Dead And Buried bs-16 Read online

  ‘That’s very good of you. Do you have our number, so you can call back?’

  ‘I won’t need it for now. Just give me the names of your targets and I’ll look them up on our system. I may have more than one hit initially, you understand, but your mention of Edinburgh Academy should help me be precise.’

  ‘Let’s see how you do, then. The names are Claude Bothwell and Annabelle Gentle.’

  ‘Gentle as in meek and mild, or Gentile as in not Jewish?’

  ‘The former.’

  ‘Okay, here we go. It’s just a matter of keying them into my terminal.’

  Proud leaned back in his chair and waited, leaving the Scotsman undisturbed as he held the phone to his ear. Manners was back in seconds. ‘It was definitely Claude Bothwell?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No joy, I’m afraid. There are contributions credited to someone of that name, but they stopped over forty years ago. He has pension rights accrued, but he’s never claimed them, nor has an executor. He must have left the profession and forgotten to reclaim his contributions.’

  ‘How about Miss Gentle?’

  ‘Annabelle, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me a second.’ Again Proud waited. ‘No, but here’s a coincidence. There are contributions credited to her as well, and they ceased in the same month as Mr Bothwell’s. They haven’t been claimed either. Were you expecting this, Sir James?’

  ‘Let’s just say it doesn’t take me by surprise. Thanks, Mr Manners. I owe you a favour: don’t hesitate to take me up on it.’

  ‘That’s easy. If you find these people, let me know. I don’t like untidiness in my records.’

  The chief hung up. What he had said was true: Bothwell and Annabelle Gentle had disappeared in mid-career, so abruptly that he had found it hard to imagine that there would be an easy way back into the profession for either of them.

  He reached for the phone once more. ‘Gerry, I want you to get me another chief executive: the Scottish Secondary Teachers’ Association.’

  He returned to the Scotsman as he waited. He found only a few paragraphs on the Gareth Starr homicide, most of them quotes attributed to Detective Sergeant Wilding. ‘We are pleased with the response to the E-fit image,’ he had said. ‘The response from the public has been gratifying and has given us a number of leads to follow.

  ‘We are also appealing for anyone who knew the victim to come forward. We are trying to establish what he did in the last few hours of his life, and any information to this end will be helpful to us.’

  ‘In other words you’ve got nothing,’ he murmured. He found himself wondering why a DS was taking such a high profile in the investigation, but before he could consider the matter too deeply, the phone rang.

  ‘General secretary, sir,’ said Gerry Crossley, ‘not chief executive. Her name is Miss Cotter.’

  ‘Christian name?’

  ‘Not volunteered. I don’t think it’s used much around the office.’

  ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour then; put her through.’

  He waited until the connection was made. ‘Miss Cotter,’ he began. ‘James Proud, police headquarters at Fettes.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  There was something about her tone that made the chief constable conclude that he would be wise to let her believe that his call was official. ‘I’m trying to trace someone, a member of yours, almost certainly a former member now. His name is Claude Bothwell. When he was last heard of, he was on the staff of Edinburgh Academy.’

  ‘And when was he last heard of?’

  ‘Forty-one years ago.’

  Something close to a snort sounded in Proud’s ear. ‘Forty-one years ago! Why don’t you ask Russell Goddard, the rector back in those days? He’s still alive, and from what I hear as sharp as a tack.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Goddard. He gave me all the help he could, but he also suggested that since Mr Bothwell was an active member of your association, you might have a more recent record of his whereabouts than he had.’

  ‘Mr Proud, we have our hands full keeping track of our current members.’

  ‘This is quite important, Miss Cotter. How far back do your records go?’

  ‘They go back sixty years, to our foundation, but even if I found this man Bothwell, they wouldn’t tell me much about him, other than where he taught, and you know that already, you say.’

  ‘I know that he taught at the Academy, but that’s all. I have no other information about his career.’

  ‘And Mr Goddard said that he was an active member?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That probably meant he was our representative there. However, in an independent school in those days, it’s quite likely that he was our only member.’

  ‘Is it possible that your predecessor might have heard of him?’

  ‘Officer,’ said Miss Cotter, heavily, ‘I have been general secretary of this association for twenty-eight years. My predecessor was a contemporary of Mr Goddard, but wasn’t nearly as long lived. If you give me some time, I may be able to find a record of his membership with details of other places he taught, but I’m not promising anything.’

  Twenty-four

  He was unaware of it, but Bob Skinner smiled as the train emerged into the daylight. He had never suffered from claustrophobia to his knowledge, but he never felt comfortable in railway tunnels. Whenever he was in London, and he had the option, he chose bus or taxi over Underground.

  The deputy chief constable was casually dressed, in jeans, a heavy cotton shirt and a lined cow-hide jacket that he had bought in America on one of his visits there with Sarah. He had packed a medium-sized suitcase for the trip: it held, among other things, an overcoat, a suit, several shirts, a pair of black shoes and, still in their wrapping, two packs each of new socks and underwear from Marks & Spencer. On extended trips away from home he regarded such items as disposable. It was easier to replace them as necessary than to have them pile up in his room, or hand wash them and dry them on radiators.

