The Sea Detective

by Mark Douglas-Home

  Ryan heard the minister ‘shushing’ his assistant. ‘Yes, Mr Gordon. It’s a holding charge. We expect more serious charges to follow.’

  Then the assistant addressed a question to Ryan. ‘What about the perception of this, charges, a court case? Ok he shouldn’t have been there, but he was making a political statement, one that the minister is in agreement with. Isn’t there some other way?’

  Gordon’s grating voice added. ‘Couldn’t there be reparation for the fence – £10 or something – and that’s that?’

  Ryan forced himself to hold his temper.

  ‘There are others Mr Gordon, the Justice Minister for example.’

  ‘I understand the problem Detective Inspector. It’s just a sensitive area of politics that’s all.’

  Once more the assistant said something Ryan didn’t catch but Gordon said, ‘Good point, Richard. Detective Inspector my assistant was reminding me that I’ve been invited to go to the Arctic in mid-September to see the impact of climate change for myself.’

  ‘If we don’t prosecute McGill,’ Ryan said, ‘what about the next intruder in your garden? It’ll just encourage others – animal rights activists, anti-nuclear protesters.’

  He realised he was wasting his breath. Law and order used to be at the top of the political agenda. Not any more. Protecting raptors, the reintroduction of beavers, carbon emissions, wind farms, biodiversity whatever that was: these were the new priorities in Parliament. God help Scotland.

  Gordon sensed Ryan’s disapproval. ‘You must of course do what is right Detective Inspector. It’s not for politicians to direct the police.’

  ‘No sir,’ Ryan agreed.

  Reporting later to Reynolds and Assistant Chief Constable Ian Carmichael, Ryan didn’t allude to the detail of his conversation with the minister. Nor did he mention the custody officer’s report of McGill’s story about the Justice Minister relieving himself into a shrub (a Viburnum Opulus, McGill said) while he’d been hiding in his garden. Instead he presented his ‘caveats’ about rushing to prosecute McGill as though it was his own politically-acute analysis.

  ‘We can’t get away from the politics of it, much as I know we’d like to. Imagine McGill’s counsel leading supporting evidence from the Environment Minister or his wife.’

  Carmichael paced the room in rumination. ‘Damned if we do by the Environment Minister, damned if we don’t by the Justice Minister.’

  ‘Possibly damned if we don’t by the Justice Minister.’ Ryan doubted the Justice Minister would want to be anywhere near the witness box once he knew McGill’s lawyer might blab his night-time ablution habits.

  ‘Why do you say that, David?’ Reynolds asked.

  Ryan played safe in case McGill’s story was bravado or embellishment. ‘Every politician wants green credentials nowadays. Can I make a suggestion?’

  His senior officers mumbled assent.

  ‘Send the papers to the Crown Office in the usual way and have a quiet word with someone senior there about the political risks of prosecution, the possibility of MSPs, ministers even, speaking for the defence.’

  Assistant Chief Constable Carmichael nodded with approval.

  ‘McGill will be in custody tonight, pending further inquiries,’ Ryan continued. ‘The Crown Office will book a sheriff for 10pm or so for an interdict hearing in chambers imposing a ban on him from going within 250 metres of any of the addresses he hasn’t yet visited, or the ones he has.’

  Carmichael looked at Reynolds. Both men were nodding now.

  ‘And McGill?’ Carmichael asked

  ‘He’ll be released tomorrow. Once we’ve checked out the addresses on his list. The last I heard we’d been to 14 and recovered plants.’

  Ryan omitted another detail: six of the MPs and MSPs had asked if the plants could be returned to them if they weren’t required as court exhibits.

  ‘Fucking politicians,’ Ryan said after Jamieson told him.

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ she replied, turning away from him quickly, a smile stretching across her face.

  Schaden and freude sir

  Chapter 6

  She’d meant it as a warning, but a warning of what? ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ There was no undercurrent of threat; no ‘or else’ left unsaid. Her manner was kindly, her tone well-meaning, like a friend dispensing good advice. Be careful of what?

  Detective Constable Jamieson had been in the front lobby at police headquarters sitting in one of the arm chairs. ‘So they’re letting you go are they?’

