With My Little Eye (15 page)

Douglas found the answer ready for his tongue. ‘I noticed a small patch of cement beside the outside door of the flat. It's coloured to blend in with the stone so you have to look at the textures to find it. I think you'll discover that a hole was drilled through the stone and a pipe – flexible plastic ventilation pipe or plain garden hose – led to the ventilator beside the … what shall we call it? The voyeur's cabinet. Somebody could have backed his van up to the door and led a piece of pipe direct to the hole where the patch is now. It wouldn't matter if Stan heard the gas hissing in. The door to the voyeur's cabinet could have been locked from outside, sealing him in.' Douglas, infected by the professor, was aware that the scansion of that last sentence was awry and nearly inserted an imprecation to rectify it. ‘He wouldn't have had time to write a note, there's no keyboard and anyway George had most of two whole days to tidy away anything like that.'

‘Now I can tell our SOCOs what to look for,' the DCI said with satisfaction.

This feast of reason was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle and a very smart Range Rover passed into and out of view on its way to the door. Tash went out, returning with a smart and attractive lady in expensive tweed. Tash had a noticeable twinkle in her eye. ‘Detective Superintendent Laird,' she announced.

The men all rose. They might not have done so for any other female police officer, on the assumption that any woman enrolling as an officer had sacrificed any desire to be regarded as a weak and dependent citizen, but Superintendent Laird was different. She had been a lovely girl and remained an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her attraction was accentuated by the fact that she seemed quite unaware of it. She had the unconscious authority that goes with breeding, education and money all combined. The DCI was first up on his feet.

Douglas felt the imp of mischief waking. ‘Honeypot, I presume,' he said, offering his hand.

She looked at him coldly but shook it at arm's length and then accepted the proffered chair. They all sat. Only by a twitch of one eyebrow did she admit to being sensitive about a nickname that had been an obvious pun on her maiden names but would by now have been left far behind had it not been so appropriate.

She addressed her husband. ‘I came to join you,' she said, ‘not because you need supervision but because I have some fragments of news that I'll drop in at the appropriate moment. I've read the reports on this case up to today, so if you give me a quick resume of what has been said this morning I'll be up with you.'

Her husband obliged with a succinct and precise summary of the morning's disclosures. Douglas noticed that he gave full credit for any useful observation or reasoning, which in his experience showed unusual generosity.

She listened intently. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘I can see why you consider George Eastwick the prime – indeed probably the only – suspect. And here comes the first titbit of fresh information. You left orders that he was to be picked up and brought in. But it seems that the woodentops – I really must stop calling them that, they resent it – haven't been able to find him. He has not been at his approved lodgings since yesterday evening. He may walk in with an innocent explanation for his absence but that seems unlikely. If he has fled, that itself is evidence of guilt. And that raises two subsequent questions. One, where has he gone? And, two, how did he know at this precise moment that his guilt was about to be revealed?'

The silence was only broken by a sharp intake of breath. Douglas felt compelled to give the residents a lead. ‘Does any one of us have any ideas on question two? How did George come to know that the wrath of God was about to fall on him? Has anybody had contact with him?'

His question was answered by a chorus of headshakes and negatives. The DCI's shorthand writer, however, was becoming very red in the face. She was young, quite pretty if buck teeth were ignored and she had been a silent listener. When she spoke she revealed a strong accent that could only have come from within twenty miles of Sauchiehall Street. ‘That could be my fault, ma'am,' she said. ‘I hope it's not but it could. George Eastwick phoned for Mr Laird yesterday, wanting a word with him. He wanted to know when he'd get back into his home. I said that Mr Laird was having a special meeting today and I was sure that Mr Eastwick would be hearing something by tonight.'

DCI Laird said, ‘Come and see me tomorrow morning,' and his voice was cold.

‘That gives us a very likely answer to question two,' said Honeypot. ‘With possible relevance to question one, I'll give you another piece of good news. An email was waiting this morning but you were in too much of a hurry to open it. Your promotion is through at last. They don't want us falling over each other so, although we're to be flexible about this, I'm to stay with Edinburgh and the Lothians and you are to look to the Borders. Congratulations. And we are to be ready to face the media together tomorrow morning, ten a.m.'

