‘Them? Margot Rendell has them spoiled rotten. They’re crazy . . . and please don’t mention the word “dog” to James Andrew, and especially not to Seonaid. No, if I looked moderately pleased with myself, it’s because I am. I wouldn’t say I’ve made a new friend, but we’re on reasonably good terms.’
‘You spoke to them?’
‘Yup.’
‘And you’re all still in one piece? I can see you are . . . so they came through it unscathed?’
‘We had a very civilised discussion, me and Derek. He’s their leader, I think. He didn’t describe himself that way, but I could tell by the way the rest looked at him.’
‘Very civilised? That’s more than I expected, the way you reacted when you saw them. But are they moving?’
‘Take a look and see.’ He led her into the garden room, as he liked to call the conservatory that overlooked the bay, and watched as she looked down into the car park.
‘My God,’ she exclaimed, ‘they’re packing up. What did you threaten them with? The SAS?’
‘No threats, honest, and they’re not going far, but the gesture might appease the locals.’ He explained the suggestion that he had made to Derek Baillie, and his undertakings if they accepted it. ‘He called his people together while I was on the beach with Joe and Jarvis. I’m sure their resident do-gooder argued against it . . .’
‘Who’s he?’
‘An objectionable wee bastard called Hugo Playfair. He’s their self-appointed spokesman; says he belongs to a pressure group called RON . . . no, sorry, wrong Kray twin . . . REG. He told Baillie, more or less, to have nothing to do with me.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ Aileen declared. ‘The group, that is. They brought a deputation to Holyrood when I was Justice Minister, demanding recognition of travellers’ right to roam and to set up camp without hindrance wherever they please. I didn’t see them, though; I was busy so my deputy dealt with it.’
‘What did he tell them?’
‘More or less what you’d have told him, but more politely; he pointed out that what he was suggesting had to be balanced against the rights of the rest of the community.’
‘The demand sounds like Playfair’s position. He doesn’t seem to cut too much ice with Derek Baillie, though. When I came back up the path, he approached me and said they would do what I asked. Now I’ve got to keep my part of the bargain, but that won’t be difficult. I can arrange for the screens myself; as for the other, I’ll call the chief executive of the council when I get back from the airport with the kids. They’ve got a vehicle that pumps out septic tanks; that’ll do the necessary.’
‘What if he refuses? I can’t fix it with the councillors any more; my party’s in the minority in East Lothian, remember.’
‘He won’t refuse.’
‘He might if he thinks you’re standing on his toes.’
‘If he does, then never mind his toes, I’ll jump on his fucking head.’ He paused. ‘But seriously, babe, I know the man, and he won’t be a problem. In fact he’ll probably bollock his staff for not suggesting this themselves. The main complaint you hear about travellers is about the mess they leave behind. But what are they going to do? Dump their crap in the sea?’
‘You are amazing,’ she told him. ‘You go down there a firebrand and you come back a convert.’
‘I’m by no means a convert. I’m not even a sympathiser. I won’t be doing anything specifically for these people. I’ll have done it for the public good, and that’s my job.’
‘Do you know, you’re sounding like a chief constable already, taking the broad view.’
‘If I am, it’s mostly down to you.’
‘I’ll take the credit if you choose to bestow it.’
‘In that case,’ Bob began, ‘you won’t mind if I go out for a beer later on, once the kids are fed and watered.’
She frowned. ‘Why should I? We often do that on a Sunday, after the beach visitors have gone home.’
‘I didn’t mean us. I meant me. I’ve arranged to meet Derek Baillie and his mate Asmir at around half six, down in the Mallard. It occurred to me while I was sorting this thing out that I’m no different from the rest of the mainstream herd, in that I don’t approve of the traveller lifestyle. But equally, I don’t really know anything about it, least of all why they choose to do it. So I’m going to take this opportunity to find out.’
He was interrupted by the buzzing of the entry phone. He stepped into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. ‘Bob,’ a crusty voice crackled, ‘Donald Rendell. I wonder if I might come in?’
