‘Would you consider a transfer to another force?’ I ventured. ‘With nothing on your record,’ I added.
‘Is that what you’re going to propose to the chief?’
‘It might be in your best interests. What do you think?’
‘With respect, I think no. I like it here, and I’m. . I was. . building a career here. One move on your record is okay for a junior officer, but two? No, I’d rather stay here. If I have to take some flak from colleagues over this thing, if I have to be sanctioned, I’ll ride those out.’
He’d said exactly what I’d hoped he would. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘The final decision on sanctions will be up to the chief, but I’m not going to recommend any. As for the flak, I can do something about that. It is likely that you will have to give embarrassing evidence in a future trial, but there is a way to keep your name off the public record.’
He looked at me, curiosity stirred.
‘In certain circumstances, a judge may direct that police witnesses’ names may not be reported. For example, if that officer is in Special Branch.’ He edged just a little more upright in his chair. ‘As it happens,’ I continued, ‘the chief is looking at some personnel changes there, and there is a vacancy for someone at your rank. DC Singh will be moving to Gayfield, to join DI Wilding, and your overall record makes you an outstanding candidate to replace him. . as long as you understand that there is an extra need for discretion there.’
He nodded. ‘Oh yes, ma’am, I do.’
‘Okay, that’s what I’m going to recommend to the chief, and I do not believe for one moment that he’ll reject my advice.’
He smiled. ‘Ma’am, I came in here not knowing if I had a future, and I go out with a new job. I don’t know what to say.’
I grinned back; I couldn’t help myself. ‘I reckon “Thank you” would just about cut it, don’t you?’
Superintendent David Mackenzie
I wasn’t sure I’d recognise the guy, but I did as soon as I stepped into the chief’s office and saw him sitting at the meeting table. He’d put on a bit of weight since I’d last seen him in Pitt Street, a few weeks before my move to Edinburgh, and he was losing the unwinnable battle against male pattern baldness, but otherwise he hadn’t changed much. Same dark suit and tie, same white shirt, the unofficial uniform of Strathclyde CID, the sort of garb that I’d kicked against when I was one of them.
They said I was flash, and they were right. They didn’t like me, and I can understand why. To be honest, looking back, I didn’t really like me either. I knew how pushy I was, but the nasty streak in me was in full control at the time, so I forgive my peers for the way they felt about me. Mind you, I’d still like to find the comedian who shat in the pocket of my Aquascutum overcoat on the day I left.
I put the notion that it might have been Lowell Payne firmly to one side as we shook hands. His grip was firm and his eyes a little wide, signs of a man just subjected to the chief constable’s ordeal by coffee. From their body language I thought I sensed something between the two of them, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.
‘David,’ the boss said, once the reintroduction was done. ‘Welcome. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thank you, Chief,’ I replied. The kind that he brews is so powerful, it’s akin to the stuff that I have to steer clear of these days. He knows that, though, and when it’s offered it’s only out of politeness.
He handed me an envelope, brown. ‘That’s the latest,’ he told me. ‘It’s a transcript of Varley’s interview by Mario and Andy; you won’t like what you read. That said, do not let it colour your view. There are three things you need to keep in mind in the job you guys have to do: objectivity, objectivity and objectivity. This may be an isolated incident in Varley’s career; presumption of innocence applies. But if he’s guilty of more, then I want to be able to prove it, and more.’ He paused. ‘This is the way it’s going to work. I don’t expect either of you to be investigators; your job is to look for possible lines of inquiry. If you find any you will need leg men, and you will have them, but given the nature of the situation and the fact that it’s possible it may lead to links between a police officer and organised crime, they have to be specialised. Therefore, anything you do trigger will be handled by Special Branch.’
That came out of the blue. I’d assumed that we were looking for backhanders changing hands, nothing deeper than that. It raised a question in my mind and I put it out there. ‘Chief, have you had specific information about this?’
