Pause, long pause this time. Finally a nod. “Do you have an address for Martina and Graham? We should like to speak to them if possible.”
Sarah-Anne hesitated for a second, then shrugged. “I have Graham. I do the accounts for his business.” She pulled out her phone again, scrolled through her contacts and then showed them one for a Graham Donaldson. It had a work address, and a home address, the first in Loanhead, the second in Oxgangs. Dakar passed it to Stewart, who copied it down.
Pause. “Thank you, my sister. I would like to speak to your daughter as well about what took place that night as well. May I have her contact details?”
Sarah-Anne hesitated for a moment. “Sandra’s coming through for brunch on Friday morning, if it can wait until then?”
Pause. “I should prefer to speak to her sooner, my sister.”
Another second of hesitation, then Sarah-Anne nodded. She wrote down a number. “This is her mobile number. She’s practically surgically attached to that phone, so you should have no problem getting a hold of her. She lives towards the West End, in Arlington Street. Not far from the motorway.”
Pause, nod. “I would like to keep the photographs in the meantime, as well as the GPS tracker. I will return them to you once this is over. Is that acceptable?”
“You can take it all as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need any more reminders of what Daniel became.”
Pause, nod. “Thank you, my sister. I am grateful.”
Stewart was already looking up from his notes by the time Dakar looked around at him, his mind triggered by Dakar’s words and tone. He opened his mouth, then paused, and closed it again. He looked at Dakar for a second, looked down at the table with his eyebrows furrowed, then back up, expression clear.
“Nothing from me,” he said. He passed Sarah-Anne’s mobile phone back.
“My sister, was Daniel good friends with Charles?”
Sarah-Anne gave a short laugh. “Oh, Daniel liked Charles well enough. In his lucid moments he would tell me he always went to find Charles when he went out. He said Charles made the nights much more fun.”
Stewart scribbled this down, even although privately he doubted Charles would make any night more fun.
Pause. “And did Charles like Daniel?”
Sarah-Anne looked back at Dakar in silence for a few seconds. Then eventually she shrugged, with the ghost of a smile. “You’d have to ask Charles that, Mr Dakar. I know Daniel always wanted Charles there when he went out.”
Long pause. “Did Charles and Daniel seem close that night?”
“Not at all.” The strange smile still played around her lips.
Pause. “Did you put out an extra place for Charles at dinner? Once he arrived?”
Sarah-Anne hesitated, the smile dropping. “Yes. Yes, I must have. I didn’t know he was coming.”
Long pause, eventually a nod. “My sister, there is one further thing I should like to check upstairs, in Daniel’s bedroom. Would you mind?”
“Go ahead.” She waved in the general direction of the stairs. Dakar nodded, went to tidy up the photographs, but Stewart had got there first, ordering them and sliding them back into the brown envelope. He put it, and his notepad, into his bag. Dakar nodded, and they went back up and into Daniel’s bedroom.
Wordlessly, to Stewart’s horror, Dakar opened the window and then clambered out, resting his feet on the brickwork, facing back into the room. He had to hold on to the window ledge to stop himself falling. Stewart’s eyes opened wider and wider as Dakar reached up with one hand, and then a second, to try and close the window. He got it down some way, but eventually had to give up. Dakar climbed back in and closed the window behind him.
“Impossible to close from the outside.”
Stewart nodded, as if Dakar’s actions were the most normal in the world. Dakar turned and walked out of the room, Stewart coming after him. He slid his notepad out, updating his notes as he hurried after Dakar.
Sarah-Anne was waiting for them at the front door. Dakar did his heart-nod thing, and Stewart and Dakar walked out of the house. Stewart shivered as they walked to the car, the air cold after the warmth inside.
Dakar stopped at the gate, and turned to look at the house. Stewart followed his gaze, up to the second floor, to the sloping roof which had a couple of skylights in it.
“I believe those two skylights would be a part of the guest bedroom. The only windows, in fact.”
