14 - Stay of Execution bs-14

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Man’s a fucking bear, though,’ he had been advised by his near namesake, DS George Grogan. ‘He runs a quiet pub, mainly because he looks so ferocious that none of his regulars ever chance their arm; any strangers who look like bother don’t get a second drink.’

  ‘And he’s really never been done for anything?’

  ‘Malky’s been a friend to us over the years: he understands the value of keeping on good terms with the CID. The one time we could have done him for something, we turned a blind eye; that was when he caught a smack dealer from Muirhouse trying to move stuff in his place. He broke the guy’s jaw, nose and both his arms, then chucked him out in the street. When we asked about it, nobody had seen a thing, but there was still blood all over the bar. We could probably have matched it, but the drugs squad had been trying to nail the victim for about three years, so we didn’t bother.’

  ‘Is there stolen gear handled in his place?’

  ‘No danger. The Wee Black Dug belongs to a chain, and it does tidy business; they wouldn’t appreciate their licence being put at risk. If wee Moash says Malky bought something off him I’d take that with a pinch. Wee Moash is not the most reliable witness.’

  ‘Most witnesses are reliable when Stevie Steele’s squeezin’ their balls, George. Thanks.’

  The pub was busy when they arrived; they stood just inside the doorway for a while, eyeing up their surroundings. Regan did a quick head count and reckoned that there were over forty punters in there. A man and a woman . . . the only member of her sex in the place . . . were hard at work behind the bar; they refilled glasses on the nod, a sure sign that they knew their customers well, took the money and dispensed change with a minimum of conversation. Behind them a squat, heavy-browed figure stood by the till, ringing up the purchases; he was in his forties, with a greying crew-cut, and a dimple in the middle of his heavy chin. Regan moved close to the bar and caught his eye. As Singh followed him, one or two heads turned, glanced at him, read him for what he was and turned away again quickly.

  Malky Gladsmuir called across to the female steward; she came across to take over the till, and he moved to the furthest corner of the bar, where there was a little space.

  ‘You’re the two guys were in earlier,’ he said, in a voice that was quiet and not at all threatening. In Regan’s long experience, that meant nothing at all. Tony Manson, Dougie Terry and Lenny Plenderleith had all been quietly spoken, and all quite lethal. Jackie Charles, on the other hand, had been loud, but had relied on people like Dougie the Comedian to back him up.

  ‘Well remembered,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m sorry we had to huckle one of your punters.’

  Gladsmuir shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Wee Moash is not a big contributor to my profits,’ he said. ‘Guys like him are a fucking drain on the rest of us.’

  ‘So why do you let him in?’

  ‘He’s useful to me. Moash hears things around and about; he’d never say a word tae you, other than “guilty”, when he has to, but he talks to me.’

  ‘And you in turn talk to us?’ Regan murmured.

  ‘Sometimes. When I think it’s right, and when I know it’s in absolute conf idence . . . which is why,’ suddenly his voice became colder, ‘I don’t appreciate you two swanning in here and waving me over.’

  Regan understood. ‘Worry not. We’ll make enough noise before we leave. In fact we might even wind up lifting you.’

  That might not be so easy, said Malky Gladsmuir’s eyes. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’ he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by those nearest him.

  The DS fell into character. ‘I mean,’ he bellowed back, ‘that somebody in here’s been buying knock-off gear.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking,’ Gladsmuir protested. To their surprise, the two detectives found themselves believing that this was not part of the act for the punters; he seemed genuinely surprised, and angered.

  ‘Wee Moash Glazier nicked a five-hundred-quid mountain bike, and a four-hundred-quid Crombie coat, this morning, in the fog, on our patch.’ Tarvil Singh leaned across the bar; he was taller than Gladsmuir and almost as powerfully built. ‘The owners of these items are not being reasonable about it. They want them back.’

