by Les Cowan
“That not a bit unusual on a Sunday?”
“Apparently, but not unknown. Anyway, Mr Hunter was not to be found all afternoon and into the early evening, at which point Mrs Hunter says she began to be more concerned. She phoned a few friends but nobody had seen him so she went for a walk.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, when she got back she noticed the garage light was on. Seems they don’t use the garage much and just leave the cars in the drive. Went into the garage and found her husband – not, as you might say, a pretty sight. He looked like he’d been out for a run and still had his jogging gear on. She phoned 999 and got a uniformed patrol. They confirmed what she had said in the call and got the police surgeon out. Cross-checking picked up the earlier call. Child abuse images are a hot ticket right now so I got hauled out.”
“And…”
“Just what you’re hoping not to find. Mr Hunter’s laptop was on his desk in the study. Mrs Hunter typed in his password and Bob’s your uncle. Apparently right in the middle of a slide show from the hard drive. No doubt about the content. So all the laptops in the house and two desktops are now in the back of that van. There’s a national child abuse unit that’ll look at it in due course. But there you have it. In a nutshell.”
David let out a long sigh, staring into the night sky far above the blue lights and yellow tape.
“I’ve known Mike Hunter for ten years,” he said. “I just can’t believe that of him.”
“No doubt. The ones you can believe it of are on the sex offenders’ register already. It’s the ordinary blokes, pillars of the community, doctors, lawyers – ministers if you don’t mind me saying so… Nobody can believe it until they’re presented with the evidence. And we have pretty clear evidence as far as Mike Hunter goes. Naturally none of this is to go any further, though I’m sure Mrs Hunter understands where we’re coming from.”
“Well, I suppose she won’t deny what’s in front of her eyes. But she’s sure Mike didn’t kill himself.”
Thompson shrugged.
“Well, right now that’s what it looks like: motive, means, and opportunity. Anyway, I think we’re about done here. Back in the morning but that’s it for tonight. As I say, we’d appreciate it if you can keep an eye on Mrs Hunter. Not the perfect way to round off the weekend.”
Sam and Gillian were sitting in the kitchen. They each had a coffee in front of them but were neither drinking nor talking. They looked up as David opened the door. Ever since getting Sam’s call and running out of the restaurant, David had been struggling both with the horror and disbelief but also with what they were going to find when they arrived and what on earth to say. There was a lead weight in his gut that wouldn’t go away. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced something like this. The thought of Mike’s lifeless body hanging from a rope brought another image to mind – twenty-five years ago when he’d left work early and found another figure hanging by the neck. Years of depression after a series of miscarriages had finally proved too much for his lively, funny, intelligent young wife and Rocío had decided enough was enough. He’d opened the door just in time to pick up the chair she’d kicked away and support her body with one arm while struggling to loosen the rope with the other. As she regained consciousness she had clung to him, which is probably the only way he had managed. The whole sequence probably took less than three minutes but it felt like hours and now came back to mind in vivid technicolour. He had pondered many times the question of what had made him leave the paperwork on his desk and head for home just at that moment. Now another question was uncoiling like a snake in his mind: why had he arrived in time and Sam had not?
Standing in the doorway, David was still hoping the right words might materialize from somewhere, but he was disappointed. Sam took in his confusion, stood up, came around the kitchen table, and gave him a hug.
“Thanks so much for coming. I didn’t know who else to call.” She turned and clicked the kettle on again. “We like to think we’re more sophisticated than our parents but here I am doing the very same as they did in the Blitz. Get a friend round to sit with you and put the kettle on. Can’t say I’m feeling much of the spirit of the Blitz, though. You read about it but never imagine it could happen to you.”
Turning back with a jar of coffee in one hand and a teaspoon in the other, she looked straight at him.
“Whatever happened, David, Mike did not kill himself. He was a strong-minded man. Giving up or running away just wasn’t part of his personality. The images on that computer weren’t his. Whatever this is, it’s not suicide. I can assure you of that.”
