by Marion Todd
Chapter 6
As they entered St Andrews, passing the Old Course Hotel again, Clare wondered where they were going. When the DCI turned up City Road and onto Bridge Street she realised he was taking them back to the station. As he drew into the station car park, Clare glanced across at her car. Someone had parked alongside it, too close for her liking, and she made a mental note to shift hers at the first opportunity. The DCI opened his door and stepped out, indicating that Tamsin should stay put. Clare followed him out of the car and closed the door.
‘What now?’ she asked.
He indicated the red-brick station building. ‘There’s an officer from the Serious Organised Crime squad waiting in there for you. He has the details of the safe house. He’ll fill you in.’
Clare looked at the DCI. ‘Are you telling me there’s a safe house here in St Andrews? On my patch, and I know nothing about it?’
The DCI glanced into the car. Tamsin was watching them and he moved a little away. ‘Clare, they are everywhere. And the fewer people who know about them the better.’ He checked his watch and turned back to open the door for Tamsin. ‘I need to get back to Edinburgh.’
‘Wait,’ Clare said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘This officer – what’s his name?’
The DCI took out his phone and tapped in the passcode. ‘Steve Robins,’ he said. ‘And that’s all I know, Clare.’ He jerked his head at Tamsin who climbed out of the car.
Clare opened the boot and took out Tamsin’s suitcase. Across the car park a painter’s van was parked and three men in white boiler suits were in the process of setting up their ladders near the staff door, to the side of the building. Typical, she thought. I’ve been asking for the paintwork to be done for weeks and they choose today to turn up. She would have to take Tamsin in the front, past the public enquiry desk.
‘Come on, Tamsin,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you inside. And keep your hood up.’
Inside the station there was a small queue at the desk. Clare’s uniformed Sergeant Jim Douglas was speaking to a young lad – a student probably. He was dressed casually in jeans and a dark blue puffer jacket. He seemed ill at ease, flicking glances left and right. Clare watched as he ran a hand through his dark curly hair and she wondered if he might be a junkie. Then she decided he probably wasn’t. He lacked that pinched look she had come to recognise. But there was definitely something odd about his behaviour. Thankfully, Jim was adept at dealing with all sorts and she was confident he would soon have the young lad sorted. Sara, the uniformed constable, was sitting in front of a computer, tapping away at the keyboard. Clare was glad to see there was no sign of her DS, Chris West. Given what she had been told that morning about a possible security breach, it was a relief not to have to explain Tamsin’s presence to Chris. Tamsin was looking all around. Her hood had slipped off her head and she put a hand up to smooth her hair. Clare was about to head for her office when a tall man in a suit appeared at her side.
‘DI Mackay?’
She recognised immediately that the man was a plain-clothes officer. He carried a black leather attaché case and he wore the favoured CID uniform of a dark suit with a plain tie. None of the fancy, designer ties favoured by her ex, Tom – a solicitor in Glasgow. Tom even had one ruinously expensive tie that was hand-painted silk. Clare had often teased him that he was trying to outdo Jon Snow, the newsreader, famed for his quirky ties. Funny she should find herself thinking about Tom at that moment. Was that another consequence of Geoffrey heading off to Boston?
She regarded the man before her, now. CID officers never knew when they might be called to the scene of a tragedy, or be required to give a news interview with little notice. As such, sober suits were the order of the day and this was most definitely a sober suit that stood before her. She smiled back at him. ‘Yes.’
‘DI Steve Robins. Serious Organised Crime squad. I believe you were expecting me?’
Clare glanced at Tamsin. She had attracted the attention of the queue who, having nothing better to do, were sizing her up. ‘Look, let’s go to my office,’ Clare said and Steve Robins nodded.
She led them to a door, punched in a code then went into the rear of the station. In the office she pulled out chairs for them and moved round her desk, taking a seat opposite. And it was then that she remembered Gayle Crichton’s warning against discussing Gayle’s own investigation within the station. But did that apply to Tamsin and her whereabouts? Someone certainly had found her in Perth. Could the security leak Gayle was investigating be linked to the discovery of Tamsin’s safe house? Better safe than sorry.
