Slings & Arrows, page 21
‘Did you know he’s just done nine months in prison?’
Louise sat up straight, untucking her legs that had been beneath her. The dark circles of her eyes widened as she stared at him. ‘And just how would you know that?’
‘It’s called using my initiative, Louise.’
‘It’s called playing dirty, Kenny—really dirty.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Louise, I can’t believe you. You’ve been swallowing the guy’s sob story.’
‘So, so what? He made a mistake…’
‘Another one.’
‘Okay, he’s made a few mistakes, but he’s acknowledged them and he wants to make up for it. He wants to make a fresh start with his family.’ She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Who’s playing dirty now?’
‘Bloody hell, Kenny, I only mean you wouldn’t understand because you don’t have children.’
‘But I’ve got you and I’ve got Eilidh, or at least I thought I did. I can’t tell you how much you’ve both meant to me these past few months. I felt I was in this shitty little bubble and you came along and burst it for me. I’ve felt like I’ve actually been living for something, like there’s a reason to everything for the first time in my life.’
He stopped himself. He’d put her up on a pedestal but he meant every word. He turned away, hoping in vain that Louise might stand up and put her hand on his shoulder and tell him that everything would be all right.
She spoke softly, ‘Kenny, the only thing that matters to you is that job of yours. You care more about solving crimes involving complete strangers than you do about anything—or anybody—else. Go back to your wife—she needs you.’
His pulse quickened. ‘You heard what happened?’
‘Nothing stays a secret for long round here. Go back to her.’
He felt he was missing a piece of the puzzle. Like the conversation should have gone another way. There were too many factors to consider here and now, and pride got the better of him. Gillespie turned away from Louise and headed through the door.
Outside in the cold he felt numb, his dreams falling all around him, slipping away like snow off a dyke. He walked to his car and looked back at the little house. He waited, staring at the window for a few moments, hoping to see Louise at the window. Hoping to see her come running through the front door. But nothing happened. The curtains stayed shut and the door remained closed. He reached down for the car’s door handle, and spotted something moving out of the corner of his eye. It was the tiny figure of Eilidh, at the upstairs window, standing there in her Peppa Pig pyjamas. She held up a soft toy—a little white cat. She made it wave to Gillespie with its paw. He smiled and waved back; why wouldn’t he? She couldn’t know it would be for the last time.
Chapter 35
Desk Sergeant Derek McCall’s round face was growing a darker, angrier shade of purple. The top button of his shirt appeared to be threatening to ping across the reception area as he struggled to make himself heard above the raucous din.
‘Can we get some order please, gents?’ he roared.
A crowd of fifteen or so middle-aged rich men, a number of them with pyjama bottoms poking out from beneath their overcoats, were demanding to see lawyers. Gillespie strolled in unnoticed and quietly surveyed the chaotic scene engulfing St Leonard’s Station. Standing in the corner he watched Henry Montrose, the Fairview president, demanding to see his lawyer. The PC on the receiving end of Montrose’s strafe seemed to be doing a good job of keeping his cool, despite the provocation of a finger poking in his chest every few seconds. Gillespie smiled when he noticed Montrose was wearing a pair of backless leather slippers, with an embroidered crest on the front. He didn’t think he’d ever known full satisfaction until that moment—watching a pompous old bastard trying to maintain his dignity while standing there, ankles freezing, in his baffies.
Montrose wasn’t in his golf club now. He and his big-time buddies were on Gillespie’s turf, and the DCI had no intention of giving them the rub of the green.
‘Welcome to the last-chance saloon, gentlemen!’ yelled Gillespie, both arms raised aloft for full effect.
A hush descended on the room and the detective felt the burn of many a concentrated gaze on him. He conceded to himself that the feeling the attention gave him was quite messianic. He went with it; after all, somebody had to be the star of the show. The detective knew he was the man every Fairview member understood was responsible for their late-night predicament, and he wanted to milk it for all it was worth.
