Lies to Tell

by Marion Todd

  Tamsin forced a smile. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  Clare led her down the stairs and, again, as she opened the door to the street, a plain-clothes officer jumped out of the car. Tamsin was stowed in the back within seconds and the first motorcycle moved ahead of the car and began riding along the cobbled street. It had been agreed that the car would take a different route from the decoy vehicle Chris was tailing. It was more circuitous and would take a bit longer. But, by the time Paddy Grant – or whoever was working for him – realised they were following the wrong car, it would be too late for him to catch them. Clare closed the door of the flat and headed for her own car. She passed a cafe advertising breakfasts and told herself there was no particular need for her to tail Tamsin’s car. She had plenty of time. It had been a difficult start to the day and now she could feel the headache spreading round the back of her neck. She pushed open the cafe door and took a seat.

  * * *

  The cafe was empty, except for a young woman tapping away at an iPad and a couple of men in fluorescent jackets waiting for an order of filled rolls. The smell of bacon frying wrapped itself round Clare’s heart and she ordered a full breakfast with tea. When it arrived she realised how hungry she was and she attacked it with relish. The carbs and fat did the trick and she began to feel more like herself. As she ate she thought about Tamsin – probably approaching the court buildings around now. How would she be feeling, as she prepared to give evidence against her husband? Would she have the courage to go through with it? To stand up in court and tell what she knew? Or would she bottle it? Clare knew how much the DCI was depending on Tamsin’s testimony and she really hoped Tamsin wouldn’t let him down. Keeping her safe had been an expensive exercise and, if Phil Quinn walked free, there would be hell to pay.

  She was just mopping the remains of a runny egg off the plate with a slice of toast when Chris phoned again.

  ‘He’s gone, Clare.’

  ‘You lost him?’

  ‘Afraid so. We pulled off into the Newbridge Retail Park in Glenrothes and sat in the car for a few minutes. He hovered around the entrance then roared away. I went after him but he lost me.’

  ‘Dammit.’

  ‘But it’s fine. I radioed the car Tamsin’s in and they’re on the Queensferry Crossing over the Forth now. They should be at the High Court in less than forty minutes. He’ll never make it there before Tamsin.’

  Clare ended the call and sent a brief text to the DCI letting him know Tamsin should arrive at the court in plenty of time. Then she looked at her watch. It was almost eight. She’d better get away herself. She rose from the table, paid for her breakfast and headed back to her car.

  Chapter 21

  By the time she approached the traffic backing up to cross the Queensferry Bridge, Clare had been on the road for an hour. She knew she should have left earlier and now she’d be stuck in this jam for another half hour at least. She switched on the radio, flicking through the stations until she found Radio Scotland. The morning news programme was running a feature on NHS waiting lists and Clare listened to the discussion, glad of the distraction. She checked her rear-view mirror and saw a BMW coming up the inside, signalling to move into Clare’s lane. With one eye on the mirror, she saw the car behind edge forward to stop the BMW moving in. ‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, hanging back to leave a space in front of her. The driver pulled in, giving her a wave of thanks.

  She had zoned out of the radio and when she began to listen again the presenters were discussing Phil Quinn’s trial. Clare didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to think about the possibility that Phil Quinn might be found not guilty. What would happen to Tamsin then? And the DCI? He would be crushed. All his work and all the resources ploughed into the trial. In his present state of mind it would probably finish him. She flicked through the channels again until she found a station playing music.

  Gradually the traffic edged along until, finally, she drove onto the bridge, its white fan-like cables gleaming in the morning sun. Glancing to her left, through the wind shields that kept the bridge open in even the strongest gales, she could see the tall suspension towers of the original road bridge, now reserved for buses and taxis. Beyond this stood the iconic cantilever rail bridge, with its famous red-oxide girders. Fifty metres below, the Forth was dotted with river traffic, sailing to and from the busy port of Rosyth, some two miles west of the bridges.

