Private Investigations (29 page)

‘Why?’

‘I’d be looking to place him somewhere unusual, somewhere that was away from the norm for him. Put him there and see what shows up in the vicinity.’

‘We’ll do that, sir. Can I come back to you if I need to?’ she asked.

‘Not without DCC McGuire’s express permission. I’ve got too much on my conscience already without a broken career adding to it.’

‘Not the chief’s consent?’ She’s shrewd, is Lottie.

‘The DCC’s your line manager. If he’s fully in the picture he’ll make his own decision. That’s how it should be. And by the way,’ I added, ‘you should protect Provan from any fallout. If that wee guy thought you were being picked on, he’d go for whoever did it, regardless, and he’s got far too much pension to lose.’

It wasn’t until I’d pocketed my phone that I heard a sound from behind me and turned, to see Alex standing in the doorway, holding a Costa coffee in each hand.

‘What the hell are you involved with now?’ she asked.

‘Nothing if your ex has anything to do with it,’ I told her. ‘Is one of those for me?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I saw your car in the park, and I reckoned it was about that time. Who was that on the phone anyway?’

‘One of my former foot soldiers from Strathclyde,’ I replied, ‘Detective Inspector Mann; you’ll probably come across her in court one day. She has a formidable arrest record.’

‘I’ll look out for her.’ She handed me a coffee, then frowned. ‘I’ve just had a funny phone call myself,’ she said. ‘It was from a woman called Mackail; she said that she was calling on Sauce Haddock’s recommendation. Her story is that she’s in a situation and that she should really have a lawyer on her side. She should too; she’s up against a guy called Oliver Harrison, a very nasty piece of work with a whole string of Law Society reprimands to his name. I told her that normally I only handle criminal cases these days, but she sounded really anxious, so I said I’d think about it. Does the name mean anything to you?’ she asked.

‘No, nothing at all. I haven’t heard from Sauce or Sammy since Monday.’

‘What’s the matter, Pops?’ she asked, out of the blue.

‘Nothing,’ I insisted. ‘What makes you think there is?’

‘Thirty years’ experience,’ she laughed. ‘You’re fidgety. Did you expect the guys to report back to you every step of the way? If so, that’s not how . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ I sighed. ‘It’s not how it works any more. That has nothing to do with it. If you must know I’ve had a couple of up and downers with Andy, over the thing I’ve taken on for Eden Higgins. It’s . . . grown legs, you might say. I’ve identified a prime suspect. The problem is, someone else identified him before I did.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Wow. Is that what the call from the DI was about?’

‘Yes. I landed her in the shit with her big boss. That’s what our most recent barney was about,’ I confessed.

‘Father,’ she said heavily, ‘has this fallout anything to do with Andy and me?’

‘Of course it has!’ I retorted. ‘I told him he’s made me his enemy for life.’
‘Then you’re overreacting,’ she countered. ‘I chucked him, not the other way round.’

‘Because of his wholly unacceptable behaviour,’ I insisted. ‘He put you in that situation.’

She looked at me and then she smiled, in the way she does that melts my heart. ‘There’s no reasoning with you, is there?’

‘No,’ I agreed, cheerfully, ‘not where you’re concerned. Thanks for the coffee; now bugger off and free a couple of victims of police oppression . . . or get stuck into the man Harrison, whatever gives you the most fun.’

She nodded. ‘Will do, but there’s something else too, underneath the angst with Andy. You’re not quite as angry as you insist. Something’s pulling you in the other direction.’

‘As always,’ I said, ‘you’re right. Sarah’s pregnant.’ There can be no secrets between Alex and me. ‘But not a word about it, and beam with astonishment when she tells you.’

My news achieved the near-impossible. It silenced her for at least half a minute. When she had finished hugging me, and telling me that at our age we should have figured out what caused the condition, finally she went back to work.

So did I, for the benefit of InterMedia, answering a question from the crime editor on the Girona daily. He was concerned about potential obstruction of one of his reporters by the Mossos D’Esquadra, the Catalan police force. I looked at his story, reckoned that he was absolutely right, and made a phone call to an acquaintance of mine who happens to be its director general. Xavi’s company pays me well for my experience and my contacts, but like David Ginola with that shampoo, I like to think I’m worth it.

I had just sent off my email telling the editor that his problem was solved, when my phone sent me off in another direction.

‘Can we meet?’ Carrie McDaniels asked. ‘I can’t think of an excuse to screw any more money out of you, so I’d better report on what I’ve done.’

‘Fine,’ I told her, ‘but you come to me. My car’s parked and I’m not moving it.’

