Where the Bodies are Buried (11 page)

‘Because of Arlene?’ Catherine asked dubiously.

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Because Lisa Bagan is in an on-off relationship with Gary Fleeting: Class A drug dealer, Class A bampot
and long-term close associate of one Francis Callahan.’

‘Is she now?’ said Catherine, glancing down at the name circled on her list. She wrote Fleeting’s name next to Callahan’s,
but something about the former jarred for reasons she couldn’t quite recall.

‘Lisa seemed to think it was their big romantic secret, but it appears they weren’t quite as discreet as they thought. Everyone
in the salon
knew. In fact, according to Paula Graham, the only two folk in Glasgow who
didn’t
know were Arlene Ross and Gary Fleeting.’

‘And perhaps in light of developments, we may have to revise that estimate down by one,’ Catherine stated, though there was
something about this latest revelation that still didn’t sit right. She couldn’t place what it was, but there was definitely
a reason it didn’t quite fit the picture. It was like trying to remember what other film an actor was in before the days of
the IMDb.

‘There’s a strip of parking bays in front of the parade of shops,’ Laura went on. ‘According to Lisa, McDiarmid parked there
when he was popping in on business. For his more discreet morning visits, he parked on Capletburn Drive or Langton Drive,
which are connected by the back lane running parallel to the parade. We found his Audi Q7 parked on Langton Drive, about sixty
yards north of the entrance to the lane. Lisa puts his post-shag puff at around eleven fifty.’

‘It seems reasonable to infer that he never made it back to his car,’ Catherine said. ‘And if so, it’s quite possible he was
abducted from the same lane as he was later dumped in. Someone get on to Fleeting. Find out what he’s been up to over the
last twenty-four hours.’

That was when she remembered what was wrong.

‘Hang on, didn’t we just bang him up recently? He’s on remand, awaiting trial.’

She saw Raeside shaking his head; she assumed in disappointment or frustration.

‘All the more reason why he wouldn’t be happy, with McDiarmid shagging his girlfriend while the cat’s away,’ Laura suggested.
‘He might not be without means on the outside.’

‘The cat isn’t away,’ stated Raeside with a bitter, bronchial laugh. ‘Fleeting got out couple of weeks back, while you were
on holiday.’

‘Bob Cairns busted him for about twenty grand’s worth of smack,’ Catherine said. ‘How the hell can he be out?’

‘Better ask Cairns about that,’ he replied. ‘Although I would imagine it’s a sore point.’

Cairns had left on a call by the time all ongoing duties had been assigned, but Catherine bumped into his buddy Fletcher on
the way down to the car park, from where Laura was going to drive her home. Fletch and Cairns had been a mutually reinforcing
grumpy double act for as long as Catherine could remember, so even when they weren’t
working together, one could usually be relied upon to know what was going on with the other.

It wasn’t all they could be relied upon to know: everybody else’s business was a specialist subject too.

‘I gather you got a wee visit from Abercorn,’ Fletch said, before Catherine could venture any questions of her own. ‘Sniffing
around that psycho McDiarmid’s murder. Was he lifting his leg, or just begging for scraps?’

‘Detective Superintendent Abercorn has a unique way of making one appear to be the other,’ Catherine replied, a non-committal
response that Abercorn himself would have been proud of. ‘He spoke well of you,’ she added mischievously.

‘Aye, I’ll bet he did. Did he give you the speech about us old throwbacks just swatting mosquitoes while he’s trying to drain
the swamp?’

‘Not as such, but I think he alluded to the principle. We discussed the respective merits of the longer- and shorter-term
views.’

‘Aye, the long-game speech. Heard that one as well. Cracking excuse for not lifting anybody. Wish I’d thought of it years
ago.’

‘Now, now,’ Catherine chided.

‘Cheap shot, I know. He’s making a rod for his own back, though. I’m not such a dinosaur that I cannae see what he’s trying
to do, but the problem with the long game is that the game keeps changing. Abercorn’s spinning a lot of plates. It’s my guess
he’s jumpy about what you might uncover in case it brings a whole bunch of them crashing to the floor.’

‘Funny you should say that. He seemed keen to ward me away from Frankie Callahan’s mob as a route of investigation, yet the
early leads are pointing us towards Gary Fleeting. I thought he was on remand, but I’m informed otherwise.’

