'So
will Lauren and Spence be.'
'Yeah.'
For
a while they sat in silence, until Steele broke it. 'Those keys,' he said. 'Has
the check on tenants of small office premises thrown up anything?'
'No,'
answered Rose. 'There are one or two vacant around the county, but the rest are
all accounted for. Whatever those keys are for, I'm sure that they are not for
an office around here.
'The
bank statements gave us nothing either; it was nearly all domestic stuff, the
routine standing orders and bills, money going out to his daughter through a
university branch of Lloyds TSB in Birmingham - she must still be a student.
The only thing we couldn't nail down completely was an annual payment of twelve
hundred pounds to a firm of solicitors in Dundee, but Alec told the bank
manager when he set up the debit that it was money for his wife.'
She
looked at Mario. 'I think we should talk to the wife, don't you?'
'Aye.
All due deference to the Chief, but when he saw her he didn't know the
questions to ask. We should see her again, right enough.'
'Okay.
You two do that tomorrow then; go to Penicuik or wherever and see her.'
McGuire
shook his head. 'Hold on a minute there, Chief Inspector. This is becoming a
threat to national security. I'm only involved in this investigation because
it's Alec. I'm Special Branch Commander, so I have to spend some time
commanding the bloody thing; plus I've asked for Alice Cowan as from tomorrow
morning. I've already got the Head of CID picking up two suspects for me; I
cannot go tear-arsing out on what is probably just a follow-up interview.'
'I
suppose not,' she conceded. 'You do it alone then, Stevie. Just confirm that
standing order was a token maintenance payment for her, and see if she knows
about those photographs - and if she has any idea what they're about.'
'Aye,'
said her husband, 'and ask her if he knows where he walked his dog. At the
moment it looks as if Alec just buried his stuff. Maybe he got it to do the
digging!'
'If
that's right,' said Maggie, flashing one of her rare on-duty smiles, 'that
dog'll be the first bloody witness we've found in this case!'
28
'I
wasn't kidding about lunch,' said Martin. He laid a tray on the table; two
large filled rolls, a Mars bar and a mug of coffee with two sugar lumps and a
spoon beside it. 'Corned beef and pickle all right?' he asked. 'I wasn't sure
about the sugar.'
Gus
Morrison glared up at him, then at the food, suspiciously. 'It's all right,'
Sammy Pye assured him. 'I've just got the rolls myself from a place across the
street.'
'Don't
worry,' the Head of CID continued, cheerfully, 'they're not laced with a truth
drug or anything like that. We're not that subtle: we'll just batter the truth
out of you if we have to, won't we, Sammy?' He held his hands up, quickly.
'Only joking, only joking. Now go on, dig in.'
Morrison
reached out and picked up a flour-dusted roll, squinted at it, then took a
bite. 'Ah want a lawyer,' he mumbled through a mouthful of corned beef and
pickle. They were the first words he had spoken, from the moment they had left
the depot to their arrival at the St Leonard's divisional HQ, chosen because of
its link to the Smith case.
'I'm
sure you do, Gus, and if it comes to the bit you'll have one; but you don't
need one yet, you see. We just want to ask you a few things.' He sat back and
waited, watching in silence as the blue-chinned man munched his way through the
rolls, added the sugar lumps to his coffee, stirred it, then tore off the Mars
bar wrapping.
'Fuckn'
bastards. Fuckn' bastards,' he muttered under his breath, shoulders hunched,
staring down at the table top. 'Aye after us, fuckn' bastards.'
'What
was that, Gus?' Pye asked. The man shot him a sideways glance. 'Nothin'.' He
looked back at Martin. 'What's this about then?' he asked, his eyes clear
suddenly, his voice lucid.
'Do
you remember a man called Smith?' the Head of CID asked.
'Do
I remember a man called Smith? I remember a hundred men called Smith, Officer.
There was Tarn Smith, who had the corner shop when I was a boy. There was Dandy
Smith, who was in my class at primary school and got run over by a bus. There
was Mary Smith, in the jail
...
his
real name was Michael, but he was called that because he bent over in the
showers. There was
...'
'Did
he bend over for you?' Martin asked suddenly, still smiling. 'Did you go queer
in the nick?'
Morrison
blinked. 'No,' he boomed. 'Certainly not. It was the wee hard men who did that.
The mentality you see. They had to show who the top dogs were, in every way
they could; so they buggered the likes of Mary to do it.'
'Did
they bugger you?'
The
laugh was so sudden, so sharp, so dismissive, that the detective almost reacted
to it. 'Bugger me? Bugger big Gus? Did they buggery!' He laughed again, at his
own sad humour.
'Ah.
Sorry, it was just that I thought, with Wendy topping herself
...'
Something
seemed to swim behind Morrison's eyes; another creature, in there.
'Wendy
never thought
...
Wendy? Wendy! It was
the other
way around!' His voice rose. 'I
know what happened! All those fucking bull dykes in that bloody place, never
leaving her alone and the screws - aye, know why they call them screws? - and
wee Wendy. She was soft and weak and a gentle lassie and very private. Kept
herself to herself you know what I mean, women's things; and it all got too
much for her, and they killed her up there, the fucking bastards
...'
He broke off, his chest heaving,
gasping for breath.
Martin
rose and put two strong hands on the man's shoulders, holding him down in his
chair. 'Fuckn' bastards. Fuckn' bastards,' he mumbled.
'Gus,
that is pure fantasy,' said the Head of CID. 'It never happened; none of it.
Wendy wasn't abused in prison; she became depressed. She saw counsellors there;
she told them that what you had got her into, all that Free Scotland nonsense,
had ruined her life. She was put on medication, but she didn't take it; they
found it afterwards, after she hanged herself with her sheets, leaving a letter
to you blaming you for everything.'
