‘If I’d the energy to be offended,’ she told him, ‘I would. But I don’t, so somebody be kind to an old woman who does their performance reviews and get me a coffee.’
‘Put like that, how could Sauce refuse?’ he replied. ‘Good to see you back, by the way. Are you going to tell us where you’ve been?’
‘Once I’m sat behind my desk with that coffee, and possibly a choccy biscuit to go with it, I’ll be happy to.’
He followed her into her small, theoretically private, room, taking a seat as she hung her coat on a hook behind the door, watching as she tidied an accumulation of paper from the previous day, waiting for Haddock to join them. When he did, he was carrying two mugs. He set one before the DI, produced two KitKats from his shirt pocket, and handed one to her.
‘Where’s mine?’ McGurk complained.
‘You, Sergeant, can fuck off and get your own.’
‘Settle down in class, now,’ said Stallings. ‘Thanks, Sauce. You were asking where I’ve been, Jack. I’ve been with the head of CID on a whirlwind trip to France.’
‘You’ve been to see Regine?’ Haddock’s eyebrows rose.
‘Yes I have. And by the time we got to see her, there was someone else in our party: the chief.’ She frowned at her two-man team. ‘Was there any talk yesterday about two homicides, up in Perthshire?’
The DS shook his head. ‘No, but there was some other news from there. The sensation of the day was Montell and Alice Cowan tracking a truck from a robbery in Edinburgh and catching the driver and her mate. And in the process guess what they found as well?’
‘Eight missing Estonian girls,’ she shot back, ‘being looked after by Marius Ramanauskas.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Yes, and here’s the rest of it.’
The pair sat in silence as she told them of the interview of Regine Zaliukas, and of her story. By the time she finished, the mood in the room had changed. There was no more banter, only shock. ‘Mr McIlhenney has Tomas’s phone, with the video on it,’ she said. ‘He called me as I was driving in. He says it’s pretty horrible.’ She paused. ‘But only one-twentieth as horrible as what was done to Henry and Dudley, before they died.’
‘Serves them fucking right,’ McGurk whispered.
‘We all think that, Jack.’ She crumpled the paper from her biscuit and threw it in her bin. ‘That’s the story, lads,’ she concluded. ‘On to the next. After. . Mr McIlhenney says that we have all to be available for interview this afternoon, by the deputy chief.’
‘About what?’ asked Haddock.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me the agenda, but from his tone, I don’t think he’s going to ask us if we’re happy in our work. We’ll find out when it happens. On you go, now; and close the door behind you. I want some peace and quiet.’
‘Any ideas?’ McGurk murmured, as he and Haddock returned to their desks.
‘Me? None.’
‘That’s not like you: you’ve usually got a theory for every occasion.’
‘Not this time.’
‘Too busy thinking about your baby?’
‘Knock off the Marvin Gaye. Remember what happened to him.’
‘Is that it, though? Are you chucked? Seriously; I’m not taking the piss.’
Haddock sighed. ‘Maybe. I tried to call her all day yesterday, after she no-showed on Monday night. I left messages on her voicemail, but nothing.’
‘Ain’t too proud to beg?’ the DS murmured as he switched on his computer, a broad grin spread across his face.
‘Aw, not more fuckin’ Motown, Jack. Look, it’s down to her to call me now, end of story.’
Still smiling, McGurk watched his screen and waited as his terminal booted up. As soon as it was ready, he checked his box for email. Finding it empty, he turned to the force’s private network, and saw an intranet message waiting for him. He opened it and read it. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another box ticked.’
‘What’s that?’ Haddock muttered, as he waited for his own connection to complete.
‘That key we found under the pot at Green’s cottage. Forensics found a print on it and they’ve got a match. It belongs to one Dudley Davis; he had several assault convictions on his record. . but no more, Dudley, no more.’
‘Say that again.’
‘What?’
‘That name.’
‘Dudley?’
‘No not fucking Dudley. The other one.’
‘Davis. That’s his surname.’ The sergeant looked at his young colleague. ‘Why? What’s up?’
‘Probably nothing, Jack. It’s just that coming from a police family, I was brought up to believe that most coincidences aren’t.’ He reached for his phone, then stopped. ‘No,’ he said, to himself. ‘Do something for me, please,’ he went on. ‘Get the number for an accountancy firm called Deacon and Queen, then call their office and ask if you can speak to one of their trainees, a Miss Davis. If they say yes, just hang up.’
At once McGurk was as serious as the detective constable. He took Yellow Pages from his drawer, found the number and dialled. ‘Hi,’ Sauce heard him drawl. ‘Council here, finance department. I wonder if you could connect me with one of your postgraduate trainees. She did some work for us, and there’s a query. Miss Davis.’ He paused, listening. ‘Sorry,’ he continued. ‘My mistake; I must have my firms mixed up.’ As he hung up, he whistled. ‘They don’t have a Miss Davis,’ he told Haddock. ‘In fact they only have one female trainee, and her name is Cameron McCullough.’
Eighty-seven
‘Do you agree with my diagnosis?’ Skinner asked.
‘About Mario and Neil as a command pairing? Yes, I do. Truth be told,’ Andy Martin continued, ‘I wondered about it when you made the two appointments, but the guys had worked their way there. Sometimes you find things out by trial and error.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘There might be a solution soon, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There are going to be two jobs coming up in Tayside; mine and the chief’s. Graham Morton told me he’s going early.’
‘Really? First I’ve heard of it.’ He frowned. ‘I doubt if Mario would fancy a move to Dundee, though, and he’s not eligible for the top job anyway. And Neil couldn’t apply for either.’
‘No, but Brian Mackie could. He’d be a perfect replacement for Graham. Right age, right experience.’
‘By God, you’re right,’ Skinner conceded. ‘I don’t want to lose him, but he deserves the step up. I can’t prompt him, though, Andy.’
‘No you can’t, but I can mark his card. Leave it with me: this conversation never happened.’ He glanced around the great hallway in which they stood. It was Victorian, reminiscent of much of Edinburgh’s New Town, he thought, but grander than any building he could recall. ‘First time I’ve been here,’ he remarked. ‘I hate to admit it, but McCullough runs a very impressive hotel.’
‘What’s it called? I missed the sign when you drove in.’
‘It’s doesn’t have one, not on the road; very discreet. Its name is Black Shield Lodge.’
‘Sounds Masonic.’
‘That’s your Motherwell origins showing.’
‘Maybe,’ he paused as a figure approached them from the right of the stairway, ‘but I tell you one thing. It takes more than a building to stamp class on a place. The staff have a lot to do with it too.’
Martin turned, and laughed softly when he saw who was coming to greet them.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Thomas Murtagh. He was dressed in a five-hundred-pound suit, and immaculately groomed, his hair the customary shade that everyone who saw it assumed was a dye. ‘Welcome to Black Shield.’
‘Nice to see you in a jacket and tie,’ Skinner retorted, ‘and with your fly zipped. You can stop faking nice, though. You hate our guts, and we don’t like you either.’
‘I try to be professional. My client is ready to see you, but there are a couple of ground rules I want to get clear.’
‘What?’ the chief constable roared. ‘We’re police officers, and you’re nothing. You hear me? Nothing!’