Hour Of Darkness (18 page)

Thirty-Six

‘Is this it?’ Dan Provan asked.

‘My satnav says so,’ Lottie Mann replied, as she drew her car to a halt and pulled on the handbrake.

‘If ye believe her; I don’t know how you can stand that bloody woman. If we’d followed her advice we’d be in Tarbert.’ He paused. ‘You are sure we’re no’ in Tarbert?’

‘The sign we’ve just passed read “Tighnabruaich”. If you’d been awake you’d have seen it.’

‘I was awake. Who could sleep with you driving?’ He blinked and peered across her at a terrace of white-painted cottages that stood above a raised embankment overlooking the wide flowing waterway on their left, and across to a hillside beyond.

‘So that’s the Kyles of Bute,’ Mann said. ‘I’ve heard about it often enough from my granny, but I’ve never seen it. She used to say that when she was a girl you could go for a sail on a paddle steamer that left the Broomielaw and came all the way here.’

‘Where did it go after that?’

‘Nowhere. It just went back to Glasgow.’

The little sergeant frowned, bewildered. ‘What was the point of that?’

‘They called it a pleasure cruise, Dan.’

‘Was there a bar?’

‘I have no idea. If there was, my granny wouldn’t have been interested. She was a ginger wine woman.’

‘Let’s hope there was. It would have been no pleasure without one.’

‘My God,’ the DI muttered. ‘No wonder your wife left. Come on, Dan. Let’s go and see if the Father’s in. What’s the number?’

‘Ah’ve no idea; Diocesan Cottages was all that I was told.’

They walked up a driveway, past an embankment until they reached an area in front of the quartet of cottages. Three small cars were parked, side by side, although there was room for more, and the red gravel was roughed up.

‘Four houses, three cars,’ Provan said. ‘Maybe he is out.’

But as he spoke a door opened and a tall white-haired man stepped out, into the autumn sunshine. He was wearing blue denims and a short-sleeved shirt, with a red check pattern, and carried a rucksack, slung over one shoulder. He was tanned and although his skin had the striations of age, his arms were still muscular. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Possibly,’ Mann replied. ‘We’re looking for Father Donnelly.’

He smiled, and both detectives felt its force. Even Provan, who prided himself on being the ultimate cynic, understood why Max Allan had described the priest as charismatic. ‘That’s me,’ he chuckled, ‘but I’m retired now, so I’m not really anyone’s father. Benevolent uncle is as close as it gets these days. How do I address you?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann, and this is Detective Sergeant Daniel Provan. We’re CID officers from Glasgow.’

‘My, my,’ the emeritus priest exclaimed, ‘and you’re here looking for me? Did I need a licence to take the village lads out fishing in the boat?’ His expression changed; the smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of sadness.

‘Nobody’s been making allegations, have they?’ he asked. ‘There’s never been a reason why anyone might, but it’s become fashionable these days. A tiny minority of my colleagues betray their calling and it’s assumed that the virus infects us all.’

‘It’s nothing at all like that,’ the DI assured him, looking up and into his eyes, trying to judge whether there was anything hidden behind them, but seeing nothing. ‘As far as your boat’s concerned, I wish I had someone to take my wee boy out fishing, but there aren’t too many opportunities where we live.’

‘If you’re ever posted out this way,’ Father Donnelly told her, ‘give me a call and I’ll find a space for him. Look, I was just on my way there, to the boat, that is. Would you like to follow me down, and we can talk there?’

‘Aye,’ Provan grunted, ‘as long as we don’t wind up being sold as slaves in the Carolinas.’

‘Hah!’ he laughed. ‘So you’re an admirer of Robert Louis Stevenson, Sergeant. You know, most people think of
Treasure Island
as his masterwork, but I’ve always preferred
Kidnapped:
there’s so much more depth to it, more intrigue.’

The DS dissented. ‘Nah, I don’t buy that. Ye cannae beat Long John Silver. I’ve arrested a couple of guys like him in my time, although they both had two legs and nae parrot.’

