Private Investigations Page 8

  Martin leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I went along with that idea for a reason. Look, I won’t mince words; in every job I’ve ever had, even when I was deputy chief up in Dundee, I’ve felt that I was in Bob Skinner’s shadow.’

  ‘Come on, Andy,’ the DCC protested, ‘the man made us both. You and I started working for him on the same day, in Serious Crimes, and neither of us has looked back since. We weren’t in his shadow, ever; he lit the way for us to progress in the job.’

  ‘That may be true, I’ll grant you. But it’s history, and now we’re our own men. When I agreed to him being offered a role in the new service, I did it because I wanted it to stay that way. I wanted to tie him down, to limit him.

  ‘Mario, I have this dream; no kidding I do, and some nights it even wakens me up.

  ‘Next month, the chair of the Scottish Police Authority, the body whose statutory role is to hold us to account, comes to the end of his term of office. There are only two people being talked about as his potential successor. One is Sir James Proud, and the other’s Bob Skinner.

  ‘You know how bloody hands-on Bob was as a chief constable. Do you think anything’ll change if he becomes chair of the SPA? I was keen to keep him on the inside to take him out of the running, and that’s the truth of it. That’s why I went along with the First Minister’s offer. But Bob turned it down, and now I’m left with my bad bloody dream.’

  He stopped, looking at the camera, waiting for a response. When it came it was a soft, rumbling chuckle.

  ‘Bob Skinner,’ McGuire exclaimed, ‘as chair of a committee? Never. The big man doesn’t oversee things, he runs them.’

  ‘Exactly! He’d run the SPA too, and then he’d be trying to run us.’

  ‘That’s bollocks . . . sir. It won’t happen, not least because . . . That post is salaried, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s the screw?’

  ‘Sixty thousand a year, part-time.’

  ‘For what? Maybe a hundred and twenty days a year, that’s five hundred quid a day. Eden Higgins and his insurers are paying him four times that, and his job with the owners of the Saltire brings in even more. The SPA can’t fucking afford him.’

  ‘My good God,’ Martin gasped, ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Well, you do now. We don’t want to oppose him in this thing, man.’ McGuire’s chuckle became a booming laugh. ‘We should encourage him, so that when we retire he remembers and puts some of that our way.

  ‘But leaving that aside,’ he went on, ‘if we give him the report, he becomes an additional resource. He’ll either decide that ex-DI McGarry did a competent job, or he’ll kick-start the thing and run it properly. Who knows, he might even find the bloody boat.’

  Martin capitulated. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let him have it, and tell McGarry to cooperate with him and answer any questions he comes up with. Bloody Skinner,’ he sighed, ‘he’s a magnet for crime.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ the DCC said. ‘This very morning . . .’

  Eleven

  ‘Mr Francey,’ Pye murmured, bracing himself against the guard rail of his boat as it rocked in its mooring, ‘I’ve been a police officer for fifteen years. In that time, more than a few people have run away from me. I can’t recall a single one of them who “Hadnae done anything”, as you put it.’

  ‘Well, he hadnae,’ Chic Francey repeated. ‘Dean’s a good lad.’

  ‘So why did he turn into Bradley Wiggins when he saw us?’ Haddock asked. ‘We followed him into the car park at the end of the High Street but he left us for dead. And by the way,’ he added, looking the man straight in the eye, ‘he’s done something now. He stole the bike he rode off on, four hundred quid’s worth, according to the careless owner who went into the Seabird Centre without chaining it to the rack.’

  ‘You guys would make onybody nervous.’

  ‘Only the guilty.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Here’s the truth,’ Pye told him. ‘When your son was sixteen years old, he appeared in the Sheriff Court in Haddington, where he pleaded guilty to seventeen counts of theft from cars, and fourteen counts of malicious damage. He was put on probation for two years. When he was eighteen he was found guilty of taking away a vehicle from the car park in St Andrews Street, North Berwick. He was fined five hundred pounds, and put on probation again. There’s no getting round that, Mr Francey; next time he’s in court, he’s going to prison.’

