Private Investigations Page 6

  ‘How did the thief get in?’

  ‘Through a side door.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw the car?’

  ‘Saturday. I had a guy interested in a Bristol; it was in Kingston being prepared for the showroom. It’s not street legal at the moment, so I took him there to view it. The Beamer was still there when I locked up.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About half four.’

  ‘Did you make the sale?’

  Haddock’s question drew a scowl. ‘No. Nowhere near. The man was a time-waster. He told me he’d phone me back on Sunday with a decision, but he didn’t. Nor will he; I could tell at the time he was a chancer. You always know, don’t you?’

  The DS nodded. ‘Yes, we find that too, in our line of work. What was the man’s name, the time-waster?’

  ‘King; that’s all he told me. No first name.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Sullivan frowned. ‘He’s about my age, give or take a year or two. I’m thirty-seven,’ he added. ‘He had a beard, glasses with dark frames and he was wearing a Barbour. That’s the best I can do. Why are you interested in him anyway? Do you think he came back and stole the BMW? If he did, he’s got no bloody taste. I’ve got better cars than that in the Kingston garage. If you’re going to suggest he was looking for a getaway vehicle, that was one of the slowest in the place.’

  ‘We’re looking at all possibilities,’ Pye said. He broke off as the PC came into the room, carrying two coffees in takeaway beakers. She placed them on the table, laying a five-pound note and a few coins beside them. As she left, the DCI continued. ‘Did Mr King give you a contact number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did he get in touch with you?’

  ‘He rang my mobile: he said he’d seen my ad for the Bristol in the East Lothian Courier; the number’s on that.’

  ‘Do you have your phone with you?’

  ‘I do,’ Sullivan told him, ‘but if you’re thinking you might find his number on it, you’re out of luck, lads. I deleted all my recent calls last night.’

  ‘Is that a regular practice?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Pye sighed. ‘Do you do that frequently?’

  ‘Every so often. Like I said, I’m sorry. I’d love to help you but it’s just bad luck.’

  The DCI nodded. ‘As you say. That’s life; some you win, some you lose.’

  ‘Good. We’re agreed on something. Now, can I leave here?’ Sullivan asked. ‘I’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Pye said. ‘We’re not finished. When you called this morning to report the theft of the BMW, which phone did you use?’

  ‘The mobile.’

  ‘Where were you when you made the call?’

  Sullivan stared at him. ‘What do you mean? I was in bloody Kingston. I was looking at the empty space where my motor had been.’

  Haddock cut in. ‘Do you have a landline in your garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you use that?’

  ‘I just didn’t, okay?’

  ‘No it’s not. Can you prove you were at Kingston when you made the call? Does anyone else work there? Do you have a mechanic?’

  The dealer shook his head. ‘No, I don’t need one full-time. When I have to, I use a guy at Fenton Barns. So no, there was nobody else in the garage, only me.’

  ‘Therefore,’ Haddock continued, ‘as far as we’re concerned, you could have been anywhere when you reported the theft.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You could even have been standing beside the car.’

  Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘Why the hell would I want to do that?’ He paused as a possible answer presented itself. ‘Are you thinking this was an insurance scam?’

  ‘No,’ Pye replied. ‘One, if that was the game you’d have totalled the car. Two, any insurance claim would arise out of the subsequent collision, and you weren’t driving when that happened. There is a third scenario where you’d give the car to someone else to take away and write off, but we don’t believe that one either.’

  ‘Good for me,’ the dealer drawled.

  ‘Maybe not. Do you know, or know of, a child, a wee girl, aged around five, by the name of Zena?’

  He frowned. He stared at the two detectives, from one to the other. ‘No, I don’t. Means nothing to me. What’s a five-year-old lassie got to do with my car?’ He laughed, a short, barking sound. ‘Do you think she stole it? Is that what you’re getting at?’

  ‘No,’ Haddock said quietly. ‘When the boot of your car was opened, after the collision in the Fort Kinnaird car park, and after the driver had absconded, Zena’s body was found inside.’

  Sullivan gasped and sat upright in his chair, his hand knocking over his coffee beaker and spilling what was left of its contents across the table. His eyes were wide, and suddenly very frightened. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re making this up. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s not,’ the DS retorted. He took a small iPad tablet from his jacket and switched it on. ‘Take a look. There’s a photograph to prove it. That’s Zena, or so says a label in the jacket she’s wearing, and she’s dead. In: your: car.’ He ground out the last three words.

  ‘Can I get a better look at her face?’ the other man croaked.

  Haddock scrolled through the photographs in the tablet until he found a close-up.

  ‘Oh my!’ Sullivan was close to tears. ‘It’s not . . . I’ve got a daughter myself. Kayleigh; she’s five and she lives with her mum. Sorry, I just had to be sure.’

  Pye nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘So you see now,’ he continued, ‘why we need, for the purpose of our inquiry into her death, to establish your whereabouts. Okay, you say you called us from the garage. I’m inclined to believe that, but I need to corroborate it. Who was the last person you saw before you found the theft of the car?’

