Murder at Flood Tide

by Robert McNeill

  ‘You said “we”. There was another man. You know him?’

  ‘John Masters,’ Turner said, then shook his head. ‘I don’t actually know him. We met at the Quaich.’ He paused for a long moment, then said, ‘Sorry, why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Connie Fairbairn’s body was found on the beach at Longniddry early yesterday morning. She’d been murdered,’ Knox said.

  Turner’s already white face paled so much Knox thought he was about to retch. ‘Murdered? Who in God’s name would do that?’

  Knox said nothing in reply. He and Fulton stared fixedly at Turner for several seconds, then the penny dropped.

  ‘Masters,’ he said. ‘You think Masters did it?’

  ‘You said you met him at the Quaich,’ Knox said. ‘You’d never seen him before then?’

  ‘Never set eyes on him.’

  ‘Tell us about Friday night,’ Fulton said. ‘What time did you arrive at the pub?’

  Turner shook his head. ‘About ten past eight. I’m a storeman at Carson’s Printers in the Cowgate. Usually I finish at six, but they’re busy at the moment. Asked me to do a couple of hours overtime. I clocked out at eight.’

  ‘Was Masters there when you arrived?’ Knox said.

  ‘No. He came in about ten minutes later. He took the stool next to mine.’

  ‘Connie and Shona. They were in the pub then?’

  Turner nodded. ‘Uh-huh. At a table facing the bar.’

  ‘What happened when Masters came in?’

  Turner gave Knox a blank stare. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘What interaction was there between him and Connie?’

  ‘Not that much to begin with. I’d already clocked the women, see? Shona in particular. When John – Masters – came in, it was quite obvious Connie was keen on him.’

  ‘But he said nothing to her then?’ Knox said. ‘You told us he sat on a stool at the bar?’

  ‘Yeah, she smiled at him, he smiled back at her. He turned to his pint and became quiet. It occurred to me he might be a bit on the shy side. Like I said, I had my eye on Shona. So, I struck up a conversation, asked if he fancied chatting them up.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He was up for it. Turned out he wasn’t shy at all.’

  ‘Shona told us you suggested going to Bungo’s. Did Masters go along with that?’

  ‘Aye, he was game.’

  Knox acknowledged this with a nod, then asked, ‘Were you aware Masters had transport?’

  Turner shook his head. ‘No. I thought it strange when Shona told me he was giving Connie a lift. He never mentioned he’d a car. Came as a bit of a surprise.’

  ‘Shona says the four of you separated on arriving at Bungo’s. She didn’t see Connie again until she was leaving with Masters.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Turner said. ‘The place was packed. Shona and I were dancing most of the time.’

  ‘Okay,’ Knox said. ‘Finally, Joe, I’d like you to tell us what impression you formed of Masters.’

  Turner raised his eyebrows. ‘What he looked like, you mean?’

  ‘Not just what he looked like,’ Knox replied. ‘What general impression he left you with. Personality, any peculiar traits, that sort of thing.’

  Turner frowned. ‘I remember Connie asking him what his job was. He told her he was self-employed. When she said, “Doing what?” he quickly changed the subject. I don’t think he was happy talking about his work.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Knox said. ‘Would you say he had an outgoing nature?’

  Turner nodded. ‘Aye, and a good sense of humour. Had the girls laughing a lot of the time. It wasn’t the booze making him that way either: he only drank lager and lemonade shandies.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’ Fulton asked.

  ‘Shirt and tie; smart suit.’ Turner paused for a moment. ‘You know, there was one thing – I had the impression he’d been in the army.’

  ‘Really?’ Knox said.

  ‘Aye. There was an expression he used when we arrived at Bungo’s.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He said the place was “gleaming” – army slang for something better than just okay.’ Turner waved to a nearby table on which was a framed photograph of himself dressed in army uniform. ‘I joined the Territorials at eighteen. Did a spell in Iraq in 2011.’

  ‘You think Masters was in the army?’ Fulton said.

  ‘Uh-huh, I do.’

  Knox stood and Fulton followed his lead. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he said. ‘We’ll be on our way. It’s possible we may have to talk to you again, particularly if we need to verify anything.’