  ‘You lot would just love that,’ the father retorted.

  ‘Get real,’ the DCI said. ‘I’ve never met Dean. I don’t know him, so I had no preconceptions . . . until he took off. Now . . . I’m investigating a car theft with serious consequences, and he’s put himself right at the top of the list of suspects. So please, for his sake, help us.’

  ‘Tae do what? Tae put him in jail?’

  ‘Can we get off this fucking boat?’ Pye snapped. He was no sailor; the gentle swell of the harbour at full tide and the combined odours of fish, seaweed and oil were beginning to affect him.

  Francey looked at him, a sneer in his eyes, then turned and climbed the few rungs of the steel ladder that was bolted into the quayside. The two detectives followed suit.

  On solid ground once more, Haddock took over from his boss. ‘Mr Francey, Dean’s doing a bloody good job of putting himself in jail without your help, but the longer this goes on, the tougher it could be for him. I’m not going into detail, but a car that he knows and had been in was stolen from its garage over the weekend. It turned up this morning in Edinburgh, and the driver ran off. The description we have fits your son.’

  The father shook his head. ‘Naw, he was here all morning,’ he protested.

  ‘Do me the courtesy of looking at me when you lie to me,’ the DS said. He turned and nodded towards the old granary behind him. ‘There are upwards of half a dozen flats in that building, overlooking your boat. If he was here, he’ll have been seen by at least one of the residents, for sure. And anyway, what were you doing here, the pair of you? The tide would have been out.’

  He gave the man time to consider, then went on. ‘I understand you wanting to protect your son; my dad would do the same for me, if he had to. Now tell us, when did he turn up here, honestly?’

  Francey’s shoulders slumped. ‘Just after twelve,’ he murmured. ‘We were supposed to go out at half ten, tae check the pots. Ah wasnae best pleased when he never turned up, for missin’ the tide costs me money. Ah could hae done it maself, but thought he was comin’ so Ah waited.’

  ‘Does Dean live with you?’

  ‘Naw. He’s got a one-bedroom flat in a buildin’ on the main street.’

  ‘We’ll check that,’ Pye said, his equilibrium recovered, ‘but I don’t expect he’ll be there waiting for us. Do you know of anywhere else he’d go in a crisis?’

  ‘He might go tae Donna’s, his sister’s, Ah suppose.’

  ‘Where does Donna live?’

  ‘Musselburgh, near the station.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Naw. She’s married tae a fireman. Ah can phone her if ye like, tae see if he’s there.’

  ‘I think we’d rather ask her that. Give me her address and we’ll pay her a call.’

  ‘She’ll no’ be in. She works at the university. Levon, her man, he might be. He works shifts. Ah could phone him.’

  ‘If you want to phone anyone,’ the DCI suggested, ‘you could try calling Dean himself, and tell him to go to the nearest police office.’ Behind him he heard Haddock speaking on his mobile. He waited for him to finish.

  ‘That was Lucy Tweedie,’ the DS announced. ‘Her troops have found what they think is the stolen bike, abandoned at the station. If he caught the train they think he might be on, it’ll be due in Edinburgh in two minutes. She’s asked the transport p
olice to meet it and she’s given them a description.’

  ‘If he’s thinking straight,’ Pye countered, ‘he’ll have got off earlier, at Musselburgh if he’s going to his sister’s. Call him please, Mr Francey, then give me your phone.’

  The fisherman dug out a scratched and battered mobile from his overalls, peered at it and poked it a few times, before holding it to his ear for a second then handing it over.

  The DCI listened to it ring seven times, then change tone as it was answered. ‘This is Dino. Cannae talk the noo’, so leave us a message or call us later.’

  ‘And this is the police, Dino, one of the officers you pedalled away from. When you pick this up I want you to do one thing and one thing only. Go to your nearest police office and tell them that you’re wanted for questioning by Detective Chief Inspector Pye and Detective Sergeant Haddock, stationed at Fettes. Do it, and this morning might not go too badly for you. Ignore this message, and it will.’