  The car dealer gazed at the table, as if he was looking for the answer in the small streak of cold coffee, ‘My neighbour,’ he replied at last. ‘Her name’s Beth McGregor. I left the house just after nine. Mary had gone to work by then. My car was in the drive, and as I went to get in I saw her through her kitchen window. I waved to her and she waved back.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s a help. We’ll confirm it with her for the record. Now, let’s move on. What sort of work do you do in your garage?’

  ‘Like I said, repairs and renewals mainly: if a vehicle needs engine work and it’s drivable, I take it down to Fenton Barns. If not, the mechanic comes to me. The other main thing would be upholstery. With a classic car you’ll find that the leather lasts forever but the seats degrade. I’ve got another bloke that comes in to renew them when I need him.’

  ‘I won’t ask you to look at the photos again,’ the DCI said, ‘but the boot of your BMW was lined, with thick black foam rubber. Do you keep that at Kingston?’

  ‘Yes, I do. But there was none in it the last time I looked, I’ll swear. What does that tell you?’

  ‘It suggests to us,’ Haddock replied, ‘that the person who stole your car did so with the intention of using it to abduct Zena. Also, it suggests that whoever took it might have known about the rubber being there in your garage, so it makes us think we’re looking for somebody who’s been there before.’

  ‘The guy that was driving,’ Sullivan ventured. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Thin-faced white man in his twenties, wearing a hoodie and quick on his feet.’

  ‘In his twenties, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He gazed at the table once more. ‘That doesn’t suggest anyone in particular to me. I know a few people who look like that.’

  ‘Still,’ Pye said,
‘we might ask you to look at an artist’s impression when we can get one prepared.’ He looked Sullivan in the eye. ‘What can you tell me about your relationship with Mary Jean Harris?’

  ‘Eh? Mary? She’s my sister.’

  ‘She lives with you, yes?’

  The other man nodded. ‘Yes. She has done since just after my wife and I split up, a couple of years back. She lived through in Cumbernauld and she’d had a rough time, so I offered her a change of scene and a roof over her head.’

  ‘A rough time? How rough?’

  ‘Her husband had walked out on her,’ he replied, ‘and she was struggling financially.’

  ‘So it had nothing to do with your nephew, Maxwell?’

  ‘No,’ Sullivan retorted. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Is Maxwell still at school?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘No. He left at the end of last year.’

  ‘Does he have a job?’

  ‘He helps me out, from time to time. He got enough Higher passes last summer to tie up a university place next autumn, so he’s calling this his gap year.’

  ‘How does he help you out?’

  ‘Driving mostly. If I’m delivering a car to a buyer, he’ll come behind me to bring me back. If I’m taking one to the mechanic, same thing.’

  The DS paused. He looked sideways at Pye, who nodded, a signal to carry on.

  ‘Tell me more about your sister’s problems in Cumbernauld,’ he continued.

  Sullivan drew a breath, exhaling through his nose. ‘It just wasn’t a happy place for her. She didn’t like the town, and she didn’t like her job.’

  ‘What did she do?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘She’s a teacher. Mary was educated at Watson’s and did her degree at Moray House. She taught in Royal High at the start of her career, a good school. Then she married Stewart Harris, and it all started to go wrong. They lived in Bathgate at first. She could commute from there, but he was posted to Paisley, and that was the end of that. Then he was promoted and transferred to Cumbernauld. The only jobs she could find in either place were in rough, low-end schools. She just wasn’t cut out for them, but she needed to work.’

  ‘What did her husband do?’

  ‘He was one of your lot. He was a PC in Airdrie when they married. He left her two years ago, when Maxwell was fifteen. He was a sergeant by then, but going no higher.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The usual,’ Sullivan sighed. ‘Another woman, Mary told me. And as can happen in these cases, she was victimised twice. She had to increase her mortgage to give him his share of the house, and it just broke her. She’d been pretty low anyway, and that was the last straw. Coming to live with me worked out well for her,’ he added. ‘There’s plenty of room in the house and she has a job at North Berwick High. Maxwell sat his Highers there.’

  ‘You haven’t had much luck in the marriage stakes, you and your sister,’ Pye observed.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What happened to yours?’

  ‘Nothing dramatic. We just weren’t suited.’

  ‘Did you buy her half of the house?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that. I’d sold my main business . . . it made compressors for central heating units . . . so I gave Janine a generous settlement. It included our house in Polwarth. I moved out to North Berwick, and started to do what I’d fancied doing for a while, dealing in specialist cars.’ He smiled, for the first time. ‘Every man’s dream, pursuing his hobby full time.’

  ‘Mine would be golf,’ the DS confessed. ‘Some day, maybe I’ll play the senior tour.’

  He straightened in his chair, then leaned a little closer, his hands on the table.

  ‘So,’ he murmured, ‘your sister’s move; you say it had nothing to do with Maxwell?’

  ‘No, why should it?’

  ‘It had nothing to do with his appearance before the panel?’

  Sullivan’s eyes narrowed; he too leaned towards his interrogator. ‘What fucking panel?’