I gave her directions to the Fountainbridge office, then told the front desk to send her up when she arrived. Like all newspapers, the
Saltire
is pretty choosy about who it lets into its building.

She was with me inside fifteen minutes: I reckoned there would be a taxi on the expense account when she sent me her invoice. She looked pleased with herself, with an added sparkle in her eye that made me wonder if she and the boyfriend had patched things up.

‘What have you got for me?’ I asked, when she was settled into the chair that Alex had vacated an hour before.

‘A bonus,’ she began. ‘Remember that hotel robbery I mentioned?’

‘Rachel Higgins’ jewels? Of course.’

‘There’s one thing you don’t know about me. I still work for the insurance company; it’s my biggest client. That’s how I was able to set up on my own. As such I still have access to the stuff I’ve worked on. I thought you might like a copy of the report on the Higgins case, so I pulled it.’ She handed me a small black memory stick. ‘It’s on there.’ She smiled, adding, ‘It’s a freebie, by the way.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said, pocketing it. ‘Now, to the main business in hand. What have you got for me?’

‘As much as there is,’ she replied, ‘which isn’t a hell of a lot, to be honest. I hope you weren’t expecting me to close your case for you. All I can tell you is that your client keeps very good company indeed. As a general rule, you have to be the brightest and best to get on his guest lists. You couldn’t give me an introduction, could you?’

‘If you’ve got undisclosed marine engineering skills,’ I said, ‘there might be a chance, otherwise, I don’t think so.’

She stared at me for a moment, puzzled, then shrugged and pulled a folder from her case. ‘Your client is a very popular man,’ she began. ‘He has a track record of making money for people, even if he does make even more for himself in the process.’

She took a single sheet from her folder. ‘Before I begin I have to tell you that my report’s incomplete, because I had no access to some of the people on your list, for example those who had no obvious business connection to Mr Higgins, like the footballers and rock stars, and the catering staff. All that I’ve been able to do is focus on those where there is a connection, through his business.’

‘Fair enough,’ I agreed. ‘Cut to the chase.’

‘This is it. Higgins Holdings is a family investment trust, owned by Eden and his wife, Rachel. One son, Rory, a chartered accountant who has floating oversight of all the companies.’

‘That’s history to me, Carrie,’ I grumbled. ‘I’ve known them as a family for twenty years. Concentrate on the business side.’

‘I was going to,’ she complained. ‘You’re a bloody awful client, you know.’

I grinned. ‘But I pay my bills promptly.’

‘In that case, you’re the perfect client and I treasure you,’ she declared, cheerfully. ‘The trust is a majority shareholder in seventeen companies, in the engineering, light and heavy, property and construction sectors.’

‘Not retail?’ I asked.

‘No, when Eden sold his furniture chain to a Middle East consortium for six hundred and twelve million, he signed a five-year restrictive covenant denying him involvement in that sector. He hasn’t missed it; the value of his investments across the board is estimated at one point two billion; in other words . . .’

‘He’s doubled his money.’

‘Precisely,’ Carrie said. ‘His dividend income is fifty million. God knows what he does with it all, that’s to say with the thirty million he’s left with after tax. That’s one reason he’s a media darling,’ she added. ‘He pays his taxes in the United Kingdom and has never been caught in any form of tax avoidance.’

‘It’s not about money for Eden,’ I told her. ‘It’s about success. Go on.’

‘Okay, the business guests on his hospitality days on the
Princess Alison
were nearly all directors and senior managers of the trust companies. The exceptions were targets, owners of companies that Higgins Holdings wanted to bring into its network, either by direct acquisition or through takeover by subsidiary companies. Almost invariably, when Eden set his acquisitive eyes on a company, the deal was done. I traced them all through to completion. There was only one failure, but that worked out in the end.’

I thought I detected a touch of disapproval in her tone and said as much.

‘It’s true. It’s his one blemish as far as I can see. A company called Mackail Extrusions was . . .’

I held up a hand. ‘Stop! Repeat that name, please.’

‘Mackail Extrusions. Why?’

‘I heard that surname no more than an hour ago, from my daughter,’ I told her. ‘But there might be no connection. Go on.’

‘Mackail Extrusions,’ she said, for a third time, ‘was a supplier to Destry, the group’s oddly named double-glazing company. It was a perfect fit and Eden wanted to bring it into the group, but its owner, a man named Hector Mackail, wouldn’t sell. Like the sign says in pubs, a refusal often offends, and in this case, somebody was pissed off. Since none of Eden’s managers ever takes a major policy decision without clearance, it was assumed it was him. Mackail’s cash flow was suffering badly in the recession and Destry put the squeeze on by delaying payment. Mackail went bust and Destry bought the assets.’

