‘Yes, boss,’ she replied. She related the stories that I had heard already: first the attack on Weir and Wyllie, next, the provocation and ambush of that morning’s victim, and then she told us something I hadn’t known. ‘We’ve got a possible ID on the latest victim. Half an hour ago, the mother of a man named Albert McCann, aged twenty-seven, called Torphichen Place to report her son missing. She said that he went out for a drink with a pal last night. He didn’t come home, but she assumed that he was staying at the mate’s place. That was until she had a call from his foreman in the Lothian bus garage, where he works as a mechanic, asking where the hell he was. The description she gave matches him exactly, right down to the clothes.’
‘What’s been done about it?’ I asked her.
‘Nothing yet. Superintendent Grant called me to tell me about it just before I got here. He’d asked to be told about all missing person reports as soon as they came in.’
‘Then you know what to do.’
‘Yes.’ She looked at Mackie. ‘Brian, you call Torphichen and get Mrs McCann’s address. If there’s a husband, find out, locate him and get the poor sod to make a formal identification. I saw the body; I wouldn’t want the mother to have to do it if we can avoid it. DC Steele, Brian will get the name of the victim’s pal from his mother. You take a statement from him, and ask him to do a photofit, if he’s any use. Given the time of night that all this happened, his memory might not be too reliable. Once you’re both done, report to me at Torphichen Place. That’s where we’ll be based.’
‘Why not here?’ Mackie asked.
‘I don’t want to be distracted by the rest of this unit’s work,’ she replied, smoothly. ‘We’ll focus better if we’re somewhere else.’ She looked at me. ‘If that’s all, boss…’ I smiled as I nodded; I was relieved that she was beyond calling me ‘Sir’.
When the three of them were gone I closed my office door again and thought about my approach to the media. I was left with only fifteen minutes to prepare, but I knew, pretty much, what I was going to say. I knew also that it wouldn’t involve Newcastle, not until I had the man Milburn in my custody. That didn’t matter, though, for as soon as I announced that the Grove Street and Jamaica Street stabbings were linked, I would be giving them their headlines for the day.
That’s the way it worked out. I didn’t mention McCann by name, not without a formal ID, nor did I touch on the gay overtone, but John Hunter, the city’s top freelance, was shrewd enough to make the connection as soon as I said that the second victim had been in the Giggling Goose just before his death. He went down the wrong track, though, and I had to point out that there was no suggestion that either Weir, or the dead man, was a homosexual.
‘But we can call this guy a serial attacker?’ he persisted.
His income depended on his ability to sell news stories to his media customers, so he was always after a hook to reel them in, but I wasn’t playing. ‘I’ll stick to suspect, John, if you don’t mind, and leave it to your subeditors to add the creative touches.’
Afterwards BBC, STV and Sky wanted interviews for the telly news. It was part of the job, for all that I didn’t like it. Our professional trainers had told me that I look intimidating on camera, and that I should try to be more ‘viewer-friendly’. I told him in return that fearsome was all right with me, and that I wasn’t after Jon Snow’s lot. Still, I gave the people what they wanted, although I did try particularly hard to intimidate the bloke from Sky.
Their faffing about used up twenty minutes of my precious morning, and so it was gone eleven fifteen when I made it back to the office. Fred Leggat looked up as I entered, and I could tell that he was not about to make my day. ‘It’s official, boss,’ he told me. ‘DI Higgins has just called. We now have a double murder inquiry: Archie Weir died this morning, just before eleven.’
‘Poor sod,’ I grunted. ‘No surprise, though. Family informed?’
‘The parents were there when he died, Alison said. They approved switch-off of the life support.’
‘Okay, give it to the press office and tell them to put it out.’ I looked at Martin. ‘Andy, you’re with me. It’s time to broaden your education. Have you got wheels?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, boss. My car’s in the park round the back.’
‘So’s mine. Follow me; I’ve got a private call to make after our visit, so it’s best if you travel under you own steam.’
‘Fine, but where are we going?’ he asked. It was a reasonable question, put with no undue deference. From the beginning, his quiet self-confidence was one of the things I liked about Andy Martin. I’ve never met anyone less likely to be accused of being a teacher’s pet.
Nonetheless, that didn’t stop me from stringing him along. ‘You’ll see when we get there.’
He shrugged his shoulders and slipped them into his leather jacket. ‘Okay, a mystery tour,’ he said, cheerfully. I thought of Thornton and turned away, heading for the door.
His car was two bays away from mine; a red Mazda MX5 convertible with ‘boy’s toy’ written all over it. I had to smile. ‘Is that for go or show?’ I asked.
‘A bit of both,’ he admitted. ‘Nice lines, and it’s got the larger engine option, but it’s still not a Ferrari.’ He looked at my Land Rover with something that might have been either pity or contempt. ‘It’ll out-pull that, though.’
‘That would depend on the sense in which you’re using the word “pull”. The Discovery was built with comfort in mind, and in my albeit limited experience, some ladies don’t like to flash their minge climbing in and out of one of those things.’ I tapped the Mazda’s ragtop. ‘Plus, I prefer a car that you can’t unlock with a Stanley knife.’
I led the way out of the car park, and headed west, towards Queensferry Road, driving slowly to wind Martin up. I continued our stately progress all the way out to the Maybury junction, where I took a right turn, past the doomed Barnton Hotel. Eventually I turned into a cul-de-sac off Essex Road, and pulled up.
I stayed in my car as the young DC left his, and reached across to open the passenger door. ‘Game over,’ I said. ‘Do you see that big house up there?’ He couldn’t have missed it, a big stone pile with a grey slate roof, set in an acre of ground. ‘It’s called “Trinity” and it’s the home of Tony Manson, of whom you’ve heard much said over the last few days. Tony would call himself a businessman. We would, and do, call him a criminal. The thing we like least about him is his dealing in Class A drugs. I can’t think of anything that would put a bigger smile on my face, professionally, than locking him up for twenty years or so, but I’ve never been able to do that.’
‘Why not?’ Martin asked, a little too directly, but I let him off with it.
‘Mainly because of the requirements of our criminal justice system,’ I told him, ‘and that long and meaningful word, corroboration. A lone witness isn’t enough to convict. If you and I took a sledgehammer to his door and found half a ton of smack in his cellar, we’d be most of the way there. But if I did it on my own, it would be my word against his that I didn’t plant it; any case that was taken to court on that basis would be chucked out by the judge at the first time of asking.’
‘Have you ever done that?’ He gulped and added hastily, ‘Searched his place, that is.’
I laughed. ‘It’s “no” to the other, by the way. Searched Tony’s place? Of course we have; twice in my time, but purely for show, with no expectation of success. He’s much too clever and too careful ever to go near any of his merchandise, or to let it be brought anywhere near him. He also follows the basic rule of large-scale criminality, and that is…’ I made it a question.
‘Never give an order to one person,’ he answered, ‘that a second person can hear. Corroboration again.’
‘Exactly, Andy; or even overhear. That’s what keeps him out of our hands. Remember the man I told you about, Perry Holmes?’