by Marion Todd
Clare clicked her seatbelt off and opened the door. ‘Anywhere,’ she said.
They walked, still not speaking, passing through the sliding doors at the entrance.
The DCI indicated a sign for the cafe. ‘It has an outdoor seating area,’ he said and Clare nodded.
At the self-service counter they ordered coffees and paninis which the smiling waitress said she would bring out to them. The DCI led Clare through the cafe to an outdoor area with wooden picnic tables and chairs. He indicated a table furthest from the door and away from the other diners. Clare sat down and he took a seat opposite.
‘Phones off?’ Clare suggested.
The DCI reached into his pocket. ‘Good idea.’
With their phones powered off, Clare opened her mouth to speak then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waitress approaching. ‘Food’s here.’
The waitress put a tray down on the table. ‘Enjoy,’ she said, heading back indoors.
Clare picked up a spoon and began stirring her coffee. When the waitress was safely out of earshot, she said, ‘So – what just happened back there? I mean, did you know about this, Al?’
He hesitated. ‘I knew there was something up, but not much more than that. I was told it was strictly confidential and that I was to bring you with me this morning.’
‘Did you know about that place?’
He shrugged. ‘You hear things but I didn’t really know what it was. What it would be like.’ He looked up. ‘Bit of a shock, to be honest.’
‘I’ll say. Like something out of a Bourne film. What do you suppose goes on there? Who even works in a place like that?’
‘No idea. Sometimes I think we’re better off not knowing.’
Clare bit into her panini and began chewing. After a minute or two she spoke again. ‘You reckon there is a leak?’
The DCI glanced round as the waitress reappeared with an empty tray and began clearing the table next to them. They munched on until she had left then he said, ‘What else could it be? I mean, these ethical hackers don’t come cheap. Sounds to me like they reckon one of our own is leaking information.’
‘Well it’s not Diane. I can tell you that for sure.’
‘Yeah, maybe so. But you can’t tell her about this, Clare. You’ll end up on a charge, if you do.’
Clare sighed. ‘I know. I just hope this Gayle person gets it sorted out quickly. The team aren’t daft you know. They’ll suss something’s going on.’
The DCI shook his head. ‘Can’t happen, Clare. It’s your job to make sure they don’t suss anything, as you put it.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Look, Clare,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep in touch. I’ll pop in every few days. On some pretext. We can go for a walk and chat over any difficulties. But nothing inside the station, mind. Treat every room, every office and every car as if it’s been bugged.’
Clare sat back in her chair. ‘It’s ridiculous, Al. I don’t believe it.’
‘I’m finding it a bit far-fetched myself, to be honest. But that wasn’t a joke this morning. Far from it.’ He took out his phone and clicked to switch it back on. ‘Let’s forget it for now and enjoy being out of the office.’
Clare took in her surroundings. He was right. The cafe was next to the outdoor plants area and there were shelves full of bedding plants in polystyrene boxes. Perhaps she should take some back for her garden at Daisy Cottage. But that made her think of how overgrown it had become.
The DCI saw her expression change. ‘Something wrong?’
‘No, not really. I was just thinking of my own garden and how I’ve neglected it. I’d love to take some of these plants back to brighten it up, but I wouldn’t know where to start.’
He surveyed the plants. ‘It’s a bit early for some of these. Alison always left it until the start of June. You can get a late frost up here in May, you know.’
‘And that’s bad for the plants?’
He laughed. ‘You really don’t know much about gardening, do you?’ He picked up his cup and drained it, dabbing at his now frothy moustache with a napkin. ‘Get yourself a gardener, Clare. It’ll save a lot of work.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Or – I could come round and give you a hand – if you wanted.’
Clare flushed. ‘I don’t know, Al. I mean, you’ve a lot on your plate just now.’
He smiled. ‘Not really. But the offer’s there if you want it.’ He let this hang in the air for a moment, then said, ‘So, you’ve heard the sorry tale about my car. Tell me about yours.’
Clare couldn’t help returning his smile. ‘Oh, the car,’ she said.
‘It’s a pretty flashy model. Mercedes, yeah?’
‘Yup. C-class Coupé.’
‘Nice. So, did somebody die?’
‘Eh?’
‘Did you come into a fortune? It’s not a cheap car.’
Clare didn’t reply.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘None of my business.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ She forced a smile. ‘I just felt like treating myself. I have the car loan from hell but so what? I mean, we work hard, don’t we?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘And it goes like stink.’
He laughed. ‘I didn’t have you down for a petrol head, Clare.’
‘I’m not really. Just wanted…’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I wanted something that made me happy. Something just for me.’ She hadn’t meant to say that. Especially to the DCI. But it was out now.
He watched her for a minute before answering then said, ‘Mind if I ask you something?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Your sculptor friend…’
‘Geoffrey.’
‘Yes, Geoffrey. Is it – I mean, are you still together? Tell me to mind my own business if you want.’
Clare raised her eyes to meet his. ‘No, it’s fine. I don’t mind you asking. Truth is, he was offered a job in the USA. Too good to turn down, really. He asked me to go but – well, it just wasn’t possible.’
