‘Then let’s pay him a visit.’
‘Now?’
‘Right now,’ I said, ‘before he finds out about this.’
‘I’m game for that,’ the DI agreed. ‘I don’t see the old guy having had anything to do with these two being killed, but I’m going to have to talk to him anyway.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Morpeth. It’s the right side of the city for you; once we’ve heard what he’s got to say, you can head home.’
‘Depending on what he tells us.’ McFaul’s affability seemed to lessen, fractionally; I didn’t really blame him. A couple of guys from the Met had turned up on our patch a few years before, with attitudes so bad that it had almost come to pistols at dawn. ‘Not that I expect him to tell us a fucking thing,’ I added. ‘For the record, my interest in this is in finding the person who set Milburn and Shackleton on to Marlon Watson. I’ve got enough on my plate without getting involved in this mess.’
‘Fair enough. Look, I know the way to Church’s house. I’ve been there often enough. You come in my car, and my DS can go with DC Martin.’
His detective sergeant turned out to be a woman called Wilma Easton, a veteran of twenty years’ service, with short, salt and pepper hair and a sturdy build, but small enough to fit more comfortably into the Mazda than I had.
We headed back the way we had come, to the Tyne Tunnel. We were heading into it when my ringtone sounded, then stopped as the signal was lost. As soon as we were on the other side, I checked ‘missed calls’. Alison.
I rang her back, and explained where I was, and why. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘In that case this can wait till tomorrow.’
‘How are you getting along with linking Weir and McCann?’ I asked her.
‘I haven’t,’ she replied, ‘not yet at any rate. But something’s come up in the course of it, something curious. I’d like you to see it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Probably nothing, but it struck me as odd. I’d rather you saw it for yourself. If you call me tomorrow morning, or whenever you get back, I’ll come up to Fettes and show you.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I will do… whenever that is.’
I slipped the phone back into my pocket. ‘Business back home,’ I explained to McFaul. ‘I’ve been in my new job for five days and I’m running two major investigations.’
‘Getting anywhere with either of them?’
I glanced at him. ‘Are you familiar with the topography of Shit Creek?’
‘Been there many times, Superintendent. No paddle, I take it?’
‘Right now, your Prime Minister pal is my last hope. That’s why I’m keen to see him.’
‘Let’s hope he can help you,’ the DI said. ‘But he’s likely to be more of a clutched-at straw. He’s never incriminated himself before, and I don’t see him starting now. What do you hope to get out of him, supposing he is shocked into talking?’
‘A name. He’s got one old Edinburgh connection in his past that I know of, a man no longer with us. I’d like to know if there’s another, or if I’m dealing with someone from out of town.’
‘That’s if he had anything to do with Milburn and Shack being set on your murder victim.’
‘Indeed,’ I conceded, ‘but that past acquaintance of his… I don’t know why, but it’s making me twitch.’
‘One thing I can tell you,’ McFaul offered. ‘Those two didn’t go after the man on their own account. They weren’t self-starters.’
We skirted Newcastle from the tunnel and joined the A1, then headed north. The Morpeth turn-off came up fairly quickly. I glanced in the wing mirror and saw Martin and DS Easton right on our tail. My driver seemed to know exactly where he was headed; I wondered how many times he’d stood on Church’s doorstep, and whether they’d ever achieved anything. Very little, I guessed, for the sod was still at liberty, like Manson, Perry Holmes, Jackie Charles and a few others like them on my territory, men with the brains to know their way around and through the criminal law that they broke for a living.
Two or three tight turns later, McFaul turned into a street called the Crescent, and pulled up in front of a driveway with blue wooden gates, blocking it. The house beyond was detached, a mock-Tudor pile in the midst of a street of stone Victorian villas. If a dwelling can seem embarrassed by its surroundings, that one did. It was set back off the road. I looked for a CCTV camera, or any other obvious security; I saw none, but I hadn’t at Holmes’s place either, so what did that prove?
There was a door set in the blue gate to the right, with a recessed brass ring handle. The DI turned it, and it opened. Yes, he had been there before. We followed him inside, on to a red gravel road that approached the house. It crunched, loudly, under our feet as we walked, a pretty effective intruder alarm. There was a double garage on the left; its up-and-over door was open, revealing a blue, round-bodied Rover coupe that looked as clean as it had been in the showroom, thirty years before, if the number plate was a guide. My dad had owned several when I was a kid. Beside it sat a much newer red Rover Metro, a tatty little shit bucket. For me, it showed the depths to which the marque had sunk, but at least Church had brand loyalty. ‘Is that the wife’s car?’ I asked.
‘No,’ DS Easton replied. ‘That’s Winston’s; his wife died ten years ago. He’s lived alone ever since.’
‘Any family?’
‘Yes. One son. He’s a brain surgeon in Auckland, New Zealand. That’s as far away as he could get from his father.’
McFaul had reached the pergola that covered a paved entrance area. There was a brass plate in the middle of the front door, with a button at its centre. He pushed it… and the door swung open. ‘Hello,’ he whispered, frowning. ‘What’s up here? That’s always locked.’ He leaned into the entrance hall. ‘Mr Church!’ he shouted. ‘Winston! It’s the police, CID. We need to talk to you.’
I have a keen sense of smell in any circumstances, but for some things I’m as good as any sniffer dog. I put a hand on the DI’s shoulder. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ I told him. ‘You won’t get a response.’
‘But his cars are both here,’ he replied, ‘and the only taxi he ever uses is Milburn’s.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I stepped past him, into the house. I didn’t have to follow my nose for long, no further than a big dining kitchen at the back of the house. Winston Church… I assumed that it had been him… was at home but he was in no condition to receive visitors. Outside, the daylight was fading, but I could still see what lay before me. He was sprawled, on his back, across a big farmhouse-style table, arms and legs hanging over the sides, bare feet clear of the floor. He’d been wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas when he died, no protection against a savage attack. He’d been gutted, ripped open, and his entrails had spilled out of a great diagonal tear that ran across his abdomen. As I stared at him I felt as if I was back in Joe Hutchinson’s workplace, after the pathologist had finished his examination. I inched forward, but not too far; I didn’t want to contaminate the place, nor did I want to get blood on my shoes. There was a slash across the dead man’s face, from his right cheek, across his nose and his left eye to his eyebrow. His right hand was missing the third and little fingers. I looked around, quickly. There was a half-glazed door opening on to the back garden. It lay ajar and I noticed that one of its astragal panels had been smashed.
I realised that I was holding my breath, and let it out in a great exhalation. As I did so, I became aware of Ciaran McFaul beside me, and heard him moan softly. I glanced behind me; Easton and Martin were still in the hall, their view blocked by our bodies.
‘Let’s all back out of here,’ I said quietly. I turned, drawing the DI with me, and heard a small squeal escape Easton as she saw what was in the kitchen. Not your everyday crime scene, even in Newcastle. ‘Come on,’ I ordered. ‘Everybody, all the way outside.’ I swept them before me, through the hall, back under the pergola.
By that time, McFaul had recovered himself, so I didn’t presume to tell him what he should do. It wouldn’t have been necessary anyway. He tossed his car keys to Easton, instructing her to call in an incident report, and ask for forensic, CID and uniform support, then he turned to me. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.