‘Yes, I have, but that’s all I’m going to tell you. Even at my level I have informants who need to be protected. So,’ he continued ‘the Branch: I’ve just made a change there. The officer who was in charge is being moved back to divisional CID duties. Her replacement is Detective Inspector George Regan, and he’ll be your first line of contact should the need arise.’
He looked at me. ‘I don’t think you’ve worked with him, David, but you probably know his back story.’ I did; I nodded.
‘Okay, I suggest that you get along there and introduce yourselves before you leave the building. I’ve briefed him on the Varley situation, so he’s expecting you. Good guy, George. You’ll appreciate that SB operates in its own way, and please remember that. Brief him on anything you turn up then leave him to get on with it. And don’t take the hump when you find that he shares everything with me; that’s his job.’
He rose to his feet, signalling that the briefing was over. Our marching orders were clear; if it’s there get a result, and one that is, given the circumstances, unquestionable.
‘The rest of the material, and there are boxes of it, will be waiting for you at St Leonards,’ he said. ‘I want you to work out of there. Sometimes I think I should do that myself; less of a post-modern shit heap than this place. Or maybe I should work from home; maybe that would be best for everyone.’
What the hell was that about? I thought, as we left.
Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk
‘How are we with missing persons?’ the boss called, from the doorway of the glass box that she called an office.
‘They’re all still missing, Becky,’ I told her. ‘I had four possibilities from the national trawl that I did this morning, but they’ve all dropped off. Four families contacted and asked if their loved one was circumcised and had perfect teeth, and all four were negatives. It took time, though; the wife of John Ancram, of Middlesbrough, didn’t know what circumcision meant, far less what it looked like, but she did say that his teeth were very good. When the local cops went to his dentist, they discovered that she’d neglected to mention that he kept them in a jar. They told me that they don’t want to find John now, for his own sake. The partner of Michael Winterton, of Bourton, was so surprised when he was told he might have been found that the officers who visited him got suspicious. As soon as they started to question the guy, he broke down and now they’re digging up the back garden. As for the other two. .’
‘Complete pricks?’ Sauce chipped in.
‘You got it.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ the DI grumbled. ‘Do you two schoolboys have anything positive to tell me?’
She was getting testy, and young Haddock had the sense not to wind her up any further. ‘I’m working on the pathologist’s suggestion that he might not be British,’ he volunteered. ‘I’m looking at immigration, talking to the Border Agency. They’re suggesting that we focus on failed asylum seekers; so far they’ve sent me photographs of males in the age group we’re after, all of them currently missing from detention centres. None of them was a match, but they haven’t finished. Now they’re trawling through people waiting to be sent back who aren’t in detention, to see if any of them aren’t where they should be.’
‘What’s the thinking behind that?’ I asked him.
Sauce looked at me as if I was thick. ‘Let’s say a family goes underground,’ he replied, ‘and one of them dies.’
‘Possible,’ I conceded, then put a hand to my ear.
He loo
ked at me, puzzled. ‘What are you listening out for?’
‘The cackle of wild geese,’ I told him. ‘A well-nourished young man with perfect dentition and an athletic build: I don’t like to stereotype people, mate, and I know we look after visitors to our country very well, but does that sound like an asylum seeker of any description to you?’
‘He doesn’t sound like a runaway steel erector from Middlesbrough either,’ Sauce retorted, but I knew that I’d made my point.
So did Becky. ‘I know, guys,’ she said. ‘It’s a human needle in a haystack, but you know what they say, once you eliminate all other possibilities, what you’re left with is. .’
Sauce and I looked at each other and grinned. ‘Fuck all!’ we cried, in unison.
Our DI is a patient woman, with a sense of humour, but she’s not at all keen on being leaned on by the head of CID. ‘Look,’ she began, until the phone rang and let us off the hook.
Sarah Grace
The lab results had just come back when the call came in, not through the hospital switchboard but on my cellphone. The screen told me that it was Bob’s number in Gullane, but I didn’t expect it to be him. The witch? Surely not her either.
