re trying to establish.’
‘Was Wyllie any help there?’ I asked.
‘I re-interviewed him this morning up at the Sheriff Court, with Stevie . . . a very dishy young man, by the way; you want to watch him . . .’ She winked; I killed my idea of bringing her on to my team full time. Our intimacy had become too great to allow it.
‘No,’ I countered. ‘If I have to, I’ll just send him back to where he came from: obscurity.’
‘Bully. Anyway, Wyllie stuck to his story. He didn’t know McCann and he’d never heard Weir mention him, but he did admit that the two of them weren’t as close as they had been since he became a family man. But there’s still McCann’s pal, Charles Redpath, the guy who was with him the night he died. We’ve still to talk to him again, and we will, soon as he gets back from his run. He’s a lorry driver; works with a firm in Haddington. When we tried to contact him yesterday we were told he was away on a two-day trip to Harrogate. He’s due back late this afternoon.’
‘Tell his employer to hold him there when he gets back. You and I are going out that way anyway. We’ll make a detour and see him together.’
‘I will do,’ she said. ‘But are you sure you want to be involved?’
‘Makes sense. Plus I’m not giving you another chance to size up young Steele.’
‘Okay. Now, the main business.’ She opened her folder. ‘I went to Weir’s flat yesterday afternoon . . . with Brian, who is in no way dishy . . . looking for something, anything that mentioned McCann. We’d done the same in reverse at his mother’s place and come up empty-handed, just as we did at Weir’s eventually, but there, I did find this. It was in a drawer, folded. It bears no relevance that I can see to this investigation, but it struck me as curious, and I thought you’d want to see it.’
She picked up a piece of paper, and handed it across to me. I unfolded it and saw that it was a photocopy of a single page. A quick glance at the header told me that it was from a back issue of a magazine called Radioweek, a trade journal, by the look of it. But it was its main article that really caught my eye. The heading was ‘Adding a Sparkle After School’, and it topped a feature about ‘Edinburgh’s newest media star, a girl on the up and up’ . . . Mia Sparkles. There was a photo too, Mia with her best ‘come into my parlour’ look. I stared at it and felt . . . nothing. What I saw, superimposed by my memory, was the expression on that face the last time I’d seen it.
I read it, carefully. The copy made it appear that she was an Aberdonian; it didn’t mention any earlier Edinburgh connection. Hardly a surprise, I supposed.
I folded it and handed it back. ‘As you say, nothing to do with your investigation. A small
coincidence, that’s all.’
‘Isn’t it you who’s famous for saying that you don’t believe in love or coincidences at first sight?’
I smiled. ‘Maybe, but I was lying about the first. That was something I said to give the Saltire crime reporter a good quote, and it’s lived with me ever since. Anyway, we know that Mia went to Maxwell Academy as well. He saw the piece and kept it. So what?’
‘She’s very anxious that nobody should know about her background, is she not?’
‘Yes, but so what? There’s no evidence of anything but casual curiosity on Weir’s part. That magazine article’s months old. Weir could have sold his story to the papers at any time since then, but he didn’t.’
‘True. But maybe he contacted her.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘And threatened to reveal his dark secret, so she put a contract out on him? And on his pal, just in case? I don’t think so, Ali.’
She chuckled, softly. ‘No, maybe not. Maybe I’d just like her to have done.’ She paused. ‘Still, shouldn’t it be followed up?’
Procedurally, she was right; but no way was I going to do it, and I didn’t want her to either, for a non-operational reason. ‘Yes,’ I concurred. ‘Tell Brian, or Hugh Grant’s kid brother, to go and see her and ask her if Weir or McCann mean anything to her and if she’s seen either one lately. Do it for the record, then move on.’ I finished my coffee. ‘I’m going back to Fettes. I’ll pick you up from here at four, and we’ll head for Haddington; tell Redpath’s firm we’re coming, and that we’d appreciate it if he waits for us if necessary.’
I went back out to the car park, past young PC Wilding, who started to give me a probationer salute, but stopped when I pointed out that he’d joined the police not the army.
I realised that I didn’t feel like going straight back to the office. I needed clear space to think, and I wasn’t going to find any there. I thought about going up to the castle and parking on its esplanade, but there would be buses, and tourists, hardly an oasis of calm in a sea of storms. Instead, I headed east, through the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, and into Holyrood Park, the Queen’s Park as it’s called sometimes, for that’s what it is. I drove past St Margaret’s Loch and its swan population, and up the rise until I reached Dunsapie Loch. It had less bird life because there were fewer people there with yesterday’s bread. Its car park was empty and that was exactly what I wanted. I got out, leaving my jacket on the hook behind my door, and walked along the water’s edge, then up a short, rocky slope to a point that afforded a view across the firth and all the way down to Berwick Law. As I approached the top I realised that I wasn’t alone, as I’d thought. A couple of kids were lying on the grass about twenty yards away, oblivious of my approach. I didn’t see any cycles, so I guessed that they’d walked up and stopped for what I will call, euphemistically, a wee rest. The law called what they were doing an offence against public decency, but I’ve never been the sort of cop who whips out his warrant card at every opportunity, and suppose I had, I was alone, and so the good old Scots law of corroboration was working in their favour. If I’d had a pebble in my pocket I might have tried to catch the boy on the rise, but I didn’t, so I simply changed direction and left them to their happy distraction.