‘As long as we’re in the station,’ she began, ‘I’d like to keep discussion of the specifics to a minimum. For security reasons,’ she added. She thought Steve Robins might question this but he said nothing. He lifted his attaché case, placing it on top of Clare’s desk. Then he flicked open the locks and withdrew a long white envelope.
‘This will explain all you need to know,’ he said. ‘You have a safe here?’ he asked looking round the room.
Clare indicated a small metal panel with a keypad, set into the wall.
‘Once you’ve read the contents,’ he said, handing over the envelope, ‘store it securely. Change the combination daily.’
Clare took the envelope, thinking that the day was fast taking on a surreal quality. She opened it and withdrew a small sheet of paper. It contained the address of a property in the town and the name of the Family Liaison Officer who would support Tamsin. She was pleased to see it was Wendy Briggs. Clare had worked with Wendy on a previous case and knew she could trust her. Or could she? Was there anyone she could trust, now? She scanned the address and raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s a busy street,’ she said to Steve Robins. ‘Will it be secure enough?’
He nodded. ‘The busier the better. Makes it easier for us to keep an eye on it without attracting attention.’
‘You’ll have someone nearby?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled at Tamsin. ‘You won’t see us, Mrs Quinn, but we’ll be there so don’t worry.’ He turned back to Clare. ‘I’ll give you my card, just in case of emergencies. And I’ll make sure they have your photo, Inspector, in case you need to call in to see Mrs Quinn. Anyone else attempting to enter the flat will be intercepted.’
Clare acknowledged this but said nothing. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just this…’ Steve reached into the case again and withdrew a small Nokia mobile phone with a charger attached. It was an older model, the keypad below the screen. ‘DI Mackay’s mobile and the station number have been added to this phone. The Family Liaison Officer will give you her number too and, worst case, call 999.’
Tamsin took the phone and stared at it. ‘I didn’t know you could still get these,’ she said. ‘It’s not exactly state of the art.’
Steve Robins laughed. ‘No, I’ll grant you that. But it’s a phone and it’s vital that you don’t use your own mobile. It must be switched off at all times.’
Tamsin gaped. ‘What? Not even text messages? I can’t use it at all? It has all my contacts in it.’
‘Tamsin,’ Clare said, ‘with the right equipment, you could be traced through your mobile, even if you don’t make any calls. It’s only for the next week or so. Just till you’ve given evidence. Once that’s behind you, it won’t be so much of an issue.’
‘Actually,’ Steve interrupted, ‘you won’t be using your own phone again, Mrs Quinn. We should have it deactivated by the end of the day. Once the trial’s over, you’ll have a new identity and a new life.’
Clare tried not to react to this. Tamsin’s evidence must be crucial and damning for them to go to this much trouble. Suddenly, the importance of keeping her safe dawned on Clare. It was going to be an anxious few days. She glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand. ‘Should we go then?’
Steve Robins rose. ‘The sooner the better.’
* * *
The safe house was actually a two-bedroomed flat in busy Market Street, above a shop
selling what Clare called tartan tat to tourists. The street was broad at this end, cobbled with a dried-up fountain in the centre. Steve Robins nosed the car into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of Luvian’s Ice Cream Parlour and put a parking permit on the dashboard. They emerged into the street, busy with mums wheeling toddlers in pushchairs and red-gowned students going between lectures. A party of tourists was collected round the fountain where a guide with an American accent was explaining its history. Clare and Tamsin followed Steve across the cobbles – Tamsin wobbling on her high heels – to a dark green door which he opened then stood back to let them enter. Clare went first and was faced with a steep flight of stairs. She climbed these and, at the top, found another door with a Yale lock. Steve threw a set of keys up to her and she opened the door onto a short hallway with doors leading off, left and right. Two of the doors led to bedrooms, simply furnished but, crucially, with Venetian blinds on the windows. Another door led to a sitting room with a small kitchen beyond. The bathroom was behind the last door and Clare was glad to see a shelf with basic toiletries.