  He made a note of the number showing on the small screen, then ended the call and handed the phone back to Francey. ‘I want your address,’ he told him, ‘Dean’s address and your daughter’s address, plus any other places where he might go. If he calls you, tell him to hand himself in. Do not, repeat not, give him any assistance. If you do, we’ll know, for we’ll be monitoring your mobile. We’ll see you again, no doubt.’

  He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Haddock to note the addresses. It was only when they were both inside their car that the sergeant turned to him and said, ‘What were you on about there? We can’t monitor his mobile.’

  The DCI smiled. ‘I know that, and you know that; but he doesn’t know it, and neither does his son. Come on, let’s pick up Maxwell from the police station, and have him introduce us to his girlfriend. We still need to get her fingerprints for the scene of crime people.’

  ‘Should we involve her parents?’

  ‘According to the boy, she’s eighteen so we don’t need to. Let’s print her and have Lucy Tweedie explain to them after the event.’

  ‘Maybe there’s one other thing we should do, Sammy. Dean Francey’s photo will be on file because of his convictions. I know Mr Skinner said he didn’t get a good look at the BMW driver this morning, but if we run it past him, maybe it’ll trigger something.’

  Pye nodded. ‘We’ll do that; and something else too. We’ve both had a good look at young Mr Francey. The Fort Kinnaird security people said they’ve got some video of the driver hightailing it through the centre. Let’s access it and see if their running styles are similar.’

  Twelve

  ‘I can’t be one hundred per cent certain,’ Bob Skinner began, ‘not as in under oath, but there is a very good chance that Francey’s our man . . . sorry, your man.’

  ‘Thanks, gaffer,’ Sauce Haddock said, over the landline in the North Berwick police office. ‘We’ve just looked at video footage we had sent to us from the car park and we’re agreeing with that. We had a better look at him than you did, and we’re one hundred per cent certain.’

  ‘What did I tell you about calling me “gaffer”?’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Those days are over.’

  ‘You’ll always be the gaffer to us, sir. You’d better learn to live with it.’

  Replacing the handset on its cradle he turned to Pye. ‘He . . .’ he began, stopping when he saw that the DCI was on his mobile, and looking grim faced.

  ‘Indeed,’ he heard him murmur. ‘Yes, I’ve got that. Call me back when you hear more from the hospital. Thanks.’ He ended the call.

  ‘That was Jackie,’ he said. ‘She’s in the mobile HQ at Fort Kinnaird. She thinks we’ve identified Zena.’

  ‘She thinks?’ the DS repeated.

  ‘Provisional, but it looks likely. Just after nine o’clock this morning a woman was found by a cyclist at the roadside just outside a village called Garvald, out beyond Haddington on the other side of the A1 from here. She was unconscious with obvious head injuries. The bloke called the three nines, and she was rushed to Accident and Emergency. We attended too; the assumption was that she was a hit-and-run victim . . .’

  ‘Fucking assumptions,’ Haddock growled.

  ‘I know, but that’s how it appeared to the cops who attended. It was only when the ambulance got to the hospital that the woman was identified, through a debit card she had in her purse. It took a while for the bank to come up with her details but eventually they did. Her name is Grete Regal, and the address they had for her was Shell Cottage, Garvald. The electoral roll has her living there with her partner; his name is David Gates. She went back to the bank and asked about him. All they could tell her is that he’s in the Royal Navy, ’cos that’s where his salary comes from.

  ‘The cottage isn’t in the village itself; it’s a few hundred yards along a country road. As soon as the victim had been identified and located, the traffic guys went back to Garvald, to her address. It was locked, but they’d taken some keys that were found on Grete.

  ‘It was obvious that a child lived there; the biggest clue of all was a sign on a door that read “Zena’s room”. By that time the two of them knew about our investigation, and that we were trying to identify a female child. They were smart enough to take photographs and sent them to Jackie, in the mobile command unit; this is one. It’s a framed poster above a child’s bed.’ He held up an image on his phone. ‘It’s an entry in a thing called The Urban Dictionary.’

