‘How did you know…?’
‘Good guess,’ Doug said. ‘There was a bit of bother down at the car park leading to the cycle track last night, and I heard you were in the Halfway House looking a little shaken up. Doesn’t take much of a jump to guess that Derek is the common thread in those two events.’
Sam McGinty blinked rapidly. ‘What bother? Is he in more trouble?’ There was a noise from the kitchen and his eyes darted to the door. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he whispered desperately. ‘Please, don’t say anything. It would kill her if she knew I’d seen Derek last night, it would…’
‘Right,’ Rita said, carrying in a tray laden with biscuits and mugs and placing it on a small table between Doug and Sam. ‘Now, what do you want to ask, Mr McGregor?’
Doug cleared his throat. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about this photograph?’ He passed it to Rita, who perched herself on the arm of her husband’s chair. They studied it together for a moment, then Rita nodded slightly and said, almost to herself, ‘Yes, it’s her. It must be.’
Doug’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Who?’
She looked up at Doug. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t quite steady. ‘We never met her, Mr McGregor, and I’ve never seen a picture of her before. But, given the way Derek looks here, this photograph must have been taken when he was about eighteen years old.’
Derek had been eighteen when he attacked Bethany Miller. Interesting. Doug nodded his head. ‘That would mean that picture was taken in ’91 or ’92,’ he said.
‘Quite. He was working in Edinburgh then, Mr McGregor,’ Rita continued. Doug wondered what it would take for her to use his first name. The second coming, probably. ‘We didn’t see much of him then, but he did phone home from time to time. And, of course, he visited when he needed a hot meal or was running short of money.’
‘Now, Rita…’ Sam began before being silenced by a withering glance.
‘Anyway, on one of those visits, he seemed different.’
‘Different? How?’
‘Happy, Mr McGregor, he was happy. Derek was hardly ever happy. He seemed to think that being surly was the only way to get ahead in life; that he was owed something because he had been born in a small town with not much to do and few jobs going.’
Doug tried to ignore the pained look on Sam McGinty’s face and the anger in his wife’s words. ‘And did you find out what made him happy?’
‘She did, Mr McGregor. As I said, we never met her – he must have thought we were an embarrassment or something – but he said it was serious and the way he described her matches that picture.’ Her eyes strayed back to the picture, studying her son. When she spoke again, Doug couldn’t tell what he was hearing in her voice. Regret, maybe. Or sorrow. ‘He said he wanted to make a go of it, find himself a proper job and settle down with her. It could have just been puppy love, a teenage crush, but…’
‘But?’ Doug prompted.
‘But I believed him,’ Rita snapped. ‘Whether he loved that girl or not, I didn’t care. He thought he loved her, and that was enough.’
Doug rocked back in his seat. Derek McGinty and Katherine Buchan, together. Jesus. Is that why he killed her? Spurned lover seeking revenge? Or worse, had he tried something on top of the Monument and she had fought him off, losing her balance and toppling over the edge as a result? Again the whispered voice on the phone: Derek McGinty pushed Katherine Buchan to her death. Doug fought to focus on the questions he wanted to ask. He could figure out what it all meant later.
He heard Rita gasp sharply, saw Sam take his wife’s hands in his. ‘What is it, love?’
Rita shook her head from side to side, tears welling in her eyes. Doug felt his stomach give a sickening lurch as he saw her eyes stray to the coffee table in the middle of the room. The coffee table with yesterday’s Tribune on it, complete with his story on the Scott Monument ‘suicide death riddle’. And a photograph of Katherine Buchan.
Rita lunged for the paper, knocking over the plate of biscuits she had brought from the kitchen with Doug’s coffee. The sound of the plate shattering was deafening. She rifled through the pages manically and then dropped the paper, fell to her knees and wailed. To Doug, the sound was barely human.