‘We’ve stocked the fridge up too,’ Steve was saying. ‘You won’t need anything for a few days. But, if you do, let Wendy know. She’s your Family Liaison Officer.’ He checked the time on his phone. ‘She should be here any minute now.’
Tamsin was opening and closing cupboard doors. ‘How long will I be here?’ she said, her voice small.
‘Depends,’ Steve said. ‘We’re hoping the trial will be over this time next week. You’ll have to stay here at least until the verdict is in.’
Tamsin turned to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, then moistened her lips. ‘And Paddy?’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘You caught him yet?’
Steve’s face clouded. ‘Not yet. So it’s vital that you keep that phone off and stay back from the windows.’
Tamsin was quiet for a moment, as though processing this. Then she spoke again. ‘You think he’ll try and get to me?’
Clare eyed Steve. ‘I think—’ she began but Steve cut across her.
‘No point in soft-soaping it, Tamsin. It is a possibility. But it’s one we’re ready for. We have people watching this property now. So you do your bit and we’ll do ours.’
The doorbell rang, the shrill tone breaking the tension and making Tamsin jump. ‘That’ll be Wendy,’ Steve said and he went to let her in.
Tamsin’s face was drained of colour, her eyes wide.
Clare moved to pat her on the arm but she barely seem to notice. ‘We’ll keep you safe here,’ Clare said. ‘Try not to worry.’
Tamsin looked at the room and began walking round, taking it in. She moved towards a watercolour on the wall above an electric fire. It was a view of the town from the West Sands. ‘I used to come to St Andrews, you know.’
Clare was glad to see her starting to relax. ‘Really? On holiday?’
‘Yeah. My granny lived in a village a few miles away. Balmullo. Know it?’
‘I do. Nice wee village. On the way to Dundee.’
‘That’s the one. We used to come up and stay when the air base at Leuchars had a display. Great to see all the fast jets, Red Arrows – that sort of thing. There was a hill at the back of Balmullo. We’d climb it to watch the planes.’ She wrinkled her brow, trying to remember. And then her face cleared. ‘Lucklawhill,’ she said. ‘I remember it because we scattered my mother’s ashes there.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Clare said but Tamsin waved this away.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector. A few years ago now.’
‘Call me Clare.’
The door opened and Steve Robins came back into the room with the Family Liaison Officer behind him. Having shown Wendy in, he said his goodbyes and headed back down the stairs. A few seconds later they heard the sound of the front door banging shut behind him.
Wendy Briggs smiled warmly at Clare. Clare regarded her and thought she had lost some weight since the last time they had met. Her grey flannel trousers fell from the hips and her fitted pink blouse enhanced a trim waistline. Her blonde hair was tied back in a simple style which suited her.
Clare rose and went to greet her. ‘Wendy, great to see you. You’re looking so well.’
‘WeightWatchers,’ Wendy said. ‘Had to do something, Clare. I’m off to the sun in a couple of months.’ Then she looked past Clare to Tamsin, now perched on the edge of a chair. ‘You must be Tamsin. I’m Wendy. Very pleased to meet you.’
Tamsin shot a glance at Wendy but didn’t reply. Then she turned to Clare. ‘So many new faces today. I don’t know who to trust.’
Wendy moved past Clare and sat next to Tamsin. ‘Well you can trust me, Tamsin. I promise you that.’
Tamsin looked at Wendy. ‘It’s Paddy, you see. Paddy Grant. I’m afraid of him.’ She let her shoulders droop. ‘I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he finds me.’
Wendy nodded. ‘Yes, I understand that. But you’ll be safe here, Tamsin. We know Paddy Grant. We know what he looks like, what he drives and, although you can’t see it, we have people watching this flat, day and night. You have to trust us. Will you?’
Tamsin hesitated, then she said, ‘Yeah, okay.’
‘Good. Now, I’ll be here for the rest of today, see you settled in and we’ll have someone across the road all night, just to make sure you’re okay. Then I’ll be back in the morning. And you have Clare’s number?’
Tamsin nodded.
Wendy rose again. ‘I’ll take it from here, Clare,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a call later.’
Clare didn’t reply but jerked her head for Wendy to follow her.
