‘Believe it or not,’ Detective Superintendent Ness turned in her seat, ‘we have already thought of that. There are teams scouring the land register and contacting letting agencies as we speak. Now, if you don’t mind…?’
Alice clicked her mouth shut.
‘Must’ve been pretty terrible, growing up with your mother in prison though.’
‘Sergeant Stephen, I don’t want to have to tell you again: move on.’
‘Especially after what she did to that poor woman.’ On screen, DS Stephen reached below the table and returned with a manila folder. ‘They ever show you what Gina Ashton looked like when your dear old mum had finished with her?’ She pulled a photo from the folder – the surface caught the light, obscuring the detail as she laid it on the table. ‘Must be hard, knowing that your mum was capable of something like that…’
Robertson glanced down at the photo, then folded his arms. Sat there, not saying a word.
‘Detective Sergeant Stephen, I have warned you. If you continue in this vein I’m going to make an official complaint and make sure the court knows of your inappropriate behaviour during this interview. Move – on.’
Alice tugged my shoulder again, then stood on her tiptoes so her lips brushed my ear. ‘He’s not going to respond to this. If he’s the Inside Man, he’s been preparing for this moment for years. He’ll sit there and say nothing until Jessica McFee dies of dehydration or hunger. They’ll have to release him and he won’t go anywhere near where he’s got her hidden. Dr Docherty will never get him to talk. If we can’t find her on our own, she’s dead.’
Rhona pointed at the double doors. ‘He’s through there.’
Division Headquarters thrummed with the sound of the back shift getting on with the day’s paperwork, drinking cups of tea, and complaining about the lazy sods on the day shift. I paused with one hand on the door, the other wrapped around a manila folder from the media office. ‘How long?’
A shrug. Then she sooked at her teeth. ‘Hour and a bit? Brigstock and me went over to the junkyard and gave him a copy of that new Inside Man letter. Next thing we know, bam. There he is. Sitting in reception.’
‘And he’s not moved?’
‘Think he’s been for a pee, but that’s it.’
I checked my phone – Sabir’s app glowed a solid orange at me. As long as we both stayed on this floor it should be fine. Provided Alice didn’t go for a wander…
Rhona pushed the door open and I stepped through to the reception area. Plastic seats lined the walls, bolted to the floor and facing the reception desk so no one could get up to anything. The place was plastered with posters: Crimestoppers; rape hotlines; how to spot cannabis farms, terrorists, and abused kids.
Wee Free McFee sat beneath a big corkboard covered with clippings from the Castle News and Post, all featuring photos of seized drugs and officers battering their way into scumbags’ homes.
There were at least another dozen people in the room – drunks, junkies, a couple of old biddies looking murderous – sitting cheek by jowl. Packed in. But no one sat anywhere near Wee Free. The three seats to his left, and the three seats to his right, were empty.
Rhona coughed, keeping her eyes on the corridor behind us. ‘You, erm … want a hand? Only I’ve got a stack of paperwork…’
I stepped out onto the grey terrazzo floor. ‘William?’
He turned his head and a small smile twitched into life beneath his grey moustache. ‘You again.’
‘Fancy a cuppa?’
He unfolded himself from his chair and the people closest to him shifted as far away as they could without abandoning their seats. ‘Why haven’t you found her yet?’
I nodded towards the blank door to the side of the reception desk. ‘Come on.’
Took me three goes to remember the keycode, but eventually the door swung open on a small room: four chairs; a grey table; a filing cabinet with a kettle on top; and a bin overflowing with Pot Noodle cartons, crisp packets, and takeaway containers.
I placed the folder on the table and headed for the kettle. ‘You’ve seen the letter he sent to the News and Post.’
Wee Free lowered himself into one of the seats, legs spread wide, one arm over the back of the chair next to him. ‘Stinks in here.’
‘They’re running it tomorrow morning. Front page.’ I clicked the kettle on to boil. Opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet. ‘We’re still running tests, but a graphologist says the handwriting’s a match for the ones sent eight years ago.’ A jar of coffee sat next to a box of teabags, a handful of mugs, a bag of sugar, and a pint of blue-top. Two of the mugs went next to the grumbling kettle. ‘Did you know someone was stalking Jessica?’