  ‘“A Zena,”’ Haddock read, peering at the little screen, ‘“is a beautiful, funny, nice and caring person. Great in all aspects of life. Will kick ass if you mess with her friends! Usually very skinny and has brown eyes. Awesome tastes in music and literature. Zenas are always right.” Could the label on her jacket have been a nickname? Aw Jesus, and she was a skinny wee thing with brown eyes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Pye exclaimed. ‘At that point, Jackie’s check had turned up no reports of missing children as such, but there were the usual absences, and she was thorough enough to note those for follow-up, if it was necessary. As soon as she saw that poster she went back to the note she had on Garvald Primary School. A five-year-old child, called Olivia Regal Gates, was marked absent this morning, without a notifying call from the parents.’

  ‘Is there a photo of her?’

  ‘Jackie called the head teacher. She has pics of all the kids; she’s going to scan Olivia’s and email it to her. But . . . she said that everyone at school calls her Zena. She was only asked for the names of absent children, and she gave them off the register, without thinking.’

  ‘Did Jackie ask if she has any siblings?’

  ‘Yes, and she doesn’t; she’s an only child.’

  ‘How about the mother?’ the DS asked. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘She’s still in surgery; she has a fractured skull and brain swelling. However . . . Jackie spoke to the doctor who saw her in Accident and Emergency. She asked whether there were any other injuries, anything to indicate that she was hit by a car. There were none. So forget the hit-and-run theory. I’m sending the scientists out to the scene to see what they can find.’

  Haddock whistled. ‘This was well planned, Sammy.’

  ‘It was, mate. Dean Francey knew exactly what he was doing; he, or someone else, must have studied Grete’s routine, and worked out when she and her child would be alone and at their most vulnerable.’

  ‘Surely there’s no “or someone else” about it, boss. There must be another person involved. Dino doesn’t strike me as a planner. And what would he do with a five year old anyway? Ransom her? Nah.’

  ‘Sell her?’ Pye suggested, quietly.

  ‘To a paedo ring? No, surely not.’

  ‘Like you said earlier, Sauce, no fucking assumptions. We rule nothing out. For now, everything is focused on finding Dean Francey.’

  Thirteen

  I have two sounding
boards in my life these days, and they’re both women.

  There’s Sarah, who’s my therapist almost as much as she’s my life partner. That’s true, literally. When she came back to Scotland from her spell in the US, and saw how screwed up I was, professionally as well as personally, she gave me a frank assessment, over the dinner table in Mark Greenaway’s discreet Edinburgh restaurant.

  ‘I’m not a fully trained psychologist,’ she said, ‘but I did study it as part of my medical degree. On top of that, any doctor who’s ever done any level of general practice has to possess a feeling for a patient’s state of mind as well as for his physical condition. Looking at you, and knowing you as well as I do, if I was asked to make a diagnosis, I would describe you as clinically depressed.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I protested. ‘I might be a grumpy sod from time to time, but depressed, no, I don’t buy that. What makes you say it?’

  ‘You have no barriers,’ she replied. ‘You have a job in which you see some terrible things and have tough decisions to make, some of them literally life and death. There was a time when you could put all that stuff into perspective and stow it away when you came home. When I left, you weren’t able to do that any more, you carried your whole burden everywhere, and I don’t see that you’ve gotten any better in the time I was away.’

  I frowned. ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘Trust me, you haven’t. Bob, when your people experience extreme stress, they’re offered counselling. These days it’s automatic. Now tell me something. Have you ever had a formal counselling session?’

  ‘Come on,’ I chuckled. ‘You know the answer to that one. I’m not having strangers rummage about inside my head.’

  ‘And what a goddamn state your head’s in as a result,’ she countered.

  ‘What about you?’ I challenged. ‘I’m not the only one with a stressful job. You’re a bloody pathologist . . . the perfect choice of adjective, by the way. You spend your day rummaging through dead people’s once-vital organs, for fuck’s sake.’