  Cal had nodded, caught off-guard. Was she waiting for him? She’d seen the query in his expression and she’d said, with a nonchalant sweep of her hand, ‘Meeting a friend for lunch. She’s late.’

  They’d smiled; her first, then him. He’d gone towards the door, awkwardly, not wanting to be rude, and she’d glanced at the sergeant manning the reception desk.

  ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ She’d lowered her voice. It was for him to hear and him only. He’d mumbled something insincere about ‘being good’.

  Outside, on the tarmac, he’d looked back and she’d gone. Had she given up on her friend or had she been waiting for Cal? If the latter, ‘be careful’ now meant more than it had a few seconds ago.

  He walked to Comely Bank, his stitches pinching at him with every step, where he caught the bus to Granton. Twenty minutes later, outside The Cask, it came to him. Had Jamieson been alerting him to the court order obtained by the police the night before? It prohibited him from going near any of the addresses on his list. Random blocs of Edinburgh were now a danger for him. Was she warning him not to stray accidentally? Was that it? Had Detective Inspector Ryan covertly changed his rules of engagement? Was this the way he planned to get him into court? If Cal infringed the banning order Ryan wouldn’t need any politicians to take the stand for the prosecution; and nor would they. There were no votes in speaking up for someone who had broken a court order. Cal took the lift to the top floor, his aching side relegating the importance of his carbon footprint.

  Was he overcomplicating things?

  He slid the key in his lock and the door pushed open. It hadn’t been locked and Cal noticed the bolt striker plate on the doorframe was hanging loose. The wood surround had splintered. His flat was in disarray. His books and papers were scattered everywhere. The shelves with all his beach-combing artefacts had been pushed over. If it hadn’t been for Jamieson’s warning he’d have assumed a burglar, one of the kids downstairs looking for drugs money. Now he thought of Ryan. Was this his doing, making it look like a break-in? Cal wondered if he’d led too sheltered a life. Did the police hand out extra-judicial warnings like this as a matter of routine?

  Is this what Jamieson meant?

  Be careful, because Ryan’s a mean bastard.

  It gave her the creeps, this old warehouse with its echoes and pristine emptiness: one floor after another of new flats and little sign or sound of habitation; now this.

  The door at the end of the top landing was half open and the key sticking out of the lock. There was a noise coming from inside; a rummaging sound. Rosie Provan stopped to listen, one foot ahead of the other, in mid-stride. Her heart thumped, surely loud enough for whoever was the other side of the door to hear it, and her breathing became faster. She reached for her mobile phone, flipped it open and tapped in the news-desk number. At the first sign of danger she would press connect. Why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going?

  Her colleagues were accustomed to Rosie disappearing. The reporters called it ‘Rosie glory-seeking again’. It infuriated them, the way the news editor cast a lazy eye at Rosie missing the start of her shift when everyone else had to be in on time. They bitched about it among themselves. In their view Rosie only got away with it because of her looks. The inference was of something sexual but unconsummated between Rosie and Dick McGhee who ran the agency’s news operations.

  ‘Ach bollocks,’ Jimmy Armitage, the deputy news editor, said when he heard the others discussing it. ‘Dick’s so
ft on her because she gets bloody good stories for this agency. She pays your wages.’

  Which was true, though would it be true today?

  Rosie was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of this little solo expedition and not because it was 3.17pm and her shift started at 3. The tip off had come from Sam’s mate, Ewan, who worked in the Scottish Parliament.

  Sam, her boyfriend, had teased her with it. ‘I know a story you’d kill for Rosie.’

  She feigned boredom. ‘Not interested. It’s my morning off.’ She attended to unravelling the flex of her hair-straightening tongs and plugging them in. While she waited for them to heat, she painted her toe-nails and hummed along to Mercy by Duffy.

  Sam kept up his teasing saying it was ‘a cracker’ and ‘the scoop of the year’ and Rosie said, ‘Sam, go away I’m busy. You’re scrambling my head.’

  She’d played this game with him before. If she let him think she was curious he would say ‘Ah, so you are interested. Well I’m not sure I’m going to tell you.’

  Sam wrapped his arms round her and she hummed louder. When he began to tell her she hummed louder still until she was certain he was committed.