‘Of course, Donald.’ He pressed the button to open the gate, then walked back into the hall and opened the front door, to greet his visitor, who was marching up the path towards him, his back ramrod straight as always. In his big right hand he held his customary walking stick, which as far as Skinner could see was more of a fashion accessory than a necessity.
As the ex-soldier approached, Skinner noticed that he was carrying a bottle of red wine in his free hand. ‘A small gift,’ the veteran said jovially, ‘for walking the wife’s bloody dogs.’
‘Donald,’ the policeman exclaimed, as he ushered the visitor indoors, ‘I can’t accept that.’
‘Then it’s not for you, it’s for your good lady; and a refusal will offend.’
‘In that case . . . Come on and have a seat. I have to go to the airport soon, but I have time for a chat.’ He led the way through to the garden room.
The old man gazed out of the window, down at the car park. ‘I’m sorry I was out when you brought the little buggers back. You seem to have been successful, from what I can see out there. Laid down the law, did you?’
‘Limited success, I’m afraid.’ He explained the compromise that he had reached with Derek Baillie. As he spoke, some of the good humour left Colonel Rendell’s face.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘It’s something, I suppose, and I’m grateful for it. I have to tell you, though, Bob, that these people infuriate me. I spent my career in a disciplined service, and I cannot abide those who deliberately excuse themselves from society then use its namby-pamby laws to frustrate those whose rights they’re infringing. If I could, I’d call in my old regiment and drive them into the sea, caravans, bloody dogs and all.’
‘And children?’ said Aileen, who had joined them, unnoticed.
‘Maybe not them; it’s their misfortune that their parents are brigands. They’re victims, poor little sods. Maybe they should all be taken into care, until their parents see sense and agree to live a normal life.’
‘It is normal to most of them, Colonel.’
‘It’s still bloody wrong, though.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, please excuse my language.’
Aileen smiled. ‘I’m a politician from Glasgow,’ she said, then nodded at Bob. ‘Plus, I live with him. I hear what you’re saying about those people’s children, and I know quite a few people who share your views, but if the parents can demonstrate an acceptable standard of home schooling . . . and as I understand it, that’s usually the case . . . there would have to be other grounds for intervention.’
‘Their very lifestyle offers grounds,’ the Colonel grunted. ‘Look, I really must be off; I’ve promised Margot lunch at the Golf Inn.’ He looked at Skinner. ‘Thanks for your efforts, Bob, and for the dog-walking. You’ve made things better, I concede, but mark my words, there will still be some angry people in this village.’
Eighteen
Things had changed since his previous visit to the mortuary; Sammy Pye could tell that as soon as he walked through the swinging doors and into the examination room. He and Wilding had made good time through the quiet Sunday streets, and so he was surprised to see that Neil McIlhenney was there before them . . . doubly surprised since the pathologist had not mentioned that he would be joining them.
Professor Hutchinson read this in his unguarded glance. ‘I thought it best,’ he explained to the two newcomers, ‘to call Neil. This incident has taken on a new dimen
sion, and it’s going to generate some big headlines around you gentlemen. After all, this isn’t any wee backstreet junkie we’re dealing with. This chap won’t be hidden away on page three. He was a minor literary god, a colleague of yours, you could say, given what he wrote about. I confess to having quite a few of his Walter Strachan novels on my own shelves. And then of course there’s his other life as an MSP. The bizarre killing of a parliamentarian is bound to stir the media into a frenzy.’
‘Killing?’ Ray Wilding repeated. ‘Does that mean you’ve ruled out suicide?’
‘Oh yes, Sergeant, and accident, too. I know for sure what happened to him and I will show you how it was done.’ He glanced at McIlhenney. ‘Is this death in the public domain yet?’
‘It should be,’ the detective superintendent replied. ‘Our press officer was authorised to make a statement as soon as formal identification was made.’
‘That’s right,’ Pye confirmed. ‘He was told to describe it simply as a sudden death, and not to imply that there was anything suspicious about it.’