Sam shot Doug a poisonous look as he leapt out of the chair and put his hands around his wife’s shuddering shoulders. ‘What is it, love?’ he whispered, rubbing her back, trying to rock her gently back and forth to comfort her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s her!’ she screamed viciously through choked sobs. Sam flinched away. ‘Don’t you see, it’s her! The picture in the paper, the girl who died yesterday, it’s HER!’ She whirled around to face Doug, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘You think he did it, don’t you?’ she cried, voice rising to a near scream. ‘You think he killed her, don’t you? DON’T YOU?’
Sam wrestled the photo from Rita’s grip, eyes darting between it and the paper. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’
Doug got to his feet. His legs felt numb. What had he done? They were an old couple, for God’s sake. Their only crime was to have a son who turned out to be a monster. They didn’t deserve any of this.
‘Mr McGinty,’ he whispered. ‘I… I’m so…’
‘GET OUT!’ Sam McGinty roared, drowning out his wife’s hysterical sobs. For an old man he moved quickly, grabbing Doug by his shirt and pushing him towards the door. Doug could feel McGinty’s arms tremble with rage, could smell peppermint on his breath. His face was twisted into a hateful sneer. For Doug, it was like looking at Derek.
Here I am, motherfucker. Come and get me.
He let McGinty manhandle him to the door, had the breath knocked out of him when the old man pinned him against the front door as he tried to fumble the chain and open it.
‘Look, Mr McGinty, I’m sorry, really I am. I didn’t think…’
Sam hauled him forward to swing the door open. Their noses were almost touching. ‘I never want to see you again,’ he spat. So that was where Derek got his temper from. ‘If I do, it won’t be Derek you’ll have to worry about, it’ll be me. I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.’
‘Mr McGinty, Sam, I…’
No good. McGinty shoved Doug backwards out the door. He stumbled and fell back down the doorstep. ‘And take this shit with you,’ McGinty hissed as he crumpled up the photo and threw it at Doug. The front door slammed shut, the bang echoing down the street. Doug scrambled to stuff the photograph into his pocket as he heard footsteps run up the path towards him.
‘Jesus, Doug,’ he heard Julie McCabe, a reporter he knew from the Record, say as she helped him to his feet. ‘What the hell was all that about? The old guy looked like he was ready to kill you.’
Doug got to his feet and made a fuss of straightening his jacket and tie, giving himself time to collect his thoughts. ‘Just asked a question he didn’t like,’ he said.
He could see Julie wasn’t convinced. ‘What was that he threw at you, then?’ she asked.
‘My business card. I asked him to call me if he heard anything about Derek. Must have been the wrong thing to say. Listen, you get shots of all that?’
Julie jerked a thumb back over her shoulder to her car and the pony-tailed giant sitting in the front seat with a camera pointing out of the window.
‘Gary did,’ she said. ‘He’s been looking for something to do all day.’
Doug nodded slowly. ‘Good. Terry will probably be in touch for one of the snaps later.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ Julie crossed her arms across her chest in the classic you’re-fooling-no-one-pal stance. ‘Doug, what the hell is going on?’
‘Good question,’ he said as he headed for his car. ‘Soon as I know, I’ll let you know.’
He unlocked the car and got in, rocking his head back against the headrest as he closed the door.
Just what the fuck was going on? So Derek and Katherine knew each other; were, according to Derek’s mother, a serious item in her s
on’s mind. Had Katherine felt the same way? And why, Doug wondered, had none of this come up when reporters and police had been combing over McGinty’s life during his original trial?
Doug straightened in his seat, started the engine. Driving would help clear his mind, it always did. It was like a meditation to him. Some people listened to music when they wanted to think, some went for a walk, others had a pint. Doug sat behind a wheel and drove.
He turned the car and headed back down the road. Yes, a drive was just what he needed. But first, he had another stop to make in Prestonview.
• • •
The desk sergeant at Prestonview police station wouldn’t have won any prizes for most welcoming host, Doug thought as he stood in the main reception area. When he had asked to speak to Sergeant Allan, the response had been a gruff ‘He’s no’ here, pal.’ No ‘Can I take a message?’ or ‘Give me your number and I’ll get him to call you when he gets back in.’ Nothing, just stonewalling. Which, after his earlier conversation with Sam McGinty, made Doug think that Allan was in the station, did have some very interesting news about his little blood-stained crime scene at the car park, and had then told the desk sergeant he didn’t want to be disturbed – especially if an overly nosey journalist turned up and asked for him.