  She cruised over the bridge then hit traffic again, making slow progress towards the city. She arrived in Edinburgh just after nine forty but there was still plenty of time. Tamsin wouldn’t be on the stand much before eleven. More than enough time to park and walk to the Lawnmarket, home to the High Court buildings. As she weaved her way through the streets towards the eye-wateringly expensive Castle Terrace car park she mulled over Tamsin’s appearance in court. She had declined the offer to give evidence by video link. Clare had pointed out that seeing Phil, her husband, in the dock might prompt a sudden rush of sympathy – fear, even – and that could affect her testimony. She had considered this and, in the end, agreed to give evidence in open court but screened from Phil’s view.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of speaking out against him,’ she had said with a rare display of courage. ‘He’s gone too far now and he needs to be stopped.’

  Clare turned into Castle Terrace and the stone edifice of Edinburgh Castle came into view, set high above the city on impenetrable rock. She pulled into the NCP car park at the top level and saw a car moving out of a space.

  She locked the car and decided to walk along Castle Terrace, turning left to skirt round the high stone walls to the rear of the castle. As usual the parking bays in Johnston Terrace were filled with tour buses and she walked past these quickly, admiring the elevated view south across the city. As the road curved up to the left she could hear the sound of traffic rumbling up and down the cobbled Lawnmarket. A steady stream of tourists was strolling between the castle and the souvenir shops that lined the street, and the strains of a piper playing a rousing reel were carried on the wind. So busy was the street that the tourists had spilled off the pavements and were ambling along the road, stepping aside for only the sharpest of toots from an impatient driver. Clare hurried along, dodging off the pavements to pass groups of shoppers collected round revolving stands of postcards and See You Jimmy tartan hats. Further down the road the pavements became wider, and she passed the historic Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, named after the notorious eighteenth-century housebreaker. She was close to St Giles’ Cathedral now, its gothic frontage standing tall and dark against the multi-coloured tide of humanity strolling past. Beyond St Giles, the Lawnmarket became the High Street, part of the succession of streets through the old town known collectively as the Royal Mile. She stood for a minute, watching the throng, then turned away from the cathedral and took out her phone. She sent a text message to one of the officers who had accompanied Tamsin to check she had arrived safely and received a brief reply that she had.

  As she was not a witness for this trial, Clare entered the High Court building by the public door and found the court number for Phil Quinn’s case. It was after ten now and it was likely the court was already in session. She entered the court room quietly and took a seat at the back of the public benches, slipping along to the far corner so she could observe the whole room. The area set aside for the Press was crammed with reporters, a reflection of the media interest in this high-profile trial, but there were a few members of the public too, watching the proceedings. Clare studied them, wondering if they had some reason for attending this particular trial. Was it just somewhere to go, or had they heard of Phil Quinn’s reputation? Having spent many tedious hours sitting in court buildings waiting to give evidence, Clare couldn’t imagine attending a trial unless she was compelled to. Court room proceedings, in her experience, moved at a snail’s pace and certainly lacked the excitement found in TV dramas. But this trial had hit the headlines, particularly when it had become known that the accused’s wife was a witne
ss for the prosecution. And the prospect of closing down one of the largest arms operations Scotland had ever seen was one which had excited both the Press and public.

  The atmosphere in the room was electric. Even the jury, several days into the trial, were paying close attention to the proceedings. An advocate was on his feet now questioning a witness Clare didn’t recognise about the vehicles Phil Quinn owned. The door opened again and an elderly couple appeared. They hesitated, as if uncertain of their surroundings then, seeing Clare, they moved along the row, sitting in the centre, almost opposite the judge. Clare appraised them and decided they didn’t look like associates of Phil Quinn. Probably just in for a nose around. She turned her attention back to the proceedings and studied the jurors. So important in a case like this. They were a mixed bunch – some young, others old. Hopefully they would recognise that the evidence against the accused was damning and return a swift guilty verdict. And then her eye fell on the man himself. He was clean-shaven, with a receding hairline and a sharp, chiselled face. His skin was tanned, the same leathery complexion as his wife. Clare had heard they had a property in Marbella and she wondered if the Proceeds of Crime team would be able to get their hands on it.