I hit the green key. ‘Mum,’ James Andrew began, ‘can I have a mobile?’
I had to grin at his tone, that of a boy who knew he was pushing his luck, but who hoped nonetheless. ‘Have you asked your father?’ I said.
‘Yes. He says not yet.’
‘Then don’t play us off against each other, Jazz. Does Mark have one yet? He’s older than you and I don’t recall seeing him with one.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ he admitted, grudgingly. He paused, then added, ‘But if he does get one, then I want one too.’
‘I’ll discuss it with your dad, okay? What’s brought this on anyway?’ I asked.
‘I had to come back to the house to call you,’ he replied. ‘I was on my way to the beach; if I had a mobile I wouldn’t have had to come home.’
‘Then the sooner you tell me what it’s about,’ I pointed out, ‘the sooner you can get back on down there.’
‘It’s the computer. I was on it last, and I forgot to switch it off. Mark says it shouldn’t be left on or somebody could hack into it. Can you do it?’
Sharp kid, that Mark. The boys have their own computer at my house and another at Bob’s. At some point in time they might have a laptop each, but it can stay as it is for now, as it allows parental supervision. That’s one of the things that my former husband and I still agree on.
‘Yes, I will,’ I promised. ‘Now get on back outside.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I frowned a little, as I heard him hang up. Eight years old, and yet he sounded just like his dad on the phone, give or take a few octaves; the same accent, the same intonation, and even a hint of the same authority in his voice. I took a strong hit of nostalgia.
There were some things I liked about my ex. Hell, face it, woman, there still are, and that voice of his is one of them, that and his presence; charisma is an over-used word but Bob has it, no question, and so, when you see him among his peer group, has James Andrew.
When Bob made his ‘we’ve fallen out of love’, speech, I went along with it, even though it wasn’t entirely true on my part. If I had told him so, it might have sounded like I was pleading with him, and that is one thing I have never done: this gal has way too much pride for that. Besides he was right about the nub of it, our relationship was a mess and was finally broken beyond repair: probably.
I’ve always been good at loving Bob. I was crap at being married to him, that was all. Yes, I gave him a hard time when I came back to Edinburgh to my new job, but that doesn’t mean that I’m incapable of wishing him well, or that I never worry about him any more.
As an example, I was concerned about the way he had been at the grave site the night before: there had been something not quite right about it. I hadn’t expected him to turn up, but he must have known that there was a fair chance I’d be the attending pathologist, so I couldn’t put it down to shock at my presence, or even mild surprise.
Embarrassment? Hardly, for two of the people there didn’t know me from Eve, and he and I are an open book as far as Mario and Jack McGurk are concerned.
Professional difficulties? Not a chance. Bob has supreme confidence in his ability to do his job. I’ve seen him in the most stressful conditions that the most gifted crime fiction writer could imagine, and I’ve never known him to be rattled.
Trouble at home? No, that couldn’t be. Bob was never one for silent huffing and if there had been a barney between him and Aileen, surely I’d have picked up a whiff of it from Mark, a sensitive kid who’d have been upset by it. But hold on, the kids were with me, so. .
‘No, couldn’t be,’ I murmured. ‘It’s paradise in Gullane these days, Sarah, remember.’ But something had unsettled him: I was sure of that.
I set the thought aside and looked at the lab results from my morning autopsy. I scanned though all the tests and analyses, looking for anything that might have been a contributory factor to the fatal collapse, but there was nothing.
I’d left the stomach contents till last. It’s the only part of a postmortem examination that makes me feel at all squeamish. I do not read the entrails if I can avoid it; instead I leave it to the lab to analyse the deceased’s last meal. I glanced at it, saw ‘chicken’ and almost set it aside; then I had a second look and reached for the phone.
I dug out the card that I’d made DC Haddock give me and dialled the direct number of the Torphichen Place CID suite. It was he who answered.