  The bar manager’s heavy eyebrows rose. ‘That wee bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He came in here wearing that coat. Miles too fuckin’ big for him, but he told me he’d bought it in a charity shop. I says tae masel’, “Aye, that’ll be right,” but I still had it off him straight away. Wee Moash owes me a quid or two, and I told him I was keepin’ it until he squared me away. Haud on a minute.’

  He turned on his heel and walked away through a door at the back of the bar. He had been gone for less than thirty seconds before he was back, holding a heavy dark blue overcoat in his right hand, raised up by the lapels, as though it contained an obstreperous customer whom he was seeing off the premises. ‘Here.’ He lifted it over the bar and handed it to Regan, who took it from him carefully. ‘Take it away wi’ yis. I know fuck all about a bike, though.’ He turned and surveyed his customers; finally the scene in the corner was commanding their undivided attention. ‘That said,’ he continued, his voice raised, ‘if I find that knock-off’s been traded in this pub, then the guy that bought it had better get on it and pedal as far away from me as he fuckin’ can.’

  Suddenly, the bar was filled with outraged looks and shaking heads . . . and minus one drinker. The door at the far end opened with a creak and began to swing shut again on its closer. Without another word, Regan and Singh turned and headed for their exit, and business as usual was resumed.

  ‘One more thing,’ Malky Gladsmuir called after the two detectives. They turned in the doorway. ‘You can tell wee Moash from me that the next time he comes in here he’d better have stolen a life-jacket: because he’s goin’ in the fuckin’ river.’

  14

  James Andrew Skinner had been at Gullane Primary School for only a few weeks, but already, in that short time, he had made a name for himself . . . two names, in fact; one as a five-year-old with a reading age of eight, and the other as the best fighter in his class. His mother had been even more appalled by the second than she had been pleased by the first.

  ‘He burst a kid’s lip, Bob,’ Sarah exclaimed indignantly. ‘Then when the little boy’s brother . . . his two years older brother . . . came in to stop the fight, he made his nose bleed.’

  Bob made himself frown at the five-year-old, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying to look remorseful, but not quite getting there. ‘That’s a bit excessive, Jazz,’ he said severely. ‘No Saturday television, my boy.’

  ‘Aw, Dad!’

  ‘Sorry, mate. That’s the way it is.’

  He looked at his wife. ‘Why?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Did you ask him why?’

  ‘No, I did not. Bob, I don’t like being called to the head teacher’s office to receive an official complaint about my son’s behaviour. The evidence was there. Mrs Rogers showed me the tissues they used to wipe the blood off those kids. She said that Jazz attacked the little one, then hit his brother as well.’

  He picked his son up and sat him on the work surface. The boy’s blond hair glinted in the light; he was sturdy, and big for his age. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear your plea in mitigation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you hit him, son? The boy in your class, I mean. I doubt if it would be a fair fight; I don’t remember seeing any kid your size in your group when we checked you in there.’

  James Andrew shook his head, his jaw set.

  ‘Hey,’ said his father, ‘not answering me isn’t an option. Now out with it.’

  ‘No,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Jazz,’ Bob warned him. ‘No telly for a month.’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ a voice exclaimed from the doorway.

  James Andrew glared furiously at his brother. ‘But not in front of Mum,’ Mark added quickly. When he had be
en adopted, it had been his decision to christen Bob and Sarah as Mum and Dad, but they had always made sure that the memory of his natural parents burned strong in him.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘Ssh,’ said her husband, soothing her. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this. Mark’s a sensitive kid; if that’s the way he wants it, let’s go with him. Remember, he’s the reason this bruiser can read as well as he does; we owe him. Gimme a minute with the boys.’

  Finally, reluctantly, Sarah nodded. She lifted Seonaid, who had been watching the exchange with obvious fascination, out of her high chair and tucked her under her arm. ‘Us girls will rejoin you when we’re good and ready,’ she said stiffly, and hefted her daughter out of the room.

  Bob knew that she would probably be listening outside, but he carried on. ‘You might as well tell me yourself, Jazz.’

