Hour Of Darkness (12 page)

‘Then privately,’ I told him, ‘I’ll accept what you’re saying. If I do so publicly, it means that Edinburgh has an unsolved murder on its hands, and my old colleagues wouldn’t thank me for that.’ I paused. ‘As a matter of interest, what about the other woman, could she confirm that you were with her?’

‘Not any more; she’s dead. She was killed in a fire in her husband’s car showroom, down in Seafield.’

I remembered that fire. It had been no accident. I’d known the woman too, and wasn’t sorry she was dead, but that wasn’t ground I was going over with Lennie.

‘Let’s get back to Bella,’ I said. ‘Did you have any contact with her at all?’

‘I sent her a Christmas card every year. Do you want to know why? Because she was the only person I could send one to. There was always you, I suppose, but your wife might have thought it was a bit weird.’ He grinned. ‘Or should I say your wives?’

‘Touché,’ I chuckled. ‘Aileen certainly would have. Your contemporary socialist politician is pretty old guard when it comes to crime and punishment.’

‘All politicians are; they’re all things to all people. When I get out I might form a new party on the internet, and let the members determine the policies by questionnaire. They’ll tell us what they want and we’ll believe in it.’

‘I hate to disappoint you,’ I said, ‘but you’re too late. They’ve been doing that for years: focus groups, they call them. Did Bella send you a card back?’ I asked.

‘No. And we had no contact other than that. I’ve had no contact with her, in fact, since before I went in for assault.’

‘Why did you do it? Why did you look after her in that way?’

‘I did it because Tony would have wanted me to,’ he explained . . . although I’d known the answer anyway. ‘He had a soft spot for the old boot; Perry Holmes had both her sons killed, and the second one died because of him. Tony took care of her when he was alive, and when I inherited his estate, I felt that I’d an obligation to carry on doing that. She’d been living in a flat that Tony owned and left to me, but it was attached to some property I wanted rid of, so I instructed the lawyers to give her a budget and let her choose her own place.’

‘I see. So you don’t know anything about her life?’

‘Nothing, not since the last time I saw her, and as I say that must be fifteen years ago. You’ve probably seen her more recently than I have.’

‘Probably not; I think the last time I saw her was at her son’s funeral. You may recall it; you were there, cord number three, if I’m right.’ Then I remembered a later meeting, with her and Manson. ‘But no, that wasn’t the last; there was one more time after that.’ I caught his eye. ‘What did you think of her, Lennie?’

He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling for a few moments. He was smiling when he met my eyes again. ‘Ever read
Lord of the Rings
?’ he asked.

‘Sure, a long time ago.’

‘Do you remember Shelob, in the third book?’

‘The bloody great spider that nearly does for Frodo?’

‘That’s the one; bloody great female spider, to be absolutely accurate. That’s how I’ve always seen Bella: clever, cunning and utterly vicious.’

‘That’s a good analogy,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve always suspected that her brothers did her bidding a lot of the time, but I’d never have got near proving it. So, from all the people she mixed with back in those days, can you think of anyone who might have carried a grudge against her for a long time? After all, she was living as Isabella Spreckley, not Watson. Could it be that an old enemy had lost track of her, then came across her again?’

‘It could. I’ll grant you that. But if that’s what happened, I can’t help you with a name. Apart from Tony, nobody liked the woman, but I can’t think of anyone who might get that extreme about her.’

‘Look at it from another angle,’ I suggested. ‘People she might have had a serious down on herself.’

‘Even there, I can’t tell you anything you don’t know already. The Spreckley family fell foul of the Holmes brothers. They made Bella’s brother and son, Gavin and Ryan, let’s say disappear. Brother Billy took out the Holmeses and died in the act. A few years later, Bella’s second boy was killed, on Perry’s orders, then Perry drowned in his hydrotherapy pool.’

‘Was drowned, we reckoned,’ I corrected him. Officially, Perry’s wheelchair malfunctioned, or so the fiscal decided, when no alternative could be proved.

‘And so did most people,’ he acknowledged, ‘but if you’re asking, I have no idea who held him under. You’re not suggesting that was Bella, are you?’

‘I know it wasn’t. I didn’t investigate it, but I know she might have been a suspect if she hadn’t been able to prove she was in Florida when it happened . . . with Tony Manson.’

Lennie whistled. ‘I didn’t know that. It tells me plenty. Normally Tony wouldn’t have taken Bella anywhere you couldn’t reach on a Lothian bus. That suggests he was behind it.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s academic; ancient history. I didn’t care much at the time and I care nothing at all now.’

‘Whatever, Bob, it just about closed the book on Bella’s feud.’

‘You’d imagine so, but . . . Tell me, have you ever come across a man called Peter Hastings McGrew when you were inside? He’s a lifer too, doing time for two murders.’