‘Hokay,’ Doug said, turning to go. ‘Thanks, anyway. But, when you see him, could you tell him it’s okay, I know they found Derek McGinty’s fingerprints all over the knife that was handed in earlier on. If he wants to know any more, tell him he can read it in tomorrow’s Tribune.’
He had got as far as the door when Mr Congeniality called him back. ‘Haw, hold on a wee minute there,’ he said, a phone clamped to his ear. He mumbled into it, nodded and grunted a response, then sat the phone down and fixed Doug with his best you’re-shit-pal stare.
‘Sergeant Allan will be down to see you in a moment,’ he snarled.
Doug gave him his best smile and took a seat. Sometimes, it was amazing how winging it could achieve results. Five minutes later, he was sitting in a small canteen with a tar-black cup of coffee and a very agitated Tom Allan opposite.
‘How did you find out?’ he asked.
Doug took a sip of the coffee, tried not to shudder. ‘Digging,’ he said, not willing to share his reasons for visiting the McGintys or why that had made him think Derek was in the area. Susie deserved to know about the photograph first. And he would tell her, as soon as he got what he wanted from Allan.
‘So, if you already know, what do you want?’
‘Confirmation,’ Doug replied. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t name you. As far as my readers are concerned, you’re “a police source who asked not to be named”, okay?’
‘And what happens if I don’t want to say anything?’
‘Then I go to the press office, they come to you, I still get what I’m after and you get the headache of dealing with enquires you could have dealt with in two minutes. So, what do you say?’
Allan shook his head slowly. He knew when to admit defeat.
‘So, what did you find?’ Doug asked.
‘Fingerprints,’ Allan replied. ‘Specifically, McGinty’s fingerprints, and lots of them. On the knife your friend brought into the pub and all over a wrecked car we found at the scene.’
The Polo, Doug thought. ‘It was stolen, right?’
‘Yeah,’ Allan replied, a surprised tone in his voice. He opened his mouth to ask how Doug knew, then thought better of it and pre-empted the next question instead. ‘We ran the number plate. The car was reported stolen from the Gilmerton area a couple of nights ago. Although why anyone would be bothered if someone had stolen that piece of crap…’
Doug laughed. So Allan had a sense of humour, after all. ‘So, is there anything else you can tell me? Jimmy said there was a lot of blood on the scene. Has a victim come forward, or is it McGinty’s?’
Internally, Allan sighed. Thank Christ. He didn’t know everything, then. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the blood wasn’t McGinty’s and no victims have come forward.’
‘So, where did it come from?’
‘We don’t know,’ Allan said, hoping his tone or expression didn’t give away the lie.
‘Hmm,’ Doug said, chewing on the end of his pen. ‘So, what happens now? I take it you’ve got officers out looking for McGinty? Are you drafting in extra manpower for the search?’
‘McGinty would have to be a fucking moron to stay around here after that. And we don’t usually draft in extra officers to look for a car thief, Mr McGregor.’
Not yet, you don’t, Doug thought. But wait until you hear about this photograph. Then wait and see what happens. You’ll have cops from all over crawling up your arse.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Nope,’ Doug said. ‘That about does it, Tom, thanks for your help.’
‘And you won’t name me, right?’
‘Right,’ Doug replied, winking. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re the man with no name.’ He saw Allan’s shoulders sag with relief, and couldn’t resist adding: ‘Just make sure that desk sergeant of yours knows the same. After all, he saw me coming in here, knows you spoke to me.’
Doug left Allan to his panic.
25
The deep leather sofa creaked slightly as Susie shifted her weight, trying not to get sucked down into it. Sitting opposite, immaculate as ever in a dark suit with black tie, Richard Buchan adjusted his glasses on his face, waiting for her to get comfortable.
