‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘It makes me sad. This used to be Scotland’s only transatlantic airport. More than a few emigrants to Canada left from here, in aircraft with propellers on the wings that had to refuel before they reached Toronto. Nowadays, just look at it.’
‘Why is it still open?’
‘Ask the First Minister. Maybe it’ll come into its own again when Brexit finally happens, I don’t know.’
‘What was old Joe, the neighbour, saying about Elvis?’ the DS asked.
‘My Dan would tell you that.’ She felt a familiar frisson as she used the possessive. ‘He’s an Elvis buff. Legend has it that The King only set foot on British soil once, and it was here, when he was flying home after doing his national service in Germany. They’ve traded on it ever since.’
‘Is it true?’
‘There is another story, but I don’t know that it’s ever been verified. The one thing I know for sure is that Raymond Bright and his sister are on the flight that’s coming in right now, so let’s get moving.’
They walked into the baggage hall, showing their accreditation to the lone Customs official on duty, then made their way through the baggage hall, emerging at the police desk behind the Border Force check point. As Mann had requested, two large men in plain clothes were waiting there. One of them was middle-aged, the other much younger. She knew the former; he had worked on the same team as her ex-husband, before his fall from grace. For a second, she wondered how he would react, for Scott, her disgraced ex-husband, still had friends on the force, but he greeted her effusively.
‘Lottie, how ye doing? Sorry, that should be, ma’am.’ He touched his forelock.
‘Only in front of strangers, Mac,’ she laughed. ‘I thought you were still in a black tunic.’
‘I am, but I grab any excuse to wear a suit. I hear you’re with Desperate Dan these days. That was a long time coming, but we all knew he was fond of you.’
‘I wish you’d told me,’ she said. ‘It was a complete surprise to me when it happened.’
‘This guy Bright we’re here for. What’s he done?’
‘He’s wanted for questioning about the New Year murder in Edinburgh.’
Mac’s face darkened. ‘Terry Coats?’
‘That one, yes. Him and a serving inspector.’
‘Indeed?’ the veteran growled. ‘In that case the van might hit a few bumps on the road on the way through there. I liked Terry; a bit of a spiv, but an okay guy. He didn’t deserve what he got from that chief constable. On yis go now,’ he said, as the first passengers began to appear at the end of a long corridor, ‘get out of sight and let us collect him for you. At least we know he’s not goin’ to be armed, getting off a flight.’
‘If there was any chance of that,’ she said, ‘you would be too.’
To their right was a double door, no more than four yards along a corridor. Mann and Cotter stepped back into it and waited. The flow of passengers was slow but steady; almost invariably they were couples, a few with children, but mostly middle-aged or elderly. Some were tanned, others showed various skin tones from pale pink to bright red. Nearly all were dressed for the weather conditions they had left rather than those that awaited them outside. The only exceptions were two Asian families, whose women and children were covered from head to toe.
The detectives waited in their alcove, impatient at first, then tense as the human tide crept past them. ‘Are you certain they were on the plane, boss?’ Cotter muttered. ‘I didn’t see any air bridges when we got here. They’ll have walked across the tarmac. Is it possible that they’ve slipped out of the queue and found another way out?’
‘Anything’s . . .’ Mann began until she was silenced by a glance and an imperceptible nod from the senior constable. As they looked on, two figures stepped into their eyeline, without noticing them. Phoebe Bright looked ten years older than the passport photo they had sourced. Raymond, her brother, was twelve years older than his last arrest photograph, but aside from greying hair around the temple, he was little changed: around six feet tall, heavily built with a thick jaw that gave him a simian look.
Mac and his colleague stepped across, blocking the passageway. ‘Mr Bright, Miss Bright,’ the senior man said. ‘Would you come with us, please? Our colleagues would like a word with you.’
Glancing to his left, Raymond Bright noticed Mann and Cotter for the first time. His small eyes flared with anger. With unexpected speed, he dropped his cabin bag, head-butted Mac, spun on his heel and headed for the waiting detectives. Cotter moved towards him; he was much smaller and was swept aside easily, but in the time he had gained for her, the DCI had drawn an extendible baton. She went low with her first stroke, back hand, smashing an exposed kneecap below Bright’s cargo shorts, then high on the follow-through, catching him on the side of the head and sending him crashing in a heap at her feet.
