Hour Of Darkness (26 page)

Fifty-One

I hadn’t expected Jim Glossop to get back to me before the following Monday afternoon, at the earliest, but I’ve always underestimated his skill and his tenacity. I was on the point of leaving the office for a weekend with my family, when Sandra buzzed me to say that he had called.

I was ever so slightly vexed. On the basis of Father Donnelly’s firm assurance, in my mind I had downgraded the search for the missing Mackenzies from a potential murder hunt to a domestic situation that had got way out of hand and for which there would be hell to pay when eventually they turned up.

Monday would have suited me fine; at that moment my mind was fixed on Gullane’s Number Three golf course and the evening round that I had promised James Andrew, my younger son, who shows significant promise for his age. (Mark, his older brother, is a whiz at the computer version of the game. He can find no serious console opposition in our house, but sadly he has no aptitude on grass.)

I took the call nonetheless; I could have asked Sandra to lie and say I’d just left, but that would have been churlish. She might also have refused, and that would have been awkward. On top of all that, Jim was a mate, doing me a good turn.

‘Jim,’ I said, making myself sound as enthusiastic as I could. ‘You need more information?’

‘Not at all. It was dead easy really. There’s no twists and turns in your subject’s recent history. He was born exactly when you said, in Houston, Renfrewshire. His parents were Alastair Gourlay Allan and Wilma Maxwell Allan, maiden name Adams, both schoolteachers, married in Glasgow University Chapel on the thirty-first of August, nineteen forty-three. One sibling, Jonathan Allan, born on the second of February nineteen forty-four, no comment.’ He paused for a chuckle.

‘Maxwell Allan married Julie Austin,’ he continued, ‘on the seventh of April, nineteen seventy-seven, in High Blantyre Parish Church. They listed their occupations as police officer, and physiotherapist. They had two children, a son called Gourlay and a daughter called Rosina, but she died in infancy. How’s that then?’

‘A sad ending, but bloody brilliant as always.’ I hadn’t known about Max’s lost child; but some things are too painful to mention, so that didn’t shock me.

I’d been scribbling as he spoke, and had all the salient details noted down. From the list of names, one was familiar. ‘Hold on, Jim,’ I said, as I delved back into Mackenzie’s file. I was looking for confirmation and I found it.

‘That’s great,’ I said, ‘but I need one more thing . . . well, two more actually. Can you find out whether Julie Austin has, or had, a brother called Magnus, and whether he had any kids?’

Fifty-Two

‘No,’ Mary Chambers declared. ‘I have never heard any mention of Marlon Watson having a sister. After you called me I even checked with the ACC. He was involved in the murder investigation, albeit as he says he was brand new in CID, but he swears blind that nobody ever made any mention to him of any sister. Are you sure this woman’s memory is up to it? She is a grandmother, after all.’

‘My granny never looked like that,’ Pye countered, ‘or was half as sharp. It’s a line of inquiry and we’ll check it out.’

‘You do that,’ the head of CID said, ‘but it’s not your top priority. The council CCTV monitoring people have been on, looking for Sauce. When they were told you and he weren’t in, they came on to me. They want to see you, pronto. They’ve been bursting their braces for you and I got the impression they’re looking for a bit of public credit for it.’

‘We’re on our way back to Leith,’ the DI said, ‘but we’ll divert there. As you say, boss, the sister can wait.’

The Bluetooth call went dead just as they reached the traffic lights in Great Junction Street. Haddock, who was at the wheel, made a last-minute lane change and flashed a right turn signal, drawing a horn blast from the driver behind. The man followed him into Leith Walk, and sat on his rear bumper, big in his mirror, headlights flashing and horn still blaring.

‘Fuck this!’ the sergeant declared, slowing.

‘Ignore him, Sauce,’ Pye ordered. ‘If he follows us all the way to the council offices we’ll do him there.’

They never found out whether he would have gone that far, for they were stopped by a red light at the next junction. Immediately their pursuer leapt out of his vehicle and ran up to Haddock’s door. The DS rolled down his window, holding up his warrant card.

‘Can you read that, sir?’ he asked. ‘If not, it says, “Get back in your motor or we’ll do you for breach of the peace.” Understood?’