  He was neatly attired in a grey suit with a faint stripe running through it. His shirt was pale pink, his tie mauve. Clare would have bet his socks were mauve too and his brogues brown. There was a glint from his tie that she thought must be a tip clip but he was facing slightly away from her, making it difficult to see. She reckoned he was probably wearing cufflinks as well. How the gangsters love to dress up.

  Suddenly the witness was stepping down and a room divider was brought in. Clare found her palms were damp and she wiped them against her trouser legs. It took only a minute for the screen to be put in place then the door that led to the witness rooms opened again and Tamsin Quinn walked slowly into the court.

  Months of work, hundreds of man hours, a network of undercover cops, and it all hinged on this nervous-looking woman. If Tamsin lost her nerve, if Phil Quinn’s advocate managed to get under her skin and convince the jury she was an unreliable witness, then it would all have been for nothing. All the resources ploughed into this case would have been wasted. Clare held her breath as she watched Tamsin’s progress through the court.

  Tamsin stopped briefly, as if to orientate herself, then took her place in the witness box. Clare was glad to see she was still wearing the Kevlar vest. Not that it was likely anyone could smuggle a weapon into court but better safe than sorry.

  Tamsin glanced at the screen, no doubt conscious that Phil was on the other side of it, then she stared straight ahead to take her oath. As she began to speak, Clare heard a door open. Her eyes were trained on Tamsin but she was aware of someone sitting down at the far end of the public benches, near to the door. As Tamsin swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Clare glanced across at the newcomer and it was all she could do not to react. She was suddenly aware of her own heart thumping in her chest.

  Tamsin had finished taking the oath now and she too had turned, her gaze fixed on the visitor. The woman, dressed in a red leather jacket, cut a distinctive figure in the otherwise sober surroundings. She was looking straight back at Tamsin and Clare watched in horror as the woman – very slowly – shook her head. The message was clear. Tamsin was being warned off. Clare saw the colour drain from Tamsin’s face. The advocate was on his feet now, addressing her, but Tamsin’s gaze was locked on the woman, and her white-blonde cropped hair.

  For a moment Clare felt paralysed. She knew there was nothing she could do as long as they were in the court room but, if the blonde left, Clare would follow her out. She glanced back at Tamsin who was now attending to her advocate. She was listening to a question about her twenty-year-long marriage but her eye kept wandering back to the blonde. Was it Rose Quinn, Clare wondered? Paddy’s sister? It had to be. That hair was too distinctive to be a coincidence. She took out her phone to send a text to the cop who had accompanied Tamsin into the court building.

  Possible associate of Paddy Grant in public gallery

  Trying to psych out Tamsin

  Get to the door and stop her when she leaves

  White-blonde hair, red leather jacket

  As Clare clicked to send the message she realised the blonde was on her feet and heading for the door. Clare rose to follow her but the elderly couple were in her way. By the time she wriggled past and reached the door, the blonde was out of sight. She saw the cop she had texted standing a little way off, poring over his phone. Her message, no doubt.

  ‘Did you see a blonde woman just now?’ she shouted.

  The cop shrugged and Clare ran for the front door. She emerged into the Lawnmarket, looking all round for the woman. And then she spotted the jacket, distinctive against the grey stone of her surroundings. The blonde was heading down the High Street, past St Giles now, towards a blue Transit van which was parked just beyond the distinctive arched entrance to the City Chambers. Clare could see fumes coming out of the exhaust and she realised the engine was running. She sprinted for the van as she saw the blonde dash round to the passenger door. Seconds later it roared away with a fresh plume of blue exhaust smoke. As Clare reached the City Chambers she screwed up her eyes in an effort to see the registration number but the van was moving too quickly. She stood to catch her breath, near the bronze statue of Adam Smith, the Scottish economist, and watched the Transit as it swung left onto North Bridge.

  ‘Dammit,’ she said out loud. ‘Dammit to hell!’

  She took out her phone to call Chris.