‘I’m afraid St Leonard’s isn’t quite as glamorous as your lovely golf club gentlemen,’ began Gillespie, ‘and it certainly doesn’t come with anything like the perquisites but, if you play fair by me, I think I can guarantee some of you will see your comfy beds and warm wives soon. As for the rest of you, I think it’s probably too late for that.’
Murmurs of discontent swept around the reception area. Gillespie spotted the desk sergeant lowering his head on to the polished wood of the counter. Montrose immediately began a quick march towards him, but the PC held out his arm.
‘Halt!’ he blasted, ‘I’ll deal with you when I’m good and ready. And not before.’
Gillespie had already spotted the man he wanted to speak to first. The man at the top of his ‘to-do’ list.
‘Right, you first, Henderson. How about you and me have a little chat?’
Harris rushed over to the imposing figure of Davy Henderson and latched hands on his arms, awkwardly ushering him into the nearest available interview room. As they went through the door, Gillespie turned back and called to the others for hush.
‘Up until now, I’ve been Mr Nice Guy, but I’m long past tolerating any more of your secrets. I’m not going to ask you again—either you tell us what we need to know or there’ll be arrests tonight and names given to the press in the morning.’
The response was a rumbling murmur. Not quite protest, the sound was closer to fearful disbelief. Gillespie had achieved exactly his intention. He’d give the assembled Crombie coats and striped pyjama trousers some time to chew it over, while he gleefully roasted Henderson over an open spit.
‘Okay, Davy, there’s no dancing girls in here to distract you—spill your guts.’
The big man shook his head, a look of resignation on his pockmarked face. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’
‘That’s not going to wash any more.’ Gillespie began to grin. ‘You see, I’ve found a wee songbird by the name of Kylie and she’s singing a very pretty tune to my ears.’
Henderson gave a quick sideways glance in the direction of the door. His pallor darkened a little, highlighting the dark shadow of his unshaven chin. ‘I want my lawyer.’
‘I’ll take a mental note of that.’
‘You’ve nothing on me, Gillespie.’ Henderson locked his fingers together; it looked uncomfortable and he separated them again, brushing the surface of the desk with the heel of his right hand.
‘Not quite nothing.’
‘Not enough, anyway.’
‘We’ll let the courts decide that.’
‘You’re not serious, Gillespie.’ Henderson’s face was a portrait of open-mouthed stupefaction. He was in disbelief.
‘I’m deadly serious. A young girl died—she was murdered. Now, Elena worked for you. She was working for you on the night she died at Fairview, and I think you know more about it that you’re letting on.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘I can’t prove the moon’s made of cheese, Davy, but I don’t need Professor Brian bloody Cox here to help me. The balance of probability’s on my side and you’re treading a very dangerous path, pal.’
The amount of venom with which he laced this final word surprised even Gillespie. Anyone who’d ever met him knew that Davy Henderson wasn’t a man that was easily shaken, but he was definitely getting close now.
‘Okay, look, Elena was there but I don’t know a damn thing about her murder. Jesus Christ, it was as much a shock to me. Do you really think with everything that’s been going on lately that I would want any more police attention?’
‘Well perhaps you can tell me why your girls were out at Fairview entertaining the cast of Cocoon that night.’
Henderson weighed his open palms. ‘It was a sweetener, that’s all.’
‘A sweetener for what? So you could buy the club?’
Henderson gave a slow nod.
‘Bollocks,’ snapped Gillespie, thumping the table. ‘Do you really think I’m going to believe that? A wily businessman like yourself would have more cards up his sleeve.’
‘Like what?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Davy. You were blackmailing them. What was it? Were you filming the action? Did you have the security cameras turned on them?’
Henderson paused and nibbled his lower lip. His complexion turned towards the greyer end of the scale. A few pustules of sweat erupted on his brow. ‘What did Kylie tell you?’
‘Never mind what Kylie told me. Where’s the footage you were going to blackmail the board members with?’