Stewart looked at them. If Daniel’s bedroom had looked out over the garden, and the guest bedroom was opposite … He calculated, then nodded.
Dakar stared at them for a few more seconds, unheeding of the cold, then took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Skylights,” he murmured, to himself. Then he turned and walked out past the gate, to the car.
Stewart slid gratefully back into the small car, where some residual heat remained. Dakar pulled out a mobile phone. Instead of the black brick that Stewart had seen him with at Hanover House, it was a top-of-the-range smartphone.
“Will you excuse me, my brother?”
Stewart nodded, still studying Dakar’s phone. “No worries.”
He watched as Dakar began typing, his fingers flying at an impressive speed, given his age, over the keys. The man paused, re-reading what he had written, and then touched the screen one more time. Then he put the phone back in its cover, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Never expected to see you with a fancy smartphone.”
Dakar smiled. “I purchased it a few weeks after we worked together.”
Dakar started up the car, the almost silent engine taking them away from Sarah-Anne’s house. Stewart got out his notes, and checked the time. ‘Five thirty. Left Sarah-Anne Mannings’s home. And heading to…’
Stewart hesitated. They had the Donaldson’s contact details, and Sandra’s. But Graham Donaldson had been found outside on the night Daniel was murdered. Plus it seemed he’d been having an affair that was being documented by Daniel. So the Donaldsons, then, and the affair. And Dakar always wanted to go to the scene of the crime.
“Dakar?”
Pause. “My brother?”
“We’re going to the hotel next, is that right?”
Pause. “Indeed. Then I think we should have a chat with Graham and Martina Donaldson, about his presence there that evening and about these photographs. What do you think?”
Stewart nodded, scribbling it down. Going to see the hotel and then the Donaldsons sounded good, in that it sounded logical. But it just didn’t sound very pleasant:
‘Hullo Mr and Mrs Jones, nice to meet you. Mr Jones, why were you hanging around outside a house where someone was murdered? Oh, and Mrs Jones, did you know he’s having an affair? Look, we’ve even got some nice photos. And by the way, the dead guy was the one taking the photos of your husband having it off …’
Might not make a wonderful first impression.
Then again, it would look good in the report. And that was important. Stewart shifted uncomfortably. Green, and those horrible glittering eyes. If he sent the report to Green. If. The image shifted to Manning, and that large beard, raspy, deep voice.
Stewart realised Dakar was waiting for an answer. He felt his cheeks begin to burn, but a fierceness surged through him, a demand sent from his brain to kill the fire in his face. If Dakar could have his pause time, then he could have his inner monologue time.
He cleared his throat. “Eh, aye. Sounds good. So, eh, you know where Hotel Black is then, do you?”
Pause. “I checked the address on my phone. I believe I know the street.”
Stewart nodded. As he put his notepad back in his bag, he saw the envelope with the photographs.
“And we’re giving these to the police?” He pulled the envelope half-out of the bag so Dakar could see what he was referring to. He would like to be there when Dakar handed them over. A fine feather in their cap.
Pause. “Not right now.”
Stewart raised his eyebrows, his mouth opening. “But, eh, I m
ean, it is a murder investigation and everything …” Silence. “We’ll be handing them over at some point, won’t we?”
Pause. “At some point. Probably.”
Stewart stared at him, but Dakar, eyes now back on the road, didn’t seem inclined to talk any further.
Chapter 18
Dakar pulled the car over on a street, not far from Tollcross, on the side of the Cameo cinema. He got out of the car, Stewart reluctantly following. It was hard to be sure, but Stewart could swear that the air felt even colder. The clouds over the centre of Edinburgh darkened the whole city, nightfall come early in spite of the fact that sunset was still an hour away.
Dakar was looking over at the hotel, lit up on the other side of the street. He held up one of the photographs, Stewart peering over his shoulder. The picture was almost identical.
“We must be standing almost exactly where he was parked.”
Pause. “Yes.”
Stewart nodded, and quickly slid his notepad out, scribbling the confirmation down about Hotel Black.
