by Scott Hunter
Charlie watched Luscombe’s delivery with admiration. He was a tall, confident Scot in his mid-thirties with a thick head of hair that he wore longer than fashion currently prescribed, but stylishly all the same. He exuded health, fitness, and efficiency. From what she’d seen so far in his short time with George and Bola, he also sported a good sense of humour and the knack of getting along with his peers, while at the same time commanding respect. In short, Luscombe was someone who kept your attention. As Charlie watched for the teams’ reactions she noted the female officers’ rapt expressions, hanging on his every word and, Charlie suspected, mentally assessing his gym-toned physique.
‘These are our deceased.’ Luscombe pinned two photographs to the board. ‘James McMillan, aged eighty-four. Anthony Lewis, aged seventy-nine. The first was killed at his own home in Grantown-On-Spey, the other was removed from his residential care home in Nethy Bridge and suffocated, we believe, in the car in which he was found. The car was stolen, and the vehicle abandoned in a Waitrose car park. Forensics found nothing in the car to incriminate the perpetrator. Literally nothing. Whoever did this was extremely careful. All surfaces were cleaned down with some kind of antiseptic, no prints. DNA analysis of the car interior only revealed traces of the vehicle owner and the deceased. We are assuming that the killer was suited-up, masked, gloved, the lot.’
‘A professional?’ Bola’s hand was up.
‘An assassin? We don’t think so, but well-prepared nevertheless.’
George: ‘Anything in common between the two victims?’
Luscombe shook his head. ‘Apart from the fact that they’re both retired, no. Mr McMillan had a less stable employment record – in the sense that he moved jobs a few times during his career – he was latterly a small business owner – whereas the other gentleman, Mr Lewis, had a long career in education. Aside from that, they’re both unmarried.’
The double doors at the rear of the room swung open and Chris Collingworth came in, coffee in hand, and sat down on a vacant chair at the back next to DC Stiles. He whispered something and Stiles giggled, coloured. Collingworth looked pleased with himself.
‘DC Collingworth. Thanks for joining us.’ Charlie broke in before George could ask a follow-up. ‘Next time, leave the coffee for after the briefing.’
Collingworth raised his cup, gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘Sure, boss.’
‘Care to give us an update, now you’re here?’
‘My pleasure.’ Collingworth swaggered to the front. ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t been formally introduced.’ This to DS Luscombe.
Luscombe extended his hand, which Collingworth shook warmly before facing the assembled officers.
‘So, I tracked the victim to a residential care home in Matlin Street. Manageress was off last night, but there was a new temp staff member on duty who let Marley in. She took him at his word, let Marley take the old feller away.’ He took a swig of coffee. ‘Is all.’
‘We have a name?’
‘Frank Daintree. Been at Chapelfields for eight months.’
‘And you’ll have checked his room?’
‘Of course, boss. Clean as the proverbial. No photos, diaries, letters, nothing.’
‘Eight months. So he came from where exactly?’
Collingworth placed his coffee cup carefully on the table by the whiteboard. He took out a notebook, flicked to the latest page. ‘Don’t trust myself to pronounce it properly,’ he grinned. ‘Should ask DC McConnell really, he’d do it justice. Like a foreign language, eh?’ He shot Luscombe a challenging, tight-lipped smile.
‘Spare us the linguistics, please, DC Collingworth.’ Charlie felt her hackles rising. Cocky little so-and-so. She glanced at Luscombe but his expression gave nothing away.
‘Sure, boss.’ Collingworth cocked his head. ‘He moved from his own place of residence, a small place called Kingussie. Connie Chan told me he used to live down south a long time ago, and, being an old boy, the winters north of the border were starting to get to him.’
‘And who exactly is Connie Chan?’
‘The temp carer who let him out, boss. Very pleasant young lady, too.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Relatives? Must be a local connection, surely? Was Ms Chan able to appraise you of any detail in that regard, Detective Constable?’
