‘The white coats at the lab got into the victim’s phone,’ he announced, leading her to the printer, which was churning out copies for everyone. ‘Last text he sent was to Rob Driscoll.’
‘His pal from Tynecastle.’
‘Driscoll was after a meet, and Haggard agreed.’
Clarke looked at the transcript of the exchange. It was fairly one-sided, Driscoll asking eight or nine times for Haggard to talk to him, eventually eliciting a short reply:
I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a think where.
Timed at 6.40 p.m. on Francis Haggard’s last day alive.
‘Nothing after that?’ she checked.
‘One further nudge from Driscoll.’ Fox pointed it out to her. ‘Sent just after midnight.’
‘By which time Haggard was already dead?’
He nodded.
‘Anything else?’
‘A bunch of unanswered calls and texts to his wife, some of them from the hours after he burst into her sister’s house.’
‘Any chance we can find out where he was when he made them?’
‘Phone company reckon they can triangulate, but it’s not likely to give us much more than a general area.’
‘It would still help cut down the amount of pubs we’d otherwise have to contact.’
Fox nodded again. ‘If we’re about to start pulling in the Crew for interview, looks like Rob Driscoll should be our primary focus.’
Clarke locked eyes with him. ‘You told me Complaints have had Tynecastle on their radar for years — we need access to those files.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘My ex-colleagues can be wary of sharing.’
‘Understandably so, but a word from the ACC might prise open the vault.’
‘I suppose I could suggest it.’
‘A quick result would be in her interests; make sure she understands that.’
‘Okay, but I want a favour in return.’
‘What?’
‘Something tells me you’ll be going out tonight.’
Clarke was pulled up short, wondering how he knew. But then she realised he didn’t mean Michael Leckie. To reinforce the point, he did a little shuffle, wiggling his hips, elbows jutting.
‘That’s not how human beings dance,’ she told him.
‘I’m right, though, aren’t I? You want a look at DJ Gabz in her natural environment.’
‘Which is very far from your natural environment, Malcolm.’
‘I’m sure I’ve got a party shirt somewhere in my wardrobe. What time are you thinking of going?’
‘I doubt anything much will happen before ten.’ She saw doubt enter his mind. ‘Maybe even eleven,’ she added, hoping to strengthen the deterrent. Instead, he shrugged his acceptance.
‘We need those files today,’ she stressed.
‘I’ll get on it,’ Fox answered, heading to his desk.
Clarke sat down at her own desk and noticed that Christine Esson was glaring at her.
‘What?’
‘He seems to be taking up a lot of your time.’ Esson glanced in Fox’s direction so her meaning was clear.
‘Plenty to keep you busy, Christine — and a heap more about to land on our desks.’ Clarke held up her copy of the printout. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘Driscoll seemed pretty open when we met him, comparatively speaking. But this definitely needs explaining. DCI’s already told Jason and Colin to start talking to people listed as recent calls.’
‘Any contact with the lettings agency?’
‘Should there be?’ Esson watched as Clarke shrugged. ‘The suit who paid us a visit this morning, who was he?’
‘Gartcosh. Just had some background to offer.’
‘Something that’s got you interested in QC Lettings?’
‘Daughter of the owners discovered the body — wouldn’t you say that’s a bit of a coincidence?’
‘I sense there’s more.’
‘I’m sworn to secrecy, Christine.’
‘So there is something.’
‘Soon as I can tell you, I will, I promise.’
‘And to think you were accusing me of getting too close to Malcolm Fox.’
Clarke opened her mouth to respond, but Esson had put her head down, concentrating on her keyboard.
Tess Leighton noticed something was off, but that didn’t stop her approaching, eyes on her phone. ‘The Courant has got a quote from an unnamed source at Tynecastle,’ she announced. ‘Apparently we’re conducting a witch-hunt that won’t end until “policing itself and everything that underpins it becomes untenable, after which all that awaits society is anarchy, full stop”.’ She looked up. ‘It’s almost as if they know we’re coming for them.’
‘It almost is.’ Clarke’s eyes moved to where King and Ritchie were hunched at their desks, jackets off, phones pressed to their ears. Noting her interest, Colin King placed his hand over his phone and mouthed something neither Clarke nor Leighton could catch. He resorted to the pad of A4 paper in front of him, writing something and then lifting it so they could see the capitalised message:
THEY’RE ALL TYNECASTLE!
Meaning every call and text to Haggard’s phone.
‘He had them rattled, didn’t he?’ Leighton commented.
‘He really did,’ Clarke agreed.
Leighton was looking at Clarke’s monitor. ‘What’s that?’
‘I finally worked out how to transfer stuff from a phone.’ Clarke started the video. ‘It’s Haggard forcing his way into his sister-in-law’s house.’ She turned the volume up. The two detectives watched the confrontation.
‘And he’s the reason we’re now putting in a hard shift?’ Leighton enquired.
Malcolm Fox, having weaved between the various desks, joined them.
‘Couple of hours for the Complaints stuff,’ he informed Clarke.
‘Fast work, Malcolm.’
‘Some of it will be sent to my computer — and only my computer. But there are box files too. To be kept under lock and key and not leave this office.’
‘Understood. And thanks again.’
‘I’ll make sure my shirt’s freshly pressed.’ He retreated to his desk.
‘Freshly pressed?’ Leighton echoed.
‘Don’t even start,’ Clarke said with a sigh as Leighton moved off. Ignoring the scowling Esson seated across from her, she typed the name Fraser Mackenzie into Google and pulled up a screen’s-worth of images, starting at the top and scrolling down. Unless the man had had a drastic makeover, he didn’t in the least fit the description given of Gaby Mackenzie’s chauffeur.
‘Do you want me to send you the stuff from Stephanie’s phone?’ she asked Esson.
‘If you can bear to share.’
‘I reckon I can force myself.’
With a few clicks, it was done. Some things were easy, others not.
‘Thanks,’ Esson said, slightly less grudgingly than Clarke had been expecting.
‘Always welcome,’ Clarke replied, their eyes meeting across the wide expanse of desk. She was about to add something, but Esson had plugged her earphones in, the better to listen to the footage.
‘Always welcome,’ she repeated under her breath.
18
Gaby Mackenzie was at the place she felt most comfortable and safe, The Elemental Club, setting everything up for later in the day. Downstairs from her DJ rig, staff were restocking the bar. Someone had decided that a bit of Bach cello suited the mood, and it was playing softly over the speakers. Gaby didn’t mind. She’d borrowed from classical music plenty of times, and she had an ear open right now, wondering if there was anything worth sampling. When her phone buzzed, she almost didn’t answer, but it was her mum, finally getting back to her. She slipped off her headphones and raised the device to her ear.