“So, how are we going to investigate if Graham Donaldson was ever in the hotel? A smash-and-grab? Or maybe I can cause a distraction, and you can get on the computer or something?” Stewart couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice as he slid the notebook away and eyed their target, the hotel looking plump with potential.
Dakar looked at him curiously. “They are both strategies that might work, my brother. But I think I have an easier one.”
Dakar walked over to the hotel, Stewart heading across the street after him. They entered the hotel, into a large, spacious lobby. A long reception desk dominated the wall opposite the entrance, while futuristically shaped chairs and sofas were scattered around, seemingly at random. Stewart saw that the person behind the desk was indeed wearing some kind of robotic helmet, although it looked a bit crap, like a cheap toy.
Whoever was responsible for the aroma clearly hadn’t got the memo though. The place smelled, incongruously, of fresh wildflowers, although there wasn’t a fresh flower in sight. Dakar took it in for a few seconds, then wordlessly turned and headed back out. He didn’t stop, crossing over the road and heading towards the car. Stewart, a frown on his face, had to run to catch up.
As he walked, Dakar pulled out his phone again. He walked past the car onto a part of the street that was largely sheltered by an overhang from a nearby building. He dialled a number, and put the phone on speaker.
A voice answered after a ring or two. “All right, Dakar?” It was a throaty voice, a Glaswegian accent that had smoked too many cigarettes and had too much booze both last night and for a lot of nights previously.
“Good evening, my brother. My thanks for agreeing to do this.”
“Aye, no bother, big man. Piece of pish, so it was. These swanky hotels spend all their money on looking good. None on security!” The rough voice made a noise that sounded like it was choking, although it could have been a laugh.
Pause. “Have you managed to access the guest list?”
“Oh aye. Two second job. What’s the name you’re after?”
Pause. “Graham Donaldson. Graham with an ‘h’.”
There was a sound of typing on the other end of the line. “Right, aye, got him. Been there three times. Give us a wee second now, I’ll have a wee shufti.” There was a pause for a few moments. “Right. You still there, big man?”
Pause. “Yes, my brother. Still here.”
“Right. Eh, tenth of September, fifteenth of September and twenty-seventh of September.”
Pause. “Was he there on his own?”
“Eh, aye, from what I can see. Haud on … Naw, aye, reservation just for him, like. Double room though. But sure all the big hotels give you double rooms now, trying to make a wee bit extra.” The throaty laugh again.
Pause. “And nothing since then?”
“No according to this, naw.”
Pause. “Thank you once again, my brother. I’m grateful.”
“No bother, big man. What goes around comes around, know what I mean?”
Pause. “Indeed.”
“Aye. Right, catch you. I’m away for ma tea.”
Pause. “Bon appetit.”
“Whit?”
Pause. “Eat well, my brother.”
“Aye, cheers. Cheerio now.”
The line went dead. Stewart watched as Dakar slipped his phone back into its cover, then into his pocket.
Stewart couldn’t really keep the disappointment off his face. In his heart of hearts, he hadn’t really been expecting any kind of dramatic snatch-and-grab chat, but had thought it would have been something a bit more exciting than making a phone call hanging around on the street, trying to not to look too shifty.
Stewart pulled his coat tighter around him, the draining of excitement replaced by a bodily reminder of the chill in the air. “Who was that?”
Pause. “A man I have known for a long time.”
“Right, aye.” Stewart stopped, hoping Dakar would say more, but nothing further came. “And, eh, he spends his days getting into hotels’ computer systems, does he then?”
Pause. “He primarily sends out phishing emails to subsidiaries of multinational companies, trying to trick people into giving up their passwords. He does do the occasional amount of work for security firms. I believe he is contracted to try and break into their systems, in essence as a test run. But I think he mainly makes his money from illegal activities.”
Stewart realised his mouth was hanging open.
There was not a shadow of difference in Dakar’s tone. “Shall we go to the Donaldson’s house?”