Lottie Mann was astonished. ‘You’ve actually read something longer than a betting slip, Dan?’

‘You should ask your Jakey,’ he said. ‘Whenever I babysit for him, that’s what he likes; it’s his favourite story.’

The priest climbed into his car, a grey Ford Fiesta that dated back to the previous century, and the officers followed. He turned left out of the driveway and drove along by the waterside for little more than a mile, past a sign that read ‘Port Driseach’, where the detectives saw a few boats moored in a small cove. Father Donnelly parked at the roadside and, as they joined him, pointed to one of them, an eighteen-foot white day-boat that even the Glaswegians could see had not been built for speed. ‘That’s her. It’d take her all day to get to Rothesay, Sergeant, never mind the Carolinas.’

‘How do we get tae it?’ Provan asked. ‘I’m no’ a great swimmer.’

‘Neither am I, so it’s just as well we have a wee inflatable to get us out there.’

He led the way across the stony foreshore to a small dinghy floating at the water’s edge and secured to a steel mooring ring by a heavy, padlocked chain.

‘I share the boat with two of my neighbours, Father Smith and Father Edwards . . . they call him Father Ted in the village,’ he chuckled, ‘even though there’s not a trace of humour about him.’

He held the dinghy steady as Mann stepped aboard and eased her large frame down into a seat. Provan joined her, more nimbly, and they set off, the priest in the bow, paddling the short distance to the boat. As they drew closer, the detectives could read its name:
Holy Orders
.

‘It’s more like
Last Orders
for my colleagues and me,’ Father Donnelly joked, as they boarded via a steel ladder at the stern.

It occurred very quickly to Mann as she stood on the swaying deck that although the good ship
Holy Orders
was larger than it had seemed from the shore, it was doing strange things to her sense of balance. She sat down on a bench at the side.

Their captain noticed her discomfort. ‘Have you ever been on a boat before?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘And you’re feeling a wee bit unsteady?’ She nodded. ‘Then find a fixed point, any fixed point, focus on it, and keep looking at it.’

She did as he advised, fastening her gaze on a building on the hillside on the Isle of Bute, while the priest busied himself inside the covered cockpit. Gradually she felt her queasiness subside, and by the time he reappeared, offering her a blue plastic mug, the threat of imminent sickness had gone. ‘Tea,’ he said. ‘I always put a flask in my rucksack. There’s enough for the three of us, but I can make some more if you want. There’ll be no milk though.’

‘We’re polis, Father,’ Dan Provan grunted as he seated himself alongside Lottie. ‘We can drink it any way. Can we talk now?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, then flashed that dazzling smile again as he stood, mug in hand, looking down at them. ‘In fact I can hardly wait to hear what’s brought you all this way to do it.’

‘We want to ask you about a colleague of ours,’ Mann began, ‘someone we believe you know.’

‘I know several of your colleagues, past and present; some as parishioners, some as friends, some as both. For example, there’s Max, Max Allan, your recently retired assistant chief constable. Max plays with the other team, he’s Church of Scotland, but he was helpful to me when he was a young officer and I was in my first parish. We’ve been friends ever since. But I don’t imagine it’ll be him.’

So that’s our Dan’s mysterious source
, the DI thought.
I should have guessed
.

Is he warning us not to push it with him?
the DS thought, as Mann responded.

‘No, it’s not him,’ she said. ‘Actually it’s a former colleague, at least he will be former until the forces merge: Detective Superintendent David Mackenzie. I understand you’ve known him since he was a boy.’

‘Ah, David.’ He sat, lowering himself on to the bench facing them. ‘Yes I have. He was a troubled lad when I met him; his childhood had been unfortunate, I’ll say no more than that. I like to think I helped him in some way.

‘David says I saved his life,’ Father Donnelly admitted. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. The truth is his life was never in danger. His soul was, though, and if I’ve helped him save that I’ll be happy to take some credit for it. When I met him he was heading down the wrong pathway at a fair rate of knots. I showed him there was another way.’