  ‘Three years ago, when he was fourteen, Maxwell appeared before a Children’s Hearing in North Lanarkshire. He was accused of exposing himself to a group of three-year-old girls in a park in Cumbernauld. The panel placed him under the supervision of a social worker for a year. Both his parents were at the hearing.’

  ‘I never knew about this! The dirty little bastard. Are you telling me he’s on the sex offenders’ register?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Pye said, intervening. ‘There was no conviction recorded; the Children’s Hearing isn’t a court.’

  ‘Still, he’s a pervert!’

  ‘Mr Sullivan, we’re not rushing to judgement here, but the lad’s past does flag him up for attention. Does he have access to your garage?’

  The uncle nodded. ‘Yes, he knows where the keys are.’

  ‘You’ve indicated that he has a driving licence. Does he have a car of his own?’

  ‘Not as such, but I’ve got a general insurance policy on all my vehicles and I let him use one when he wants.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Last night, but . . . Fuck me, my house isn’t far from the primary school.’ He whistled. ‘No wonder Mary was having a hard time in Cumbernauld. There are no secrets in a place like that.’

  ‘You didn’t see him this morning?’

  ‘No, nor did I hear him, and I probably would have if he’d been in. He’s always got music going in his room.’

  ‘Does he often go out early?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Not often, but it’s not unknown. As well as helping me, he works part-time down at the Seabird Centre. It opens at ten, but if there’s been an evening event, sometimes they ask him to go in early to clear up.’ Sullivan’s hands were shaking. ‘Christ, you’ve got me worried. He is a quiet lad, Maxwell, but I’ve never read anything into that. Now, I feel as if I don’t know the boy at all.’

  ‘Can you describe him for us?’

  ‘He’s tall, and he’s thin . . .’ He looked the sergeant in the eye. ‘Are you saying it might have been him that was driving the Beamer?’

  ‘No,’ Pye replied. ‘The description we have is of an older man, and our witness is . . . reliable, let’s say. But we do need to speak to Maxwell, if only to eliminate him. As a matter of interest, does he wear a hoodie?’

  ‘He’s got one.’ The reply was a whisper.

  ‘Thanks . . . but listen,’ the DCI added, ‘who doesn’t these days? It seems to be unofficial uniform for youngsters.’

  Haddock nodded. ‘I have one myself,’ he volunteered. ‘So has my girlfriend.’

  ‘How do you want to handle this?’ Sullivan asked. ‘Do you want me to bring him here?’

  ‘No,’ Pye replied, at once. ‘If he is at the Seabird Centre, will he go home for lunch?’

  ‘Yes, Mary too. I usually make it for all of us. ’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should be getting back there. Can I go now?’

  ‘You’re not being detained,’ the DCI told him, ‘but we’d appreciate your cooperation. To be frank, we need to see the boy before you do, and we don’t want you to call him before then. Trust us, it’ll be in his best interests.’

  ‘Will it? Suppose he’s . . .’ He stopped. ‘No, suppose he can’t give a good account of himself?’

  ‘Either way, I promise you, we will be discreet. If the kid has nothing to do with this, we don’t want to mess up his life . . . or yours, for that matter.’

  Eight

  Mario McGuire slid his car into an empty space. It was marked ‘Reserved’, but there was nobody within half a day’s drive who would outrank him, and so he took it without a moment’s hesitation. He knew Hawick, from a brief stint in Borders CID a few years before. He had been based in Galashiels back then, much closer
to Edinburgh, but the wool town had kept him busy enough.

  He switched off his engine and stepped out. There was a dampness in the air, although the clouds were high and rain did not seem imminent. He looked across the car park at the building to which he was headed, a squat, three-storey structure that stood in stark contrast in its ugliness with the elegant houses on the other side of the street, but which redeemed itself by making the area a burglar-free zone.

  They would be waiting for him, around the conference table, the area commander and senior staff, and the CID team that he had come to visit, as part of a tour that would take him all around Scotland, in line with Andy Martin’s decree that his senior officers should fend off accusations of centralisation by showing their faces in each local policing area as often as possible. The sandwiches would be curling up at the corners; he had been delayed by a lorry accident that had given him too much time to dwell on the awful gut-wrenching sight in the Fort Kinnaird mall.

  He had wanted to stay there, to take command and drive the investigation to a swift successful conclusion. He understood the frustration that Bob Skinner must have felt, the impotence of being just another bystander. But the days of action were gone for them both. He was part desk jockey, part tourist and his one-time mentor was a civilian.

  ‘For how long, I wonder,’ he murmured, thinking of a night a few years earlier, when he and Skinner were celebrating the arrest of a fugitive killer in a hotel in Monaco.

  ‘You know, Mario,’ the chief had said, after a few drinks. ‘The traffic has to flow safely, people must be protected against yobbery and anti-social behaviour in general, and our towns and cities must be peaceful places. Ensuring all of that is part of my job; I do it as best I can. But there’s one part that drives me on and always has done. We dress it up in fancy terms but when it comes down to it, mate, we are in the retribution business. We are the fucking equalisers, make no mistake. When we nail someone like the bastard we’ve just locked up, so help me God, I love it.’

  Could the man exist without that purpose in his life? McGuire was far from certain.