When The Devil Drives (25 page)

‘All of a sudden those arguments we overheard took on a darker
hue and it threw a different light on Saffron shutting herself away. Nobody actually put it into words, but we were all wondering the same thing: was it purely in reaction to what she and Darius had been involved with, or had it been something else? It was a horrible time. Horrible. And of course there was no means of getting in touch with Tessa to see if she was all right.’

Jasmine could see an echo of the company’s shared angst on Weir’s face as he remembered the helplessness of not knowing.

‘No instant messaging or mobile phones in those days,’ she said, though she couldn’t help but think of how little difference modern technology had made during her fruitless attempts to contact Jim.

‘No,’ Weir said. ‘But then, just as suddenly, the police dropped the whole thing. Just like that: nothing to see here, just go about your business, citizens.’

‘Why?’

‘I spoke later to the younger of the two police officers, who seemed very bemused by the whole thing. He said his boss got a phone call, went out for a few hours, and when he came back Hamish walked. He wouldn’t tell him anything about it, just said the inquiry was over.’

Weir picked up a stray stone from the grass and tossed it back among the gravel.

‘It was all over for us too. When Hamish got back nobody even suggested carrying on. We couldn’t get out of there fast enough. We all knew what one another had been thinking. The atmosphere was toxic. We went our separate ways and largely endeavoured to keep them separate. That’s why it was a measure of my desperation that I should ever get in touch with Hamish and go pleading for a part. Probably why he found it easy to decide he didn’t owe me anything, too.’

Weir sounded like he was being philosophical about it, but Jasmine knew he wouldn’t be so bitter if he really believed Hamish was justified in blanking him. Something rankled still: deep and raw.

‘In my inquiries, I’ve sourced a number of Tessa Garrion’s official records,’ Jasmine told him. ‘She hasn’t paid tax, claimed benefit, phoned an ambulance or shown up on any kind of database after summer 1981.’

Weir stopped where he stood and a shudder passed through him. He turned to look at her, glowering, almost accusatory. A palpable energy emanated from him, making him seem bigger for a moment.

‘You seem more angry than surprised,’ she observed.

It took him a moment to find his voice, as though he had to restrain several less temperate representatives of his thoughts before nominating a spokesman.

‘The police dropped the whole thing, so one just assumes there was nothing to it, but I never saw Tessa again, never even heard her name spoken until you called. Her name should have been up in lights, known across the land. I always had a lingering suspicion something about it was rotten. One phone call and the son of the local laird walks free. See, that’s the thing with people like Hamish: they have the connections and the resources so that the normal rules don’t apply. And when they do get into trouble, there’s always somebody who comes along and makes their problems go away.’

Catherine was glad to get outside into the heat and light, away from the claustrophobia of the laird’s sad little chamber. It was like being stuck inside the man’s head, surrounded by his memories and regrets. Stepping out into the open air again, she felt as though she was breathing out for the first time since entering the cold and fusty study.

As she strode through the grounds, her taxpayer horror fantasy of the investigation resembling some massive police jolly was grossly exacerbated by the sight of every cop not actively engaged in a specific purpose wandering around carrying paper plates bounteously laden with canapés.

She found Beano and Zoe over by a decorative fountain, the former balancing a quite inappropriately immodest selection on his plate in a pyramid formation. It was further testament to the quality of the fare that the latter had been tempted into having a nibble too, as the depressingly athletic Zoe seemed to live almost entirely on fruit and raw vegetables; albeit enough fruit and raw vegetables to feed a football team.

‘You managing a wee bite there, son?’ Catherine asked, feigning the tones of a concerned mother worried about her child’s faltering appetite.

‘Best crime-scene catering we’ve ever had,’ Beano replied, proffering the plate towards her. ‘They’re giving it away at the kitchen’s back door. Obviously tonight’s corporate gig is off and the chef didn’t want this stuff to go to waste. Beats the usual greasy burger from some dodgy van.’

Catherine helped herself to a vol-au-vent, and had to concur.

Beano went back to his conversation with Zoe, comparing notes on how they had spent their last days off and apparently trying to
outdo each other in terms of confessing to having no life. Zoe at least had some kind of purpose going on, training for a forthcoming marathon, but she bemoaned how this was the ideal hobby when you had no mates, or at least no mates whose schedules overlapped with your own.

