by Alex Walters
‘I guess so,’ Horton said dispiritedly. ‘We seem to be running out of other leads. I don’t suppose there’s any word on Ally Donald?’
‘Nothing so far. We’ve circulated his picture, and we’ve got door-to-doors going on in Cromarty, but we’re running out of resources, so it’s slow going, unless I can get some more bodies drafted in.’
‘What about the other guy Alec mentioned? Another retired DS. Davey Robinson?’
‘Robertson. Just got word back on him this morning, funnily enough. One of the titbits I’d come to share with you. Seems like he shuffled off this mortal coil just a few weeks back.’
‘Can’t have been that old, presumably?’
‘Early sixties. Accidental death.’
‘Accidental?’
‘Aye. I’m trying to get more info on it. Another Black Isle resident, apparently.’
‘That place is beginning to live up to its name. What happened to him?’
‘Fall, apparently. He was a keen walker. Used to do the real hard stuff, Munros and the like, but this was just a leisurely stroll from Rosemarkie. You can walk up to the cliff top at Hillockhead. Main path goes inland, but there’s another route along the cliffs. For some reason, he took that route and managed to slip and fall. At least, that’s the assumption. His body was found washed up on the beach towards Rosemarkie.’
‘Not treated as suspicious?’
‘It was recorded as an accidental death. Reading between the lines, it looks like they suspected suicide. Robertson lived alone, but a couple of his neighbours reckoned he’d not been himself in the weeks before. Depressed. Anxious.’
‘Any reason?’
‘No one close enough to him to say. Suspect that’s why the suicide angle wasn’t pursued.’
‘But it might not have been accidental?’
‘Who knows? I’ve asked for the report on his death, just in case. But the last thing we need is to open up another front in this case, unless it’s going to tell us something new.’
‘Point taken,’ Horton said. She realised that Grant was watching her. ‘What is it?’
‘When I asked if you were okay,’ Grant said, ‘I didn’t just mean the case. I meant with – well, the other stuff you told me about.’
‘David, you mean?’ She pulled another file off the stack in front of her, wanting to move the discussion on. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘He’s not made any reappearance?’
Horton hesitated. She trusted Grant well enough to share her problems, as she had the previous day. But she also didn’t want to bring any more of this into work than she had to. ‘Not so far,’ she said finally. ‘I’m hoping that’s the end of it.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Grant said. ‘But if there’s anything I can do, just ask.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be fine now. Honestly.’
Grant nodded, not looking entirely convinced. ‘That’s good, Ginny. I don’t want to lose any more officers.’
39
‘Alec. Good to see you again.’ Craig Fairlie was a tall, well-built man, with a tight mop of curly blond hair. McKay had always suspected he worked out, but had never actually caught him doing it.
The newspaper offices were on a business park on the outskirts of town, a small oasis of tranquillity far removed from McKay’s stereotypical idea of a busy newsroom. But he supposed that was how it was now. They ran a chain of regional papers on little more than a skeleton staff – locally, the team comprised a couple of all-purpose reporters, a network of freelancers and a core administration and IT team. The biggest group of staff, predictably enough, was the advertising sales team.
According to Fairlie, the old days of reporting real news were largely gone. ‘It’s mostly rewriting press releases these days,’ he said. ‘If a real story comes up, we’ll cover it as best we can, and we do the local human-interest stuff. But it’s not exactly Woodward and Bernstein. It’s more putting enough in the paper so people will pick it up and see the adverts.’
Whenever they’d met over the last few years, Fairlie had complained that redundancy was on the horizon. ‘Budgets get tighter and tighter. And it’s the bloody hacks who’re most disposable.’
‘But without news, they’re not a newspaper,’ McKay had protested.
‘You know the old saying,’ Fairlie had responded bleakly. ‘No news is a local free sheet. Wall to wall adverts and a few puffs for local traders. You don’t need much else.’