  Dottie Shannon sat opposite him, engrossed in a Sheila O’Flanagan novel that she had bought at the airport. She was dressed more formally than the DCC, in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt. It had concerned her at first, but he had put her at her ease. ‘You’re fine; it’s no problem. You’ll make a good impression. I’ve been there before, so I can dress like a slob, as most of the people who work there do.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ she had asked.

  When he told her that they were bound for the headquarters of the Security Service, she had gone instantly pale.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dottie. It’s just another office, and the people we’ll be interviewing will be subjects, that’s all, just like any others.’

  ‘But why, sir?’ she had asked anxiously.

  ‘Because they need their problem signed off by someone from outside.’

  ‘Why us?’

  ‘Because my signature counts for something, and because I’m privy to the nature of the problem and its aftermath. It isn’t the sort of aftermath where you can stick a retired judge in a room for a month, let him hold public hearings and then write a whitewash report. But that’s enough for now: I’ll give you a full briefing when we’re there.’

  He glanced down at his own reading choice, a golf autobiography . . . he had never been able to concentrate on fiction when he had things on his mind . . . and was about to reopen it when his mobile sounded, deep within his jacket. He took it out and glanced at the screen identification. ‘Hello, Jimmy, how’re you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Where are you?’ the chief constable asked.

  ‘On the Heathrow Express, heading to Paddington.’

  ‘Can you speak?’

  ‘Within reason. Why?’

  ‘I’d like some advice, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure, if I can.’

  ‘If you were looking for a missing person, where would you start?’

  ‘At the place where he was seen l
ast, or in the mortuary: one or the other. How long’s he been missing?’

  ‘Forty-one years.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Forget the morgue, then. Their fridges aren’t that good. In that case I’d be checking with the people at the General Records Office to see if his death’s been registered.’

  ‘I’m told it hasn’t.’

  ‘Do you have a birth certificate for him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then get one. What age is this absconder?’

  ‘Mid-seventies.’

  ‘Then try the Department of Work and Pensions. Give them all the details from the birth certificate, and as much employment history as you can, and see where they’re paying his pension.’

  ‘What if I do that and find he isn’t claiming one?’

  ‘Then you’ll need to go back to his friends and family from forty years ago. You’ll need to go back to my starting-off point, the place where he was seen last. Jimmy, fill me in on this.’

  He listened as Proud described his meeting with Trudi Friend, and about her search for her mother.

  ‘So what you’re telling me,’ he said, when the story was over, ‘is that this married man, with a cracking-looking wife, bewitched a naïve, if not innocent, girl from up north, and told her he was going to marry her, then they both disappear from jobs, home and everything else on the same day. Question: did Annabelle know he was married? Answer: assume that she did. They worked in the same school; he couldn’t chance her finding out in casual conversation, especially if Señora Bothwell was known there and gave you your running cup . . . congratulations, by the way. Question: he vanished, she vanished, so what about the wife? She seems to have been a confident woman, by your account and by Mr Goddard’s. So what did she do when the pair did their runner? If their house was empty when Goddard went looking for Adolf, where the hell was she?’

  ‘I don’t have answers for any of these.’

  ‘Then find them. But if I was in your shoes, right now I’d be trying to find out everything there is to know about your old teacher.’

  ‘But who’s going to tell me?’

  ‘There’s always somebody. You don’t live for thirty-six years in a modern, developed country without leaving a pretty big trail behind you. While you’re waiting for your SSTA lady to get back to you, look for his social-security number and his NHS number. Do his health records still exist somewhere? Could he have paid social security after the day of his disappearance? Most of all, when you go to GRO, find out about every public record on which his name appears.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There’s his own marriage certificate for a start. Then, maybe he was a witness to someone else’s. It’s a long shot, but if that’s the case and those people are still alive, they could be of assistance. Last but not least, and this is where my detective’s nose starts twitching, was he married before Montserrat? If he proposed to commit bigamy with Annabelle, was he a first offender?’

  ‘Bob, that’s great. That’s a big help.’

  ‘Thanks, but, Jimmy, you’re going to need more help than that.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a private matter, my own initiative, something any citizen’s entitled to do off his own bat. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, if you weren’t the chief constable. This woman’s reported her mother missing. Okay, she’s forty years late, but she still deserves to have her complaint handled officially.’

  ‘Bob, I’m not passing this down the line, and that’s final.’

  ‘You’re the boss, but you still have to open a file on it. Once that’s done, it has to be followed through. You have other duties, Jimmy, and you owe it to the public not to be diverted from them by something not worthy of an officer of your rank. Supervise the search by all means, but use a leg man at least. Take big Jack McGurk, my assistant. He’ll have time on his hands till I get back.’

  The chief constable considered Skinner’s advice. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do that. But bloody hell, you’re some man to be giving me lectures about delegating.’