Beano probably edged it, admitting to having spent an unhealthy number of hours playing video games with his flatmate.

‘What makes it worse is that it was the new
Mortal Kombat
. I think it has worrying implications for my personal growth that I’m still playing essentially the same games as when I was about ten. Graphics are a bit better these days, but nothing else has changed, which is kind of embarrassing. When I was first playing it on my Super Nintendo I thought that by this point in my adult life I’d actually be living
Mortal Kombat
, some kind of action hero, but naw: there I am, all growed up, a polis on his day off still sitting on the couch mashing buttons.’

It was an unwelcome reminder of last night’s conversation with Drew, about which she was feeling a little guilty today, not to mention embarrassed. It was that final remark, comparing the game Duncan wanted to the situation she’d been called to deal with: pompous and over-dramatic, essentially ‘my job is so important and I’m the only one who understands what’s real’. Precisely the kind of shit she hadn’t ever wanted to hear coming out of her mouth, the cards she had never wanted to play in her marriage.

She was worried, though. Something about this bothered her, prodded at her deepest maternal instincts. It wasn’t always about protecting your kids from danger, but about protecting them from the worst that could happen, and that didn’t necessarily mean something happening to them.

Maybe it was disproportionate, maybe it was irrational, but the fear that filled her mind whenever she thought of her boys playing violent games – even kidding on they were soldiers with their toy guns – was that this would foreshadow a future reality. She was horrified by the prospect of one of them one day hurting somebody. As their mother, there would be the responsibility of knowing she could have stopped whatever had got into their heads. And as their
mother, she bore a fear of what it suggested was already inside them as her sons.

But perhaps worst of all was her knowledge of what they’d be carrying forever once they had done something irreversible.

‘Did you say you played violent computer games when you were
ten
?’ she asked Beano to confirm.

‘Yeah. Like I said, graphics weren’t up to much in those days, but according to the press a wee red blob representing blood was going to warp my fragile young mind. Turns out they were right.’

‘How?’ Catherine inquired.

‘I joined the polis, didn’t I? Must have been mental.’

Catherine remembered why she seldom sought out Beano for serious insight into anything, and wondered what it ought to be telling her that she had done so today.

‘How’d it go with the laird?’ asked Zoe.

‘Worse than useless. He’s in bits. Huddled in his wee study, surrounded by his creature comforts.’

She thought back to her final question, one that he gave the very strong impression he had never considered. What colour there remained had drained from his face and Catherine feared for a moment that he was going to be sick. He was a picture of shock, and not a little fear.

‘That said, it being good practice to disclose all my observations, I should mention that his creature comforts seem to revolve around the theatre, and that there’s photos of him creeping the boards as a student.’

‘Meaning what?’ Zoe asked.

‘Probably nothing, but there’s a couple of things I’m reluctant to overlook. One is that Sir Angus is no stranger to stagecraft. He had to give up his dreams a long time ago, but maybe still has the gift for a performance.’

‘And what’s the other?’

‘That if you wanted somebody killed, the best alibi in the world would be standing right next to the victim when he gets shot.’

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a very cynical person, boss?’ Beano asked.

‘Aye. Mother Teresa, when I lifted her for soliciting.’

He let out a dirty laugh then resumed tucking into his pile of canapés with unseemly alacrity.

‘Christ, don’t let DI Geddes see you guzzling like that,’ Zoe told him. ‘It’ll give her another possibility to ask if
that’s
that why we call you Beano.’

Catherine smiled. Poor Laura, she had never worked it out and, this being the Glesca Polis, nobody was ever going to tell her.

Despite a reputation for being outspoken to the point of abrasive, Laura had been surprisingly withdrawn when she first arrived from Edinburgh, but had gradually emerged from her shell over the year or so since. Catherine had initially thought it was to do with getting used to being on a new force in a new city, but gradually deduced it was more to do with what Laura had left behind, and she didn’t mean the job.