‘Did you speak to Mackail?’ I asked.

‘I’d have needed a medium,’ she replied. ‘He was killed in a road accident a couple of months ago.’

‘Are you sure about all this?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘I verified it with a friend of mine, a crazy business journo called Macy. Funny, she said I was the second person to have asked about Mackail this week.’

‘Very funny indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Did she say who the other was?’

‘She did. It was one of your old team, an old flame of hers called Haddock. Sounds fishy, if you ask me.’

Fifty-One

‘Before we go any further, Mr Francey,’ Sammy Pye began, ‘I’m sorry for your bereavement.’

‘That’ll be fuckin’ right,’ the lobster fisherman whined. ‘You said he killed that wee lassie, and you put his picture in the paper. Nae wonder he got kilt.’

‘No,’ Haddock contradicted him. ‘We didn’t say that; even though he was driving a car with her body in the boot, we didn’t say that. If you want to be accurate, he caused her death, just after he put her mother in a coma and brought her within sight of the Pearly Gates. And for the record,’ he added, ‘when my boss says he’s sorry for your loss, he’s speaking for himself. Your son was a cowardly, murderous, psychotic scumbag and I couldn’t care less that he’s lying frazzled in the city mortuary. What I do care about is the fact that he dragged a girl he was supposed to have cared about into his crimes, and he got her killed in the process.’

He turned to the DCI. ‘Sorry, gaffer,’ he said, ‘but I can’t sit here and have this guy suggest that his son’s death is in any way our fault.’

‘No,’ Pye agreed. ‘I was only being polite, but my compassion’s used up too, all of a sudden.’

He switched on a tape recorder on the table at which they sat, and pressed a remote that activated a video camera set high on a wall in a corner of the room. He identified the three people present, for the record, then continued.

‘This is an informal interview, Mr Francey, but it is being taped; thank you for attending. We want to talk to you about a pedestrian fatality that occurred in Station Road, North Berwick, on the twenty-seventh of December last year. Do you recall hearing about it?’

Their guest frowned. ‘Was that the bloke that was knocked over on his way home frae the Nethers?’

‘That’s right. Mr Hector Mackail. Did you know him?’

Francey shook his head, then gazed up at the camera. ‘Naw,’ he murmured.

‘Can you speak up, please,’ Haddock said.

‘Naw,’ the man repeated. ‘Ah drink in the Golfer’s Rest, mostly.’

‘Did Dean ever mention the name?’ the DS asked.

‘No’ that I remember.’

‘How about his daughter, Hazel Mackail?’

The dull eyes showed a first faint flicker of interest. ‘There was a Hazel,’ he conceded. ‘She came tae the hoose a couple of times, wi’ the boy Maxwell, Mr Sullivan’s nephew.’

‘Mr Callum Sullivan?’

Francey looked at Pye. ‘Aye. Rich bloke; hasnae been in North Berwick a’ that long. We supply him wi’ lobster, Dean and me; that’s why the kids were at the hoose, ken, tae collect them. They were both new tae the toon, Dean said. He said her faither had been a businessman but that he’d lost the lot.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘And it was him that was kilt like?’

‘It was,’ the DCI confirmed. ‘So Dean knew him?’

‘He must have, Ah suppose.’ He nodded. ‘Aye, probably. One time she and the boy came for the lobster, he gie’d her a crab, a big bugger frae down behind Torness Power Station, for her folks, he said. Free, like.’ A nasty, lascivious grin flickered across his face. ‘He might have been gettin’ something in return, ken. Ah wondered about that.’

‘Where were you on the twenty-seventh of December?’ Haddock asked, suddenly, sharply.

‘Eh?’ Francey exclaimed. ‘How the fuck wid Ah ken? That’s weeks back.’

‘It was a Friday night, if that’s any help.’

‘Friday? Then Ah’d have been in the Golfer’s Rest. Darts night,’ he added.

‘Was Dean there?’

‘Dinnae ken. He might hae been; he sometimes drops in, if he’s got nothin’ else on.’

‘How do you get to the pub?’

Francey looked at the sergeant, warily. ‘Ah walk, son. Ye’ll no’ catch me out like that. Ah need ma licence; Ah’m careful.’

‘And how about Dean?’ Haddock shot back. ‘Is he careful too?’

‘Too fuckin’ right.’

‘He didn’t have a car of his own, did he?’

‘Naw.’

‘He drove your van when he needed to?’

‘Aye.’