The milk smelled OK, so I slopped a glug into each.
When I turned, Wee Free hadn’t moved. The folder lay untouched on the table in front of him, but his face was flushed. Eyes like granite chips. ‘Who?’
‘We made an arrest this evening. They’re interviewing him now.’
‘Was she…?’
‘No. We’re still looking.’ Steam billowed from the kettle.
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, hands curled into claws. ‘I want a name.’
‘He’s got form for violence, extortion, and trafficking.’ Hot water into both mugs.
‘I said—’
‘Ever have a run-in with Rock-Hammer Robertson? Used to run with Jimmy the Axe Oldman.’ I tapped a forefinger against my chin, drawing in an invisible scar. ‘Well, till they had their falling out.’
Wee Free turned his head, staring up at the ceiling in the general direction of the interview rooms. And when he looked back at me, his shoulders slumped. His head drooped. ‘You bunch of tits…’
The mugs clunked down on the table top. ‘Did you know we found a foot floating in the water at Kettle Docks? DNA matched it to Jimmy Oldman. Pathologist said it was probably hacked off with a hand-axe.’
Wee Free reached for the mug and wrapped his fingers around it. ‘How could you be so thick?’
‘Some think Jimmy did it to himself. Made it look as if he was dead and dismembered. Figured it was the only way he could disappear and not have Robertson come after him. No point chasing a corpse, is there?’ I settled into my seat. ‘Me? I think Rock-Hammer got out of hospital, tracked Jimmy Oldman down, and hacked him into little bits with his own axe.’
‘Alistair Robertson is … was working for me. He didn’t abduct Jessica. You morons caught the wrong man.’
‘This better be bloody important.’ Jacobson stomped into the corridor, thumped the observation suite door shut behind him, and scowled up at me. It looked as if the frozen peas hadn’t helped much: the scrape on his cheek had turned into a thick scab riding on a paisley-pattern of red and blue and purple.
I raised my walking stick and thunked the tip against the wall at shoulder height, blocking him in at the end of the corridor. ‘He’s not our man.’
‘He was seen at the nurses’ halls and he had—’
‘It’s not him. Rock-Hammer Robertson’s a private investigator now – works for Johnston and Gench in Shortstaine. Wee Free hired him to keep tabs on his daughter.’ One quick call to the senior partner’s mobile and that was it: we didn’t have a suspect any more.
Jacobson closed his eyes, then banged the back of his head off the wall a couple of times. ‘Shite…’
‘That’s why he was hanging around. Going through their bins. Getting receipts and phone bills.’
A frown, then Jacobson peeled open one eye. ‘Don’t suppose Mr McFee’s just playing you? Telling us this guy’s legit so we’ll release him, and the next thing we know he’s being hung up by his thumbs and tortured with a Dremel multi-tool?’
‘I just spoke to the guy who runs the firm. He says Robertson’s been on their books for eighteen months. Spent the last six weeks trailing Jessica McFee for her father. They have case reports, a contract, everything.’
‘So why’s
he sitting in there like Lumpy the Garden Gnome saying “No comment” to everything?’
Good question. ‘Robertson isn’t exactly a boy scout, but Wee Free’s a psychotic nut-job. You don’t clype on someone like that, unless you’re suicidal.’
‘Arseholes…’ Jacobson turned and paced the two steps to the end of the corridor, then back again. ‘Thought you said he was our man?’
‘No, I said he was stalking Jessica. Which he was. It just happened to be on her dad’s behalf.’
Following her. Finding out where she’d been, who she’d been with. And next thing you know: her boyfriend gets the crap kicked out of him and suddenly decides he’s never going to see Jessica McFee ever again. What a coincidence.
Jacobson gave the wall another couple of dunts with his head. ‘So we’re back to square sodding one.’
I lowered the cane. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘… complete bloody waste of time.’ DI Smith glared at me for a beat, then turned and stormed off down the corridor, hands knotted into fists.