  Ewan’s boss had had an intruder in his garden, Sam said.

  ‘So? Big deal.’

  ‘His boss is the Environment Minister.’

  Rosie shrugged.

  The intruder was apparently ‘some sort of eco terrorist’ who left behind a plant which had something to do with climate change. ‘Now,’ Sam reported in anticipation of Rosie’s wowed reaction, ‘the police have discovered he’s done the same thing in dozens of politicians’ gardens.’

  Rosie’s police contact provided the rest, reluctantly. ‘It’s the talk of the steamie at the Parliament,’ Rosie exaggerated. ‘It’s going to get out. You’d just be giving me a head start.’

  He growled, grudgingly. ‘You owe me a pint, Rosie.’

  Rosie made a mental note to send him a bottle of malt whisky; something tasty. It was a good story. Sam was right, for once. His reward was a kiss and the promise of more when she returned from work.

  Now the doubts were setting in.

  Had her police contact given her the wrong address? Why would an eco-warrior live on the top floor of a made-over warehouse converted too late for more-money-than-sense-metro-executives? It didn’t figure and it wasn’t the only thing that didn’t. The rummaging noise had become louder, like furniture being moved. There’d been a crashing sound and after it silence. Rosie took another step forward, head still tilted. Her new shoes – grey and white Converse with a yellow trim and matching yellow laces – let off mouse-squeaks on the shiny laminate flooring. The door was three metres away. Holding her breath, she approached it on the sides of her feet to muffle the noise of her soles. She glanced twice at ‘Flotsam and Jetsam Investigations’ on the notice by the door, disbelieving it the first time. In one way it was reassuring: at least she seemed to be at the right address. Still, it was weird, seriously weird.

  Her hand hovered, about to knock at the open door. Instead, she put her head through the gap. The room in front of her was large, bright and in chaos. Papers and books were strewn across a plank floor; not that much of it was visible. A map hung by one corner on the wall opposite. Untidy didn’t normally faze Rosie, but this was, well, something else. There was a large table in front of her, filling the middle of the room, and the rummaging noise came from underneath it.

  ‘Hello.’ Rosie knocked. ‘Hello, anyone at home?’

  A head appeared from below the table: male, dark brown hair, cut short. He was as surprised to see Rosie as she was to see him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  He looked friendly enough, Rosie thought. A least he wasn’t sleazy or a creep. In fact, on second glance, he was rather cute in a modern eco-chic kind of way: jeans, tee shirt, day-old stubble and a wide face made more interesting by the slight crookedness of his nose. Her heart beat slower.

  ‘God, what happened here?’ She stepped inside the door.

  ‘You’d better ask the police.’ His voice was educated, like a school teacher’s.

  ‘You’ve called them, have you?’ He snorted as though that was the last thing he intended to do.

  She seemed to be getting off on the wrong foot with him so she tried, ‘Are you Cal McGill?’

  ‘I am.’ He looked at her fleetingly before resuming his search of the mess around him.’

  Rosie found it oddly disconcerting. Men usually paid her more attention.

  ‘Has anything been stolen?’

  ‘God knows.’ He sounded irritated.

  Rosie walked to the table and peered over the edge. ‘Can I help?’

  He spun round looking down at the hurricane trail of papers and books. ‘There’s a photograph frame …’

  He didn’t need to tell her it was precious.

  ‘Has it gone?’

  ‘I don’t know; it’s hard to tell.’ Cal began collecting up papers. ‘If I can just clear up some of this. …’

  ‘Who did it, Cal? Do you mind me calling you Cal?’

  Get on first name terms. It was a card Rosie liked to play as quickly as possible.

  Cal shook his head. Rosie wasn’t sure whether the gesture meant he didn’t mind or that he was still distracted looking for the photograph frame.

  She knelt down as if to help him and picked up a book which was splayed open on the floor. It was called ‘Essentials of Oceanography’.

  ‘I see you go in for light reading.’

  ‘Sorry, who are you?’ His attention strayed from her again almost as soon as the question was out.

  ‘I’m Rosie,’ she held out her hand.

  Cal brushed the back of his left hand against her fingers. She noticed him wincing. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘It’s nothing; I gashed my side and had some stitches.’