  Turner rose, pushing back a lick of hair which had drifted onto his forehead. ‘I understand.’

  Knox went to the door, then turned. ‘By the way, Joe. When we arrived, your mother appeared a wee bit defensive. When we asked to speak to you, she was insistent you’d done nothing wrong. You’ve had dealings with us before?’

  Turner gave Knox a shamefaced look. ‘When I was seventeen,’ he admitted, ‘I stole a motorbike at a car park near the Playhouse cinema. Did six months’ community service.’

  ‘You’ve behaved yourself since?’ Knox said.

  Turner nodded. ‘Why I joined the Terries,’ he said. ‘Straightened me out.’

  Chapter Nine

  Knox arrived back at Gayfield Square to discover that Mason and McCann had found Scotland’s only Byrona dealer.

  ‘Jackson’s Garage,’ Mason informed him. ‘It’s in Glenmore Terrace, off Easter Road. They’re the sole agent north of the border. Arlene rang them, they’ve accounts with one courier company and a few independents.’

  ‘Did you talk to the proprietor?’ Knox asked.

  McCann turned from her desk and said, ‘I did. Mr George Lawton. On Sundays he’s only open between ten and two. I made an appointment for one o’clock. Enough time to take a note of his client list and get back in time to interview Lorimer.’

  Knox glanced at his watch. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The two of you better get going.’

  As Mason and McCann left the office, Reilly walked over and motioned to the departing women. ‘When they discovered the Byrona dealer, I didn’t see the point of compiling a more in-depth courier file. What I’ve been thinking about is the route Masters took from Edinburgh to Longniddry.’

  ‘And?’ Knox said.

  ‘Both roads – the A1 and the B1348 – pass through small towns: Musselburgh, Prestonpans and Port Seton. Likely to be a number of businesses equipped with CCTV. A strong bet one of them picked up his van. Might be possible to isolate his registration.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Knox conceded. ‘But it’s equally possible he took the bypass. The only one on that stretch is at Old Craighall. I checked this morning and it was out of commission.’ He gestured to Reilly and Herkiss’s desks. ‘Could be worth covering the coast road just the same. You and Gary get on the phones. Find out who has CCTV. Those that are closed you can contact tomorrow.’

  He went to Naismith’s office and knocked gently.

  ‘Come in,’ the DCI responded.

  Knox entered and his boss pointed to a chair. ‘Take a seat, Jack. You saw Turner?’

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ Knox replied. ‘He pretty much corroborated Shona Kirkbride’s statement. With one difference: Masters might’ve been in the army.’

  ‘He told Turner that?’

  ‘Not exactly. Masters used army slang in conversation. Gave Turner the idea he’d been a squaddie.’

  ‘Turner was a soldier?’

  ‘Part-time – Territorials.’

  ‘I see.’ Naismith drummed his fingers on the desk and added, ‘McCann and Mason found the Byrona tyre dealer?’

  ‘Yes, Jackson’s Garage in Glenmore Terrace. They’re currently speaking to the owner. He has a number of courier clients. Might prove a good lead.’

  Naismith shook his head. ‘I hope so.’ He motioned to the phone. ‘The Chief Constable’s been on again this morning, anxious for a r
esult. It’s my guess the tourism minister’s breathing down his neck.’

  ‘What time’s the media conference?’

  Naismith sighed. ‘Just over an hour,’ he said. ‘And I’m definitely not looking forward to it.’

  * * *

  ‘Any indication who the killer is yet, Chief Inspector?’ Jackie Lyon was asking. Central Lowland Television’s senior news reporter stood at the edge of the police station courtyard flanked by other journalists. Naismith faced them having read a prepared statement. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But we’re pursuing a definite line of inquiry.’

  Lyon pressed the point again. ‘Do you know what he looks like?’

  ‘We’re interviewing someone today who might be able to help,’ Naismith said. ‘We hope to release a facial composite later this afternoon.’

  Lyon thrust her microphone an inch from Naismith’s chin. ‘A photofit image, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you do have an inkling of the killer’s identity?’