Sam resisted every attempt either to get her to stay with one of them overnight or have someone stay with her. The on-call doctor had given her a sedative, she said, and she’d be fine. Well, not actually fine – but… well, you know. She’d phone in sick in the morning and arrange some compassionate leave, then maybe a few days with her sister up north waiting for release of the body. Then a small private funeral. Maybe David might say a few words. No, honestly. I’ll be fine. And yes – I’ll call if I need anything. I’m sure there are other things I need to do but I just can’t think right now. I’ll take the phone off the hook. Can you speak to the police and let me know if they need to contact me?
They made their way back to the car. The yellow tape had been gathered up, the emergency vehicles had left, and neighbours had gone back inside still wondering what it was all about. According to DI Thompson, if nothing new turned up, it looked as if it was going to be a pretty open-and-shut case. As with all unexplained deaths and particularly suspected suicides, there would be a report to the Procurator Fiscal, who would decide what was to happen next. Probably a postmortem would happen within the week, then the death certificate would be issued and the body released. In the final analysis, just some pathetic bloke with an abhorrent – and illegal – interest that had got out of hand and spilled over into the community and onto his computer. You’ve got to have some sympathy with that bloke that phoned it in. Nobody wants that in their neighbourhood. And then it turned out he was a coward as well as a paedophile and so would never actually end up where “they know what to do with your kind”. Hard luck on the wife though. Bet she never knew a thing about it. You wake up in the morning and think life’s jogging along ok, then by night-time it’s all come crashing down and the person you live with turns out not to be who you thought they were. Didn’t even have the decency to leave her a note or apologize or anything. Still, at least it’s a saving to the taxpayer not having to prosecute.
Gillian pulled up outside David’s Bruntsfield flat and turned the engine off.
“You ok?” she asked.
“Not as good as I was three hours ago. I’m just completely stunned. You know something similar happened to me once. I’m afraid this brings it all back.”
Gillian reached for David’s hand. “I’m so sorry. This can’t be easy for you, after all you’ve been through.”
“No, it’s not… but it was different for me. Rocío lived; Mike didn’t.”
They sat in silence for some minutes.
“So what do you make of it all?” Gillian finally asked.
“Well, for a kick-off I think Sam is 100 per cent correct in saying this was no suicide, from what we know about Mike and what we talked about yesterday morning.”
“Do you think the police will see it that way?”
“I’m pretty sure they won’t. They have what looks like a suicide and what looks like a good reason for it.”
“And all that about him being agitated – supposedly after the argument – and hiding something on his laptop.”
“That’s right. We interpret it one way – he was anxious about the investigation and didn’t want Sam implicated by knowing who he was investigating. But, from the police point of view, it all fits together very reasonably. Secretive paedophile tries to conceal illegal images on his computer, takes a risk in the community, gets caught, terrified of the exposure, can’t stand
the disgrace, and decides to end it all. I imagine this is not the first time that little scenario has played itself out.”
“But if it wasn’t suicide, if whoever he was investigating found out and acted to protect themselves, how are we to get the police to see it that way? We don’t even have a name now – just a page full of numbers that could have come from anywhere. How did they do the deed, and how on earth did that stuff get onto his laptop in the first place?”
David didn’t answer, just sat silently staring out into the night. Edinburgh, like a thousand other big cities, never entirely goes to sleep, but the type of people out and about at 2 a.m. are very different from those at eight o’clock the next morning. Late-night partygoers wending their tipsy way home. A few taxis, invariably taken. Night shifters heading to work. Bin lorries out on the busier routes when traffic is lightest. His thoughts returned to Mike. How was it that knowing just a few key facts – and knowing Mike personally – could lead to such an entirely different conclusion from the way the police were bound to see it? It seemed like what you believe all depends on where you’re standing. He knew Mike was not a paedophile, had not been taking photos in the park, had not installed a collection of child abuse images on his computer, had not hung himself. Or did he just think he knew? Maybe the police interpretation was right and the finance thing was just a massive coincidence. And if it wasn’t suicide, how had it been done with no signs of a struggle? And the puzzle of the images…
Suddenly David snapped out of it, unclipped his seat belt, and opened the door.