  ‘Gosh, you have been in the wars.’

  Sympathy was the other card Rosie liked to play quickly.

  ‘Well Rosie, it’s nice meeting you but I’m not quite sure why you’re here.’ He gathered up a file which was spilling paper out of its ruptured spine.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you.’ Rosie made a show of rescuing another book. ‘Heavens it’s going to take you ages to clear all this up.’

  ‘You want to talk to me. Why?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? Oh I’m always doing that.’

  This was disarming ditzy Rosie. She handed Cal the book and said, ‘Hi, I’m Rosie Provan. I work for The Reporting Factory.’

  This was how she liked to do it. First, get over the doorstep. Second, establish a first name relationship. Third, say the name of the freelance agency but not its business. Fourth, say it’s a news agency. In Rosie’s experience the fourth stage was the trickiest. Some people reacted to it as though they’d been punched. Cal’s expression, she was relieved to see, didn’t change. ‘What’s The Reporting Factory?’

  ‘Oh it’s a news agency. We supply a lot of the London papers. You know The Times that sort of thing.’ Top of Rosie’s list of Don’ts was: don’t say ‘sell’ as in ‘Oh, we sell stories.’ Next was: don’t say red-top.

  Cal just mumbled ‘Mmmh’ and resumed lifting up the debris.

  Rosie said, ‘What about me helping you and putting this here and then we can clear this mess up and talk at the same time?’

  She balanced her digital recorder on the pile of books she’d tidied and switched it on.

  Cal wasn’t looking and didn’t seem to register the recorder. Did he think she was just putting down another book? Well, she’d been upfront about it. What else was she supposed to do, draw his attention to it again? She might as well invite him to clam up.

  ‘So, Cal, you’re the talk of the political classes.’

  ‘Am I?’ He didn’t seem surprised.

  Rosie said, ‘The world’s in a real mess. We’re ruining it for the next generation. It’s people like you who force us to think about it.’

  Cal stopped what
he was doing. ‘Oh come on, you don’t really think that.’ Her earnestness seemed to amuse him.

  Rosie replied, put out. ‘Sure I do,’ straining for emphasis, ‘Of course, yes. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, sure you do.’ Cal went back to his searching. Rosie was about to tell him she had enough to write a story whether he cooperated or not – it was a tactic that sometimes worked – when he stopped what he was doing.

  ‘Look, Rosie, there’s only one reason why I’d talk to you.’ He looked her straight in the eye.

  For the first time she realised he was fired up, angry.

  ‘What’s that?’ Was it something she’d done?

  ‘If you can promise it’ll be published in a newspaper with more than half a dozen readers.’

  ‘I think I can do that for you,’ Rosie said.

  ‘I want it in one of the big tabloids.’

  ‘Ok.’ Big tabloid suited her fine. It meant more money for the agency; more kudos for Rosie. At last he seemed interested by her. His restless searching for the frame had stopped. Now she realised his expression wasn’t just anger. Rosie said, ‘You look like you want to settle a score.’

  He shrugged, ‘Or something.’

  Rosie shrugged too. His motives didn’t matter to her.

  ‘What about the Daily Record? It isn’t the biggest – The Sun is – but the Record’s got more clout with the political class, if that’s what you want.’

  The edge of his mouth flinched. ‘I just want to make it difficult for people. …’

  ‘Which people?’

  He looked at the mess in the flat as if it might contain the answer. ‘It doesn’t matter who …’

  Rosie didn’t want him drifting off so she said, ‘I’m pretty sure the Record would be interested. They take my stories all the time.’

  Pretty sure? They’d tear her right arm off for it. This guy didn’t realise what big news he was about to become.

  He stared again, briefly, making up his mind about her. Then he carried on tidying. She thought she’d lost him again but suddenly he said he ‘might as well’ start at the beginning, with global warming and how it had the potential to trigger devastating climate events; how he’d wanted to draw attention to its dangers in a new way. He’d bought some Dryas Octopetala, the plant associated with the big freeze which began about 13000 years ago, propagated others, and found the home addresses of MPs, MSPs and leaders of industry (all easier than he’d expected).