‘Sauce,’ I began, ‘this is Sarah Grace. Have you identified your man yet?’
‘No, Doctor,’ he admitted, ‘not yet; we’re exploring possibilities but we haven’t had a result. Are you going to tell me you’ve found that bar code after all? If you have, I hate to think where it was.’
I laughed: I was getting to like the kid. There was a self-confidence about him, but it stopped well short of the arrogance I’ve seen in quite a few cops. ‘No,’ I told him, ‘I can’t put a name to him, but I might let you focus your search a little more tightly.’
‘How?’
‘Circumcision,’ I said. ‘How much do you know about it?’
‘I know I don’t fancy it, not at my age,’ he replied, cheerfully. ‘Aside from that, it means you’re Jewish, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s the stereotypical UK gentile image,’ I conceded, ‘but actually, those boys don’t hold the copyright by any means. Nobody lines them up and counts them but I’ve seen figures that suggest that about half of the American male population is circumcised. In the Jewish faith, the practice is regarded as a command from God, but it’s also widespread in Islamic peoples. Among the rest it’s seen as precautionary, or even therapeutic; there’s evidence that it lessens your chances of contracting sexually transmitted diseases. The World Health Organisation estimates that worldwide around one in three men are circumcised and that two-thirds of those are Muslim.’
‘I stand corrected,’ Haddock chuckled. ‘So, are you saying that worldwide we can eliminate two out of every three men from our investigation?’
‘I’m saying more than that. All I was doing was putting it in context, saying that you cannot look at a man who’s had the procedure and say he’s Jewish, which is why I didn’t do that. But look at a man who’s been trimmed, and whose last meal, consumed a couple of hours before he died, was matzoh ball soup followed by geffilte fish, then that, Detective Constable, is the way to bet.’
Detective Inspector George Regan
It was a Thursday morning, and I was on duty in Dalkeith when the call came. I was asked to report to the chief constable’s office, twelve noon sharp, with no reason given, not even when I asked the man Crossley point blank what the hell it was about.
I ran through all sorts of possibilities in my mind. I wasn’t in any trouble that I knew of, I didn’t know anyone who was and I’m not the sort of man yo
u’d ask to organise the force Christmas dinner dance, so I ruled all of them out. That left redundancy at the top of the list.
The country’s gone crazy over public spending cuts these days. Apart from the sacred cow that is our Notional Health Service, nobody seems to be exempt, not even the police force. Who would they pick first for the push? I asked myself. How about an emotionally damaged officer with twenty years in the job, but young enough to find a new career outside it? Oh, he’d be well up the pecking order.
Yes, I do consider myself emotionally damaged. I still haven’t got over my young son’s death. But I can function normally, as I like to think I’ve proved; my promotion to detective inspector a couple of years ago wasn’t out of sympathy. I earned it by performance, and by passing exams. Nevertheless, when I stepped into Crossley’s small room that morning, en route to the chief’s, I was fairly sure that I was going to be offered a package and shown the door.
I had half expected the Human Resources manager to be waiting with the boss, but he was alone. However in the current climate it was possible that HR was being phased out too, so her absence didn’t raise my hopes.
When we sat down at his meeting table and Mr Skinner got down to it, I was even more convinced about the outcome.
‘George,’ he said, ‘you’re a good officer, one hundred per cent reliable, you have no skeletons in your closet and I rate you very highly. I want to say that up front. Now, I want to ask you how you’d feel about stepping out of the front line; right out of it.’
That was it then; he was making the blow as soft as he could, but it was coming. I know a guy who left the force five years ago and became security manager for the Co-op. He must be due for retirement, I remember thinking, all in that couple of seconds. Maybe there would be a slot for me there.
‘If it’s in the public interest,’ I began.
He laughed. ‘It’s in the very private interest, DI Regan. I want you to consider taking charge of Special Branch.’
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