‘How?’ Mann asked. ‘Forgive me, Father, but you have the air of a man who can handle himself in all sorts of ways. I believe you were a military chaplain in your twenties, isn’t that right?’

There was a little less warmth in his smile. ‘You’ve been checking up on me? Fair enough, I suppose; it’s only reasonable to expect a police officer to do that. What you’re really asking is whether I beat some sense into him. Am I right, Ms Mann?’

‘It’s Mrs,’ she replied, ‘and it’s Lottie. Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Then the answer’s no.’ He laughed, softly. ‘You’re confusing me with His Excellency Archbishop Gainer, through in Edinburgh. I’ve never done that with any young man, although I have invited one or two who were given to picking on the weak to take a swing at me and find out whether I had the moral courage to turn the other cheek. I also suggested that if I failed the test, something might happen that we would both regret, them more than me. I was never taken up on it.’

‘Just as well,’ Provan retorted. ‘Behind a lot of these wee Ned hooligans are parents all too ready to complain about police brutality. I hate to think what they’d do if the priest gave their brats a thumping.’

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘In any event, that would have been entirely the wrong way to go with David Mackenzie; his aggression was beaten into him. What’s been implanted by violence can’t be removed that way; it can only be made worse.

‘No, when I met David, he was embarrassed by being highly intelligent, and proud of being tough. I tried to show him that he’d got it the wrong way round, and that changed him. Just like I got you to focus on that piece of hillside, Lottie, I got him to focus on what he was capable of doing for himself, rather than to others.’

‘I don’t understand any of that,’ Provan confessed.

‘The youthful aggression you’ve just told us about,’ Mann murmured, nursing her mug in her hands, ‘did it go away?’

Father Donnelly shook his head. ‘No, I have to say that it never has, not completely. David still has a hair trigger. If you’ve worked with him you must know that.’

‘DI Mann hasn’t,’ Provan said. ‘I have, and sure I know it. You helped him show that he’s clever, Father, and maybe you put him in the CID room rather than in a police cell, but God never made him a nice man, and you couldnae change what He had programmed.’

The priest laughed again. ‘You’re a bit of a spiritual thinker, Dan, aren’t you? You’re right, of course; it would be blasphemy to assert that I could. As for saving his soul, or helping him to do so, I suppose you would argue also that all I did was try to prevent him committing the sins that lay within him.’

The little cop nodded. ‘I probably would.’ Then he fixed him with an acute, questioning gaze. ‘And if one of those sins was murder . . .’

Thirty-Seven

‘What have you found out about this Vanburn Gayle? The day’s wearing on and it’s the ACC who’s asking.’

Sammy Pye’s tone was serious enough to make DC Wright’s eyebrows rise. ‘I thought I was a genius, boss,’ she ventured.

‘In this force you’re only as good as the game you’re playing, not the last one. When that’s over, it’s over.’

‘In that case . . . no,’ she admitted, ‘I haven’t found any links between Vanburn Gayle and Duane Hicks yet, but I have found Gayle.

‘He lives in Makepeace Drive, Tranent. He’s forty-eight and he was born in Trinidad, but he’s lived in Britain for almost thirty years. Originally he qualified as a physiotherapist, but after he stopped being Holmes’s carer, he did a three-year nursing degree in London. He worked there for another four years, then he moved back to Scotland, to Glasgow Royal Infirmary, and finally to the Western General, here in Edinburgh. That’s where he is now.’

‘Well done so far, Jackie,’ Pye said, with a grin. ‘Not genius level, but thorough. Whose passport does he hold?’

‘British, for the last twelve years. On his first application, his father’s name was given as William Gayle, and his mother’s as Lorraine Alcott, both Trinidadian nationals. He also has a UK driving licence; that’s where I got the address.’

‘What about Hicks? Any more information on him?’