‘Nope, but the manageress stepped in with a name. A daughter – currently away on business. Runs some kind of marketing operation.’
‘Great. So, she won’t know what’s happened yet.’ Charlie tugged at a lock of hair, folded her arms. ‘We’ll need to get hold of her somehow. Got an address?’
Collingworth tapped his notebook. ‘It’s all in here.’
‘OK, that’s your next port of call.’
‘Kingussie? That’ll be Scotland?’ Bola piped up. He was looking at George, but it was DS Luscombe who answered. ‘Correct. It’s near the A9, Badenoch and Strathspey ward.’
Charlie clucked her tongue. ‘Which is just down the road from–’
Everyone looked at Luscombe.
Luscombe nodded. ‘–Aye, Aviemore.’
Moran shut Higginson’s door behind him and made his way along the corridor to his own office, deep in thought. The summons hadn’t exactly been unexpected, and the Superintendent’s logic was entirely reasonable. They’d found a strong lead for Luscombe to follow up and, although a connection was as yet unproven, it nevertheless seemed likely. It therefore made sense to despatch a senior officer to accompany Luscombe in a show of mutual support and co-operation. Both logical and politically astute. Higginson all over.
But Charlie’s absence would mean a leaderless team, unless Moran was willing to postpone his sabbatical for a short period – perhaps only a week, ten days at the outside, Higginson had predicted in his usual optimistic manner.
‘We could let Police Scotland handle the interview,’ Higginson had said. ‘But now we’re involved I’d like to keep it that way. Charlie can feed back any useful intelligence and be on hand to follow up any further potential leads after this woman’s been interviewed.’
‘If she’s still in situ,’ Moran pointed out. ‘She sounded rattled – less than co-operative on the phone, so George tells me.’
‘How far can she go?’ Higginson countered. ‘Their uniform can run her to ground, surely? And when they do, who knows what useful information we’ll pick up?’ The Superintendent straightened his keyboard with a deft movement, steepled his fingers. ‘Luscombe tells me the press are all over this. If their elderly folk aren’t safe at home or in their chosen places of care, then we have a duty to help them reverse that trend – lickety split. Not to mention the fact that we might be faced with a repeat performance at any time here in Reading. We’ve got to get this sewn up, Brendan. All I can say is I’m sorry to have to call upon you when you’ve made a very reasonable representation for time off. After everything you’ve had on your plate over the last couple of years, I haven’t made this decision lightly. I hope you understand.’
‘Of course, sir. I’m sure I can hold on for ten days or so.’
‘Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty, Brendan,’ Higginson said. ‘I wouldn’t normally say that to a man of your rank and experience, especially in your particular situation – you’ve earned the right to let the youngsters do the heavy lifting. But–’ Higginson shrugged, ‘we are where we are. I need a safe pair of hands, and I know I can count on you.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll see what I can dig up.’
‘DI Pepper will be leaving first thing tomorrow. Make sure you have a thorough debrief before she flies.’
So that was that. Moran grabbed a hot drink from the canteen trolley, exchanged the usual banter with Alice, the tea-lady, parked in her usual spot outside his office door, shut himself in and pondered the events of the last twenty-four hours. Should be straightforward enough. Charlie knew what she was doing. She could look after herself, and the team were attacking the case with their usual verve and enthusiasm.
Come on, Brendan. When was anything ever straightforward?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mrs Perkins, his neighbour, had left a note. Not unusual in itself; they often communicated in this fashion, the subject matter primarily relating to Moran’s Cocker Spaniel, Archie, and his regular routine of walks. Mrs Perkins was a mixed blessing – always up for a chat, always on the lookout for unusual or newsworthy local events. Her observations of late had fluctuated wildly from the banal to the disquieting. And then there had been the photographs…
He slipped the note from the letterbox as he turned the key.