‘Aye. Procurator Fiscal’s office have dropped the charges. Bob was spitting feathers.’

‘Was there a technicality? Wouldn’t be like Cairns to drop the ball.’

‘No, not at all. That’s
why
he’s spitting feathers. Shrouded in mystery, now you see it, now you don’t. But get this: Dom Wilson was the junior fiscal
dealing with the case.’

‘Dominic Wilson? You don’t think his old man …’

‘Not in this heat.’

Laura looked puzzled.

‘He means it would take a cold day in hell,’ Catherine explained.

‘Why, who’s Dominic Wilson?’ Laura asked.

‘The only son of Ruaraidh Wilson. As in Ruaraidh Wilson QC.’

‘Oh God almighty.’

‘Actually, in Ruaraidh’s case I think you’re looking for the other end of that spectrum,’ Catherine said. ‘Though it would
normally take an act of God for young Dominic to let go of a prosecution once he’s sunk his teeth in. He’s twice as tenacious
as any other fiscal in the place; take your pick whether it’s because he wants to prove he didn’t need any help from his father
to get where he is, or because he’s determined to be as effective at securing convictions as his old man is at thwarting them.’

‘His old man could have played a hand,’ Fletcher mused. ‘Stranger things have happened. Not much stranger, I grant you, but
legal politics can trump family politics sometimes. Probably the only thing more complex and sensitive.’

‘Well, the practical upshot of it is that it puts Gary Fleeting well in the frame. Nothing solid yet, but it’s early days.
He’ll do to be getting on with.’

‘I heard you doorstepped Paddy Steel,’ Fletch said with an approving grin. ‘What was he saying to it?’

‘The usual: Sitting Bull routine. Emphasis on the bull. He’s acting like him and McDiarmid were passing acquaintances, but
he’s plonked there eating his three-pepper omelette with a Kevlar vest on.’

Fletcher let out a dry laugh.

‘Did you ask him who he thought done it?’

‘He said Tony McGill.’

Fletcher looked confused and even a little shocked for a moment, until the absurdity hit him and he got the joke.

‘Still trying to keep the drugs out of Gallowhaugh,’ Catherine added, which seemed to fairly crack him up.

Polis humour, she thought. You really did have to be there.

Their exchange apparently ending on this light note, Laura proceeded towards the double doors ahead, pushing open the one
on the left and holding it for Catherine. As she did so, Fletcher gave Catherine a subtly beckoning look.

‘I’ll catch you up in a minute,’ she told Laura, who understood that she was being temporarily dismissed and proceeded into
the car park.

‘Not in front of the children?’ Catherine asked.

Fletcher had a strained look about him, as though torn.

‘Just a more candid word of warning about Abercorn,’ he said. ‘Particularly given where your investigation might be leading
you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘You’ve heard the joke about what Locust stands for, I take it. Well, many a true word and all that. There
are
secret deals get done. Always have been, and there’s none of us so stubborn and idealistic that we don’t understand why.
When it’s a non-stop war, you have to choose your battles. You cannae fight on every front. You need treaties. You need alliances.
Now, you know me, I don’t like to be telling tales …’

Catherine had to restrain a smile. Fletcher liked nothing better than to be telling tales. He was a three-decades cop and
a gossiping sweetie-wife to boot, but his info was usually reliable.

He dropped his voice, though there was no one in the corridor to hear.

‘There’s a few folk wondering at what point the line between gaining somebody’s trust and being in somebody’s pocket starts
to blur. I’m not one of them, by the way. I’m not saying Abercorn’s bent or he’s turned Indian, but as the boy Nietzsche warned,
there’s a feedback effect if you spend too long staring into the darkness. I’m just saying, be wary of Abercorn until you
know what game he’s really playing. And more importantly, whose side he’s on.’

Jasmine stood in the silence of the office and warded off the voice that was asking her just what the hell she thought she
was doing. She didn’t feel freaked by the place this morning, so that was progress, but the sense of forthright determination
that had whisked her up and driven her here was in danger of running into a brick wall now that she had arrived. She had a
choice of brick walls, in fact, none of them very far away in the cramped little suite.