Detective Sergeant Stephen watched him go, then sighed. ‘He’s going to be a bundle of laughs to work for tomorrow.’ She ran a hand across her forehead. Then nodded back towards the interview room. ‘Shall we?’
Inside, it smelled exactly the same as it had two years ago – a dirty mix of cheesy feet and stale breath, over a layer of rust and sweat.
DS Stephen slumped back into her chair and reached for the unit built into the wall. Ejected the tapes and dumped them on the tabletop.
Robertson’s lawyer puckered his lips, then frowned up at the camera in the corner. The little red light was off. ‘Is this intended to intimidate my client? We’re not being recorded so you can threaten him?’
Jacobson settled in next to DS Stephen. ‘You do know that wasting police time is an offence, don’t you, Mr Robertson?’
The lawyer put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t answer that.’
I took up position behind Jacobson. Leaned back against the wall. Crossed my arms. ‘You have got to be the crappest private investigator ever.’
Rock-Hammer Robertson glared at me. The scar that ran from his nose to his throat deepened as he clenched his jaw. ‘No comment.’
‘Don’t be thick – we’ve got Wee Free McFee downstairs and he’s told us all about it. You’ve been spying on his daughter and reporting back to him.’ I pulled on a big smile. ‘Only, a decent PI wouldn’t have been spotted by half the world and chased off not once, but twice.’
The lawyer stiffened. ‘Unless you turn that tape recorder back on, my client won’t be answering any more questions. This is a gross breach of—’
‘You got pelted with empty bottles by a nurse. Not exactly Magnum PI, is it? Seriously, how thick can you—’
‘I am not a crap private investigator!’ Robertson was half out of his seat, face darkening. ‘Stakeout like that should’ve had a three-man team on it – the whole place is hoaching with potential witnesses, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. I was on my own. For six weeks!’ He took a couple of deep breaths then lowered himself back into his seat. ‘I mean: no comment.’
‘Don’t be daft – we’ve got your client downstairs. We’ve spoken to your boss. We know.’
‘My client said, “no comment”.’
Jacobson leaned forward. ‘You see, Alistair – I can call you Alistair, can’t I? “Rock-Hammer” makes you sound like an American wrestler – we know you had Jessica McFee under surveillance. I’m assuming you took photographs?’
He didn’t move.
‘Because if you’ve got surveillance photos, it’s possible the real Inside Man’s on one of them.’
I nodded. ‘Mr McFee wants you to hand over everything you’ve got. And he says to tell you that if you sod us about, he’s going to come looking for you. Either way, we’re getting those photographs. It just depends if you want a trip to A&E or not.’
Rock-Hammer chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit, twisting his scar out of shape. Then looked at his lawyer.
‘Or…’ Jacobson held up a finger, ‘we can talk about your resisting arrest and assaulting two police officers.’
Jacobson’s smile turned into a grin as we marched down the corridor. ‘You, Mr Henderson, may now call me Bear.’ He rubbed his paws together. ‘Right. We get the photos, we give them to Cooper and Bernard to troll through, and the rest of us head off for a slap-up Chinese banquet.’
‘Can’t.’ I backed away, hands up. ‘Alice has a thing, and if I don’t go with her, the ankle bracelets go off and your goon squad gets called in.’
‘Oh.’ Jacobson sagged. ‘You sure?’
‘I’d love to, but you know what women are like. Maybe tomorrow?’
Assuming Mrs Kerrigan didn’t kill us first.
The Jag pinged and rattled as the engine cooled beneath the dented bonnet. I reached into the back seat and grabbed Bob the Builder by his grinning squishy head.
Outside, the industrial estate was abandoned. Just the cold glow of the streetlights and the drifting rain to keep us company.
Alice skimmed the steering wheel with her fingertips. ‘Maybe it’s not too late to call—’
‘This isn’t a Ghostbusters situation. This is “God helps those who help themselves”.’ The Velcro around Bob’s crotch parted with a loud rip.
I pulled out the semiautomatic, checked the safety was on, ejected the magazine – still full – and clacked it back into place. Then leaned forward in my seat and tucked the gun into the waistband at the back of my trousers. ‘And what happens if it all goes horribly wrong?’