  Twenty-five

  Ray Wilding looked at the name on the brass plate on the railing, with the blue Legal Aid logo alongside. ‘Oliver Poole WS,’ he read aloud. ‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘it amazes me why allegedly smart people use lawyers like this one. Whenever they or their assistants turn up to represent someone in custody, it’s as if they scream “guilty by association” at us.’

  ‘There are plenty of them in Glasgow too,’ Bandit Mackenzie told him. ‘But you shouldn’t read anything sinister into it. There are big corporate law firms who make most of their money out of business clients, and there are those like this one who look to the criminal legal-aid system for their turnover. They all provide a service, that’s all, so don’t go putting them in the same box as their clients.’

  ‘I’m not. What I’m saying is that when a straight citizen retains a firm like this, he doesn’t know the signal he’s sending out.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t. But Poole and guys like him advertise in the press and on telly, so maybe he’s the only lawyer your Mr Straight knows by name. Let’s find out.’ He led the way up the three steps to the front door.

  Although the solicitor’s plate was the only one showing on the street, he shared the Haymarket office building with several other firms, including a secretarial agency, and an accountancy practice. Each had its own entry buzzer: the chief inspector pressed and waited for an answer. ‘Oliver Poole WS.’ Even through the tinny intercom the woman’s voice sounded nasal.

  ‘DCI Mackenzie and DS Wilding for Mr Poole.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘We’re the polis, dear; we don’t make appointments. We called to tell him we were coming.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Mackenzie heard something unintelligible, shouted across an office, then, ‘Open the door when you hear the buzzer, and come down to the basement.’

  They followed the directions, pausing only to ensure that the door had closed properly behind them. The building was modest, but appeared to have been refurbished in the recent past. The paint on the walls was fresh and the carpets felt soft underfoot, as if the underlay was relatively new. The door to Oliver Poole’s office faced the foot of the stairs. It was held open by a small, tubby, middle-aged man, his sparse hair swept back from his forehead as he peered at the detectives over half-moon spectacles.

  ‘DS Wilding,’ he said, as they stepped inside, ‘good to see you again. The last time was in the Sheriff Court I believe: Her Majesty’s Advocate versus McCafferty.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Poole: he was sent to the High Court for sentence at the end of the day, as I remember.’

  ‘We can’t win them all, Sergeant. You were a pretty good witness.’

  ‘Thanks for that; you didn’t give me an easy time.’

  ‘It’s my job to give you a hard time.’

  Wilding grinned. ‘I know. That’s why I don’t hold it against you. Mr Poole, this is my new boss, DCI Mackenzie.’

  ‘Ah,’ the solicitor exclaimed. ‘You’re the man, are you? From what I hear, you’ve been causing a lot of fear and despondency among the under-classes since you came here from Strathclyde. So, you’ve moved on from drugs, have you?’

  The two men shook hands. ‘As of last week,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I’m back in the mainstream now.’

  ‘You’ll be relieved, I’m sure. Dirty business: if I’m allowed to class my clients in order of preference, the dealers are absolutely my least favourite.’

  ‘So why do you represent them?’

  ‘I don’t believe I have the right to turn them away: our constitution, such as it is, says that they’re entitled to the best defence available. My profession requires me to provide it. Yours requires you to prepare a case so formidable that I can’t find any holes through which my client can wriggle. You might see us as adversaries, Mr Mackenzie, but I don’t. We’re both in the public service, the twin pillars of the ju
stice system. Enough of the philosophy, though. Come through to my office.’ He led the way across an open area big enough for five desks: two were occupied by young women, and the others were empty. ‘I have three assistant solicitors,’ he explained. ‘They’re all in court just now. You know what Monday mornings are like.’

  ‘We do our best to keep you busy,’ said Mackenzie, as they took seats in the small private room. ‘All our mornings can be like that, and the middle of some of our nights too.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, gentlemen, what can I do for you? Which of my clients is in such deep shit that you come to me, rather than the other way round?’

  ‘We believe that you represent Gareth Starr,’ the chief inspector began.

  Poole held up a hand. ‘Wrong.’

  ‘You accompanied him when he was interviewed in the Queen Charlotte Street police office last week.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m being legally exact: I now represent his estate. I’m named as executor in his will. To be honest, I’ve been expecting your visit.’

  ‘How long have you known Mr Starr?’

  Poole ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Gary? Let’s see: I’ve been in independent practice for eighteen years, and he came to me not long after . . . Yes, I acted for him for sixteen years.’

  ‘How did your relationship begin?’

  ‘I was recommended by a partner in the firm where I had been an assistant.’

  ‘What was the nature of the service you provided?’

  ‘General. I handled all his legal requirements: my practice is mainly criminal but not exclusively so. I made sure his licence was always up to date, I handled his conveyancing, when he bought his house and his shop, and I acted for him in his divorce.’

  ‘What were the grounds?’

  ‘Irretrievable breakdown; Kitty left him, simple as that. Her main complaint was that he was a skinflint.’

  ‘Was she right?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. The truth was that his business made him a living and that was all. Kitty thought that all bookies own Rollers, not Ford Sierras and the like. If she had the idea that she’d walk away from the marriage with a lot of money, she was wrong, way off beam.’