‘Yes, just in from the St Lucia Home Affairs department; Duane Hicks, aged forty-five, born in the town of Castries, the capital, parents’ names Michael Hicks and Teresa Clay, both St Lucian nationals. As you see, boss, there’s nothing there to link him and Gayle.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ the DI agreed. ‘I don’t think you’re going to get any further online, Jackie. The time’s come to face them both up, him and Marlon Watson Junior. You and the DS can go and see Gayle, once he and I have finished with Mr Patrick Booth.’ He glanced across at Haddock. ‘Are you ready for that, Sauce? The front desk just buzzed me to say that he’s here.’

‘Oh yes,’ his colleague replied, firmly. ‘Am I ever ready. If he needs to go to the toilet, can it be me that takes him?’

‘No, chum, I’m pulling rank. There were two of us facing that gun, remember, and you’ve already had one whack at him.’

He realised that Wright was staring at him, as if she was taking them seriously. ‘It’s all right, Jackie,’ he said. ‘If he needs to go, his lawyer gets to stand outside the door to protect us against any later claims that he was duffed up.’

‘Karen Neville told me that his right hand’s in stooky,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘She might need to go in and help him.’

The two investigators headed for the door, and walked downstairs to the interview room at the rear of the building. When they arrived, they saw the head of CID standing outside, waiting for them.

‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ Pye greeted her.

‘Sammy, Sauce,’ she responded, curtly. ‘I thought I’d brief you on the first interview. McGurk did a good job. He handled our Miss Birtles well too. As I thought, they tried to turn it against you two, but he wasn’t having any of that. That strand of the investigation’s pretty well locked up.’

‘Plea to a reduced charge?’ the DI ventured.

She nodded.

‘Pleas to everything, I hope,’ Haddock muttered.

Chambers treated him to one of her rare chuckles. ‘It’s all right, Sauce. Police assault stays in.’

‘Did he say anything at all that had implications for our interview?’ Pye asked.

‘Only that he was scared of the people in his drug chain, but that’s not a line for you to pursue.’

‘What if he brings it up? I don’t like being constrained in any interview, ma’am, least of all a murder investigation, when I’m the SIO. I don’t want to speak out of turn, but we both know that I was given that role over the head of Superintendent Mackenzie, and that he’ll be waiting for me to screw up.’

‘I don’t know any of that,’ Chambers retorted. ‘David Mackenzie’s the city CID coordinator; he straddles all Edinburgh investigations, but he was never meant to lead any of them. He’d be doing what I’m doing with Booth, if he was available.’

‘Where is he anyway, ma’am?’ Haddock asked.

‘Having time off for personal issues . . . that’s if it’s any business of yours, young man.’

‘Sorry, boss; it’s not,’ he conceded.

‘No.’ She looked back at the DI. ‘Sammy, I hear what you’re saying about being handcuffed in there. All that I’m saying is that you’re investigating the murder of Bella Watson, not Patrick Booth the drug dealer. I’ll trust you to play it by ear. If something comes up that might help the drugs investigators, it’ll be all right to follow it up as long as it doesn’t obscure the main issue. I won’t interfere unless I feel I have to; if I do, it’ll be a tap on the shoulder, that’ll be all.’

‘Okay, that’s fair enough,’ Pye said. ‘Let’s get at it.’

He led the trio into the room. As they entered, Frances Birtles looked past him and focused on Haddock. ‘Hello, Sauce,’ she greeted him. ‘I heard you were climbing the ladder.’ She glanced at Chambers. ‘Watch out for snakes, though.’

‘They’re all on your side of the table, Frankie,’ he replied amiably. ‘Good to see you, though.’ His bonhomie vanished as soon as he took his seat facing Patrick Booth. ‘But not you,’ he added.

The prisoner brandished his plastered hand. ‘See what you done?’

‘Yeah,’ the DS murmured, evenly, ‘and I saw what you done too, what you did to that poor lass Vicky.’ He looked into his eyes and was pleased to see him flinch.

‘I never meant to.’

‘Leave it out, both of you,’ Pye snapped. ‘That has nothing to do with our business here. Sauce, set up the recorder.’ As soon as the machine was loaded and active, he went through the formalities. ‘Mr Booth,’ he continued, ‘you’re here to help us with our inquiries into the murder of Isabella Spreckley or Watson. Do you understand that?’