‘Are you sure I can’t—’
‘Positive.’
A sigh, then she tightened her grip on the wheel. ‘Rule number one: run.’
‘Good. You don’t hang around, you don’t do anything heroic, you get your little red shoes on the ground and you run.’
‘But you—’
I pointed through the driver’s window at the passageway that disappeared into the darkness between the chandlery warehouse and a line of decaying offshore containers. Where the shadows were thick and deep. ‘And I want you over there. Where they can’t see you.’
‘But if I—’
‘No. You run.’ I put a hand on her knee. ‘Promise me.’
She gazed up at me for a minute, then lowered her eyes to the steering wheel. ‘Promise.’
‘Go for the hole in the fence we made. No heroics. No stopping. No looking back.’ I gave her knee a squeeze. ‘And if someone grabs you, you batter their head in with the lump hammer.’
‘No looking back.’ She let go of the wheel and took my hand. ‘And you: no getting stabbed, shot, beaten, or killed. Promise.’
‘Promise.’ I popped open my door, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of mandarins and mangoes. ‘Now: get your backside over there where it’s safe.’
She got out of the car, popped her umbrella up and loped away into the gloom. Her dark jacket and black jeans were swallowed by the darkness, leaving nothing but the flash of white around the bottom of her trainers. And then even that was gone.
I stepped out onto the weed-cracked tarmac.
Rain thrummed against the shoulders of my jacket, soaked through my hair as I hobbled around to the boot of the car and popped it open.
Paul Manson blinked up at me, his eyes wide, wet, and bloodshot. The washing line dug into his neck, making the skin around it swollen and red. ‘Mmmmmnnnffff, mmmnnnnphnnnn!’
Manson’s cheeks glistened above the gag.
Poor baby.
Still, got to love duct-tape. Both arms were stuck behind his back, and so were his ankles and knees. The tarpaulin crackled in the boot beneath him as he wriggled.
According to my watch it was ten to nine – just over three hours since he got the full dose of Noel’s drug cocktail. Well done Noel.
I leaned in and patted Manson on the tear-streaked cheek. ‘
This is what happens when you steal from Andy Inglis. What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Nnnffff! Nmmmnnnnph mmmffff!’
Yeah, that’s what they all say.
‘Should’ve thought about that before you went into business laundering money for organized crime. Murder, extortion, drugs, prostitution. You got any idea how much misery and suffering you helped create? How many ruined lives? Ever think about that while you toddle off home in your fancy sports car to your fancy wife and private-school brat?’
‘Nnnfff! Nnnnnggggnnn nffffffp!’
‘You deserve everything you’re going to get.’
‘Nnnnnnnnnnngh…’ He screwed his eyes shut, squeezing out the tears.
I patted him down, then pulled his jacket open and fished the bulging wallet out of the left hand side. Couple of credit cards, three supermarket loyalty cards, frequent flier programmes. Photo of him and the wife and kid grinning it up on a beach somewhere exotic with palm trees. A wad of receipts. And about two hundred and fifty quid in cash.
I fined him two hundred for being a scumbag, then stuck the wallet back where I’d got it.
‘Nnnngghnnnphhhnn…’
‘Let me guess, you’re sorry? You don’t want to die?’
‘Nnngh…’
‘So if I save your miserable arse you’ll rat on Andy Inglis’s operation, won’t you? You’ll detail every arms deal and drug operation; every bank account, offshore tax-haven. Everything. And you’ll do it in court too.’
The eyes flickered open, eyebrows pinched together. ‘Nnn, nnnmmmph nnnghh!’
I leaned in nice and close. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking she’ll have you killed if you talk to the police. Too late – why the hell do you think you’re here? She already wants you dead. Either you talk to me and end up in witness protection, or you don’t and end up in a shallow grave. No skin off my nose.’
Manson’s eyes scrunched shut again, his shoulders shook, tears rolling down his cheeks. Probably spent years thinking he was untouchable. Accountancy’s not exactly hands-on, is it? Not like robbing a bank or breaking someone’s knees. It’s all computers and numbers. Not like real crime.
A Song for the Dying Page 32