‘Why the hell not?’
Clare looked at him, surprised at his reaction. ‘Oh, I couldn’t. I mean there’s my cottage, my dog – and then my sister and her husband. Their little boy – he’s autistic; and he’s my godson. They need my support. I couldn’t go, Al. Too many ties here.’
‘And so he went?’
‘And so he went.’
‘Is he coming back?’
Clare shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Are you still in touch?’
She sipped at her coffee. ‘Yeah, now and then.’
‘And, do you want him to come back?’
She was prevented from answering by his phone which started to ring. He fished it out of his pocket and squinted at the display, shading it from the sun with his other hand.
‘Sorry, I have to take this.’
Saved by the bell, Clare thought, a little relieved. The conversation had been making her face up to things she’d rather have kept buried. Did she want Geoffrey to come back? Now there was a question.
The DCI put the phone in his pocket and scraped back his chair. ‘We have to go.’
Clare rose. ‘What’s up?’
‘Wait till we’re out of here.’
They walked quickly back through the cafe, past the checkouts and out into the car park. He stopped in an empty space and checked all round, then said, ‘Phil Quinn’s wife…’
‘The one who’s in witness protection?’
‘Yeah, Tamsin she’s called. Well her location’s been compromised. We have to go and pick her up.’
‘Now?’
‘Yup. And not a word about it in the car. If there’s the remotest chance it’s bugged, someone might get to her before we do. I’m not losing the trial at this stage. I’ve put too much work into it.’
They rejoined the A91, driving in silence until they came to the junction with the M90. The DCI took the motorway, heading north. Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a queue approaching the B
roxden Roundabout.
‘I hate this bloody roundabout,’ the DCI said. ‘It’s always like this.’
‘Should have come off at junction ten and gone through the town. It can be quicker.’
‘Now she tells me.’
Chapter 5
They cleared the roundabout, eventually, and drove on until they came to another one, controlled by traffic lights. The DCI drummed his fingers impatiently on the dashboard waiting for the lights to go green. Eventually they were moving again and he turned right onto a long road, peppered with car dealerships.
‘Obviously the place to come to buy a car,’ Clare observed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Look out for a sign for the grammar school. We take a left there.’
Clare looked out of the window, past the glass-fronted buildings advertising zero per cent finance on car deals. She thought of her sleek Mercedes, parked back in St Andrews. Definitely not bought with zero per cent finance, judging by her monthly repayments. But it gave her a thrill every time she saw it and it was an absolute dream to drive. It wasn’t like her to be so extravagant. Probably a response to Geoffrey going off to Boston. Perhaps if he hadn’t gone she wouldn’t have bought the car. She’d still be driving her old Renault Clio. But maybe – just maybe – she would be happy.
‘Some navigator you are,’ the DCI said, slamming on the brakes and indicating left at a roundabout.
Clare muttered something about being distracted as the DCI swung the car round and into a housing estate. They drove on, past the grammar school, finally turning off into a newer development. With a glance at the satnav, he slowed down, crawling on through a succession of streets, finally pulling in beside a detached two-storey house, finished in a cream render. The curtains were closed and he jumped out of the car, pulling his lanyard with its ID badge off his neck.
Clare followed him, looking up and down the street. It was quiet, apart from a couple of young women pushing prams. At the far end she could see a DPD delivery van executing a three-point turn in the road. She watched the driver bump up on the kerb then down onto the road again as he drove towards them. She followed his progress until he had passed and was safely out of sight. Glancing up and down the road again she saw nothing other than parked cars. Satisfied there were no vehicles observing the house she followed the DCI up the garden path and waited as he knocked on the door.
‘This is one of our safe houses?’ she whispered.
‘Not so safe, as it turns out.’
The letterbox opened and he passed his lanyard and badge through. A minute or so later the door was opened by a young man in jeans and a T-shirt who Clare assumed must be an undercover officer. He stood back and they entered the house, closing the door quickly behind them. For the second time that day Clare found herself in a building where no daylight was admitted. The artificial light came from a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. It was a harsh light, casting shadows up the hall, and it did nothing to enhance the flecked beige carpet and white walls. A staircase lay ahead to the left and a hallway to the right. A door at the end stood open and Clare could see it led to a small kitchen. A faint odour of fried food and cigarette smoke hung in the air and she tried not to think of the panini she was still digesting.
The officer led them through another door into a small sitting room, sparsely furnished with a two-piece leather suite, a couple of tables and a TV on a glass stand. An electric fire, styled to resemble a wood-burning stove, was against one wall with a mantlepiece above. An ashtray filled with dogends sat on the mantlepiece next to an empty coffee mug. A wheeled suitcase stood ready in the centre of the room and its owner sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs.