Eventually I spotted a boulder that was flat enough for me to sit on. I lowered myself on to it and looked homeward, enjoying the peace of the morning, and its sun on my face. Where was I going? I wondered. A week before I’d been chasing druggies all over Edinburgh, doing my best to keep the lid on the sales force and the consumers, knowing all the time that I had no chance of catching the people at senior executive level in the business, because they were as smart as I was and knew that the parts of the criminal code that were restrictions upon me were places of refuge for them. I’d done my time on the drugs squad, beaten all my arrest targets, banged up dozens of salesmen and users, but very few managers, and had looked forward to being rotated. In due course that had come to pass and where was I? Right in the spotlight, running two murder investigations, in which there was no subtlety, only a simple imperative: find the people responsible and take them out of society before they could do it any more damage. I sensed that I was at a, maybe the, pivotal moment of my police career. Alf Stein and the chief had laid out a future for me, but I knew what they hadn’t needed to say: it was all contingent on success. There was an alternative: failure and a fall from the stairway to the stars, as James Proud, in a moment of unprecedented eloquence, had described it. I’d always tried to be honest with myself. I hadn’t always been successful, but I had recognised the extent of my own ambitions. I hadn’t joined the force with the aim of becoming a member of the Superintendents’ Association, and I hadn’t joined because I felt good in uniform. I’d joined to be, not just A detective, but The detective, the man on top, the boss, the man who drove the whole fucking analogy-strewn bus, and I’d been possessed of an ego which hadn’t considered for one second the possibility that I might not be good enough.
But that was what I faced, sitting on that slab of volcanic debris, staring out across the water. Where was I in these two key inquiries that could make my career or wound it, maybe mortally? My fear was that I was stuffed, in both.
I looked for positives in the Marlon Watson murder hunt. On the face of it, we had an acceptable result. We had identified Milburn’s van, and McGuire’s pub manager witness, after a lot of thought, had picked Warren Shackleton from an array of mugshots as one of the men he had seen in Infirmary Street. I hadn’t been sure how he would hold up against an aggressive defence advocate, but that wasn’t a factor any more, since dead men can’t be tried. I was fairly certain also that our scientists would find evidence that would place the two of them at the scene. DNA was coming into use then and in its era everybody leaves a trace behind.
The obvious thing for me to do, in PR terms, was to issue a statement announcing that two men who had been our prime suspects, and one other thought to be involved, were those who’d been found dead in Newcastle. I knew they’d have been the top story in the Tyneside press that morning, and expected them to make the national news, if only briefly.
Yes, I would do that, but not personally, just a couple of paragraphs put out through the press office. I had no intention of exposing myself at a media briefing to follow-up questions to which I had no answers.
On the face of it, I’d be able to close the book on the case. Show the prosecutors our evidence and they’d sign off on Milburn and Shackleton as Marlon’s murderers, no further proceedings necessary. Fine, but I would know that we’d come up short, and so would my bosses. Not only that, there were half a dozen good crime reporters in the city who’d work it out too. Most important of all, though, I’d never be satisfied myself with a job half done. So, the investigation would not be closed. The search would go on, as discreetly as possible, but it would go on, and I’d be judged on the outcome.
As for the Weir-McCann murder hunt, I didn’t feel in touch with that one at all. There had been an early lead in the Watson case, but no such luck with the other. We’d established that the two had been killed by the same man, with the same weapon, but we hadn’t a clue why, and he was still out there. A third murder, and the press would have hysterics. Something had to tie the victims together, beyond the fact that they’d each survived the same sink-estate school, but we weren’t close to finding it. The press clipping about Mia? A curiosity, that was all. No . . . I frowned . . . not one, but two: the fact that he had it at all, and the question that it posed. What was a guy who worked on the shop floor in B&Q doing with a page torn out of a communications trade magazine? ‘Now that is interesting, Skinner,’ I murmured. ‘Where the hell would Weir have got that from?’ And who the hell’s going to tell us? I added silently, and my flicker of optimism faded. ‘Bugger!’ I sighed, as I stood up, my arse cold from its ancient seat.
I’d left my phone and my house keys in my jacket in the Discovery. A risk casually taken, I realised as I walked back; police officers
have no personal immunity to theft. It was still there, though. I could see the car, intact, as I crested the rise. The two youngsters were gone; it could only have been a quickie. I checked the mobile as soon as I was back in the driver’s seat. It showed three missed calls, all from the same number: Mia. As I was looking at the readout she rang again. I hesitated before answering. Indeed, I almost pressed ‘reject’, before I gave in to her persistence and hit the green key instead.
‘Yes.’
‘Bob, it’s me.’
‘I know who it is,’ I replied. ‘I have this clever phone that tells me.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was way over the top this morning. You scared me, that was all.’
‘Yes, I did,’ I conceded, ‘and I’m sorry for that. But you are right, you were way over the top.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘Accepted, for fuck’s sake!’ I snapped.
‘So you’re still mad at me.’
Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel Page 28