  Naismith shook his head. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But surely if you’re releasing a photofit you must have a suspect?’

  ‘As I told you a moment ago, we’re pursuing a definite line of inquiry and hope to be able to release the photofit soon.’

  ‘It will be someone’s description?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, your witness is a woman who was attacked by the same man? The killer’s struck before?’

  Naismith realised he’d been wrong-footed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said warily. ‘I’m not in a position to confirm that at the moment. As I say, the investigation is ongoing. To add anything further at this stage might be prejudicial to our inquiries.’

  The DCI thanked the assembled correspondents and turned back into the station.

  Lyon swung back to face the camera with a smug look on her face. She had achieved her objective, which, as on previous occasions, had been to portray the police as incompetent. ‘Well, that’s the latest on the tragic murder at Longniddry,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep you updated if and when there are further developments. This is Jackie Lyon at Gayfield Square Police Station, handing you back to the studio.’

  * * *

  ‘That woman has the right name,’ Naismith said. ‘I feel as if I’ve just been thrown to the lions.’ The DCI was standing near the whiteboard together with Knox and Fulton a few minutes later. Reilly, Herkiss and Hathaway were at their desks, busy with the telephones.

  ‘Sorry, Alan,’ Knox said. ‘I should’ve warned you about her.’

  Fulton gave a rueful smile. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It’s not for nothing that she’s known as The Rottweiler.’

  ‘Well, she gave me a right bloody savaging and no mistake.’ Naismith nodded to his office. ‘I expect the Chief’ll be ringing again any moment now. And it won’t be to praise my performance.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Knox said in a conciliatory tone, ‘I’ve a hunch we’ll get something positive from Lorimer. That and the list of couriers who bought Byrona tyres. A break can’t be that far away.’

  The women detectives entered the office as Knox finished speaking. ‘The only Byrona tyres Jackson’s have sold so far have been to couriers,’ Mason said with a hint of triumph. ‘Six with a company, two on their own. We’re lucky. The Czechs began importing into the UK only last month. Jackson’s is their only Scottish outlet so far.’ She looked to McCann for confirmation. ‘Arlene?’

  McCann took a notebook from her handbag and flipped it open. ‘The company’s called Bluebird Parcel Services and they’ve an office in Edinburgh. All of their drivers are sub-contracted.’

  ‘You rang the firm?’ Knox said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ McCann said. ‘Mr Donald Russell, the guy who runs it, has an office in Merchiston Court.’ She turned to Mason. ‘That is Edinburgh, right?’

  ‘Yeah, near Tollcross,’ Mason said.

  ‘Anyway,’ McCann continued, ‘he lives above the premises. His office is at street level.’

  ‘He’s willing to talk to us today?’

  McCann dipped her head, then glanced back at the notebook. ‘Said he was out at the moment. Expects to be back at three.’

  ‘What are the names of the other two?’

  McCann glanced back at the page. ‘A Mr Walter Coates, 66 Duns Gardens, Bonnyrigg, and Lee Spence, 88 Water Street, Dalkeith.’

  Naismith grinned and said, ‘Good work, ladies. That should get the ball rolling.’ He glanced at Knox. ‘I think we’d better make the couriers a priority, Jack, don’t you?’

  Knox nodded, then glanced around the room. His eyes lighted on Reilly, who was still working the phones. ‘Charlie thought it a good idea to check the east coast route for CCTV,’ he explained. ‘I think we’ll leave him to his endeavours. I’ll ask Mark and Gary to see Spence and Coates – Dalkeith and Bonnyrigg are reasonably near each other. Arlene and Yvonne have their meeting at four.’ He gestured to Fulton. ‘Bill and I will go up and see Russell.’

  * * *

  Merchiston Court was located a short distance from Tollcross, a staggered junction of converging roads and streets. The Court itself was narrow and cobbled, the properties on either side former garages which had been converted into flats.

  As Knox drew to a stop outside number 11, the door opened and an Alsatian dog leapt out. The animal began barking furiously, prancing around the car and baring its teeth. It spotted Fulton and jumped up to the passenger window, snarling menacingly.