The red-faced man uttered not a word; instead he weighed up his options and chose correctly.

‘I was in Traffic in my second year in the force,’ Sauce said, as the lights changed and he drove away. ‘I hated having to be polite to people like him.’

When they arrived at the City Council headquarters in Market Street, they had a second argument, with the car park supervisor, but once again the warrant cards won the day. The office was on the point of closing as they made their way inside, but the receptionist had been briefed to expect them. ‘Second floor, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It’s the door facing the lift.’

The second instruction proved to be unnecessary. As they stepped out of the elevator, a man was waiting for them; a very fat man, in shirtsleeves, with the council logo on his tie. ‘Johnny Halliday,’ he announced, extending a podgy hand to Pye. ‘I’m the team leader here. The front desk let me know you were on your way up.’

‘You’ve got something for us, our boss told us,’ the DI said.

‘Indeed we have,’ Halliday replied, with evident pride. ‘Come and see.’

He led the way into an open-plan work area with more video monitors than either detective could count. Each one was live, with a different view of the city’s streets, displayed four to a screen. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them to the far corner, which was partitioned off from the rest. ‘This is my domain,’ he announced, grandly. ‘Sit yourselves down.’

Three seats were arranged at a table, in front of a flat-screen monitor, on which an image was frozen.

‘What we have here,’ the team leader explained, ‘is the view from the camera that looks up Orwell Terrace. As you probably know, that leads up to Caledonian Crescent. The time is five minutes past midnight on the day after your review window. Now look here.’ He pressed a control on a black box on the table and the screen became active.

As Pye and Haddock looked on, they saw a dark-coloured saloon drive towards the camera, and then pass out of sight as it took a left turn into Dalry Road.

‘Okay?’ Halliday murmured, eagerly. ‘Now.’

As he spoke another vehicle appeared on screen, travelling in the opposite direction, making the same turn, but right, into Orwell Terrace, much more awkwardly than the car had done. It was a light-coloured van, without markings.

‘That’s a Renault Master, long wheelbase,’ their host advised them. ‘Now look.’ He touched another control and the screen froze. ‘I think you’ll find that the registration number is quite legible.’

Haddock leaned forward and read aloud. ‘Eight, zero nine five H N J.’

‘Exactly,’ Halliday agreed. ‘And I think you’ll find that that is a Spanish plate. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely,’ Pye told him, feeling his day take a turn for the better. ‘Not just that, it’s when we wanted it, and where. Thanks, Johnny.’

‘I’m not done yet. Hold on.’ He pressed some more buttons and a second view appeared on screen. ‘We don’t have a camera in the crescent itself, I’m afraid, but there is one at the exit of Caledonian Road, and this is what it shows looking up towards Haymarket. This is what it showed fifty-seven minutes later.’

He activated the player; within a minute the same van swung into view once again, heading away from the camera.

‘Outstanding,’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘We’re pushing our luck, I know, but do you have a shot that lets us see the driver?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ The man was slightly crestfallen, but only for a few seconds. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I can tell you where it went. We have footage of it heading along Queensferry Road and then later in Granton. We lose it in Marine Drive, but I’m confident that it didn’t come back into the city after that.’

He leaned back. ‘I read the newspapers, chaps,’ he said, familiarly, ‘so I know what this is all about. If you in turn know that area, you’ll be aware that there’s a walkway along the foreshore that runs off Marine Drive. In theory it’s pedestrian and cyclists only, but the gate is a bit loose and it can be accessed by a vehicle, even one as large as a long wheelbase Renault Master van. If you’re trying to work out where that poor woman’s body was dumped, my guess is that you’ve found the very spot.’

Fifty-Three

There were times when Karen Neville reckoned that she had been too generous to her ex-husband during the negotiations over their split. She had no complaints with the generosity of his child support payments to Danielle and Robert, and he had agreed to her taking all of the substantial profit from the sale of their house in Perth. Yet as she settled into a work routine that involved constant weekend shifts, she had moments when she thought how pleasant it would be to be a full-time mother, at least until both children were at school. When these moments came she wondered whether if she had been a little more aggressive, a little less reasonable when they agreed that their marriage was terminal, she might have secured personal alimony that would have made it possible.