Even so, he’d managed to hang on. ‘It’s not much of a life,’ he said. ‘But it’s better than being a bloody PR. At least I’m rewriting the press releases, rather than drafting the crap in the first place.’
Today, Fairlie was in a more cheerful mood, maybe because he was still hoping to get some inside dirt on the investigation. Well, good luck with that, old son, McKay thought.
He led McKay to a small room at the rear of the building. It was a bare, functional space, the walls lined with grey filing cabinets. In the middle of the room was a small table just large enough to accommodate a microfiche reader and a computer terminal. ‘Welcome to what we grandly call The Archive,’ he said. ‘Not exactly the British Library, or even the National Library of bloody Scotland, but more than a century of editions.’
He spent a few more minutes explaining the set-up to McKay and helped him log in as a visitor to the online system. ‘That’s about exhausted my expertise,’ he said. ‘But it you have any problems, speak to young Liam. He’s the acned youth on the desk outside. Knows this place inside out. He reckons the stuff you’re looking for should be available digitally, so you won’t need to go fighting the microfiche. This was long before the current production system, so the editions are just digitised facsimiles of the original hard copies.’
‘Can’t wait,’ McKay said morosely. He was already asking himself why he’d embarked on what was almost certainly a waste of time.
‘Anything particular you’re looking for?’
‘Not really. I’d like to say that I’ll know it when I see it, but I’m not even sure that’s true.’
‘Is this to do with those ex-coppers?’
‘I’ll let you think that, Craig. Will make life easier for both of us.’
Fairlie laughed. ‘You’ve not changed, Alec. Only forthcoming when it suits you.’
‘You wouldn’t want it any other way. Think how bored you’d get if I told you everything.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me a shout when you’re done.’
Left by himself, McKay flicked idly through the electronic records, working out how to identify and examine a particular edition of the newspapers. He wasn’t even sure where to begin. Galloway had resigned in mid-1997, and Crawford and Graham had retired a few months later. From what Bridie had said, Galloway’s anxiety had sprung up some months before he left the force. To be safe, McKay probably needed to consider stories any time in, say, the preceding year and maybe even longer. That meant potentially going through some three hundred or more editions. And even then, there was no guarantee – and, in all honesty, maybe not even much likelihood – that he’d spot anything relevant. Still, what else did he have to do with his time?
Sighing, he brought up the first edition, which he selected arbitrarily from early June 1996, and began to skim through it. In practice, the process proved easier, though no less boring, than he’d envisaged. He soon realised there was little point in looking beyond the first few pages of each edition. After that, it was all human-interest features, television and sport. He developed a routine of working in detail through the first couple of pages, skimming through the next few and ignoring the rest. On that basis, he was able to get through it in only a couple of minutes. Just another ten hours or so to get through the rest, then.
After another hour, he was feeling even less encouraged. He’d found few stories that seemed even remotely relevant, and most of those were banal reports of the kinds of cases Galloway’s team would have investigated. He’d found no references to Galloway himself or
to any of his immediate colleagues. Quotes from the force were generally attributed either to a “police spokesman” or, occasionally, to senior officers. This was increasingly feeling like the wildest of wild goose chases.
‘How’s it going?’ Fairlie had entered the room without McKay realising and was standing behind him, gazing blankly over McKay’s shoulder at the computer screen – no doubt trying to divine the significance of that particular front page. Well, that’s easy, son, McKay thought. It has no fucking significance. Like every other page I’ve looked at.
‘It isn’t really.’
‘Ah. Maybe you’d be better picking the retentive brains of a seasoned newspaper man.’
‘Aye,’ McKay said. ‘You recommend anyone?’
‘Funny boy.’ Fairlie rested his backside on the edge of the table next to McKay, as if settling in for the duration. ‘Seriously, though, if you give me an idea of the sort of thing you’re looking for, I might be able to point you in the right direction.’
Fuck it, McKay thought. He was getting nowhere as it was. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But, Craig, if you even mention outside these four walls that you’ve spoken to me – well, I’ll find ways to make the rest of your life even more miserable than it’s been so far.’
