Lawless (11 page)

It was Novak’s turn to chuckle. ‘OK. Come inside and tell me all about it. I could do with a cup of tea anyway,’ he said.

For half an hour, McBride did not tell him anything about it. They used the time to identify the milestones in the lives of each of them since they had last faced each other.

Novak, still a year away from his bus pass, had eventually risen to the rank of detective chief superintendent and had commanded the Tayside Police crime management department, which was the new but meaningless title for what had been the CID – the name most folk still used for it. He had retired four years earlier but cruelly his wife had passed away three months after he had become a civvy. They had not even had time to take the cruise every retiring police officer seemed to deem an essential part of the leaving ritual.

In the time since he had handed in his warrant card and walked out of police HQ in West Bell Street for good, Novak had devoted himself to his garden. Unexpectedly, he had also rediscovered a suppressed talent for art. He combined the two and numerous paintings of flowers lined a wall of the room where they sat. They weren’t good and they weren’t bad. They were just watercolours of flowers – the end product of someone with time on his hands.

The ex-chief superintendent professed a contentment in his new existence but McBride didn’t swallow it any more than Novak did. A cop with his skills would never feel fulfilled just painting pansies, even if they had been masterpieces.

‘OK, Campbell, what is it you want?’

McBride sensed that the former policeman had become desperate to move away from the small talk. That he was eager to reconnect with the old days, and anxious to learn what had caused the reporter to track him down.

‘Has it anything to do with this book you’ve written?’ Novak gestured to a shelf of books over his visitor’s shoulder.

McBride turned to see the spine of
The Law Town Killers
sandwiched between a thick manual on painting techniques and Charlie Dimmock’s latest offering on garden water features.

‘I’m flattered, Dave. Is it a rare unsigned copy you have? Glad to see you haven’t lost your deductive powers, though. Then again, maybe you don’t have to be the world’s greatest mathematician to put two and two together. What can you tell me about Alison Brown? Or, more precisely, what do you know about the background to it all?’

Novak spread his hands, turning the palms upwards. ‘What’s to know? She argued with her boyfriend, he strangled her and now he’s up in the pokey at Perth where he belongs. By all accounts, the case didn’t take much solving.’

McBride looked questioning. ‘What do you mean “by all accounts”? Weren’t you involved?’ he asked.

‘No. I was back at Tulliallan doing another stint in the classroom.’

McBride had forgotten. David Novak’s gift for catching the bad guys made him a natural for teaching duty at the Scottish Police College. Half his career had been spent in and out of the classrooms at the college.

‘Yes, but she was a policeman’s daughter. That made it a bit special, didn’t it?’

‘Of course it did. Frankie Brown, God rest his soul, was a popular bloke. Nobody likes to see a young lassie ending up that way but it’s ten times worse when it’s the bairn of someone you know.’

McBride moved his head in agreement. ‘That would make it all the more important to get a result,’ he said.

‘Sure – we’re all human. You’d be the same if it was the child of a reporter you worked with.’

McBride nodded again. ‘So, all the lads would have tried extra hard on it?’

‘Yeah. But what are you saying?’ Novak was becoming agitated. ‘Are you heading where I think you are, Campbell? If you’re trying to say the boyfriend was fitted up just because of who her father was, forget it. He left a trail a mile wide.’

McBride soothed him. ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he replied, not entirely convincingly. ‘But it didn’t take long to bang him up, did it?’

‘That’s the way it goes sometimes. You know as well as I do that murder is usually either the easiest or hardest crime to solve. Most of the killers are known to their victims, so you get them quick. It’s the bastards who strike out of the blue that you have all the problems with. They’re the ones you sometimes never catch.’ Novak was becoming impatient. ‘Look, Campbell, what’s this all about? Why the big interest?’

McBride was amazed he hadn’t put the questions much earlier. ‘Now you’ve got me, Dave. Gut feeling – can’t explain it. Just doesn’t ring true.’ He struggled to find a credible explanation for his belief. ‘I’ve spoken to Bryan Gilzean up the road in Perth. He did a good job of convincing me it wasn’t him. So did his father, come to that.’