A congratulatory grunt went round the table.

‘Thank you,' said Mr Laird. By the slope of his shoulders and the stillness of his hands Douglas knew that he was beginning to relax. ‘I'm happy to know it. But why did you choose this rather strange moment to reveal all.'

Honeypot smiled. ‘Because that makes this my case. There is to be a gradual transfer of responsibilities. I remain in Edinburgh and the Lothians – mostly, I think, so that I can retain control of the dog unit – and you remain based in Edinburgh but with special responsibility for the Borders.'

‘I wish you more luck with this case than I've had,' said her husband. ‘Is that all?'

‘Almost.' She glanced round the interested faces. ‘It will come out at the press conference so there's no point being coy about it just now. The powers felt that two Superintendent Lairds would be one too many and could cause confusion. It is strongly suggested that I revert to using my maiden name. So I am Superintendent Honoria Potterton-Phipps. But I really think that we could drop the Phipps professionally. How does that grab you?'

‘Not uncomfortably,' said her husband. ‘When we first met, you were Detective Sergeant Potterton-Phipps, aka Honeypot. Now that you're no longer my superior officer I can start calling you Honeypot again.'

‘Not that you ever stopped.'

‘I suppose,' Douglas said, ‘that a congratulatory drink would be out of order?'

Both the senior officers smiled. ‘I'm afraid so,' said Honeypot. ‘Ask us again when you're no longer witnesses in an active case.'

When Superintendent Potterton had been shown the secret voyeur's cabinet and the officers had departed, Tash and Douglas had a moment of privacy.

She said, ‘Never mind. They can come and dance at our wedding.'

‘You've changed your mind about getting married?' Douglas said. ‘Or is this your oblique way of telling me something?'

‘It's my oblique way of telling you that we have a young Young on the way. Don't squeeze me quite so hard or you'll damage Douglas Junior. That's better.' She produced a joyous grin. ‘Everybody told me that nothing is a hundred per cent safe. I believed them but thought that I was probably the stork-proof exception. The surgery phoned me my test results yesterday. We must have rung the bell on the very first shot. Now, come and help me search the bedroom again. I want to be quite sure that we're not going to figure on somebody's candid camera.'

‘I have already done that,' Douglas said. ‘Twice.'

T
he disappearance of George Eastwick following the unexplained death of his brother caused a minor and short-lived stir in the media. The flatholders in Underwood House were troubled for a while by the intrusion of reporters but all mention of voyeurism, which would have been meat and drink to the tabloids, had been carefully expurgated so that a brief resurgence of interest, which had been roused when
Crimewatch
had made mention of the desire of the police to discuss with George the death of his brother, began to die again. No very good photograph of him had been produced and, although at first glance the feeling had been that he would soon be found, it was realized that a short haircut, the removal of some facial hair and adoption of a determined smile would allow him to mingle unnoticed with the men in almost any Scottish street.

Absorbing though the vanishing of George Eastwick may have been to those in Underwood House, the approaching nuptials of Tash and Douglas soon took first place. A comedy had been shown on TV that finished with the presumably happy couple, their parents and the priest, standing unaccompanied in the middle of a field. Substitute a registrar for the priest and Douglas felt that the scenario had much to commend it. Their friends and family, however, threw up their hands in horror at the prospect of being deprived of the excuse for a good party at the expense of a man who was doing very nicely out of Arab oil; and Tash was easily persuaded to their viewpoint. Summer had almost trickled away during the many stops and starts of the Eastwick case. Some of Tash's relatives were understood to be straight-laced and it seemed possible that Tash might be embarrassed by an early appearance of bumps and kicks, so a date in September was chosen and arrangements were agreed with the hotel and the registrar.

