The three officers left the tent; as he stripped off his crime scene outfit, Pye glanced across at an area of the perimeter where three television crews and other media were being marshalled by PC Jules Hoare.
‘Do you want to talk to them, sir?’ he asked McGuire.
‘No,’ the DCC replied, ‘but you should give them a statement. The midday bulletins will be coming on air very soon. Better all round if it’s based on the few facts we have rather than rampant speculation.’
‘Should I tell them that Bob Skinner was the one who found the child’s body?’
McGuire stared at the DCI. ‘Are you fucking crazy? Tell them that and it’s all they’ll report; on top of that they’ll hound him for quotes. If it was Joe Soap that had found her you wouldn’t have given a thought to naming him. Bob’s a private citizen now, and has as much right to that privacy as anyone else.’
‘Mmm,’ Pye murmured. ‘I’ll take that as a no.’
The DCC grinned. ‘You were winding me up, weren’t you? You do that, Sammy,’ he said. ‘What’s your plan of action?’
‘We find and interview the owner of the car. We search for the driver who ran off; the site manager says they have some CCTV footage of someone who might be him. We complete the identification of the girl.’
‘And there’s no chance the owner was driving?’
‘No. The boss . . . Mr Skinner, that is . . . was quite certain that the driver was in his twenties.’
‘Okay. You talk to the media. I’m off to Hawick.’ McGuire took a few paces towards his car, then stopped. ‘One more thing: no doubt Bob asked you to keep him informed of your progress. Be sure you do, otherwise he’ll bend my fucking ear, and I don’t want that.’
Pye smiled. ‘He did, and I will.’
As the DCC left, he signalled to the duty press officer, and headed in the direction of the corralled media. By the time he reached them, red lights were showing on the three TV cameras, and a clutch of portable recorders were thrust out towards him.
‘Morning,’ he began. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Samuel Pye. I’m the lead CID officer for the City of Edinburgh, and senior investigating officer here. I’m sorry to tell you that two hours ago, the body of a little girl was discovered in a vehicle, a red BMW, that had been involved in a minor collision in this car park. The driver ran off after the incident, before the child’s body was discovered. Obviously, finding him is very important to us. We’re looking for a thin-faced white man in his twenties, last seen wearing a grey hoodie and jeans. Any help the public can give us will be appreciated.’
He looked at the TV cameras. ‘I’m asking anyone who saw a person matching that description in this area at any time this morning to get in touch with us. Even if you can’t help us identify him, if we’re able to plot his movements that will be a help.’
‘Has the girl been identified?’ a female voice asked. Pye knew its owner, Lennox Webster, crime reporter of the Saltire.
‘No. That’s our top priority; somewhere there are parents who are facing some tragic news. We need to find them, and break it as gently as we can.’
‘So you don’t know her age.’
‘We’re guessing four or five; we’re asking schools and nurseries whether there have been any unexplained absences this morning. We’ve already established that no children of that age have been reported to the police as missing in the last few days.’
‘Do you know how she died?’ an STV reporter asked, breathlessly.
‘I’m sorry, we don’t. The pathologist’s initial examination found no signs of physical assault. That’s all I can tell you at this stage.’
‘But you are treating her death as murder, yes?’
‘We can’t, not yet. As of this moment we are investigating a suspicious death; that’s all I can say. That may change after the autopsy. In the meantime, I’m as impatient as you are to learn how this little girl died. Thank you.’
Pye forestalled any further questions by turning and walking away, heading back towards Haddock, who stood waiting beside the tent.
‘We’ve located the owner,’ the DS announced. ‘Callum Sullivan. There was no reply at his address when uniform called earlier on, but half an hour ago he walked into the North Berwick police office to see whether we’d found his missing car. The duty sergeant asked him, very politely, to wait there for us.’
‘Excellent,’ the DCI said. ‘And Zena? Did that name get any reaction anywhere?’
‘Not yet, other than this: we know that neither Sullivan nor his housemate Harris has a child of that name. However, he does have a daughter from a previous marriage. She’s called Kayleigh and she’s five years old.’
‘Let’s go and talk to him.’
Haddock nodded. ‘Oh yes, we should, for there’s more.’
Seven
‘How the hell do you get parked in this place?’ Sauce Haddock exclaimed. ‘It’s Monday, it’s winter and yet there isn’t a space to be seen.’
‘That’s the way it is here on most days,’ Pye replied. ‘I was stationed in East Lothian for a while, in uniform, so I was here quite often. Most towns this size wouldn’t have a manned police station any more, but all through the summer, and on most weekends, North Berwick is bulging with people. It’s a resort. There are a couple of caravan sites, there’s still property for holiday rent and on top of that there are loads of casual visitors, golfers and day trippers from Edinburgh. Because of that, parking’s always murder.’
He smiled. ‘Fortunately,’ he continued, making a right turn into an opening that came into view as they approached a pub, ‘there are a couple of spaces for police cars behind the local nick, and there’s usually at least one free during the day.’
In fact, both slots were vacant. Pye parked in the first and led the way to the back door of the station. As they approached, Haddock noticed that all of the windows were barred. ‘How many cells do they have here?’ he asked.
The DCI laughed as he pressed the door buzzer. ‘One of those is the toilet,’ he said. ‘There was a celebrated incident in this nick, about thirty-five years ago. They were holding a prisoner here on suspicion of murder. They let him go for a piss and he climbed out the window. Hence the bars.’
They were admitted by a young female constable, a woman with a strong Glasgow accent who made a show of inspecting their warrant cards.
‘Mr Sullivan’s in the interview room, wi’ Sergeant Tweedie,’ she told them. ‘It’s at the end of the corridor. The Sarge said just to go in when you arrived.’
‘That was our plan,’ Haddock murmured.
Sergeant Tweedie was a woman also. ‘Lucy, isn’t it?’ Pye asked her, after she had introduced them to Callum Sullivan, who was seated at the interview table.
‘That’s right, sir,’ she confirmed. ‘I remember you from Haddington. You were a DC then and I was very new. Are you still pally with Karen Neville, that used to work there too?’
‘I see her now and again. She reports to me, but not for much longer. She’s moving through to the west, on promotion.’
‘Did she not marry . . .’ Lucy Tweedie began.
Pye cut her off with a nod. ‘Our new chief constable, yes: then she divorced him.’ He turned to the third man in the room. Heavily built and round faced, he was looking at the two newcomers with curiosity in his eyes. He had a takeaway coffee in a plastic cup clasped in his hands, holding it as if for warmth.
‘Would you like one?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I can send Margie out to Gregg’s, no problem.’
‘That would be good.’ Pye glanced at Haddock. ‘Sauce, it’s your round.’
The DS sighed. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet, and handed it over, then seated himself at the table. ‘Afternoon, Mr Sullivan,’ he said, cheerfully.