‘His father? Adam Gilzean has told everyone his son is innocent. Apart from the fact that he’s a bit of a religious maniac, he isn’t exactly unbiased, is he? You’d say the same if it was your son.’

Novak suddenly remembered that McBride no longer had a son. ‘I’m sorry, Campbell.’ He reddened with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I was going to ask. How have you been?’

McBride paused, searching for the kind of response that would make his host feel better. Before he could reply, the heavy silence was broken by the melodious chime of a doorbell, followed immediately by the sound of a door closing at the back of the house. There were light footsteps. Then a female voice called out. ‘Hi, Dad. It’s me. Where are you?’

The door of the sitting room swung open. The woman who entered was startled to find someone with her father. McBride was equally taken aback by the attractiveness of Novak’s visitor. She was aged about thirty with limbs like a gazelle. Her face shone with perspiration and her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail by a crimson ribbon. She wore a navy-blue sweatshirt, matching bottoms and discoloured trainers. A pair of almond eyes stared back at him from above two sculpted cheekbones. She lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, Dad, I didn’t know you had company.’ She recovered quickly, looking questioningly at her father.

‘Petra, you remember Campbell, don’t you? The reporter … the author …’

The eyes smiled at McBride. So did the soft mouth that opened to reveal two rows of perfectly even teeth. She moved towards him, reaching out a slender hand. Then she remembered she had been running and that it was covered with sweat. She wiped it over a buttock and extended it again.

McBride took it willingly and felt its moistness. Unnecessarily, he cleared his throat. But, before he could speak, Novak intervened. ‘Campbell, this is Petra – my daughter. You’ve probably forgotten, but you came to her assistance many moons ago.’

McBride hesitated momentarily. ‘How could I forget?’ It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the truth either.

Threads of faraway memories started to creep back. It had been down in London, just a few years after he had gone there to live and work, and she had come to visit him in the newsroom of the
Daily Express
, an awkward teenager moving away from childhood but not quite an adult, in spite of the carefully applied make-up and high-heeled shoes.

He trawled deeper. It hadn’t entirely been a social call – the schoolgirl, who was in the capital with classmates for an educational visit to the Houses of Parliament, was starting to make her career and examination choices. Top of her list was journalism and she needed advice from someone like McBride. Images of her sitting beside him at his desk flashed into his head. He smiled at the memory. For ten minutes, she had hardly taken in a word he said. Her eyes had darted round the room and she’d watched in wonder as one of the world’s greatest newspapers came together out of the professional chaos. He remembered how she had blushed when trying to put some intelligent questions together. The recollection of her juvenile innocence touched him again.

‘So, are you a reporter, then?’

Her cheeks turned pink but this time she was composed and in charge of her mouth. ‘Not exactly – I really wanted to but, well, I went off to university and, you know how it is, you change.’ The flush had rapidly vanished from her face but she seemed embarrassed, as though she’d let him down.

‘So, what
did
you do at uni?’

‘Law.’

‘A lawyer, eh? Oh, well,’ he said mockingly, ‘at least you’ll have pots of money.’

‘No – not that either.’ She paused, searching for her next words.

Her father, who had listened to the exchanges in silence but with a broadening grin, laughed out loud. ‘She’s a cop, Campbell!’ Novak took delight at his revelation.

‘What?’ McBride was genuinely taken aback, practically to the point of speechlessness. ‘A cop – Jesus, that’s a bit of a turn-up. Christ sake!’ He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised.

The very grown-up woman standing two feet away started to laugh as well. His amazement had allowed her to take charge of the conversation. She glowed with pride at his astonishment, suddenly brimming with confidence. ‘There’s a lot of us around, you know,’ she told him. ‘We don’t all have two heads.’

McBride had recovered. ‘No – or law degrees.’

Novak, the most modest of men, as McBride recalled, couldn’t conceal his pride. ‘Or first-class degrees at that,’ he beamed.

McBride’s lips mouthed a silent whistle. ‘My admiration knows no bounds.’

Novak moved into full flow. ‘She went straight from university into Tayside Police as an accelerated promotion candidate, one of the few to be accepted.’