‘I’m sorry to intrude on you and your wife again so soon after my last visit,’ Susie said as she finally got into a comfortable position. They were back in the drawing room of the Buchans’ Stockbridge home. Late afternoon light was spilling in through the window, stretching long shadows across the floors. The silence in the room reminded Susie of a library. Or a museum.
‘Not at all, DS Drummond, although I must admit, I was rather surprised by your call. You say you’ve found something odd?’
Susie nodded and produced a manila envelope from her briefcase. ‘Yes,’ she said as she handed it over to Buchan. ‘As I said on the phone, we’ve been trying to build up a picture of Katherine’s movements shortly before her… ah, death. As such, we been looking at her phone records, bank statements and the like, which is what you have there.’
Buchan studied the pages in front of him, smooth brow darkening as it was creased by a frown. He ran a finger along the page, then looked up. ‘£5,000?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. As you can see, it was withdrawn from Katherine’s account the day before yesterday.’
‘The day she died,’ Buchan mumbled.
‘Exactly. The bank has provided us with details of the time and location of the withdrawal. It appears she went in to the Royal Bank of Scotland on St Andrew Square and made the withdrawal at about 11am that day.’
Buchan nodded. Susie noticed a muscle in his cheek flutter. ‘Which would have been just before she went to the Monument. Do you have any idea why?’
‘No, sir, none. That’s what we were hoping you could tell us. We’ve checked her other accounts, her mortgage, credit cards and the like, and there are no records of £5,000 being either deposited into another account or being used to pay for something else.’
Susie would have been surprised if there had been. In her experience, you didn’t get your hands on a large chunk of cash just to pay a bill or open another account on the day you planned to kill yourself. No, there was something else to it.
‘And you have no idea where the money went?’ Buchan asked, his eyes falling back to the papers in front of him, as if studying them hard enough would yield an answer.
‘We were hoping you could help us with that, sir,’ Susie replied. ‘There was no trace of the money on…’ – she caught herself before she said ‘the body’ – ‘…Katherine when she was found, and there’s no record of the money being deposited anywhere else.’ All of which put the robbery theory back in the frame. Or gave the suicide theory a nasty new spin.
‘C
an you think of any reason why she would need that amount of cash, Mr Buchan?’
Buchan took of his glasses and rubbed his eyes. In that one moment, he looked his age. ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘I cannot. I assume you’ve checked with Lizzie that Katherine didn’t need the money for something at the gallery?’
‘Yes, we have. As far as Ms Renwick knows, there were no outstanding bills for the gallery to pay, other than the usual gas and electric bills, which are taken directly from the business account.’
Buchan nodded slightly. Susie took a deep breath and then asked the question she had wanted to ask since he had let her in.
‘Mr Buchan, can you think of anyone who may have been blackmailing your daughter?’
Buchan’s head snapped round suddenly, his eyes settling on hers. ‘Of course not,’ he said, his tone as cold as his stare. ‘As I said, Detective, Katherine was a very shy, introverted girl. I can hardly think of any reason for her to be… Wait, wait a minute, you think someone pushed her from the Monument, don’t you? That she gave someone that money and then they shoved her over the edge?’
Susie raised a hand. ‘We’re not ruling anything out, sir,’ she said. ‘We’re just examining the facts. And that’, she nodded towards the papers in Buchan’s hand, ‘is one of the facts that we need to look at, and find an answer for.’
Buchan opened his mouth to say something, closed it again.
‘Sir, when we last spoke, you said Katherine didn’t have a boyfriend or anyone else other than Lizzie Renwick that she would talk to if she had a problem. Are you sure there’s no one else we could talk to about this, sir? Someone she felt might have needed that kind of money?’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ Buchan snapped again, a moment too quickly for Susie’s liking. He was hiding something, she could feel it. But what? And, if he wanted to get to the truth of his daughter’s death and lay her to rest as he had said, then why?
Falling Fast Page 12
