'Look, Mr Gwynn, let's not be fucking coy about this. You've cal ed me back through the switchboard, so you know that I real y am a detective superintendent and that this is not a hoax. I know yours is only a wee branch and you're worried about being crapped on from way up there, but I promise you that isn't going to happen. I'm trying to conduct a discreet enquiry here. Now are you going to co-operate or do I have to make some waves?'
He winked at Mcllhenney as he poured a coffee from the filter jug.
'Yes, I can promise you that. None of the information you give me wil be disclosed and nobody wil ever know that you provided it. What do you get from it?' He laughed. 'You get friends in high places and two unlisted telephone numbers that you can call whenever you're knee-deep in shit. That's a good swap, believe me.'
Mcl henney watched him, saw him nod quietly.
'Good, good. Okay the man's name is Rosewell, George Rosewell. He has a current account and a credit card, that's also operated through your bank. I need to know whether either of them has been used this week, I need to know the last time either was used, and in the case of the cash card I need to know how much money was withdrawn. Oh yes, and I'd like the current account balance.' He nodded again. 'Sure you can call me back; I'l be here for a while. Use this number, and keep a note of it for the future: emergencies only, mind.' He read out his direct line number.
'That's changed every so often, isn't it?' asked Mcl henney as he hung up.
'Aye, but he'll never use it. The boy just needed to feel important, that's all; a lot of these small branch managers are shit-scared of head office these days.'
'Why do you need that stuff anyway?'
'I'm stil trying to find Maggie's old man, so I can beat his fucking brains in… or at least run him out of Edinburgh. He hasn't been at work all week, and his house looked like the Marie Celeste.'
'You went in?'
'You're dead right I went in. I was paying a family visit, Neil.. . and even if it, hadn't been, in this job I could have justified it. The man has a history of violence and child abuse, he's living under an alias and he's in a wholly unsuitable job.'
'Child abuse?'
'Don't ask. Anyhow, there were the congealed leavings of pie, beans and chips on his kitchen table, with a half-read Sunday Mail beside them. I spoke to a neighbour. She hasn't seen him since then.'
'He's not in the nick, is he?'
'No. I've just checked that. Nor is he in any hospital in this area. Nor is he lying in a mortuary with a John Doe tag on his toe. Al this week's stiffs are accounted for. He has either gone on a very last-minute bargain break to Shagaluf, or he's been kidnapped by international criminals and is being held for a multi-million-pound ransom, or he's done something or upset someone to the extent that he's decided to do a runner.'
'He's upset you.'
'Aye, but he doesn't know that… at least I don't see how he could.'
The phone on his desk rang; his hand shot out and picked it up.
'McGuire. Ah, Mr Gwynn; that didn't take long. Aye, sometimes I wish the mil ennium bug had been for real; the bloody things are ruling our lives now. Okay, just hold on a minute.' He picked up a pen. 'Right.'
As he listened, he made notes on a pad on his desk. 'That's excellent,' he said, as he finished. 'Now here's that other contact I promised you.'
He glanced at a list on his desk, and read out a number. 'Thanks. So long.'
'What was that one?' asked Mcl henney.
'My new direct line in the Borders. You never know, the boy might be moved down there one day.'
'Indeed, you have been here for too long.'
'Just long enough.' McGuire glanced at his notepad. 'It was useful though. George drew thirty quid from his bank account on Tuesday of last week. Since then, neither his cash card nor his credit card has been used; his account balance is eleven hundred and forty-one pounds.'
'He can't have run far, then. Do you think he could be in the founds of a new building somewhere?'
'I'm beginning to wonder. If he is, I just hope it'l be heavy enough to hold the swine down.'
28
Bob Skinner had been several times to the USA, before and since his marriage to his American wife. He had been to New York City and State, to Florida and to the original California Disneyland with his daughter Alex, to Houston, Texas, on an exchange visit, and to Atlanta, Georgia, as a delegate to a security conference. However he had never been to the north-western states, and nothing had prepared him for their size or for the spectacle they offered.
The flight to Great Falls, Montana, was blessed with cloudless conditions all the way, across the pale blue of the Great Lakes, the green of Michigan, and the changing shades of the landscape below as they flew westward. Even Skinner, who tended to view the wonders of nature with a jaundiced eye, spent the entire journey looking out of the window of the aircraft.
The hundred-mile drive down Interstate Fifteen to Helena was no less dramatic; the first half of their route, through Cascade County, ran close to the great Missouri River… the Scot had had no idea that it originated so far north… past Cascade itself, then into the great open spaces of Lewis and dark. Finally they drove into the Helena Valley, overlooked by its gently sloping mountain, with the small state capital nestled at its heart.
'Well, did you enjoy that?' asked Doherty, who had driven from the airport in a rental car, as they cruised past the State Capitol building, to arrive at the Investigations Bureau headquarters on North Roberts.
'Yes,' Skinner admitted. 'But enough of the tourist bit. Who are we seeing?'
'The Bureau guy's name is Tad Polhaus. The police chief is Chuck Harris, but he's on holiday, so we'll be met by the senior detective, Lieutenant Gordon Sumner.'
The Montana investigators were waiting for them in the Bureau Chief's office on the second floor of the building. Both were in their mid thirties; Polhaus was big and beefy, his broad features proclaiming his German ancestry, while Sumner was lean and wiry, equally tall but looking like a welterweight alongside his colleague.
Ill
As they ran through the formalities of the introduction, and took their seats around a coffee table. Skinner looked for signs of one deferring to the other but found none. State cop and city cop seemed to treat each other as equals; there was no sign of the jurisdictional jealousy that he had found in Buffalo. However they were both visibly impressed by, and slightly in awe of, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and his Scottish companion.
'Welcome to Montana, gentlemen,' said Polhaus. He looked at Doherty. 'I don't suppose I need to tell you, Mr Deputy Director, that your cal took us by surprise. Make no mistake though, we're hell of a glad you're here. We've run into a complete brick wall on this Wilkins homicide investigation. Any input you can give us will be more than welcome.'
Lieutenant Sumner nodded. 'I'l second that, Tad,' he concurred, but tell me, sir, what brought this case to your attention? You gentlemen haven't come to the Queen of the Rockies just to see the sights.'
'I have,' Skinner told him. 'I'm an observer here, just tagging along on Mr Doherty's invitation. A visiting fireman, I understand you'd cal me.'
'Now why don't I believe that?' said the city detective. 'I did some research on you, Deputy Chief Skinner. I had a look at your force's website, and at a couple of files on Internet versions of your Scottish newspapers. I know who you are; I know what you've been into. You haven't come here for the fishing.'
Doherty laughed. 'Goddamn Internet. Pretty soon there wil be no secrets left in this world… but we're not at that stage yet, otherwise, pretty as your city is, we wouldn't be here. Tell me about the late Bartholomew Wilkins.'