‘That was not clever,’ she told him, very quietly, as the DS snapped cufflinks around his wrists. ‘In fact, you’ll have a ninety-mile drive to reflect on just how stupid it was, given that the officer you just nutted will be one of your escorts.’
Seventy-Five
‘Sorry, Sauce,’ Skinner said as he stepped into the office, ‘I had an unexpected call, one that I had to deal with.’ To Haddock’s surprise he was not alone. ‘The good news is,’ he continued, ‘it’s given ACC Payne the time to get here from the Secret Bunker.’ The nickname that the lower ranks had bestowed on the police service national headquarters had found its way into the public domain. ‘What I’ve got to tell you, you’d have to report to him anyway, so this speeds things up.’
‘So what is it?’ the DI asked, with the faintest sign of impatience, ‘and how does it relate to Walter Thomson, the dead man in Airdrie?’
From inside his overcoat, as he removed it, Skinner produced a green folder, and laid it on the meeting table. ‘Come and sit along here,’ he said, ‘and I’ll explain.’ He waited until Payne and Haddock were in place, facing him, then carried on. ‘Lowell,’ he began, glancing at the ACC, ‘you’ll remember my predecessor as Chief Constable of Strathclyde.’
Payne nodded. ‘Only too well,’ he confirmed. ‘Antonia Field, parachuted in from south of the border. Everyone in Scotland knew that she saw the job as a stepping stone on the way to being Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Nobody could stand her, but equally, nobody would have wished her fate on her either.’
‘That’s right. The only way that I’d have ever gone after the job as chief of the national force would have been to stop her getting it.’ Skinner turned to Haddock. ‘Sauce, how much do you know about the circumstances behind Terry Coats’ resignation from Strathclyde, before it was wound up?’
‘I know he was outed by a blog, Brass Rubbings, that focused on police corruption and general misbehaviour. It claimed that he had protected a criminal from prosecution because he was a source of useful information that had led to him putting various people away. It got wider press coverage and Chief Constable Field decided to throw Coats under the bus. She offered him a transfer that she knew he wouldn’t accept, a uniform job in Oban. Noele was CID then, in North Lanarkshire like him, but she wasn’t offered a move. He quit, as she knew he would, and he was bitter about it until the day he died.’
‘That’s correct,’ Skinner agreed, ‘but you left out one crucial consequence of the Brass Rubbings report. Its author, Austin Brass, was ruthless, or reckless, or stupid enough, depending on how you looked at him, to name Coats’ informant. As a result, the man was found murdered, chopped up and fitted into a suitcase. The crime was never solved and the connection to the blog story was hushed up.’ He opened the green folder and pushed it across the table.
‘When I took over from Toni Field,’ he continued, ‘I found this file in a secure cabinet in my new office. It tells the whole story, but a casual read doesn’t make Field look too good because it includes the fact that Coats was exonerated by an investigation by the professional standards department, yet she went
ahead with axing him anyway, to preserve her own reputation. What it also includes is the name of the victim. He was called Alan Mason, a small-time criminal from Airdrie, in North Lanarkshire, and he was twenty-two years old. No one was ever charged with his murder but there was one outstanding suspect, a man who had done time as a result of information given by Mason to Terry Coats. His name? Walter Thomson.’
Lowell Payne whistled. ‘Bloody hell, Bob,’ he gasped. ‘We have Coats and this man connected to Mason’s death and murdered within hours of each other.’
‘That’s right. And,’ he added, ‘you have a suspect for Coats under arrest.’ He smiled at Haddock. ‘Join the dots, Sauce. Join the fucking dots.’
‘I will, gaffer,’ the DI replied. ‘But can I ask you, how come you’ve still got the file?’
‘I’ve got it because I kept it, lad. Nobody else seemed to want it, but I had a feeling that one day someone would. So . . . there you are.’
Seventy-Six
‘You did us all a favour, Lottie,’ Haddock said, ‘when you cracked Bright so hard with that baton that the doctor wouldn’t let us interview him until this morning. We’ve got more to put to him now.’