Laura didn’t talk about it explicitly, but there were allusions that Catherine couldn’t fail to pick up on. Suffice to say, Catherine would have given a great deal for half an hour in a locked interview room with Laura’s ex, whoever the bastard was.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Beano said through a mouthful of choux pastry.

Catherine watched Laura march towards them, having emerged from one of the tradesmen’s entrances at the side of the building. She looked both flustered and perturbed, a sight all the more discomfiting for its rarity.

‘Something vexes thee?’ Catherine asked, the lighter tone an attempt to offset the fact that Laura looked in genuine fear of a bawling out.

‘The numbers don’t add up,’ Laura said.

‘What numbers?’

‘The RSB junket. We got everybody’s details, didn’t let anyone leave until we had verified ID, addresses, all contact details. We did it exactly as you ordered.’

‘But?’

‘When I checked the list, there are only thirty-three names on it.’

‘How many should there be?’

‘There’s thirty-six seats on that mobile gantry, and when I asked the chef he said it was thirty-six covers for dinner.’

‘Is there a means of verifying whether thirty-six people actually showed up for dinner, and whether all the seats on the gantry were occupied?’

‘That’s what’s “vexing” me, boss,’ Laura said, dropping her voice a little, as though afraid of being overheard. ‘The maître d’ says he had a list of place settings to show everybody where they were sitting. There was one pinned up on display for the guests, but his staff had a copy too, for laying the tables. Not only could he find neither of them, but when he went to print me a fresh copy the file had been deleted from the computer. So, as it turns out, had the finalised list of guests the bank emailed to the castle. Bottom line is, there was a person here last night that somebody on the inside doesn’t want us to know about.’

Catherine turned to Beano.

‘Cynical, you say?’

Jasmine met Polly for their mutually reluctant drink in a basement bar on Bath Street called Kave. The place was Polly’s suggestion, a regular haunt of hers. It was large and spacious, booths lining the outer walls, sofas tucked into cosy corners, benches and long tables for bigger groups either side of the oval-shaped bar in the centre. The music wasn’t too loud, which would make conversation easier, though that might not turn out to be a blessing as the evening wore on.

She found Polly at one of the booths, waving to her from the back of the leather-upholstered horseshoe. Polly needed to gesticulate because Jasmine hadn’t spotted her on the first pass. This was partly because she hadn’t physically seen her in four years and partly because she’d been looking for someone sitting alone. There was another girl sitting at the booth with Polly, her face just as familiar now that Jasmine saw it close up.

‘You remember Carol?’ Polly said. ‘Another Canonmills High refugee here in the west.’

Jasmine placed her now; she had been in her class for French in third year. She gave her a smile and offered to buy them both a drink while she was on her feet. Inside, she was fuming slightly. Polly had called in back-up. What was doubly annoying was that Jasmine had thought about doing the same. She had considered phoning her schoolfriend Megan, who was now a junior doctor at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, but then decided it was a bit off to spring a surprise, not least because Polly hadn’t known Megan very well. Jasmine hadn’t had much to do with Carol at school, but Polly had decided to bring her along, presumably in case she and Jasmine couldn’t find anything much to talk about. In that case, maybe Jasmine should be grateful.

She told herself to get a grip as she placed her order at the bar. It was a few drinks and a blether, not a peace summit.

A couple of rounds in, her trepidation was just a slightly awkward memory. She had thought about staying on the mineral water, especially given it was a school night, but as she didn’t have a car to drive anyway she decided she might as well make use of the disinhibiting properties of a few scoops. Whether or not it was the alcohol, Polly and Carol turned out to be easy company.

Jasmine found herself doing most of the talking early on, as Carol launched into a bit of grilling on the subject of her ‘interesting’ job. They were questions Jasmine was becoming familiar with, and thus more experienced at answering, so she was able to keep it general and, more importantly, keep it light. Everyone became more relaxed and comfortable once they moved on to the common ground of their school years, a subject that proved largely inexhaustible for the remainder of the evening. Jasmine found it pleasant to be able to reminisce about what now seemed simpler, easier days, though at the time they felt anything but. She enjoyed hearing different perspectives upon the same incidents and the same people, sufficient to make Jasmine wonder whether she’d been going around with blinkers and ear-muffs for five years, as so much seemed to have been going on beyond her notice.