He stared at me. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. We met when he came to Kilmarnock, three years ago. I run group self-assessment sessions in prison, me and an outside psychologist. The idea is to get long-term prisoners to open up about their crimes, and to examine their motivation at the time. We don’t ask them about their current perspective, for they’d all claim to have reformed. It’s the job of my colleague to listen to them and reach a view on their fitness for parole. Hastie McGrew came to these sessions.’

I felt my antennae twitch. ‘He came to them, you say?’

‘Yes. He was released on licence a few months ago, at the back end of last year, in fact.’ I felt a chill run through me, but I hid it from my visitor.

‘Did you know anything about his crimes before you met him? Had you ever heard of him?’

‘No, and that surprised me, until he told me that he did what I did: he accepted his culpability and pleaded guilty to save the Crown the cost of a trial.’

‘Right. Now, do you remember a man called Derek Drysalter, a footballer?’

Lennie frowned and his big face darkened. ‘Always. Where are you going with this, Bob?’

‘Not far,’ I replied. ‘Drysalter was a hit-and-run victim. That’s how the complaint read, and that’s how it was investigated. Needless to say we never traced the car or the driver . . . because they didn’t exist.’ Lennie knew that I knew exactly who had smashed the guy’s legs, but I had no wish to make him admit it.

‘The lad was a serial gambler,’ I went on, ‘and very bad at it; he’d run up a big tab with Tony Manson, so certain conclusions were drawn. He never played again after his . . . accident, but he’s done all right since as a manager and a pundit.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Lennie said. ‘All I will say is that I had doubts about a few of the things Tony asked me to do, but he was my patron so . . . For every action, a reaction; behind every effect, a cause. That’s the way our world worked,’ he observed. ‘It’s the way the legitimate works too, but that’s codified, and those codes are the accepted mores. Now,’ he continued, ‘are you going to tell me what took you from Hastie McGrew to Derek Drysalter?’

I did. ‘They’re brothers-in-law.’

I didn’t think I could ever surprise Lennie Plenderleith, but that did.

‘They’re what?’ he gasped. ‘Are you telling me that wife of his . . . What was her name again? Alafair, that was it . . . that Tony Manson was banging, was Hastie McGrew’s sister?’

‘I am indeed. Now, work this one out. Hastie and Alafair were illegitimate in the days before it was fashionable. They used their mother’s name rather than their father’s. Given that young Marlon Watson, who was Tony’s driver, remember, was killed by hired talent from Newcastle while Tony and the girl were off in Majorca or wherever, who do you think Daddy was?’

It took him all of three seconds to read the script for the drama that had been played out the best part of twenty years earlier.

‘Perry Holmes,’ he murmured.

‘Spot on, my friend. That guy you had in your self-assessment group is Perry Holmes’s son.’

‘And Perry had Bella’s boy done to warn Tony off his daughter?’

I nodded.

‘Which means that Drysalter’s “accident” had nothing to do with him thumping his wife when he found out she’d been playing away, or with a gambling tab? It was Tony sending a signal back?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Did you know about Hastie McGrew being in my group? Is that why you asked me in here?’

‘No, Lennie,’ I said. ‘I promise you I had no idea. I’ve barely thought about McGrew since the day he went away. But since he’s probably the only guy alive, apart from you and me, who knows about the Watson feud, and . . .’

He raised a hand, interrupting me. ‘I’m with you. Hastie’s a smart guy. He could have suspected, rightly or wrongly, who was responsible for old Perry’s death. What you’re about to ask me was whether I ever said anything to him that might have hinted that I knew where Bella was.’

‘I am indeed.’

‘I’m trying to remember.’ He frowned, deeply. ‘Jeez,’ he whispered. ‘There was one session, when I steered the group towards atonement. To get contributions going, I started off; I told them that one of the people I killed had left a teenage daughter, and that I’d established a fund that would pay her way through university.

‘I also mentioned that I was looking after someone else, a woman friend of Tony’s who’d suffered enough loss for anyone’s lifetime. I said I’d bought a place for her in Edinburgh, just off Dalry Road.’ His expression changed, took on a look of anger. ‘Fuck it!’ he snapped.

‘What?’

‘My psychologist colleague asked during the session if I’d done it anonymously. I said I had for the girl, but that I’d bought the flat under my investment alias, Jackson.’

‘McGrew heard this?’

‘Yes. He was there. If he’d wanted he’d have been able to look through the valuation roll, to find out who was paying the council tax.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he wouldn’t; it only lists addresses. The property register, though, that’s a different matter. He could look for your name there . . . or rather for Dominic Jackson. I’ll pass McGrew’s name on to my old team in Edinburgh. Mario McGuire will know who he is; he was around at the time.’