Out in the street, she waited for a car to rumble past on the cobbles then she led Wendy across to the fountain, now absent of tourists, and perched on the rim, scanning the street as she spoke. ‘Wendy, I need to tell you something but you’ll have to take my word for it, okay? No questions.’
‘Okay…’
‘If we speak on the phone, please don’t make any reference to Tamsin’s location.’ Her eyes went involuntarily to the windows of Tamsin’s flat. ‘The same goes for back at the station. I can’t tell you any more than that, but Tamsin’s last safe house was leaked and I don’t want the same thing happening here.’
Wendy searched Clare’s face for any sign of what was going on and when none came she said simply, ‘Okay, Clare. You can rely on me.’
‘Thanks, Wendy. I needed to hear that.’
Chapter 7
The station was quieter when Clare returned. The painters were packing up for the day, loading ladders and batons into their van, and the unmistakable smell of paint hung round the station. Sara was out on patrol and Jim was in the front office, keeping an eye on the desk as he caught up with paperwork.
‘How’s it been, Jim?’ Clare asked.
‘All fine, thanks, Clare. The usual nonsense.’
‘Chris?’
Jim avoided her eye. ‘Er, not sure, actually. He’s maybe…’
‘Knocked off early?’
‘Aye, well, maybe.’
‘I’ll send him a message,’ Clare said. ‘Wind him up.’
‘Well you didn’t get it from me.’
‘Okay, Jim. I won’t rat you out.’ Clare suddenly remembered the young man who had been in the station when she arrived with Tamsin. ‘Jim, there was a young lad in earlier. Dark curly hair. Seemed a bit uneasy.’
‘Aye.’ Jim rubbed his chin. ‘Swiss lad. Not quite sure what to make of him. He said he wanted to report his friend missing. I started to take down the details then he asked for the toilets and that was the last I saw of him.’
Clare considered this. ‘Did he say how long his friend had been gone?’
‘Two or three days.’
‘Mm. Is he a student?’
Jim nodded. ‘They both are. The missing lad’s studying physics, I think. Probably on a bender, Clare. Or holed up with some lassie his friend doesn’t know about. I’ve got the details here if you want them.’
&nbs
p; ‘Please.’
Jim moved to the computer and navigated his way to the report on the missing student. ‘I’ll send it to the printer.’
Clare suddenly remembered Gayle Crichton and she pondered how to broach this. ‘Jim…’
‘Aye?’
‘There’s a woman arriving here on Monday morning. Gayle Crichton.’
Jim groaned. ‘Not another one come to tell us how to do our jobs?’
‘No, not quite,’ Clare said, recalling Gayle’s instructions. ‘She’s setting up a new communications system but she can’t get peace to work where she is. She’s asked for a quiet office somewhere out of the way…’
‘…and so she’s coming here?’
‘Yes. I wondered – Interview Room Three?’
Jim smiled. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll make sure it’s cleared out for her. She’ll be wanting a computer, I’m guessing.’
‘No, she’ll bring her own laptop. If you could just give it a quick tidy. I’ll send an email round telling everyone to expect her.’
The printer began to whirr and click. Clare wandered over to pick up the printout then took it into her office, sitting down at the desk. She checked her watch. Almost five o’clock. She ran her eye over the partly completed report. The young lad with the curly hair was Marek Schmidt. He had given his address as Kinnessburn Road. Clare racked her brains then remembered it was just off Bridge Street. It couldn’t be more than half a mile from the station. She wrote a note on her pad to check it out then she read on. His friend’s name was Johannes Muller, and there the report ended. That must have been the point at which Marek Schmidt had left the station. Clare pondered this. A young lad who had come in to report a friend missing then bolted needed further investigation. She stifled a yawn. The strange events of the day were catching up with her. She shook the mouse on her computer, keyed in her password and ran an eye across her email inbox. There was nothing urgent. She typed a quick email to all the station staff letting them know about Gayle and pressed send. That done, she logged off and powered down the computer. It was time to call it a day. She closed the window blinds then picked up her jacket and headed out to the car park, stepping gingerly past the wet paint.