McBride understood his satisfaction. Scores of unemployed graduates turned to the police as a career, confidently imagining a degree would guarantee rapid promotion. They didn’t seem to realise that every force required far more foot soldiers than high-flying brainboxes. There was no point in recruiting folk whose ambitions surpassed their realistic opportunities for advancement so accelerated promotion entrants were selected sparingly and with care.

He nodded at father and daughter. ‘Good on you.’ He knew the fast track practically guaranteed her promotion to the rank of inspector after seven years.

‘So, what are you? Professional Standards?’ He used the name of the internal affairs department, where cop investigates cop. It seemed a reasonable assumption. Law degree, smart, female, probably resented by male plods anyway.

Novak smiled once more. It was becoming irritating. ‘Tell him, Petra.’

‘Dad! OK – I’m a detective inspector, Campbell, recently made up and enjoying it. Now, can I have cold drink? And do you two want more tea?’

McBride watched every step as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Richard Richardson was quietly insistent when he phoned his old colleague. He wanted to have dinner with McBride and he wanted to pay for it. They would dine at 8 p.m. in Broughty Ferry and afterwards seek drink or women, more probably both.

He suggested they meet in the restaurant at the hotel situated where Queen Street meets Claypotts Road.

McBride asked the name of the hotel.

‘That’s all it’s called,’ Richardson explained. ‘Its official title is “The Hotel” – capital T capital H. Nothing else. Bloody stupid, I know, but that’s the label they saddled it with.’ It did not occur to him that there was an element of ‘pot’ and ‘black’ in his dismissal of the strange name.

McBride wondered aloud why he was being treated. ‘It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?’ he asked. ‘Have you come into money?’

Richardson tried to sound exasperated. ‘I haven’t come into anything – at least not for some time. Maybe later tonight … This is just a typically generous act on my behalf. Besides, I’ll fiddle it on expenses.’

When McBride arrived precisely on time at The Hotel, his benefactor was already there, seated at a corner table in the busy upstairs restaurant. A bottle of white wine that looked expensive was open and the glass at Double Dick’s right hand had only a mouthful left in it. McBride sensed it would not be the only bottle they would consume that evening.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered waiting,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Have you ordered? Maybe you’ve eaten as well …’

‘Now, now, old son, no need to be offensive.’ Richardson was in exuberant mood. ‘Plenty more left in the bottle,’ he continued, filling the empty glass on the opposite side of the table. ‘Drink up and let’s talk.’

McBride lifted his glass, held it theatrically up to the light and then sniffed the contents. He took a mouthful and made exaggerated swilling motions. ‘French, a Chardonnay, and probably early this century, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he said, finally, after swallowing the wine.

Richardson’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. Then he realised that the label of the bottle faced his companion. ‘Very funny. You’d struggle to know the difference between gnat’s piss and champagne. Everything doesn’t have to come in a pint glass.’

McBride drained his glass in two quick movements and pushed it across for a refill. ‘OK, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘Has to be more than my company.’

Richardson tried to look hurt. ‘Do people never do anything nice for you, McBride? I just thought it was time we touched base again.’ He toyed with his drink. ‘Bring me up to speed. How’s this feature you’re supposed to be “working up”? Must be some size if it’s made you move back up from Pooftown.’

McBride raised an eyebrow. ‘You heard?’

‘You should know better. My spies are everywhere. Nothing moves in this town without Richard Richardson being aware of it. My sensitive finger is constantly on the grubby pulse of the city.’

The verbal sparring lasted until the food arrived. Then Double Dick appeared to lose interest in the man seated opposite. His concentration on his plate was awesome. He dissected and arranged, discarded and rearranged. Every mouthful was savoured.

It was only when his three courses had been consumed and a fresh bottle of wine was in place that normal exchanges were resumed. McBride concluded that, whatever his former colleague wanted from him, he also wanted a hunting companion that night.

It was only when they were ensconced in The Fort some time later that he fully appreciated Richardson’s need for female company. The wine had given way to lager and the combination of copious amounts of both seemed to open a verbal tap inside Double Dick’s mouth.