Henderson shook his head.
‘There isn’t any footage.’
‘Do you think I button up the back, pal?’
Henderson paused. His words came in a slow, strangled drawl, like he was trying to stop himself but couldn’t. ‘I’ve only got photographs. A snapper from out of town took them. You don’t need his name, do you? No, you wouldn’t. There’s no need for that, surely?’
‘I need his name and I need those photos. And if you give me them both quickly and you speak nicely to me, I might let you have a cup of tea in the morning.’
‘What? Are you serious? You’re keeping me in?’
Gillespie stood up. He let the legs of the chair scratch eerily along the hard floor surface. The noise came like nails on a blackboard. For a moment the DCI paused, ran his gaze over Davy Henderson’s face. He knew he had him now, by the short and curlies, as they said. It must have been a long time since Henderson had spent a night in a cold cell, but he’d possess some long-ago memories of the hard bunk and maybe even the odd visit from a burly uniform using his cuffs to protect the flesh of his knuckles.
‘Oh, I certainly am keeping you in, Davy. I hope those fancy porcelain veneers can manage a night away from your toothbrush.’
Henderson slumped back in his chair. His plump hands reached up and grabbed tufts of his hair.
‘How long?’ yelled Henderson.
‘That depends on you, Davy. How long have you got?’
Gillespie and Harris stepped coolly outside the interview room, ordering the uniformed officers to take Henderson down to the cells. They watched as Henderson departed in handcuffs, the crowd of grey-haired men in camel coats parting like the Red Sea in an old Charlton Heston movie. The officers were surveying the room when Henderson had gone, discussing who they should bring through next, when they heard the unmistakable clack of Dickson’s heels on the floor. She was clearly in a hurry.
‘Sir, I think you should look at this.’
‘What is it?’ said Gillespie.
She held out a notepad and pointed to a series of bullet points running down the margin. ‘It’s a description of someone,’ she said. ‘Someone uniform missed.’
Gillespie grabbed the pad.
‘Yes, I bloody-well should look at that.’
Chapter 36
It took a few moments for Harris’s words to penetrate the fog of Gillespie’s thoughts. He was so overloaded with work, balancing so many cases, and under so much stress that he had to think hard about who the DS meant when he said that Stott had ‘coughed’.
‘He did?’ said Gillespie, the grainy image of the man throwing the tyre iron into the undergrowth suddenly popped into his head. He knew Stott would admit it eventually. He wasn’t a criminal, not a serious one anyway.
Harris continued: ‘Yes. Doesn’t sound like it was a rush of blood to the head, more like an unintended consequence of not thinking things through. He said he had just wanted to “rattle Thompson’s cage” a bit, but it went too far.’
‘Well, he can tell that to the judge,’ Gillespie snapped. He slumped against the wall and rested his chin on his chest. ‘I’ve got more to worry about right now.’
Harris led Gillespie towards the whiteboard, where yet more concentrated cerebral activity was clearly expected of him. The detective lifted his gaze and surveyed the dozens of photographs that had been stuck to the board. Little flickerings, like amber shards catching glints of light, began to appear before his dim eyes.
‘This is a mess,’ said Gillespie.
‘It’s not very pretty, I’ll give you that.’
‘If we’d had these organised earlier then we wouldn’t be facing this shambles now.’
Harris said nothing.
Gillespie continued to study the images, any one of which he could imagine accompanying a lurid headline on the front page of a tabloid newspaper. The vision of his own name, taken out of all context, amid the column inches added further vinegar to the open wound. He girded his jaws and gazed upon the debauched setting, trying hard to separate himself from the depraved depths of humanity on display.