  He answered within two rings. ‘Oh, hi, Clare. You calling about the bank statements? I’ve got some interesting—’

  ‘Chris, just listen: I want Wendy back at that flat on Market Street. Send a couple of cops in with her to make sure there’s no one inside. And I want you to check that the guys doing the surveillance are still in situ. If not, get them back pronto.’

  ‘Sounds serious, Clare. What’s up?’

  ‘Paddy Grant’s sister appeared in the court room just as Tamsin was about to start giving evidence. Trying to warn her off.’

  Chris gave a low whistle. ‘They’re not giving up without a fight, are they?’

  ‘Nor am I.’ Clare’s tone was grim. ‘Don’t suppose you got the Transit’s number this morning?’

  ‘Yeah, picked it up on the dashcam. It’s the same number you saw on Sunday.’

  ‘That’s something at least. Chris, can you check ANPR cameras from Edinburgh north please? See if they’ve headed back into Fife. Those two are dangerous and I want them under lock and key.’

  ‘I’ll get on it now.’

  Clare ended the call and took a moment to control her breathing then she headed back into the court room, subjecting herself once more to the security rigmarole.

  Tamsin looked across as Clare re-entered the court room and Clare shot her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Tamsin held her gaze for a minute and the advocate turned to see what was distracting his client. Clare sat down quickly and the questioning resumed. From the answers Tamsin was giving, it seemed that the blonde’s appearance hadn’t been enough to scare her off. As Clare listened to the testimony, she could see why the DCI was so keen not to lose her as a witness.

  In response to a direct question, Tamsin said that she had seen her husband handling handguns, rifles, stun guns and tear gas canisters. She identified photos of the weapons, confirming that they had been taken in her house. But when the advocate pressed her on her decision to give evidence she didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she picked up a plastic cup of water and drank from it. She shot a sideways glance at the partition that separated her from her husband then she put the cup down and faced her advocate once more. ‘I mean guns and that – well I thought it was just gangsters shooting each other. Saves the police a job, ye know? But then one night I heard him talking to Paddy…’

  ‘That’s Patrick Grant?’ the advocate asked.

&n
bsp; ‘That’s right. Paddy works for Phil. Does all the organising and that.’

  ‘So you overheard a conversation between the defendant and Paddy Grant?’

  ‘Aye. Phil – he was saying what the fuck was Paddy playing at? And Paddy – he said he just did the deals. He didn’t ask questions.’

  Clare sat forward in her seat. This was the moment they had all been waiting for. Her heart was thumping so loudly she wondered if the elderly couple further along could hear it.

  ‘And what did you take him to mean by that?’ the advocate said.

  Tamsin picked up the plastic cup of water and drank again. ‘It was that case in Edinburgh. The family that was murdered.’

  ‘You mean the Cleary case?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Clare remembered the Cleary case well. They all did. Brian and Elaine Cleary, gunned down in their own home. A dreadful case of mistaken identity. Gunmen had forced their way into the house, early one Sunday morning while the family slept upstairs. Brian must have heard the sound of the door being forced because they found him, shot dead at the top of the stairs. The youngest of the children, Ellie, had come out of her room and been caught in the crossfire. She was lying beside her father, a toy elephant still clutched in her hand. Then, the gunmen calmly ascended the stairs and forced their way into the twins’ room where Elaine had attempted to barricade herself with the other children. Clare closed her eyes for a moment, reliving the photos. Those dreadful images of the crime scene. The bloodstained boot marks on the bedroom carpet, the bodies of Elaine and the twins, their Star Wars pyjamas dark-stained. One of the twins had fallen, his arms still round his mother, as if trying to shield her.

  ‘Tamsin,’ the advocate went on, ‘can you please tell the court what the defendant meant by that remark?’

  Tamsin took a couple of breaths in and out then she said, ‘Phil imports the guns. Gets them through the Netherlands, mostly. Sometimes to order – if somebody wants guns for a job, ye know? But he always keeps a stash – for short-notice orders.’ She paused to drink again, then ran her tongue round her lips. ‘Paddy – sometimes he comes to Phil and says he has a client needing a few guns.’