She had been working as a private investigator, or at least a trainee private investigator, for a few weeks now. It wasn’t
much, but it was more than most people. She had to think like an investigator. More specifically, she had to think like Jim.
What would that be? She tried to remember, came up with methodical, plodding and a little dull. No, not dull, that was unfair.
Dispassionate. Level-headed. Unflappable. Yeah, right, no bother. These past twenty-four hours there had been little but raw
emotion going through her mind, so logic had no chance, like trying to do algebra while your sailboat sinks in a hurricane.
She had to deal in facts and data, not shock and anxiety.

Daunting as it was, above all she needed to put names to her fears, and thus if not contain them, at least quantify them.
The first was that Jim was dead, lying undiscovered somewhere, either waylaid or having met with an accident. These possibilities
were supported by the fact that he hadn’t been home in days, but then so was the other hypothesis, that he could be in hiding.
Militating against this primary fear was the fact that his phone was still working. She had tried it again this morning, not
with any measure of optimism, but just in case. It was still ringing and still running active diverts. If he was dead in a
ditch, would the battery have run out by now and would she be getting a recorded message saying it was switched off? She didn’t
know.

This left the theory that he was in hiding. He had wanted her out of the way on Friday. Was this to lengthen the time before
anyone noticed his disappearance, or had he anticipated dealing with something dangerous that day and didn’t want her in the
firing line?

Sergeant Collins had suggested that such disappearances were often about relationships or money, which was hardly news, as
the files on Jim’s missing-person cases would unanimously testify. She couldn’t really see either of these applying, although
as Collins had said, people often concealed these problems as an overture to their disappearance.

Did Jim have debts nobody knew about? Hardly. He’d given Jasmine her first month’s salary in advance, an astute move because
she doubted she’d have stuck it out if she wasn’t beholden by having already banked (and largely spent) the money. Relationships
offered even less in the way of likelihood. That normally meant another woman. Jim was already divorced, so he didn’t need
to hide a relationship from anybody. Besides, his only true, dedicated long-term relationship had been with his work, first
in the police and later as a PI. This, of course, brought her to the possibility that Jim was in hiding from somebody for
reasons precipitated by one of his cases. If she was going to find him, she had to work out what he was running from.

There were three areas that might offer her some directions: the case files that were open or at least piled on his desk,
the computer files most recently accessed, and the phone.

She began with the desk. First she took note of which folders were open, as opposed to merely teetering in piles, then she
sorted through the lot, listing the subject and client names in the same order they were stacked, assuming it to be indicative
that the most recently accessed would be on top. Next, she booted up the PC and cross-referenced her list with another search
hierarchy prioritising recently amended files. The information Jim kept on the computer largely duplicated his cardboard folders,
as he preferred to keep hard copies of everything as backup. These printouts were supplemented by letters, receipts and any
other documentation not rendered in electronic form.

Her cross-check threw up two anomalies. She found several recently accessed computer documents pertaining to the same case,
but no hard-copy folder on Jim’s desk. The invoicing information stated that the client’s name was Anne Ramsay.

As though to balance this up, she also found a hard-copy folder whose electronic counterpart did not appear on the list on
her monitor. The subject was listed on the folder in Jim’s all-upper-case register as ‘GLEN FALLAN’. Rather oddly, the invoice
tag stated simply ‘CLIENT: YES’. She scrolled down and down, past last week and into last month, still not seeing a record
of it. Just to make sure such a file
existed, she ran a search for the subject name. To her satisfaction, there was a relevant folder, in the Missing Persons section,
but it hadn’t been accessed in ten months.

Jasmine got a fresh sheet of paper and wrote out the list of cases again, this time grouping them by type. She was familiar
with most of them on a first-hand basis, either having had a limited role in the field, or at least having processed some
of the paperwork, and even the ones she’d never heard of slotted into the same bread-and-butter categories: insurance follows,
missing persons/absconders, and serving writs; plenty of writs. She couldn’t see anything potentially perilous in that lot,
otherwise why would Jim have thrown a novice into dealing with them? It was always possible that somebody could get nasty
when you were serving court papers, or bear a grudge over your role in exposing a fraudulent injury claim, but surely Jim
wouldn’t have to go to ground to avoid the likes of Peter Harper and Robert Croft. If lowlife chancers like that made a threat,
he could just go to the police.