The photographs were taken through various windows at Fairview. The images showed members of the golf club roaring drunk and slugging back whiskies, the scantily clad girls in their arms, and in their laps, feigning uproarious laughter. It was a far cry from the sophisticated front these same old men were more adept at projecting in daylight hours. It seemed the perfect symbol, to Gillespie anyway, of the schizophrenic heart that beat within Edinburgh. It was all Morningside tea parties by day, and rollicking in the knocking shops by night. Even Stevenson, that doyen of Scottish letters, had earned himself the title ‘Velvet Jacket’ for the scarlet garb he wore when he was out whoring in the Old Town. Jekyll and Hyde had never made so much sense to the detective until now.
Gillespie and Harris were distracted by a loud thump on the table behind them. They turned to see Dickson putting her weight behind a large plastic box to manoeuvre it closer to the middle of the desk.
‘Right, some more pics from the lab,’ said Dickson, panting heavily now. ‘Johnny Wiseman’s the snapper—he says that’s the lot, sir.’
The lid was peeled and the three of them began to remove handfuls of the latest collection of photographs. They were all more of the same: more drunkenness, more groping, more seen that would never be unseen again.
The group drew up chairs and started to assemble the photographs by known faces, in piles on top of the desk. The photographer had clearly been given strict instructions on who to target, as some of the offenders had multiple angles captured. The moves were base, but hardly gymnastic given the ages of the men involved. Gillespie could imagine marriages being tested, broken. There would be children, grandchildren probably hanging their heads in deep shame. This was potent stuff, he thought, conceding almost a sneaking admiration for the cunning displayed by Henderson.
‘Oh, God…’ said Dickson, ‘is that what I think it is?’
‘Now that depends,’ said Harris, ‘if you think it’s a wrinkly, old male testicle in a young girl’s mouth, then the answer’s yes.’
Dickson threw down the photograph and started to gag. ‘I can’t do this.’
Gillespie watched her put her hand to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just too gross,’ she said.
Harris white knighted for her: ‘Maybe we can manage without her, sir?’
‘Hang about, Simon,’ said Gillespie. ‘Have you seen the size of this? And no, I’m not talking about some wrinkly chopper. We could be here all day with the three of us, and believe me if young Gemma is so delicate as to be offended by this, then she certainly won’t want to think about accompanying us on an indecent child rape.’
‘Sorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking,’ said Harris.
‘No, you were, but not with your head. Maybe it’s you I should be asking to step aside.’
‘Sir!’ Dickson’s chair legs scraped across the floor. She leaned forward excitedly. ‘I think you should take a look at this.’
The DCI took the photograph as it was presented to him. ‘What in the name of hell?’
This picture was different. It was a view of the outside of the golf club, obviously taken before Wiseman had moved in for a closer look at the goings-on inside. A gaggle of Henderson’s girls were arriving in taxis and being ushered inside but there was another figure. There was a young man in the background, to the side of the building, slumped halfway over the line of the building’s shadow, but seemingly observing everything. Gillespie held up the photograph to Harris and pointed to the figure. The DS peered at it.
‘He looks familiar.’
‘It’s Grozan. I thought of him when Gemma brought up the description uniform missed.’
‘Elena’s boyfriend? It can’t be. He didn’t arrive here until after Elena died.’
Gillespie stared at Harris and Dickson. His voice came low and firm, ‘Tell me we checked his passport.’
Both men turned to Dickson. Her face was turning red and her eyes widening. ‘Yes, yes, I checked, I checked, okay?’
Gillespie felt a cold shiver pass over his heart. He ran to his desk and grabbed the case file. He began frantically flicking though the documents until he found what he was looking for.
‘The file says Grozan’s passport was checked, but it wasn’t stamped. Did someone run it by Border Force? I can’t see anything about that in the file.’
He looked at Dickson and Harris, who both shrugged before looking at each other.
‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Gillespie.
The rest of the room fell instantly into silence. All eyes were on Gillespie; the DCI was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling. ‘Right, you pair, do it now. I want to know where Grozan is. I want him traced and I want him picked up by bloody yesterday. This isn’t happening. Tell me, dear god, this isn’t happening.’