‘You forget I’m a Caley supporter. We’re immune to misery.’ Fairlie smiled. ‘Look, Alec, I’m a journalist. A proper one, not like the unpaid interns they bring in these days. Aye, my instinct is always to look for a story, and I’m grateful for some of the morsels you’ve tossed in my direction. But it’s in my interests to keep you sweet, not shaft you. If I can help you with this at all – well, I’m sure you’ll do me a similar favour one day. Either that, or I’ll get my rewards in heaven.’
‘Ever optimistic,’ McKay said. ‘Spoken like a true Caley supporter.’
‘Aye, well. It’s what keeps us going. So, what’s this about, Alec?’
‘You mentioned the ex-coppers. You’ll have your memories of Jackie Galloway, I’m guessing.’
‘Everyone’s got memories of Galloway. Not many fond ones, though. Still, poor bastard, from what I hear of his last days. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.’ He paused, watching McKay intently. ‘But if you’re looking for dirt on Jackie Galloway, I’d have thought there was plenty in your own files.’
‘Aye, maybe,’ McKay said vaguely. ‘We’ve got people going through all that. I’m just looking for a different perspective.’
Fairlie’s face was expressionless. ‘That right, Alec? You always were one for going your own way.’
Chances were, McKay thought, that Fairlie had already picked up some whispers on the grapevine. The only question was how much he knew. ‘Every avenue and all that.’
‘What sort of stuff are you looking for?’
‘Galloway’s last days in the force. Any evidence he might have got on the wrong side of the wrong people.’
‘From what I remember of Galloway, that was his standard working method. Although word was he was very much on the right side of some of the wrong people, if you get my drift. You must know better than me. You were part of his team.’
‘No comment,’ McKay said. ‘I was just the rookie tea boy. But I’m looking for something a bit outside the norm. Galloway was an arrogant bastard. There wasn’t much that fazed him. But there are rumours that something did in those last few months. I’ve no recollection of it – to me he was just the big boss. I did what I was told.’
Fairlie leaned over and peered at the front-page McKay had brought up on the screen. ‘We talking twenty-odd years ago?’
‘Nineteen ninety-seven. You remember. Tony Blair. Charlie Kennedy. The devo referendum.’
‘Oh, aye. Bliss in that dawn it was to be alive.’ Fairlie closed his eyes as if hoping to commune with his younger self. ‘I don’t know, though,’ he said, after a moment. ‘As far as I can recall, Galloway was pretty much his usual self in those last months. Even when the shit hit the fan, we all assumed he’d emerge unsullied.’ He shrugged. ‘But it was always an act, wasn’t it? If there were vulnerabilities, he wasn’t going to reveal them to the likes of us.’
‘Did you see much of him around that time?’
‘I wasn’t exactly close to him. He used to leak a few titbits to me when it suited him. And he tried to squeeze whatever intel he could out of me. We’d meet periodically for a pint. Or several pints in his case.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Like I say, he was an arrogant wee prick. Knew it all and more. Not a man unduly troubled by self-doubt. But I could imagine he might have thought his grip was slipping towards the end.’
‘In what way?’
‘Things were changing. He wasn’t getting any younger. A lot of his old underworld contacts were dying off – or retiring on their ill-gotten gains to the Costa del Sol. There were new players coming on to the scene. Maybe he felt things were slipping away from him.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘There’s something else nagging at me, though. Hang on a wee second.’ He paused, his eyes still closed.
McKay watched him with some fascination. He’d seen this before. Fairlie didn’t exactly have a photographic memory, but it was as if he was rummaging through some interior filing cabinet, flicking through the memories until he found the one he was seeking. It was one of the qualities that made Fairlie an effective – and from the authorities’ point of view, occasionally an irksome – reporter. He not only knew where the bodies were buried, he sometimes recalled their locations years after everyone else had forgotten.