“Busy day tomorrow,” he said. “DI Thompson and I need to have a chat.”
David Hidalgo wasn’t exactly sure what ethnicity of food detective inspectors typically favoured but thought it was a safe bet to offer some inducement for a meeting and that maybe a curry wouldn’t go amiss. The lack of a good curry had been one of his few culinary complaints about Madrid, but when Lavapiés had started going all ethnic and one Indian restaurant after another had opened near his old office at Tirso de Molina, all needs were met. In Edinburgh, he’d heard good reports of Mother India on Infirmary Street near Blackwell’s on South Bridge. Checking online, it turned out they did a tapas-style menu. That felt like a good omen and turned out to be sufficient incentive for DI Thompson to agree to a lunchtime meeting on Tuesday of that week. David had spent most of the previous day with Sam. Gillian had come as soon as she finished work. Sam had remained insistent throughout that things were not as they appeared and urged him to try to get the police to at least keep an open mind.
“I’m not sure what I should be calling you,” David began as they found a corner table and pulled in their chairs. “DI Thompson seems a bit formal since we seem to be bumping into each other so often. And congratulations by the way.”
“Thanks. It’s Charlie, and you’re David, aren’t you?”
“I am. I hate the ‘Reverend’ thing so David’s much better.”
“Fair enough. So… thanks for the lunch, and what can I do for your?”
David paused to reorganize the table as their drinks arrived.
“It’s connected with Mike Hunter, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
The detective inclined his head in agreement and took a sip from his glass.
“Sam is still certain it wasn’t suicide,” David continued.
“Well, it wasn’t an accident so that doesn’t leave many alternatives.”
“Ok, but before we get to that I need to fill you in a bit. As I said I had a meeting with Mike Hunter on Saturday morning, connected with the Council of Churches. Mike does – or did – the financial checking for new applications. He told us he’d found something funny connected with one of the latest batch but it only came to light though his job with Salamanca, not from the information they sent in. Large amounts of money – millions actually – in an account belonging to a smallish church. It seemed suspicious so he tried to flag it up but found he wasn’t getting anywhere. He was taken off the case and told to forget about it.”
Just then steaming, wonderfully aromatic portions of butter chicken, lamb karahi, fish pakora, and chilli king prawns arrived and took a bit of arranging on the tiny table. Thompson sorted his chicken and rice out, took a generous forkful, and pondered.
“So, joining the dots, he reckoned this was connected to criminal activity, not normal church life?”
“Exactly. His job was making sure the bank wasn’t holding accounts from the proceeds of crime. He thought the amount itself and the fact that his superiors didn’t seem to be taking any action on it were all suspicious. On Saturday morning we had a routine meeting about something else but he mentioned it and said he was going to do some further digging. We agreed to meet again tomorrow.”
“Not going to happen now, of course.”
“Don’t you think it seems too much of a coincidence that an investigation into possible proceeds of crime should be cut short by the unexpected suicide of the investigator?”
“Very convenient for the guilty parties, I suppose.”
“Exactly.”
“I take it you have some documentary evidence of all this?”
“Only some figures Mike produced at the meeting.”
“No name?”
“He felt he couldn’t breach confidentiality further without something more to go on. Not even Sam knows the name – all we have is a choice of three.”
“And what about the anonymous phone call and images on his computer?”
“Spurious. I think the call was completely bogus. The images – well, I have no idea how they got there but likewise I’m suggesting they were planted to make a suicide make sense.”
“And your conclusion?”
The restaurant was quiet on a Monday lunchtime but nevertheless David lowered his voice.
“Mike Hunter was set up as an online paedophile and was murdered to cover up having found illegal activities under the front of an Edinburgh church.”