‘Did he have his own set of keys?’

‘Naw. We’ve only got the one set.’

‘And on December twenty-seven, did he collect them from you at home or in the pub?’

‘In the pub.’ Francey paused, mouth open. ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ he exclaimed.

‘No,’ Pye said. ‘We’ll settle on that for an answer. Now the really difficult question: did he say why he wanted the keys?’

Staring at the table, the fisherman shook his head.

‘For the tape please.’

‘Naw.’

‘Louder please.’

‘Naw!’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Aye. Ah mind, noo. Ah wis on the oche and he came in. He said, “Ah need the motor.” That wis all. Ah never asked why, I just gie’d him the keys and got on wi’ the game. Ask the lads,’ he suggested. ‘They’ll mind. Thon Grant Rock, he said to me he hoped the lassie didnae mind the smell o’ fish in the back.’

‘When did he bring it back?’ the DCI asked.

‘Dinna ken. It was there next mornin’, and the keys were on the kitchen table.’

‘So you remember that?’

‘Oh aye, Ah mind,’ he replied firmly.

‘Why so vividly, if it was just another Saturday morning?’

‘Dinnae ken.’

Haddock leaned forward. ‘Was it because you went outside and saw the dent in the front offside wing?’

Francey looked away. ‘What dent?’ he muttered.

‘Wrong answer, Chic; the correct answer is “Yes, Sergeant”. We know that on the evening of December twenty-seventh, your van knocked down and killed Hector Mackail in Station Road. We can match the scrape that you never bothered to have repaired to paint on the wall where he was crushed. We can match fibres that were still embedded in that mark when our scientists examined it to the coat that Mr Mackail was wearing when he was killed. We can place your son at the scene from DNA traces left on cigarette ends found there. We can’t place you there, but if you carry on denying knowledge of the damage to your van, we might be inclined to think you knew what it had been used for.’

‘Ah never!’ Francey protested. ‘Aye okay, Ah saw the dent. Who wouldnae? Ah asked Dino how it got there, and he said he skidded on the road intae Aberlady. It’s easy done there in the winter, ask anybody.’ He paused, and resumed his study of the table, and the scratches left on it by previous visitors. ‘Anyway,’ he muttered, ‘what does it matter? Dino’s deid, and the other fella’s no’ comin’ back, so . . .’

‘It matters,’ Pye told him, ‘because it wasn’t an accident. Your son used your van to kill Mr Mackail, quite deliberately. We believe he was paid to do so, just as we believe he was paid to abduct the dead child Zena Gates, and keep her for a couple of weeks in a rented cottage. We need to know who paid him.’

‘Well, don’t look at me! This is all fuckin’ news tae me! Why would anybody want tae do all that?’

‘We’re still working on why. There may be no connection between the two crimes; that’s still conceivable. Dean may have had his own reasons for killing Mr Mackail. Did they have any sort of relationship, any contact that you know of?’

‘No,’ Francey replied. ‘Dean didnae even know the man.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘The time the lassie and the boy Maxwell came for the lobster and he gie’d her the crab, he said tae her when she was leaving, “Tell your faither if he wants a part-time job he can come out on the boat wi’ us.” The lassie just laughed. I asked Dino what that was a’ aboot, and he said her faither had been in the Navy. Then Ah asked him, “Have ye met him, like?” and he said, “Naw never, but Hazel telt me.” That’s how Ah can be sure, pal.’

‘We can check that with Mrs Mackail and her daughter,’ Haddock warned.

‘Check all yis fuckin’ like. It’s the truth Ah’m tellin’ yis.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘Can Ah go now? Ah’ve had enough of this shite.’

‘Sure,’ the DS replied. ‘You can go. You’ve always been here voluntarily.’

‘And can Ah get ma van back?’

‘That’s different. Your van has a special status; it’s a murder weapon in an open investigation, and we’ll need to keep it until it’s closed.’

‘What am Ah going tae do for ma work?’ Francey protested.

Pye shrugged. ‘The same as you’d do if it broke down: buy or hire another. This interview is over,’ he said, switching off the recorder and the video.

‘Bastards,’ the fisherman muttered.

‘That may be,’ the DCI retorted, ‘but it has nothing to do with us holding on to your van.’

‘And ma boy? When dae Ah get him back?’

‘I’m afraid that’s up to the fiscal’s office, not us. But it won’t be before we’ve arrested the person who shot him.’

‘Then get a fuckin’ move on.’ He looked at the DCI, and the faintest of grins touched the corner of his mouth. ‘Dae ye think Ah’ll get a discount on the cremation?’