‘He does,’ Frankie Bristles replied. ‘He also understands that he’s here voluntarily, and that he can terminate this interview at any time.’

The DI nodded. ‘Up to a point, but we’ll get there later.’

‘Pardon?’ the solicitor exclaimed, but he ignored her.

‘Can you tell us your relationship to the deceased, Mr Booth?’

‘Aye,’ Booth said, ‘she was Vicky’s auntie.’

‘Vicky being Victoria Riley, the late Victoria Riley, your partner?’

‘Aye.’ He paused. ‘I only knew her as Bella Spreckley, though, no’ Watson. Ah met her first at Vicky’s granny’s place, a couple of times after that.’

‘Did you ever visit her at her home in Caledonian Crescent?’

‘Mmm. It was a nice wee flat, well kitted out. Vicky said it wasnae hers, but that some old boyfriend had set her up in it.’

‘Why did you visit her?’

‘Ah went to collect Vicky and wee Susan: that’s our bairn.’ He glanced to his left, towards his lawyer. ‘Where is Susan anyway? I want tae see her. Make them let me see her, Miss Brittles.’

Haddock chuckled. ‘That’s a new variation on your name, Frankie. I’m sure you’ll explain to your client that since he’s been charged with shooting her mother dead, and that the child was in the room at the time, and got blood splattered on her, that might not happen any time soon.’

‘He has a point, Patrick,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s deal with this and I’ll see what I can do later.’

‘Aye all right,’ Booth grumbled.

‘Very good,’ Pye continued. ‘How often did you visit her?’

‘Just the once, in February; Vicky took the bairn, to let her see her. No’ that she was all that interested. Vicky only done it ’cos her granny told her to.’

‘That would be Susan Coulter, yes?’

‘Aye, that’s right; Bella and she were brought up together. Bella wasnae Vicky’s real auntie, ken.’

‘So you just paid that one visit, right? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘To the best of his recollection, Inspector.’

He smiled at the lawyer. ‘With respect, Frankie, your client doesn’t seem like a complete idiot. He says he visited her for the first time in February. I accept that, because a neighbour had to tell him what floor Miss Spreckley lived on. That was seven months ago, tops. I’m sure that if he’d been there again since then, he’d know for sure. Isn’t that right, Mr Booth?’

‘Aye, that’s right, just the once.’

‘And you only went to pick up Vicky and Susan.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did you like Miss Spreckley?’

‘Like her?’ Booth repeated. ‘There wasnae a lot to like about Bella. She might have been an old dear, but she was as hard as fuckin’ nails, you could tell that. So no, Ah didnae like her.’

‘Did she like you?’

‘Bella didnae like anybody, apart from auld Susan.’

Frances Birtles leaned forward. ‘Where are we going with this, Sammy?’ she asked.

‘Here,’ he replied, then reached into the right-hand pocket of his jacket, which was bulging.

‘I’m showing Mr Booth,’ he continued, for the tape, ‘a sealed plastic evidence envelope. It contains an ornamental jewel box.’ He held it up, then placed it on the table, never taking his eyes from the other man, watching as his face contorted into a frown that was almost a grimace and as he hunched forward. ‘I’m not going to open it, but I’m going to show you an image of an item that we found inside.’

He took a photograph from the same pocket and put it beside the box. ‘It’s a gold locket and it bears the inscription “To Bella from Tony”. It’s hallmarked and we’ve been able to establish that it was bought from Laing the Jeweller, in Edinburgh, seventeen years ago, by Mr Tony Manson. He was a heavy-duty criminal, and he and Bella had a relationship. The date of purchase suggests that this was a birthday present.’

The DI paused and looked at Birtles, half-expecting her to intervene, but she stayed silent.

‘This box and its contents were found in your home, Mr Booth, during the execution of a search warrant relating specifically to this investigation. You’ve just said that you only visited the victim’s home once, and then only briefly. Let’s just take it for granted that she didn’t give it to you in a grand gesture, or give it to Vicky, who wasn’t really her niece. Let’s save ourselves some time by you admitting that you stole it. Yes?’