I looked across at him and my breath caught in my throat. That great big guy had tears in his eyes.

‘I thought I was gone from all of that,’ he sighed. ‘I swore to myself I’d never hurt another human being. There’s a curse on me, Bob, and now I’ve passed it on to Bella.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said, firmly. ‘Yours was exorcised years ago; if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be my friend. As for Bella Watson, she called her curse down on her own head, before you were even born. There was a streak of badness in her that affected everyone she touched. You’re not responsible for her death; she is.’

‘I’d like to believe all that, but it’s difficult for me. The dreams I have at night, man.’

For all his intensity, I could not stop myself from smiling. ‘Listen, mate,’ I countered, ‘you’ve done some awful things in your life, but you’ve faced up to them. You did them because you thought it was your duty. Society didn’t agree with you, but you’re paying the price it exacted without complaint. I’ve killed people too, in the line of my duty. Society said that was okay, but that doesn’t stop me having dreams that are, I’ll bet, just as bad as yours.’

I let my words sink in, before I added, ‘So, Lennie, think no more of this; complete your degree, and after you’re released next year, you and I will work together. How, I don’t know, but I can feel it; we will.’

Twenty-Four

I was still contemplating my departed visitor, after walking him to the lift, when Sandra Bulloch knocked on my door and slipped into the room. ‘Your friend Mr Jackson seems like a nice chap,’ she said, with a smile and a glint in her eye.

‘He is,’ I replied. I was amused by her reaction to Lennie; Sandra’s normally a very serious person, and it was the first time I’d seen her even hint that there was another side to her.

‘How old is he?’ she asked, not quite casually enough. ‘Late thirties?’ she suggested.

‘No, he’s in his mid-forties.’

‘He wears it well.’

‘Yes, he’s an ascetic. His life is almost monastic, you might say.’

‘Mmm. Does that mean he’s single?’

‘Yes it does. You might say he lives the way he does because he’s single.’

She stared at me. ‘Uh? I don’t get that, sir.’

‘He was convicted of his wife’s murder. He says he didn’t do it. Yes, I know most of them say that, but I believe him. He did kill another couple of people though, no question.’ I chuckled at her confusion, then explained who Lennie Plenderleith was, and had been.

‘He’s a charming man,’ she said, her enthusiasm dampened, ‘but I’ve heard that said about Crippen. Can we expect him to become a media celeb when he’s released?’

A good question, and one I hadn’t considered. ‘Probably not,’ I surmised, ‘for that would drag up his past. When he does get out he’ll only be Lennie Plenderleith to his probation officer. To the rest of the world he’ll be Dr Dominic Jackson, practising psychologist. But,’ I continued, ‘you didn’t come in here to ask for his phone number.’

‘No, sir,’ she agreed, ‘I didn’t. While you were engaged, you had a call on your private line from Chief Constable Steele, in Edinburgh. She asks if you could call her back.’

‘Of course.’

‘Shall I get her for you?’

‘No,’ I told her, ‘I’ll ring her myself. I’ve got another task for you. A life sentence prisoner named Peter Hastings McGrew was released from Kilmarnock Prison recently. I want you to find out what he gave as his address and who his probation officer is.’

‘If I’m asked why, sir.’

‘You can say that he’s a person of interest.’

‘And if I’m asked of interest to whom?’

‘Then you’ve got my permission to yell at whoever asks you.’

As my exec left me, I picked up the phone and dialled my old Edinburgh number. Maggie Steele picked up on the second ring.

‘Chief Constable,’ I said, ‘I’m told that you rang me. First McGuire, now you. Can’t you people leave me alone?’

‘You’re a hard habit to break,’ she laughed, ‘but it’s necessary. Mario told me that he’d been in touch with you about the Bella Watson murder. This is a completely different matter.’

‘Formal or informal?’

‘Let’s begin with informal, and take it from there. Imagine the shit hitting a giant wind turbine.’

‘That would spread pretty far,’ I conceded. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘I’ve got a missing officer, and his wife is nowhere to be found either. A bloodstained hand towel was found at their home, and forensics have established that it’s hers . . . the blood, that is.’

‘How long?’

‘Have they been missing? Possibly as much as forty-eight hours.’

‘Is their car gone?’

‘Yes,’ Maggie replied, ‘and the duvet from their bed. The house was tidy, no signs of a disturbance, but their bedroom was in a mess, as if someone had packed and got out of there in a hurry.’

‘How do you know they used a duvet? They might have slept under a sheet in the summer.’

‘We found a cover in the tumble dryer. It’s a fair assumption.’

‘Yes it is,’ I admitted, ‘but all you’ve told me so far is that a couple have run off. How much blood was on the towel? Was it just a pinprick or was it a whole armful, to quote Tony Hancock?’

‘No, it was less than that. There was a little more in the kitchen.’