‘Hah!’ the little professor chortled. ‘He’d better backtrack on that one; there’s plenty suspicious about it. Come here, and I’ll show you what I should have spotted at the first time of asking.’ He turned and, beckoning them to follow, walked towards the naked bulk of Glover’s body which still lay on the autopsy table.
‘Do we need to gown up?’ asked Wilding, who preferred the view from the other side of the glass screen.
‘Don’t be daft, Sergeant,’ Hutchinson replied. ‘You won’t catch anything from him, and whatever you might give to him won’t make any difference now. Come on, all of you; I need to show you this. I headed up the wrong path, I’m afraid. I won’t say I misled you but I didn’t consider all the possibilities. He was full of glucose, as I said earlier, but . . .’ He hesitated. ‘My initial assumption was that somehow or other he had injected himself with the stuff, deliberately, by accident or through sabotage.’ He took the dead man’s left hand, still stiff with rigor, and twisted it so they could see the thumb, from which a section of tissue had been removed. ‘D’you see? That’s where the injection site was; the tiny needles that the pen devices use don’t leave much of a mark, but I found one. But the thing is, the thing is . . .’ suddenly he seemed embarrassed, ‘when I considered the pathology of the thing, the process that leads to ketoacidosis and then death, I realised that injecting himself with that quantity of glucose even in high concentration simply wouldn’t have done the job, especially subcutaneously, as that jab was. So I asked myself,’ he continued, ‘was he topping up what was already there? Echo answered “no” and damn quickly. If he’d had that amount of the stuff in his system before he injected himself with what he undoubtedly assumed was insulin, well, he couldn’t have bloody well injected himself because he’d have been unconscious. Finally, that led me to ask myself, later than it should have, “What if he injected himself with something else?” So I began to check the tissue from the injection site for traces of other substances, and with commendable speed I came up with Pavulon.’
Pye looked at him blankly. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the American trade name of a paralysing drug used in anaesthesia, so that tubes can be put down the patient’s throat without reflex resistance. What I’m saying to you is that someone must have switched the ampoule in Glover’s pen thing. The effect would have been to incapacitate him, very quickly. And when he was under, that’s when he was murdered.’ He looked at each of the three detectives as if inviting a question; when none came, he continued. ‘Someone . . . and for the record, the angle of injection precludes self-administration . . . took advantage of his condition to ram a needle into the muscle of his upper arm, through his jacket and shirt, and to inject him with a really massive dose of glucose, enough to render him comatose in a very short time. Look here,’ he bent over the body, ‘for this is what I wanted you to see. Mr Glover was pretty hairy, or it would have been immediately obvious.’ He pointed to an area of the arm that had been shaved; in its centre was a red puncture mark. ‘It’s fresh,’ Hutchinson confirmed, ‘and when you take a really close look, magnified, you can see that fibres from his clothing have been punched in there. That’s how your man died, chaps. He was murdered. I apologise that it took me longer than it should have to work it out.’
There was silence for a few seconds, until McIlhenney broke it. ‘Joe,’ he asked, ‘once that fatal dose of glucose was given, would he have been unconscious at once?’
‘Not unless his attacker hit him, and there’s no sign of that. He’d have grown more and more dazed and confused, until finally he blacked out. The effect of the Pavulon would have been wearing off as the glucose took hold of him.’
‘Could he have called out? Shouted for help?’
‘I doubt it. He’d have been virtually helpless.’
‘Would he have been able,’ Pye queried, ‘to send a message, say a text or an email?’
‘That might have been possible, but he wouldn’t have had much time to do it. Plus, it probably wouldn’t have made much sense.’ The old pathologist beamed. ‘Gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you, albeit at the second attempt, that you have a murder on your hands, as cunning and premeditated a homicide as I have seen in my long and distinguished career. I wish you luck in trying to solve it.’
Nineteen
In his younger, single, days, when he was lower down the ranking structure, Andy Martin had been known to break the occasional speed limit, until marriage and fatherhood, accompanied by his appointment as assistant chief constable of the Tayside Force, had lightened his touch on the accelerator. But he drove northwards slowly, even by his newer, moderate standards, on his way back home to Perth.