  As he looked up at him, his younger son’s eyes blazed with an anger he had never seen in them before. ‘He called me a something stinking copper’s brat,’ he said, his voice high-pitched. ‘And he said Mum was a something Yankee something.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mark. ‘He shouted it so the whole class could hear. I made one of them tell me afterwards.’

  ‘So you pegged him one,’ Bob sighed.

  James Andrew nodded.

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘It was a good one,’ the boy whispered.

  As he spoke his father noticed a slight bruise on his temple. ‘The brother,’ he went on. ‘The head teacher said that he tried to stop the fight. Is that all he did?’

  James Andrew shook his head. ‘He punched me on the side of the face: from behind.’

  ‘How often did you hit him back?’

  ‘Three or four times. Till he started to cry,’ a gleam of satisfaction came into his eye, ‘in front of all the girls.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Mrs Rogers what happened?’

  ‘Didn’t want to say it. What he said about you and Mum.’

  Bob felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. ‘Well, thank you, pal,’ he murmured, and hugged him. ‘In the circumstances, television privileges are restored.’ He called over his shoulder, ‘Sarah!’

  She was grim-faced as she came back into the room, with Seonaid toddling along in front of her. ‘Did you know that I’m a something stinking copper and you’re a something Yankee something?’ he asked her.

  He turned back to his son. ‘Jazz, I’m not going to ask for these kids’ names. If this happens again, I want you to tell a teacher. But do no more than that; don’t go thumping any more kids. There’s a reason for this. The wrong sort of people might use it to try to hurt Mum and me; they might tell stories to the papers, stuff like that. Understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Bob ruffled his hair and lifted him down from the work surface. ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘On you go now, you can play a game with Mark till it’s time for bed.’

  As the boys trotted off together Sarah looked after them. ‘God,’ she whispered, ‘he’s so like you. But he’s still so little; he’s only five. What if this is only the start? What’s going to happen once Mark goes to Fettes? What if he’s going to be bullied?’

  ‘In that case,’ said Bob, with a faint grin, ‘I’d better start teaching him some restraint holds, so that he isn’t just slugging kids all the time . . . or to hit them where it doesn’t show, so that it’s deniable. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. Jazz is not the bullyable type, as he’s just shown with some effect. There’s more than that, though: I’ve lived in this village for a long time. I know the people here, I know the kids and I know that school. This incident’s as far from typical as you can get. It never happened to Alex when she was there, and it’s never happened to Mark. I’m pretty sure it won’t be repeated. Just to be on the safe side, though, I think you should go back to see the head teacher, and tell her the other side of the story. I don’t want things taken any further, but I’d like the staff to keep their eyes and their ears open, just in case.’

  ‘Don’t you want to come with me?’ She was frowning slightly.

  ‘I will if you insist, but I don’t think that would be a great idea. I am what I am; there’s no getting away from that. I don’t know Mrs Rogers all that well, and I wouldn’t want her thinking that the deputy chief constable’s come to lean on her. A quiet word from you would be better.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sarah conceded. She watched him as he took an onion, some mushrooms and a large red pepper from the fridge, and put them in the drainer section of the sink. As cold water ran on them from the column tap, he put a frying-pan on the hob, poured in a coating of olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar, added a little salt, then turned up the temperature wheel. As the pan heated, he took the vegetables from the drainer, dried them, then began to chop them, carefully, on a thick teak board. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, intrigued.

  He grinned, keeping his eyes fixed on what he was doing. ‘What’s it look like? I’m cooking. It’s Trish’s night off, and the bears were fed by the time I got home, so I thought you and I would have a quiet dinner together. If you go and put the lady Seonaid to bed, I’ll be done when you are.’

  15

  ‘How was the identification?’ asked Stevie Steele. ‘Was he reasonably presentable?’

  Maggie Rose grimaced. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘he looked dead, but otherwise okay, if you get my drift. But I really do hate those things, all the more so when it’s a wife or husband who’s doing it. I wish to God Mrs Whetstone had asked her brother-in-law, as I suggested.’