‘Hello Brendan. Thought you’d like to know – a young man called for you earlier. Smartly dressed. Dark hair. Drove a Mercedes A Class, grey. He had a good look at your house, too. I popped my head around the door, asked if I could be of any assistance. Not a word. He gave me a look, got into his car and drove off. Archie and I had a lovely walk today. We saw the squirrels again. I fed him at five. Mrs P.’
Moran slipped his stick into the brolly holder, left his keys and wallet on the hall table. In the kitchen he poured himself a half glass of Sangiovese, went into the lounge and drew the curtains. There was the spot on the skirting board where a strand of Samantha Grant’s hair had been stuck to a congealed blood stain. There was the couch where Joe Gallagher had sat, one leg crossed casually over the other, calm and composed. Where he had warned Moran off, refused to disclose Samantha’s fate – even her whereabouts. And safely stashed in the bureau, there were Mrs P’s photographs, taken in the car park by the water meadow. Two men, one woman. In distress, or maybe just disoriented. Two drakes and a duck.
Moran sank into the armchair, took a deep draught of the red wine. This wasn’t over. Not by a long chalk. On impulse he got up, went into the hall, lifted the heavy Bakelite telephone receiver, unscrewed the earpiece, made a quick inspection. He lifted the base unit. Nothing untoward.
In the lounge he went to the window, moved the curtain a fraction. The street was clear.
Paranoia. But, under the circumstances, justifiable.
He returned to the armchair, and with a conscious effort turned his mind to the current issue, the care home abduction. There were gaps in the timeline. Where had Marley taken the elderly Mr Daintree to kill him? Had he just driven around the corner and smothered his victim in the car? Or had he driven to some pre-arranged address? If indeed Marley himself was responsible.
And the big question: why? Marley seemed to have very little by way of what Moran called life detritus. Everyone left footprints in their day-to-day lives, especially in the age of social media, but Marley’s footprint was skeletal, if not invisible. A cryptic voice memo, a phone number. A template Facebook account. A bare bedsit. That was all. That suggested a couple of possibilities: one, Marley was on the run, using fake ids. Or two – and this seemed more likely – he was an illegal.
Moran absently stroked Archie’s head as he considered possible motives. Robbery? No. Daintree wouldn’t have been carrying money, or indeed anything of value. And why go to all the trouble of abducting a care home resident, just to rob them? If, as Moran suspected, Marley was in the UK illegally, he was highly unlikely to have made the acquaintance of an elderly, retired man in care. Unless, of course, Marley was a care assistant, and had previously been employed at the Matlin Road care home. But he hadn’t. The manager had never heard of him, and neither had the description furnished by Connie Chan rung any bells.
Moran took another sip of Sangiovese. The wine was warming his stomach, relaxing his mind. Had Marley known Daintree in some other capacity, before Daintree had been admitted to Chapelfields? Moran made a mental note to find out if DC Collingworth had managed to contact Daintree’s daughter. She would be able to fill in some blanks. Perhaps she could shed light on her father’s past, his hobbies, interests.
Archie dropped his tennis ball in Moran’s lap.
‘All right, boy. I get the hint. Five minutes.’ Moran smiled at the spaniel’s earnest expression.
He swirled the last inch of wine in the glass, sniffed the aroma. This was from a good cellar, no doubt about it. Mrs P had recommended it, and Moran had to admit that, for all her eccentricities, his neighbour knew a good red when she tasted one.
Moran reluctantly drained his glass and went to find Archie’s lead. There was another possibility that shouldn’t be discounted, and this seemed to him the more likely scenario: Marley hadn’t been acting independently, for motives of his own.
Marley had been working for someone else.
Charlie followed DC Luscombe down the steps of the BA Airbus onto the concrete apron. It had been an early start and Charlie’s eyes were prickling with fatigue. Her mind had been racing all night, going over the briefings, the teams’ updates, trying to piece the puzzle together. It was a weird one, that was for sure. An old man, killed for what purpose? And two here in Scotland? Was it the work of some crazed euthanasia group? Was Marley responsible for the Scottish deaths as well? Try as she might, her mind would not allow her rest, and her dawn alarm had found her wide awake, still working the case over.