Stewart shut his mouth, although he couldn’t take his eyes off Dakar. “Eh, sounds good, aye.”
They got back into Dakar’s car, and pulled out onto the road. There was silence for a few moments as Stewart waited for Dakar to say something, even to acknowledge that what had happened wasn’t something normal. Nothing came. …
“Eh, so, that guy, you’ve known him a long time?” Stewart tried to keep his tone neutral. Dakar looked entirely unconcerned about what he’d just done.
Pause. “I arrested him four times while I worked as a police office. The first time I arrested him was the first time I met him. That was nine years ago.”
Stewart caught himself with the open mouth again. He shut it firmly.
No more gaping, Scott. C’mon now.
“And, eh, now he works for you?”
Pause. “I would not phrase it that way. He occasionally does me favours, such as the one you just heard. He’s extremely proficient. Of the eight times he has been arrested on charges related to cyber-crime, he was only convicted once, and that was for a lesser charge.”
Stewart paused, digesting this. They were driving back out of the city again towards Morningside, the optimistically named Bruntsfield Links off to the left. Stewart had always thought there was some grand golf course somewhere in Edinburgh when people talked about the Bruntsfield Links. He hadn’t realised they meant the wee pitch and putt area next to The Meadows.
“Right, right. And so, eh, I guess you do favours for him in return?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Right.”
They drove on in silence for a while, up past Holy Corner, the churches rearing up on the left and right as they drove past, straight down Morningside Road this time.
“Eh, what kind of favours do you do for him, then?”
A slightly longer pause. “He is a troubled young man, in many ways, and had a difficult upbringing. He is fighting his inner battle, and I try to help him.”
“Eh, right. But, eh, if he’s doing this phishing stuff, it maybe doesn’t sound like he’s really trying to clean himself up all that much?”
Pause. “He has only been convicted of electronic crimes once. He has been convicted of violence, particularly with racial aggravations, on several occasions. It is the latter with which I help him.”
“Right. Aye. No, that’s not good, that sort of stuff. E
h, and the phishing stuff? You just leave that alone, do you?”
Pause. “We have never spoken about his efforts to try to obtain money illicitly from large multinational companies and their shareholders.”
“Right, aye. I see. Okay.” Stewart nodded. There was something in Dakar’s tone at the end there. Or rather, there wasn’t. His tone was exactly the same. But the lack of change was significant, Stewart was sure of it. He didn’t know how, though. In fact, he wasn’t really sure what had just happened.
Stewart grabbed his notepad in the silence, and began to write down what had occurred. Then he’d re-read it, and crossed out the part about how they had found out that Graham Donaldson had booked the rooms, firmly enough that it was no longer legible.
Stewart put his notepad away. He stole a glance at Dakar, but the guy’s eyes were fixed on the road. Stewart shifted uncomfortably.
“You don’t think there’s any issues over privacy, or anything like that, getting a random hacker to pull someone’s name from a computer?” Stewart said it suddenly, almost in spite of himself, looking straight ahead.
Pause. “No.”
Stewart nodded, unhappily. “Why did we go to the hotel at all then? Why couldn’t you just phone the guy and ask him from the car?”
Pause. “I wanted to see the lobby for myself.”
“Why? What’s so important about the lobby?”
Pause. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a lot. I find that it’s good to visit places and see them for yourself.” Dakar’s gentle tone did not change in spite of Stewart’s increasing irritation.
He took out his pad again, and noted that Dakar had wanted to see the lobby. Then he sat back, looking out of the window. His mind couldn’t settle on any one thing, instead going back again and again to Dakar talking to the throaty voice over the phone.
The journey didn’t take much longer, Dakar only having to take the right past the park to come straight into Oxgangs. They pulled up in a nice street, more towards the Colinton side of Oxgangs.
Stewart checked his watch. It was just past six thirty. The sun would be setting at the moment, unseen by the thick, angry cloud that now ranged from horizon to horizon, unbroken and unbreakable.
The Price to Pay Page 9