  ‘Bad, was she?’

  ‘Not till the end. That was the worst of it in a way. She was so bloody stoic at first. She took a deep breath, and nodded for the attendant to turn back the sheet. Then she took another breath, and looked closely at the face. She must have gazed at it for about two minutes, quite impassively, until finally she nodded again and said, “Yes.” She almost made it out of the room, but not quite. We were just short of the door when she collapsed; just sort of turned and leaned on me, as if she was giving in, and burst into tears. She’d me going as well, I don’t mind telling you. Afterwards, when she’d got hold of herself again, she was embarrassed. I don’t think I coped with that any better.’ She looked away from him. ‘I’m just not one of nature’s comforters, I’m afraid, Stevie.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he concurred. ‘You’re a police officer, not a social worker. You were there because it was your job . . . although you could just as well have sent me, or young Tarvil for that matter. So stop beating yourself up, for Christ’s sake, and choose a starter.’

  She looked at the menu. ‘You choose. I’ve made enough decisions for the day.’

  ‘Clispy duck, then?’

  Maggie grinned. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Sweet and sour pork?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Chicken and black bean sauce?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘House white?’

  ‘Hell no! Chablis.’

  ‘See, you can’t get away from giving orders. That’s why . . .’

  ‘That’s why my marriage broke up?’ she shot at him, before he could finish, taking him by surprise.

  ‘I didn’t mean that at all. What I was going to say was it’s no wonder you’re a workaholic.’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘I do. So does everyone else in the force. I’ll bet that the next thing you were going to ask me was work-related.’

  When her cheeks reddened slightly, he was taken aback for the second time inside a minute. ‘Actually, you’re right,’ she confessed. ‘I was going to ask you about Whetstone’s coat.’

  ‘We recovered it. I’ve sent it off to Arthur Dorward at the Howdenhall lab.’

  ‘How about the step-ladder? Have we recovered that yet?’

  ‘No, and the chances are slim that we will.’

  ‘It puts suicide back in the frame, though. It existed, that’s for sure. There was no reason for Gla
zier to make that up.’

  ‘It may be back in the frame,’ said Steele, ‘but I’m still not certain that I buy it.’

  ‘Why not? He could have taken it from his office.’

  ‘There’s something else; I only heard about this late on, so this is the first chance I’ve had to tell you. He was hanged with a leather belt.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When they got him back to the morgue, they undressed him and sent all his effects out to the lab. The man was wearing braces. Not just that. Ivor Whetstone had a thirty-six-inch waist. The belt that hanged him was a size forty-six; long enough to tie securely to the tree and still leave enough to put a noose through the buckle.’

  ‘He could have bought the belt for the purpose.’

  ‘I’m sure somebody did; it was expensive, very strong leather and it looked new. I’m nearly as sure . . . well, let’s say I think there’s a chance . . . that when we track down the purchase, whoever bought it won’t fit Whetstone’s description.’

  ‘We’ll see. That aside, and going back to the coat, someone from Howdenhall will need to see Mrs Whetstone.’

  ‘For hair samples for elimination purposes? Yes. And the dog too. They’ll need to clip some of its fur.’

  ‘Maybe not elimination?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, as you reminded me at her place, if you’re right, then for all her performance she still hasn’t been ruled out as a suspect.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she has,’ Steele countered. ‘While you went off with her to the morgue, and while George and Tarvil were at the Wee Black Dug, I went to see her neighbour . . . the one with the Tolkien video. She confirmed that they had supper together, then watched the movie, all three hours and whatever of it.’

  She frowned across the table. ‘I never told you to do that.’

  ‘It’s called initiative, ma’am. It had to be done, and quickly too. Don’t worry, Maggie: I told Mrs Dallas it was purely routine and that there was no need to mention it to Mrs Whetstone, if she thought it would upset her.’