Finally Frankie Bristles did open her mouth, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

‘He must respond,’ he said. ‘Either way, a one-word answer is all I need.’

Booth stared at the tabletop, and sighed heavily.

‘Aye, okay. I stole it.’

‘Right. Let me suggest two more things. One, if you stole it on that visit in February, there was no way that Miss Spreckley wouldn’t have noticed its absence in all the time since. Two, she was not the sort of woman who’d have written it off to experience. “As hard as fucking nails,” you said. Well, actually, we know that. So, Patrick, that leads us to the conclusion that I’m going to put to you now. You stole it after you killed her.’

He shook his head, violently. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘no, no, no.’

‘Inspector,’ Birtles began, trying to intervene again, but her client overrode her, finally meeting Pye’s gaze.

‘Ah took it, but Ah didnae kill her.’

‘Then who did, if not you?’

‘Don’t ask me. All that Ah can tell you is that I didn’t. Okay, Ah went back to her house again, but she wisnae there.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘From the street? Ah got in along wi’ a neighbour.’

‘No, into the flat,’ Haddock said. ‘If Bella wasn’t there, how did you get in?’

Booth stared at him, scornfully. ‘Please,’ he retorted. ‘There was only a Chubb lock on the door. No problem.’

‘But if she wasn’t there,’ he paused, ‘why did you go in?’

‘Ah needed to see her.’

‘So badly that you broke into her house?’ Pye exclaimed. ‘Come on, Patrick, you went there to rob her, and you wound up killing her.’

‘Sammy,’ the lawyer protested, ‘you’ve got no evidence of that.’

‘Don’t be naive, Frankie,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve got the jewel box in his house, I’ve got him agreeing that he took it, and I’ve got him describing how he broke into the dead woman’s flat. We’re still doing DNA analysis, but now that I’m able to take a sample from your client, I’ll put him in the room where she was killed. I’d go to trial on that. Would you fancy your chances of an acquittal?’

‘A jury might look for more proof of murder.’

‘That would be a jury of fifteen people, with a majority verdict acceptable to the judge. You reckon you could persuade eight of them to see it your way?’

‘It’s happened before. There is a Not Proven verdict available remember.’

‘Sure.’ He turned his attention back to the prisoner. ‘There you have it, Patrick, a frank assessment of your chances, from your own lawyer: they are not good. I can charge you with murder now and walk out of here. By the time you get to trial your list of convictions will include culpable homicide, police assault and firearms offences, on top of everything else, and so the six or seven years you’re looking at now, allowing for parole, will go up to, oh, I’d say a minimum of twenty. D’ you fancy that?’

‘Ah didnae kill her!’ Booth shouted, so loudly that even Chambers, seated away from the table, reacted.

Birtles put a hand on his arm but he shook her off. ‘Ah needed tae see her because she was my contact for the gear, okay? She had been for a few months, ever since we started dealing.

‘That day in February when I was at her house she asked me if I was up for some business: high-quality crystal meth, no’ smack, or cocaine, from a small supplier, no’ a cartel, low profile, low risk. Ah said I was, and we got started.’

‘Patrick!’ Birtles snapped a warning.

‘Shut the fuck up!’

‘Sammy,’ the DI heard Chambers murmur. He leaned forward as if to avoid a tap on his shoulder.

‘Ah met Bella once a month,’ Booth continued, ‘in a different place every time, tae give her the take. She’d give me my cut, and take the rest.

‘She never handled the gear, though. I always picked that up, also once a month, from somebody else, a driver in a van wi’ Spanish plates. It had all sorts in it: household stuff, like, furniture, computers, suitcases. Sometimes it was full, sometimes near empty.

‘Bella always told me where tae go, and it could be anywhere. One time it was Wigan, the next Scunthorpe, the next Stoke; anywhere . . . but never big cities, Ah noticed that, and never in Scotland. Anyhow, the system worked fine until last month.