‘Maybe that wasn’t me,’ she pointed out. ‘Letting Big Mac ride with him in the van was a risky decision.’
‘Big Mac?’ Skinner repeated.
‘Aye. His name’s McDonald and he’s big, so what else were they ever going to call him? I didn’t have much choice though. I couldn’t let Phoebe go in the van without a female escort, so she had to come with John and me.’
‘Whatever,’ Haddock continued, ‘it let us execute the search warrant on their house. There’s no way back from that. Tarvil,’ he called out to the sergeant, ‘go get him, please.’ He turned to Mann. ‘You and me in there, Lottie, yes?’ She nodded assent. ‘John, you, Tarvil, and Sir Robert can watch on video. Is his lawyer here?’
Singh stopped in the doorway. ‘He said he didn’t want one, Sauce.’
‘Fuck that!’ the DI exclaimed. ‘He’s been cautioned, so he’s entitled to a solicitor present. He’s having one, like it or not. I’m not having him claiming later on that it was denied. Bugger! I want to get on with it; now we’ve got a delay. Can we whistle one up here?’ He looked at Skinner. ‘Gaffer, is Alex busy today?’
‘It’s Saturday, Sauce,’ he reminded his protégé. ‘But even if it wasn’t, no way would she sit alongside a guy accused of murdering her boyfriend. The Law Society would shit itself collectively at the thought. Her associate, Johanna DaCosta, on the other hand, she might be available. Want me to check it out?’
‘Please do. It’ll be a legal-aid case, but we can top up today’s fee if necessary.’
Skinner whistled. ‘Wow! She can book her Caribbean holiday right now.’
Seventy-Seven
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ the young solicitor advocate asked. ‘Things might have come to light about him but even so you and he . . .’
‘Johanna,’ Alex Skinner exclaimed, ‘he was a friend, at least I thought he was, and he was a good shag, but that’s it. We were not romantically inclined, ever. My father is right that the Law Society might argue that we were close enough for it to cloud my judgement when to comes to acting for Bright, but you didn’t know him and you’re an associate of my firm, not my employee. You earn your own fees from your own work. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t accept Bright’s instruction. That’s if he gives it to you. Dad told me that he waived his right to legal advice; it may be that you’ll get to Fettes and he’ll still refuse to engage you. If he does, Sauce will ask you to sign a statement that you offered your services but the prisoner refused. That’s all he really wants; he doesn’t give a stuff whether Bright has a lawyer beside him.’
‘If you say so, Alex,’ DaCosta decided. ‘I’ll take it on. The police statement I read this morning said that two people had been arrested. What about the other one?’
‘That was Bright’s sister. They thought she might have been his accomplice, but she’s been released on simple police bail. I see no other distractions, on you go.’
Seventy-Eight
‘Aye, fine,’ Raymond Bright grunted. ‘As long as youse are payin’ her.’ He looked up towards the camera in a corner of the interview room, and tapped the side of his head, gingerly touching a purple lump. ‘I hope youse all see this.’
‘For the record, Ms DaCosta,’ Lottie Mann said, ‘your client had to be restrained at the airport. He’s been cautioned in respect of an assault on a police officer and, be sure, he will be charged with that in addition to anything that happens after this interview. But I don’t imagine that a three-month sentence on top of thirty years will be much of a bother to him.’
‘Let’s carry on,’ Haddock declared. ‘We’ve been delayed long enough. Mr Bright—’
‘Haud on,’ the prisoner exclaimed. ‘What about oor Phoebe? Where’s she?’
‘She’s at home,’ the DI advised him. ‘She was detained because we thought she might have been your accomplice. When we discovered that she has an eye condition that means she couldn’t possibly have driven the second vehicle, she was released on bail. That doesn’t mean she’s off the hook though. If we find out that she was aware of your plan to murder Mr Coats and Inspector Montell, she may still face charges.’
‘Can they do that?’ Bright asked his solicitor. ‘Let her oot and then haul her back in again?’
‘They have that power,’ Johanna DaCosta confirmed.