A wedding, it seemed, was simplified little if at all by the transfer from church to hotel. One journey by bridal car was obviated but routines that were everyday to a church ceremony had to be considered afresh. Any attempt to involve Douglas in all the work was countered by his pointing out how busy he was in his professional life. This was valid, but was accompanied by the snag that poor Tash was just as heavily engaged on Douglas's business in addition to being the obvious person both to make decisions and to implement them, all this while carrying her extra burden. All the three loads upon her small person, however, were gladly taken up. Everything that she wanted out of life was being gifted to her. Douglas found her typing left-handed a list of those who simply had to be invited while in the other hand she held the telephone over which she was ordering flowers.

The small team of police had gradually been whittled away as lead after lead had been found to go nowhere. A mere detective inspector had been bossing around the few remaining officers until eventually it appeared that the Eastwick case had been solved and that the only missing element was the proof that might eventually be found along with the guilty man. The case was consigned to a high shelf, to await that or any other new break.

It came as a surprise, therefore, when Honeypot herself arrived unaccompanied in an even newer Range Rover and asked for a word with Tash. Douglas joined them at Tash's request. They settled in Douglas's small sitting room with coffee on the low table.

‘I had the feeling,' Honeypot said, ‘that if I sent a more junior officer to discuss this matter you might feel that we were not taking it seriously, but I can assure you that we are taking it very seriously indeed.

‘Enquiries into George Eastwick have been continuing but the information has been reaching us in drips and drabs. However, it does reach us in the end and we don't like the way it adds up. Before Mr Eastwick vanished he was in approved lodgings and he was inclined to take a drink. In his cups, he let a few things slip that his fellow lodgers have quoted to us.

‘We already knew that he is not short of money. He had owned his flat in Falkirk outright – he sold it without difficulty for a very good price and that money disappeared along with him.

‘He also has a source of information. I thought that we had closed off one leak coming out of the police, but apparently not completely. If you have money, you can buy information. He satisfied himself that you two, and particularly you, Miss Jamieson, were responsible for highlighting the facts that have brought him into so much trouble. Why he singled out you in particular remains a mystery. He is a man filled with hatred and just now that hatred seems to be focussed on you.'

‘It … it beats me,' Tash said. She seemed undecided whether to give Douglas the credit or to accept the threat to herself.

Douglas felt his mouth go dry. ‘You would have got there eventually without any help from us,' he said.

‘Possibly, although it was your familiarity with the building that led you to it. Anyway, you should put that argument to him rather than to me.'

Douglas and Tash exchanged a look. Hers was frightened, his was more surprised. ‘But what can he do?' Tash asked. ‘Would he dare to show his face around here again?'

‘Not if he has any common sense,' said Douglas.

‘The question,' said Honeypot, ‘is whether he does have any sense, common or otherwise. It may well be argued that to be filled up with hatred leaves no room for sense. From reports, the man was barely rational even earlier. To kill his own brother in order to gain possession of the
cabinet de voyeur
or out of a quarrel arising from the same cause, seems hardly rational. And then to see his capital melting away while struggling to stay one jump ahead of the police could easily push him over the brink. But, as I'm sure you know, an irrational person can show great cunning on subjects outside their immediate obsession.

‘To attempt an answer to your questions, Miss Jamieson, if he has changed his appearance, yes, he might well dare to show his face around here. And something else very serious has come belatedly to my attention. There has been much talk lately about uniting all the Scottish forces into one police force. I can see the difficulties but they should be faced, or else a much more efficient means of sharing information should be devised.'

‘When you become chief constable,' said Douglas, ‘you can make that proposal, but that would undoubtedly land you with the job of devising and introducing it.'

Honeypot looked at him suspiciously for a moment, wondering whether the suggestion had contained an element of sarcasm, but apparently she was satisfied. ‘Well, thank you. It has taken all this time for the information to reach me that Mr Eastwick has a firearms certificate, issued by a different police force, on which he holds a point two two three rifle for the control of roe deer. He had left it in the care of an Edinburgh gunsmith who knew nothing of his troubles. I don't know if Mr Young knows anything about rifles—'