Morrison
writhed in his grip; trying to stand, but Martin held him down. 'Balls,' he
snarled. 'Fuckn' bastards bent her mind.' The voice, rising again, grating.
'Wendy was a good wee soldier, a good wee Scottish soldier. She and I, we did
it; others talked, others marched up and fuckn' down but we did it. And those
fuckn' traitorous bastards watchin' us all the time, watchin' us, watchin' us!
Chief fuckn' bastard Chief fuckn' Inspector Alec fuckn' Smith
...'
Martin
slapped him across the face, hard, to stop the flow of spit-flecked vitriol.
'How did you know that Smith?' he snapped. 'He was never named in court. He
never interviewed you after your arrest. How did you know that man called Smith
among the hundred?'
As
the man's hysteria subsided, he released his grip and sat down, facing his
subject across the table once more, watching the eyes as they cleared. 'He
wasn't as clever as he thought,' Morrison said, evenly, lucid once more. 'They
followed us, sure, him and Gavigan; only Gavigan wasn't too hot at it.' He
smiled, boastfully. 'So we turned the tables, Wendy and I. We followed him; and
he led us to his boss, and we followed him too. Found out where he lived, who
he was, what schools his kids went to, everything.'
'You
couldn't have been that smart. Smith caught you trying to blow up that pylon.'
This
time the laugh was a pure animal snarl. 'Caught us? Caught us? Framed us!
Framed us! We told the papers about Smith and Gavigan; sent an anonymous letter
to the
Sunday Post
telling them what they were. Never published it.
Next thing Smith and Gavigan picked us up, with a gun. Took us up Sutra, with
the gun. Made us handle gelignite, with the gun. Made us stand beside this
pylon and took photos as if they had been watching us. Then they took us to the
police station and charged us.
'We
never blew up any pylon, Wendy and me. We were crucified. Chief fuckn'
Inspector bastard Smith hammered home the nails.'
Martin
stared at the man, unblinking, in the long silence which followed. 'When did
you see him again?' he asked at last. 'After you got out, I mean.'
Morrison's
mood was fragile once more. 'In the Ford garage next to the depot,' he said,
quietly. 'Saw him looking at a car. I was going off shift so I followed him
again; out to North Berwick. Wee house there, on the beach.'
'And
did you crucify him?'
'Crucify?
Crucify?'
'DCI
Smith was killed, Gus,' said Martin, quietly. 'He was murdered in his home last
Friday evening. It's been all over the papers.'
'Don't
read the papers. Hate the papers. The papers betrayed Wendy and me. Sold us to
Chief fuckn' Inspector bastard Smith.'
'Did
you kill him, Gus?'
The
eyes flashed again; the creature back, swimming inside.
'No.'
A mumble. 'But I wish I had. Fuckn' bastard. Fuckn' bastards you all.'
Martin
gazed at him as he sat there, big shoulders hunched round. Then he stood and
patted him on the arm, gently.
'Why
didn't you tell the story in your defence at your trial?' he asked.
'Lawyer
wouldn't believe me.'
'No,'
the detective sighed. 'I don't suppose he would. I do, though. Wait here for a
bit, Gus. We'll look after you.'
Signalling
Pye to follow, he left the room. A uniformed constable stood outside. 'Get in
there,' he ordered, 'and sit with him.'As the door closed, he led the way along
the corridor to Brian Mackie's empty office.
'What
are you going to do, sir?' his young assistant asked.
As
Martin looked at him, Pye saw the anger burning in him. 'I'm going to get that
poor bastard a solicitor, and then I'm going to have Kevin O'Malley talk to
him.'
Who's
Kevin O'Malley?'
'He's
the best head doctor I know. Morrison needs his help.' 'D'you think he did kill
DCI Smith, sir?' 'I don't know. If he did, Kevin will find out for us.' His
eyes locked on to Pye. 'While he's doing that, I want you to find
Tommy
Gavigan and bring him to me. Morrison might have been fantasising all that
stuff about the gun and the frame-up; but it rang true to me.
'If
it was, then there will be some crucifying done
...
and I've got the hammer and nails ready.'
29
'Yes,
my name is still Bridget Smith, Sergeant. Alec and I were never divorced.' The
widow was not dressed for the part; she wore light blue cotton slacks and a
diaphanous, flowery top which showed more than a suggestion of a white Broderie
Anglais bra. She was tall, with only a slight thickening at the waist, only a
slight hint of a pot below, a strong firm chin and blonde hair, cut short; well
cut too.
Edging
thirty himself, Steele always found it difficult to assess the age of an older
woman, but he guessed, from Alec Smith's age and from her reported
twenty-something offspring, that she could not be far short of the fifty mark.
Well-preserved fifty, though. Working at it; proud
of it.
Looking at her, he
wondered what the late DCI Smith could have done to drive her away.
He
glanced around the living room of the little house, a Wimpey semi-detached,
1970s vintage. It felt comfortable, lived-in, and looked as if she had made
only a token effort to tidy up for his visit.
Mrs
Smith laid a mug of coffee on a small table, one of a set, beside his chair. It
was well used but looked like solid teak; she did not use a coaster, he
noticed.
'I'm
glad you could see me so quickly,' he began, as an icebreaker.
'Not
a problem,' she replied, in a light, cultured Edinburgh accent, not a cut-glass
Morningside job. 'I work from home. I
run a
little market-research business, working for advertising agencies mainly, but
retail groups too, and sometimes public bodies; I have a project for LEEL at
the moment. Occasionally we do face-to-face interviews, but mostly it's
telephone work.