‘Okay, let’s get straight to the point,’ Haddock continued. ‘While we were following concussion protocol yesterday, it gave us time to search your home, in accordance with a warrant granted by a sheriff. We removed certain items of your clothing for scientific testing. This revealed traces of blood, which on first examination matched Inspector Montell’s. DNA analysis is still being done, but I’m going to hazard a guess that’ll confirm it was his. In addition to that we found these.’ He paused to reach down and take a plastic evidence bag from the floor. ‘As you can see, these are three distinctive gold coins, called Krugerrands. On each of them we’ve found fingerprints; they were partials but there are enough points of similarity for us to match them with those of Terry Coats. That means we can tie you to both murder victims, Mr Bright. In addition to that, we’ve got video footage of a man getting out of Mr Coats’ car, just before twelve-thirty a.m. on January the first, after it had been parked in Torphichen Place in Edinburgh, outside the police station where Inspector Montell worked. The driver was wearing clothes similar to those we took from your house. He also wore a black balaclava. Not unlike this one.’ He reached down once more and produced another evidence bag. ‘It was also recovered from your house; to be precise, from a garden waste recycling bin, where it was wrapped around these.’ He went to the floor for a third time and came up with a heavy revolver. ‘This, or something similar,’ he said, ‘was used as far back as the Boer War, and in dozens if not hundreds since then. It’s a Webley Mark Six, point four five five calibre, the same as the bullet that was recovered from Terry Coats’ garage. It’s in good enough shape that we were able to match it to this gun.’ He reached down for the last time. ‘Finally there’s this, a nine-millimetre Luger pistol, possibly from a later war. Ballistic tests have determined that it’s the weapon used to kill Terry Coats.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘In the face of all that, Mr Bright, do you have anything to say? If you want, I’ll give you time for a private word with Ms DaCosta before you answer.’
‘No thanks,’ he grunted. ‘I’m saying nuthin’ until youse can explain to me why I’d want tae kill two fellas I’ve never met, one of them a polis and the other one ex-filth.’
‘Okay,’ Haddock replied, amiably. ‘There’s someone else here who can do that. Sir Robert,’ he called out, ‘would you like to join us now?’
Bright stared, frowning, at the door of the interview room until it opened and a tall middle-aged man with close-cropped steel-grey hair stepped through it, carryi
ng a green folder. He picked up a chair from a corner of the room and set it down between the two detectives.
‘For the recording,’ Mann declared, ‘Sir Robert Skinner has entered the room.’
‘Skinner,’ the prisoner repeated; for the first time, he seemed nervous. ‘You were the big polis were ye, no? But ye’re no’ a polis any mair. What are you doin’ here? Can they dae that?’ he asked DaCosta.
‘They can,’ Skinner replied on her behalf, showing her a police warrant card in his name, with the designation ‘Special Constable’.
‘Yes, Mr Bright,’ she agreed, ‘they can.’
‘You were asking about motive,’ the newcomer said. He laid his folder on the desk, took out a photograph and slid it across. ‘He’s your motive. His name was Alan Mason. He was nineteen when that was taken.’ He paused and displayed a second glossy print. Bright recoiled as he looked at it. DaCosta winced.
‘He was twenty-two when this was taken, just before the autopsy that followed his murder. He was killed, after he’d been named online as a police source of criminal intelligence, having passed information to then Detective Inspector Terry Coats . . . information that put several people in prison.’
‘If he wis a grass,’ Bright blustered, ‘fair enough.’
Skinner laughed. ‘Give it up, Raymond,’ he chuckled. You know what I’m going to say next. We’ve got your DNA, and naturally, his is on the database too. Alan Mason was your son, Mr Bright. There’s no point in denying it. Grass or no grass, he was your boy, and you blamed Terry Coats for him being murdered. And you killed him,’ he continued, ‘for a very simple and traditional reason, revenge. The only thing I don’t get is why, when Alan’s birth was registered, he was given your middle name, rather than your surname. Okay, there’s no record of you and his mother being married, but if you didn’t want to lumber him with being Raymond Bright’s son, why not just give him her name? She was Abigail Richardson, according to his birth certificate.’
The Roots of Evil (Bob Skinner) Page 28