Martin was troubled, more troubled than he could ever remember. He had been in dangerous situations during his police service and had handled them calmly, even ruthlessly when required, without suffering any significant psychological after-effects. He had known difficult times in his personal life too, but none of them had ever left him feeling as he did as he eased his family saloon across the Forth Road Bridge and on to the M90.
He was struck by the contrast with his mood on the previous evening, as he had driven down the same road, bound for the ACPOS dinner. He had been downright happy. The half-yearly statistical report had shown that crime in his area was down, and clear-up rates continued the upward trend they had shown since his appointment. On the home front, Karen’s pregnancy had been declared completely normal, and they were looking forward to taking Danielle to Puerto Pollensa on what would probably be their last holiday as a family threesome.
The phone call from Alex had not come until he was almost in Edinburgh. It had taken him by surprise, but in truth he had felt a surge of pleasure at the sound of her voice. They had not spoken since their accidental meeting at her father’s house a few weeks before, their first since their break-up, yet she had been on his mind. When she suggested that he come to see her after the dinner ended at ten o’clock, he had agreed with barely a second’s hesitation. Less than a day later, he found himself wishing that his phone had been switched off.
‘Oh Jesus, Andy,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Couldn’t you have seen this coming? Did she? Was it a set-up?’ He thought back to the night before. He had arrived at Alex’s flat at ten thirty, having taken a taxi from the Merchants’ Hall to his hotel to change out of his evening dress. She had been busy herself earlier in the evening, attending the first night of a Festival show sponsored by Curle Anthony and Jarvis, her law firm, and the inevitable reception which had followed, and the early part of their conversation had been taken up with descriptions of their respective events. She had told him how bad the performance had been, and he had described Sir James Proud’s valedictory speech to his colleagues, a mixture of recollection and humour, which he had ended with a toast ‘to those who fell in battle’, a tribute to Detective Inspector Stevie Steele, who had been killed on duty a few months before.
Th
ey had shared a bottle of Drostdy-Hof, a decent South African Sauvignon Blanc, to which, Alex said, she had been introduced by Griff Montell, and she had asked him how he was enjoying command rank, and marriage. He had spent the best part of an hour talking about his work, his wife and his daughter, and she had responded by telling him of the development of her career. In short, they had talked of the present, not of their past, time going by unnoticed until Alex had glanced at her watch and seen that it was five minutes short of 2 a.m. He had offered to call a taxi, but she had countered with the offer of her spare bed.
And then morning had come.
‘Oh hell,’ he murmured as he drove. ‘What am I going to do?’
He considered the options open to him. He could be a man of principle, and confess everything to Karen as soon as he stepped through the front door. But what would he confess? That he had slept with his ex-fiancée, that it had been a terrible mistake? And if he did, what would be the result? His marriage might be over there and then. Would it? Maybe so; Karen was a strong woman and would not be afraid to throw him out. But maybe not; she loved him and she loved Danielle. Maybe she wouldn’t break up a previously happy home because of one mistake. But that home might never be quite the same, he feared. His indiscretion might have been a one-off, and totally out of the blue, but even if she forgave him, the fact of it would hang over them like a cloud for a long time, and maybe for ever.
But then again, what if she asked him whether it would ever happen again? Could he promise that it would not?
‘Do you want it to happen again, Andy?’ he asked himself aloud as he swung round a long curve, and saw the blue water of Loch Leven on his right, and the castle where Mary, Queen of Scots, was imprisoned after her fall from power. For an instant he thought of her, and saw her with Alex’s face.
She had said, in so many words, that she would be his mistress. He considered such a relationship, secret meetings, stolen time spent together . . . Queen Mary and the Earl of Bothwell. And he knew it would not work, for the very reason that Alex had cited for not letting him call a taxi in the middle of the night: Edinburgh was at heart a village, with a gossip mill so efficient that most secrets were not kept for long.
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