  A moment later, a man appeared. He was holding a thick leather leash with a muzzle attached.

  ‘Rory!’ he shouted. The dog stopped barking, then gave a low whine and crouched submissively. The man slipped on the restraints and turned to the car. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot to close the door of the back room. He must’ve slipped out.’

  Fulton lowered the passenger window a crack and flashed his warrant card. ‘Mr Russell?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, then looked at his watch. ‘Three o’clock, wasn’t it? One of your detectives phoned me earlier?’

  Fulton glanced at his own watch. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘We’re ten minutes early.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Russell said, then pulled the leash taut. ‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll put the dog away.’

  Russell went inside and reappeared a few moments later. ‘He’s secure now.’ He indicated a room on the left, and added, ‘Please come in, my office is in there.’

  The detectives followed him into an oblong room. Along the inside wall were two large filing cabinets and a row of shelves filled with lever-arch binders. A large desktop computer took up most of the space on a narrow table near the window opposite, behind which was a plain wooden chair.

  ‘Sorry, not a lot of space in here,’ Russell said. ‘But if you’ll wait a minute, I’ll fetch a couple of seats.’

  ‘Please don’t bother,’ Knox said. ‘We don’t mind standing.’

  Russell went to his desk. ‘Detective Sergeant McCann mentioned something about the tyres my couriers are using,’ he said.

  Knox studied Russell for a long moment. The man had a bookish look, accentuated by thick horn-rimmed glasses. The academic theme was emphasised by a cable-knit cardigan, which he wore over a blue-striped button-down shirt. He was clean shaven, with an angular face and a strong jawline.

  ‘Yes,’ Knox said. ‘Mr Lawton at Jackson’s Garage told us they fitted Byrona tyres to all six vans used by your drivers.’

  Russell dipped his head in agreement. ‘Yes, I’ve a contract with George. He recently began stocking the Czech brand. They’re thirty-five per cent cheaper than others and equal, if not better, in quality. Jackson’s does our servicing, too. We get a very competitive rate. All my couriers use them.’

  Russell paused and looked at Knox. ‘But that’s not why you’re asking, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Knox replied. ‘A young woman was found murdered on the beach at Longniddry yesterday. The vehicle that took her there had a t
read unique to Byrona tyres.’

  Russell’s eyebrows arched. ‘Yes, I saw the report of the killing on television.’ He shook his head. ‘I find it hard to believe one of our couriers could be implicated in a murder, though.’

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re sure about this tread thing – there’s no possibility of a mistake?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Knox said. ‘Our forensic people are very thorough.’

  Russell replaced his glasses and gave Knox a searching look. ‘You’ll want to speak to my drivers?’

  ‘Yes. I understand there are six working for you?’

  ‘They don’t work for me.’ Russell paused. ‘Sorry, the dog, earlier, I didn’t catch your names?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Knox and Detective Sergeant Fulton.’

  Russell nodded. ‘I was saying, Detective Inspector Knox, that each driver is actually self-employed. They own the vans they use. As I said, I’m able to get them discounts on servicing, tyres, that sort of thing.’ He gestured to the files on the shelves. ‘More importantly, though, I’ve contracts with most of the top catalogue companies in the UK.’ He paused. ‘I should say companies which used to issue catalogues. Nowadays most of their business is conducted online.’

  ‘All your couriers drive light vans?’ Fulton said.

  ‘Yes,’ Russell replied. ‘Ford Transits mainly, though a couple have other makes.’

  ‘There are no others sub-contracted to you – part-timers or the like?’

  ‘No, only the six. Each average a working week of around fifty hours, driving and delivery time included.’

  ‘Okay,’ Knox said. ‘Could you let me have a list of their names and addresses?’

  ‘Sure,’ Russell said, then glanced at the computer screen and tapped on a file marked “Couriers”. A list of names appeared on the screen, together with personal details and a record of their vehicles. He clicked again, and a printer under the table whirred into action and spat out two sheets of A4 paper. Russell handed them to Knox and said, ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, I think that’s all,’ Knox said. ‘If we need to speak again, we’ll be in touch.’

  Chapter Ten