But those feelings never lasted for long. The truth was that she liked her job. The truth was that she had been a full-time mother and had found it trying and frustrating. The truth was that she had come to believe that she had as much right to a career as Andy and had become resentful that he had assumed without discussion that she should be the one to make the sacrifice. The truth was that their relationship had begun in the workplace and had thrived there. Domestically, whenever they were vertical rather than horizontal, they had bored each other witless.

And so, when he came to collect the children on a Friday evening, the only topics in their brief conversation, beyond the deeds and needs of their daughter and son, were usually professional.

As he stood in her kitchen watching Danielle putting on her jacket, unassisted, Andy asked the inevitable question. ‘So, what sort of a week have you had?’

‘I’m in the middle of it, remember,’ she replied. ‘So far it’s been relatively unproductive. I’ve only caught one bad guy, and I didn’t really catch him, I just did the interview with Jack.’

‘What was that about?’

‘It was a man called Booth. You must have heard about it, even in your network. He walked into his flat and found Sammy Pye and Sauce Haddock there talking to his girlfriend. He pulled a gun and she was shot. He denied meaning to shoot her; his main line of defence seems to be that he was trying to shoot Sauce, and I don’t think that’s going to get him very far.’

Andy laughed. ‘It bloody well will; probably as far as Peterhead Prison. You’re right, I have heard of Mr Booth, but not through your investigation. Sammy and the lad went to interview him about the Bella Watson murder and accidentally came across a chain of crystal meth that neither we in the SCDEA nor the Edinburgh drugs team had known anything about.’

‘So you’re involved now?’

‘Only in trying to trace the source, which, thanks to the forensic scientists, we know is in Spain, and probably in a specific region. My people are helping the Guardia Civil to track it down. As you’d expect, Booth’s singing his head off, but he doesn’t actually know that much. It’s a well put together operation, and the late and unlamented Bella was a part of it. She handled the money, Booth collected the gear from someone else and sold it in and around Edinburgh.’

‘I know all that,’ Karen told him. ‘I’m involved in the investigation. It was me that identified Watson, remember, when Tarvil and I were sent to her flat by our esteemed coordinator.’

He grinned. ‘You don’t like Mr Mackenzie, then.’

She frowned back. ‘You could say that. Don’t tell me you do.’

‘I can’t tell you anything, Karen. The fact is I don’t care about the man. I’m told he has a down on me for some reason. If so, he’s welcome. Been making waves in the city, has he?’

‘Not this week. He’s on leave. Actually it’s a bit odd; you’d expect that the divisions would have known about it in advance, but none of us did. “Sorting out some personal issues” is what we’ve been told, but there’s a whisper that he’s had his arse kicked by the ACC and been sent to cool off.’

‘Rather him than me; Mario’s a formidable arse-kicker.’ He glanced at his daughter, then back at his ex-wife. ‘You said you’re involved in the Bella investigation?’

‘I am this weekend, standing in for Sammy and “the lad”, as you call him. Don’t underrate him, by the way. He’s got “future ACC” written all over him.’

‘That’s if his choice of partner doesn’t get in the way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Never mind; no gossip between us, Mario said. Ask McGurk if you want to know. What have you got on your plate with the Watson thing?’

‘Plate. A good choice of word. I’ve just had a call from Sammy.’ She paused. ‘Actually, now that I think of it, it might interest you. If you know all about Booth’s drug route you’ll be aware that the deliveries were made in random locations by a woman driving a van with Spanish plates. Sammy says he’s placed the van, through CCTV, in Caledonian Crescent on the night that we think the murder happened. My big task tomorrow is to trace the owner.’

‘Too right it interests me,’ Andy said as Danielle tugged at his sleeve. ‘It lets us track down this crew from both ends.’

‘Take it over by all means,’ she offered.

‘No thanks, you’re doing fine as it is, and besides, I don’t want to make an enemy of Sammy Pye. But let me know what you find out, as soon as you do.’