‘There was a particular thing he kept badgering me about. Didn’t make much sense at the time, and it still doesn’t. Some guy killed in a hit and run. Here –’ He leaned over McKay and tapped some words into the search field. Then, he scrolled down through the resulting file names until he highlighted one. ‘That looks like it.’
The story was on the front page of an edition from late in 1997. It was a short piece about the death of a young man, Patrick O’Riordan, in a traffic accident the previous Saturday night in the centre of Inverness. O’Riordan had been crossing one of the backstreets late in the evening when he’d been struck by a passing vehicle. He’d been found some time later by a passer-by and rushed into Raigmore, but was dead on arrival. The story reported only that O’Riordan was an electrical fitter who’d moved to the area from Belfast some months before and had left a partner and small daughter. Police were still trying to trace the driver of the vehicle involved.
‘What was Galloway’s interest?’ McKay said.
‘You tell me. He kept asking me if I knew anything about this O’Riordan guy.’
‘And did you?’
‘Why would I? He was an electrical fitter.’
‘So why would Galloway be asking you about him?’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it? My sense was that he thought O’Riordan was connected.’
‘Connected?’
‘Underworld connections, I mean. That O’Riordan was associated with one of the big players.’
‘And was he?’ McKay was racking his own brains, but the name meant nothing to him.
‘Not that I’m aware. And not that I could discover at the time. As far as I could see, O’Riordan was just what that story said. A poor wee bastard unlucky enough to be crossing the wrong street at the wrong time.’
‘You think Galloway might have been the one driving the car?’
‘Ach, that’s always possible. Jackie Galloway didn’t have too many scruples about driving after a pint or two. Or five. But if it had been an accident, he’d only have been worrying about covering his own arse. He wouldn’t have had any interest in who the victim was.’
‘Not unless he had a reason to,’ McKay agreed. ‘But you’re sure that’s what he was asking about? It was twenty years ago.’
Fairlie tapped his temple. ‘Surprisingly resilient old beast, despite all the whisky it’s had to deal with over the years.’ He shrugged. ‘Have to be reminded where I’m supposed to be tomorrow, but remember stuff from twenty years ago as if it wa
s yesterday. It stuck with me because it was so unexpected, I suppose. We were chewing the fat about other stuff in the pub when he came out with it. I said I’d do a bit of digging, but I assumed it was just some passing whim rather than anything he was really concerned about. But then he phoned me back about it, wanted to know what I’d found. Called me three or four times in the end. That was definitely out of character.’
‘But you’d found nothing?’
‘Nothing at all. Made enquiries among all the usual suspects. Nobody knew anything about Patrick O’Riordan. Or if they did, they weren’t saying.’
‘You think they might have been concealing something?’
‘Anything’s possible. But if there’s something there, you usually get an inkling. Often from the way they talk, or from what they don’t say as much as what they do. But in this case, I thought that O’Riordan was just what he appeared to be.’
McKay nodded. ‘Well, it’s something to follow up, I suppose.’
‘Not much, I know. But it’s all I’ve got to offer. Had a few other dealings with him around the same time, but nothing out of the ordinary.’
McKay gestured towards the computer monitor. ‘You reckon it’s worth my while spending more time on this?’
‘It’s your time, old son. But I wouldn’t. Anything interesting about Jackie Galloway and I’d have remembered it. You should have asked me in the first place.’
‘Aye, so I should,’ McKay said wearily. ‘But, like I say, not a word about any of this.’
Fairlie held up his hand in mock outrage. ‘Silent as the grave, pal. You know me.’
‘Aye, only too well, Craig. Only too well.’ He pushed himself to his feet, allowing Fairlie a faint smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. And thanks for the info. Much appreciated.’
‘It’s not much, and it probably doesn’t help you. But, aye, you owe me a pint some time.’ Fairlie paused. ‘Or, one of these days, maybe even an exclusive.’
40
Ginny Horton was pulling off the Raigmore roundabout on to the A96 when McKay called. ‘Alec?’