‘Come on now,’ I said. ‘She might have been chopping onions and cut a finger; we’ve all done something like that. She might have had a nosebleed. It might be completely unconnected with their disappearance, yet clearly you’re pressing the panic button. They could just have done a runner from a crisis situation; unmanageable debt, for example.’

‘They’ve abandoned two children, Bob,’ Steele told me. ‘They were left with her mother, like, just left with her. There was no contact, no nothing. The woman is frantic.’

‘Okay, I’m convinced,’ I conceded. ‘Something’s up. Now are you going to tell me who it is? I doubt that it’s a rank and file officer, or you wouldn’t have your knickers in such a twist.’

‘Would you like to take a guess?’ she asked.

‘Aw, come on, Maggie! No party games.’

‘I’m serious. You’ve got the best instincts in the force. I’d like to know which of my senior officers you think is capable of going off the rails.’

‘If you must,’ I sighed. ‘Well, leaving you out of it, and also big McGuire, and taking a broad view . . .’

I paused, considering the possibilities. ‘George Regan’s a sound bloke, but his wife has never got over losing their son, and neither has George, completely. She’s borderline crazy, so is it possible that she’s talked him into a suicide pact? But what am I talking about? You mentioned children, plural. George junior was an only.

‘Of course,’ I exclaimed, as the answer hit me between the eyes, ‘there’s only one obvious candidate: a man with a history of depression, alcohol abuse, and as volatile as they come. It’s David Mackenzie, isn’t it? The guy I plucked from Strathclyde, without ever realising that his colleagues through here were lining up to wave him goodbye.’

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘Has he been under stress lately?’

‘Self-inflicted, but yes. He’s had trouble settling into Neil’s old job, and he had to be more or less reprimanded at the weekend. Now Mario and I are blaming ourselves for putting him there.’

‘Then stop bloody blaming yourselves,’ I retorted. ‘Blame me for making him your problem in the first place; I could have got rid of him, but my sheer stubborn pride wouldn’t let me. What are you doing about the situation?’

‘We’re treating it as a suspicious incident,’ Maggie replied, ‘but keeping it confidential. We’re not making any public statements or appeals, not until Thursday at the earliest. Ray Wilding’s the investigating officer, working alone. Because of something that was found on Mackenzie’s computer, he’s looking at ferry terminals.’

‘All of them?’ I exclaimed.

‘We’ll have to. A computer check by all the major companies on bookings might lead us to him, but I’m not holding out any great hope. The security on outward Channel and North Sea crossings is a long way from perfect. In practice, you can book under an assumed name, without giving a vehicle registration. They, or he, if our worst fears are realised, could be out of the country already. They could be anywhere by now.’

‘If.’

‘Everything’s “if” just now, Bob. If we can’t find Mackenzie’s details or registration number on the ferry companies’ lists, Wilding’s plan is to ask forces at each terminal to look at CCTV, without knowing they’re searching for a cop. That’s where I’d like your help.’

‘You’re wondering if he might have gone north, to the islands, rather than south, to Europe?’

‘Either that or to Ireland,’ she said. ‘There’s a route from Troon to Larne on your patch as well as all the CalMac ferries and lots of smaller ones. There are as many ferry routes within Scotland as there are to foreign countries from the entire United Kingdom.’

‘I’ll put people on it.’ Two names came to me, a matched pair. ‘In fact, I’ll put my best on it. Tell Ray Wilding that somebody will be in touch. But there’s one thing to consider, Maggie: this is David’s old patch. I hear what you’re saying about confidentiality, but people here will have known him and it might help if I share the name. Don’t worry, I can trust the officers I plan on using to be discreet.’

‘Whatever you think best.’ I heard the worry in her voice, and sympathised. Every conscientious officer will fret about the job from time to time, but once you reach the chief constable’s office it goes to a whole different level.

‘Thanks, Bob,’ she continued. ‘Us cops, we’re just ordinary people with a warrant card, so I’m still hoping that the pair of them will turn up with their tails between their legs and full of apologies, but we have to picture the worst, then act as if it’s happened.’

‘I know. The bugger is, it usually has. Anyway,’ I told her, ‘this is my day for doing you good turns. I’d like you to pass something on to Mario for me. Tell him that I’ve spoken to Bella Watson’s landlord, and he’s put a quite unexpected name in the frame, one that he will know from the days when he was fresh out of uniform . . . if he can remember that far back.’

I was frowning as I hung up, then walked the short distance to Sandra Bulloch’s office.

‘I want you to give someone a message from me,’ I told her, ‘but before you do, I’d like you to call Strathclyde University. Have them find Mr Jackson and ask him to call me back. They can tell him that I want to consult him professionally.’

I smiled to myself. ‘Didn’t I just tell him that we’d work together some day?’