So this was Tamsin Quinn. The woman who was married to one of the biggest importers of illegal arms in Scotland. The woman who, next week, would stand up in court to give evidence against her husband, in return for immunity from prosecution. Clare wondered how much she knew about her husband’s activities. Enough to convict him? And how would she react to being cross-examined with her husband sitting just a few feet away? Was Tamsin Quinn tough enough to see it through? Clare certainly hoped so. It wasn’t just Al Gibson’s judgement that was in question. The case had blown the backside out of the overtime budget and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
She appraised Tamsin and guessed she was about fifty. She could be younger, of course. Maybe the strain of the last few weeks in protective custody was showing on her face. She took in Tamsin’s leathery complexion, a hint of yellow in her eyes, and decided it was more likely due to a combination of fags, booze and foreign holidays. Her skin was certainly dark and rough-looking. Her hair was a cascade of dyed blonde that hung in layers, past her shoulders, a style that seemed too young for her face. The dark roots at her crown did little to help. Clare thought her face was plumper than the rest of her and she suspected Tamsin had a Botox addiction. She wore a black crocheted top and dark blue jeans, tucked into high-heeled boots. On her hands were several rings with large stones, and her wrist hung with metallic bangles that tinkled as she moved her arms.
She regarded Clare and the DCI then her glance flicked back to the young officer.
‘It’s fine, Tamsin,’ he said. ‘I know these officers. They’ll look after you.’
Tamsin said nothing but rose from her chair and put a hand on her suitcase.
‘I’ll get that,’ Clare said, heading for the door. ‘Hang fire here, while I put this in the car, then we’ll be on our way.’
Tamsin watched Clare as she wheeled the case towards the door, but she said nothing.
Out in the hall, Clare stood the case against the wall and ran lightly up the stairs. She opened the first door she came to and found it was the front bedroom. Moving to the window, she put her eye to a small gap in the curtains and peered out into the street. She stood, her eyes trained on the property directly opposite. In the downstairs room she could see a figure moving back and forward, as if pushing a vacuum cleaner. The curtains on the other windows were drawn back and Clare thought it would be difficult for anyone to be watching the safe house, unobserved. She then focused on the houses on either side and could see nothing at all. She ran back downstairs and opened the front door, leaving the case in the hall. She went out to the car and round to the driver’s door facing back towards the house. She stood for some minutes, pretending to fiddle with the lock. In reality she was scanning the houses to the left and right of the safe house for any sign that someone was watching. When she had satisfied herself she was not being observed she went back indoors and brought out the suitcase, stowing it in the boot. Then she returned to the house.
Tamsin was pacing the room now, her arms wrapped round herself. ‘What if they’re out there – waiting for me?’ Her voice was low and gravelly, the kind of voice Clare used to hear when she was a young cop, manning the Hogmanay celebrations in Glasgow’s George Square. There was always someone ready with a song, giving it laldy. Amazing what a few drinks would do. Suddenly everyone was Bonnie Tyler, belting out the big numbers in spite of their forty-a-day habit. But Tamsin wasn’t belting anything out today. There was a tremor when she spoke that belied her hard-as-nails appearance.
Clare gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I’ve had a good look outside. There’s no one, Tamsin. We’ll get you into the car quickly and we’ll be out of here in seconds.’ She turned to the officer. ‘You’ll finish up here, yeah?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, don’t worry. Not much left to do now.’
The DCI went to the window and opened the curtains a fraction to peer out. Clare sized Tamsin up. Her blonde hair was a dead giveaway. ‘Do you have a hat?’ she said.
Tamsin shook her head. ‘No, but my coat has a hood.’
‘Tuck your hair in then and pull the hood as far forward as you can. Oh, and one thing more…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Not a word about this in the car. We’ll discuss everything once we arrive at your new digs.’
The young officer raised an
eyebrow but Clare simply tapped the side of her nose in reply.
‘Coast clear now,’ the DCI said.
Clare eyed Tamsin. ‘Ready?’
The woman nodded and Clare led her to the front door. The DCI went ahead and opened the door for Tamsin to climb in behind the driver’s seat. She moved swiftly, her head down, and he closed the door behind her. Clare jumped into the front passenger seat and they were off and out of the street within seconds.
‘Keep down,’ Clare said to Tamsin. ‘Just until we’re sure there’s no one tailing us.’
Tamsin didn’t speak but lay down across the back seat.
‘Take a left,’ Clare said, as they emerged onto the main road. ‘Trust me – it’s quicker.’
He followed her directions through the centre of Perth until they were driving alongside the river. As they stopped at traffic lights, Clare’s eyes were everywhere. A dark blue Transit van had been behind them for a couple of miles now. She adjusted the vanity mirror on her sunshade and squinted at the van.
‘Anything?’ the DCI asked.
The van began indicating left and Clare focused her attention on the road ahead. ‘We’re fine. No – don’t take the bridge – carry straight on.’
Their route bordered the river on the left for almost a mile while the hotels and office buildings to the right gave way to a large grassy area. As the road curved away from the river their surroundings became more industrial. They passed the entrance to the harbour and Clare directed the DCI up towards the main road again. Within a few minutes the sign for the M90 motorway loomed up and Clare turned round to Tamsin. ‘Soon have you in a new place.’
Tamsin forced a smile and Clare turned back to the DCI. ‘Know your way from here?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Just about.’
‘Did I save you from getting stuck at Broxden again?’
‘Yes, you saved me from getting stuck at Broxden.’
‘Thank you, Clare,’ she suggested.
‘Don’t push it.’