‘I will do,’ Karen promised, ‘but I do have other things on my plate. A couple of days ago I took a mouth swab from a kid who was born in Edinburgh but thinks he’s West Indian.’ She smiled. ‘I suppose he is in a way, more than Scottish, since he’s spent most of his life there. His name’s Marlon Hicks, but he was born Marlon Watson Junior. He’s Bella’s grandson.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘But not nearly as interesting as this. The boy denied ever having heard of her, and his maternal granny says that’s true. But forensics ran his DNA profile anyway.’

‘And placed him in Bella’s flat?’ Andy asked, intrigued, as he picked up his daughter and let her sit in the crook of his arm.

‘No. They did find grandson DNA there. But it wasn’t his.’

‘So? He has a brother?’

‘Yes he does, but not by Marlon. Bella has another grandson, but we have no idea where he came from. It wasn’t from Ryan, Marlon’s brother, we know that.’

‘I don’t suppose the stork brought it, so have you looked at the daughter?’

She stared at him, blank-faced. ‘What daughter?’

‘Jesus,’ he gasped. ‘And Sammy Pye’s supposed to be bright. Bella Watson had a daughter.’

‘Then nobody’s ever mentioned her to me. Are you sure?’

‘Sure?’ he repeated. ‘I’ve met her, my dear. I was part of the team that investigated Marlon’s murder. It’s going on twenty years ago, but I remember Bob taking me with him when he went to tell her about it. She was a presenter on a local radio station, called Airburst. It doesn’t exist any more, but that’s where we went.

‘Yes, I remember now; she was estranged from her family, she told us. She was just about to go on air, but she said she’d be all right, and that she wouldn’t break down or anything, because she hadn’t seen her brother for twelve years.’

He frowned. ‘There was something else. Before we saw her, we went to visit Bella in that Wild West street where she lived at the time. She talked about her but I noticed that there were no photographs of her in the house.’

‘It was the same in the Caledonian Crescent flat,’ Karen told him, ‘so time didn’t heal anything. Where is she now, do you know?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Mia. She had a professional surname; I can’t quite recall it but that was her real Christian name. She was bloody gorgeous,’ he murmured, ‘I remember that much about her.’ Then his eyebrows rose. ‘And something else.’

He put his daughter down, on a worktop. ‘Danielle, sit there for a minute please. Daddy has to make a phone call.’ He looked at Karen as he took out his mobile. ‘I’m going to put this on speaker.’ He held the phone in his left hand as he found a contact and called the number.

‘Andy.’ Alex Skinner’s voice, given a metallic tone by the small speaker, sounded in the kitchen. ‘What’s up? Are you stuck somewhere? Do you need me to collect the children?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m at Karen’s. This is a professional call.’

‘Your profession or mine?’

‘Ours. It relates to something Karen’s working on. Do you remember Mia Watson, from when you were a kid?’

‘Mia Sparkles?’ She paused. ‘That’s one from the past.’ Andy had the odd feeling that she was talking to herself rather than them. ‘Oh yes, I remember her. I was her number one fan.’ She hesitated again. ‘Well, number one equal, maybe,’ she murmured, as if to herself.

‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘Only that she left. She didn’t turn up for her programme one day and she was never on that station again.’

‘Did you ever hear of her again?’ Karen asked.

‘No. Not that I’ve ever tried to find her, mind you. Someone else came on the radio and I moved on, like you do when you’re thirteen. Besides . . .’

‘Besides what?’

‘I’d gone off her by then,’ she said, abruptly. ‘I was a fickle child, as Andy will tell you.’

‘You said you were fan number one equal. Who was the other?’

‘Oh,’ Alex replied, casually, ‘that was just me being waspish; the other was probably Mia herself.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ Andy said. ‘See you tomorrow, yes?’

‘Yes. Are we still going to the Botanics?’

‘Sure. So long.’

‘So long, Alex,’ Danielle echoed, just as the line went dead.

‘There you have it,’ he said. ‘Mia Watson, Mia Sparkles; take your pick, but she does exist and she’s all yours. She’ll be mid-forties now, I think.’

‘Thanks,’ Karen murmured.

He read something unsaid in her eyes. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, just . . . I’m not looking to pick a fight and you know her much better than I do so you’ll probably say I’m talking nonsense, but I’m standing here thinking that there’s something your lady never told us.’