The flight had proved uneventful, and DS Luscombe a reticent travelling companion. Not, Charlie concluded, an early-morning person.
She followed the tall detective through the airport and into the car park, wheeling her case behind her. She’d packed for the few days she anticipated would be the length of her stay. If it proved to be a longer secondment, she’d just have to find time to pop into the local M&S to replenish her underwear supply.
Luscombe beeped his keyring and the tail lights of a dark blue BMW lit up. He opened the boot, threw in his overnight bag and gestured for her to do the same.
‘What’s the first stop?’ Charlie asked as they left the airport environs and joined the A9.
‘Check in at the station for updates, ma’am. Then straight to the address. I don’t want to lose any more time.’ He said it in such a way as to imply that his journey south had been an unwanted distraction, that he had somehow lost the advantage by his absence.
‘OK by me,’ Charlie said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘And please, skip the ‘ma’am’. Informal is fine while I’m on your patch.’
She stared fixedly out of the window, annoyed. Look, buster, if it wasn’t for us lot you’d still be going round in circles…
What she’d really wanted to do was to drop her bag off at the Premier Inn she’d booked, freshen up, then start the day’s work. But Luscombe hadn’t offered, and she didn’t want him to think he’d been saddled with some weak southern female who needed mollycoddling. She clamped her jaw shut and watched the fields and houses flit by. The names were unfamiliar, some sounding like outtakes from Lord of the Rings. Findhorn, Moy…
‘Been up this way before?’ Luscombe broke the silence.
‘No. Always wanted to. Never got round to it.’
‘It’s fine country,’ Luscombe said. ‘I’m from a wee bit further up. Hopeman. Bet you’ve never heard of it.’
‘Can’t say that I have,’ Charlie replied, pleased that Luscombe had made an effort to communicate. ‘Sounds nice, though.’
‘Aye, it is. Started out as a wee fishing village. Bit bigger these days, but still has that local feel about it. Gets a little rough during the winter – I’ve seen some storms in my time, I can tell you.’
‘And your family. They all come from Hopeman?’
‘Aye. Right back to my grandfather – he was headmaster of the local school. Moved to Grantown eventually, became the rector at the local grammar. Made quite a name for himself – he was one of the educationalists involved in the founding of Gordonstoun.’
‘Prince Charles’ school? Wow. You must be very proud of your roots.’
Luscombe shot her a sideways glance, the hint of a dour smile. ‘I’m a Scotsman. Of course I’m proud.’
Charlie grinned, and the silence that followed fo
r the next mile and a half was more comfortable. She brought her mind back to the murders. Something Luscombe had said…Then she remembered. ‘You mentioned Grantown? That’s where–’
‘Uh huh. Where James McMillan was murdered.’
‘So you know the area pretty well?’
‘I do.’ Luscombe indicated, overtook a dawdling Fiat. ‘McMillan lived opposite the bowling green. Lived a quiet life, on his own – wife died a few years back.’
Charlie was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s got to be a grudge killing. Did you make contact with any of McMillan’s friends, surviving family?’
Luscombe shook his head. ‘When you get to a certain age…’
‘Right. Yes, I see. But he was fit and well? Able to care for himself?’
‘He was. And still a bowls club member, too.’
‘What about the club? Did–’
‘We interviewed them all. And the wives. Till we were blue in the face. No motives. No ideas why someone would want to kill old Mac.’
Charlie picked up the tone. ‘I wasn’t implying any criticism – just trying to get a little background.’
‘Aye,’ Luscombe said. ‘I know. Nearly there.’
Charlie turned her attention once more to the local scenery, which was breathtaking. ‘Loch Alvie,’ she murmured. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Good fishing,’ Luscombe told her. ‘Trout, perch and pike.’
‘You must love living here.’
‘I can think of worse places, for sure.’ Luscombe grinned again.