Thompson tore a large hunk off a naan bread the size of a doorstep, dunked it in the butter chicken, and managed to get it to his mouth with not more than a speck ending up on his tie.
“It’s a theory that accounts for some of the facts but raises more problems in relation to others. One, how did any criminal conspiracy find out they were being investigated? Two, how did they get illegal images onto a laptop that never left the Hunters’ home over the weekend? Three, how was the murder itself carried out – no signs of violence to the body and no signs of a struggle in the garage? Suicide as a result of threatened exposure makes sense of all the facts – the financial thing could just be a coincidence. From what you’re saying I can see there is another possible interpretation but I’ll need more than that to take it up the line for a major change in direction.”
“Like what?”
“Well, any of the above really. Right now I’m still waiting for postmortem results and something from the computer team. I just don’t think there’s enough in your theory yet to persuade the powers that be to open a murder inquiry.” With that the subject seemed closed and DI Thompson turned his attention to the chilli king prawns.
Back out on the street David couldn’t decide which direction to turn or where to go. Charlie Thompson hadn’t been exactly obstructive but, perhaps understandably, he needed some convincing. He already had a perfectly good explanation that fitted the facts. Monkey business in the church didn’t disprove anything in the suicide picture – it was just an extra piece that maybe wasn’t even part of the puzzle at all. Trying to add in that odd-shaped new piece would mean rearranging everything else. So he wasn’t ready to change the entire scenario yet. Why would he? Something more would need to come up – something neither of them knew yet but might be out there that would change their whole perspective and make room for the extra piece. It was like the many times a week David mislaid his glasses, watch, wallet, or phone. It was somewhere here but the question was where? He realized he was also probably still in shock after the weekend, not to men
tion hardly yet recovered from being shot at not far from where he was now standing. Looking for Jen MacInnes in Spain already seemed like another reality that had happened to another man.
He came out onto South Bridge just opposite the grand facade of the University of Edinburgh’s Old College Law Faculty. I wonder what the law professors would make of this, he wondered, then mentally corrected himself. Their job wasn’t investigation and the uncovering of evidence – just presentation to the court and the judgment of guilt or innocence – a tricky matter but different. As he saw it right now someone was guilty all right, but who was it and how to get them as far as a court?
For lack of anything better to do he crossed into Chambers Street and decided to take a wander around the National Museum. Maybe something new would strike him among the stuffed lions and tigers, the mummies and the replica machines. It had been a special place throughout his life and still had a certain magic that might be just what he needed. He remembered so many times walking around the halls and exhibits with his father – the sort of father-son moment all too rare between them and so all the more special because of it.
Hidalgo senior had been a campaigning investigative journalist in Spain until one too many investigations had led him to make discretion the better part of valour and, along with his Scottish wife, jump on a plane before Franco’s henchmen reduced him to some remains in a sack in a backstreet of Carabanchel. So back to Edinburgh, where David’s mum had come from. In fact, if all the family mythology was true, they had met not far from here. David’s dad had been at some journalistic conference in Edinburgh, thought he’d take the chance to sample a few whiskies around the city centre pubs, ended up taking that crucial “one too many”, keeled over in the street, battered his head on a lamp post, and ended up in casualty at the Royal Infirmary on Lauriston Place. Just then Mum (to be) happened to be doing an A&E practicum for her medicine degree. Somehow they seemed to connect over the blood and bandages and thankfully Dad still had sufficient mental capacity to get her phone number. So turn the wheels of fate. No visit to Edinburgh, no pub crawl, no tumble in the street, no pretty student doctor – no David Hidalgo. Later on, when they had to run from Spain, this was naturally where they ran to. Stayed with in-laws for a bit, what the Spanish mysteriously call la familia politica, then eventually Dad had started selling some magazine articles, writing what he used to call “tourist trash” about Spain for the emerging holiday market. Gradually they managed to get back on their feet again; then, in due course, David arrived.
