‘You don’t need to tell them anything, you know. You don’t even have to give them your fingerprints if you don’t want to. Here’s my solicitor’s card. Divorce and probate are his specialities, but one of his partners must handle criminal stuff. Give them a call if things turn hairy.’
‘They won’t.’
‘For your sake, I hope not.’
‘You’re overreacting.’
‘Am I really? Well, it’s better than underreacting.’
At first, Harry sensed he had judged it right. Sergeant McBride, as cheerfully efficient in the flesh as he had sounded over the telephone, whisked him through the fingerprinting and DNA-sampling procedures, dodged his questions about the examination of Wiseman’s car that Geddes had mentioned was going to be carried out and implied there really was nothing else they required of him.
Only when Harry emerged from the loo after washing the fingerprinting ink off his fingers did he find that McBride had been joined by the Chief Inspector quoted in the Press and Journal. Ferguson was a youthful, snappily dressed, dark-haired man with film-starry looks and the featheriest of Scottish accents. He seemed altogether too young for such a senior rank and somehow the drive and ambition that hinted at worried Harry more than the challenging directness of his gaze.
‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Barnett,’ he said, with a geniality that lacked conviction.
‘No problem.’
‘I wonder if I could ask you to come in again tomorrow to answer a few questions.’
‘You can ask me them now if you like.’ The delay, Harry suspected, was designed to prey on his mind – as he was certain it would.
‘No can do, I’m afraid. This would be a formal interview. It needs setting up. Inspector Geddes will want to be included, you see, so that we can … cover both inquiries.’
‘What time?’
‘Shall we say … eleven o’clock?’
‘Suits me.’
Ferguson smiled. ‘Splendid.’
‘Formal means you’ll be under caution, sir,’ said McBride. ‘You may wish to be accompanied by a solicitor.’
‘Another reason for giving you notice,’ said Ferguson.
‘Thanks. I’ll, er … think about it.’
Harry exited the station, turning over in his mind the ever-multiplying complexities of the situation in which he found himself. Ferguson and McBride must already have received some kind of report on Wiseman’s car, but they did not propose to tell Harry what it contained. That, he supposed, would be sprung on him at tomorrow’s interview. They were presumably hoping to match his fingerprints with some they had already found, though where he could not imagine. As for the DNA sample he had supplied, what did they hope to match that with? Blood discovered under Askew’s fingernails perhaps? They would not find any match, of course. But somehow that failed to reassure him.
‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured to himself. ‘This is getting serious.’
The afternoon had turned grey and what Aberdonians would call cool but felt plain cold to Harry. The city’s stonework absorbed the greyness of the weather and amplified it. There was nothing in his surroundings to lessen his sense of isolation – and an ever sharper sense of homesickness. He wondered if there was time for a stiff drink – or two – before meeting Dangerfield. Glancing up at the Town House clock ahead of him, he saw there was, but doubted if presenting himself at Wiseman’s bedside reeking of beer was a smart move.
He was tempted, nonetheless. The Town House was preserved in his fifty-year-old memories of the city and gave him his bearings. Old Blackfriars, the pub where he and the other Clean Sheeters had done most of their drinking during their fortnightly forays into Aberdeen, lay to his left, near the Mercat Cross. He headed towards it.
Within minutes he would have been at the bar, pint in hand, but he was diverted from his course at the last moment by the red and yellow post office sign hanging from the frontage of the newsagent’s shop a few doors further along. He had promised to send Donna and Daisy a postcard and so far had done nothing about it beyond buying the card. An airmail stamp for Canada was what he needed. He hurried in, joined the queue at the post-office counter at the back of the shop and began composing a suitably anodyne message in his head.
He had made as little progress with the message as he had in the queue when he heard a familiar voice. Glancing round, he saw Shona at the front of the shop, buying a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. But the newspaper and cigarettes were not all she was buying. The phrase that caught his ear was ‘and a pack of Villiger’s cigars, please’.
The choice of brand was such a shock that he instantly lowered the hand he had half-raised to greet her. He stepped out of the queue – and out of her line of sight. She paid, dropped her purchases into her bag and left. And Harry went after her.
He did not know what he was going to do. He did not really know whether the coincidence was meaningful or not. But he had to find out. Emerging from the shop, he spotted her hurrying ahead. Hanging back a little, he followed.
Then, almost before it had begun, the game was up. A figure crossed the road from the Clydesdale Bank on the opposite corner and stepped smilingly into Shona’s path. It was Dangerfield. And, a second later, glancing over Shona’s shoulder, he saw Harry. He waved, obliging Harry to wave back. Then Shona turned and smiled at him.
‘There you are, Harry,’ said Dangerfield. ‘I was just telling Shona I was worried they might have clapped you in irons.’
‘I talked them out of it.’
‘Have you just come from the polis now?’ Shona asked.
‘Yes. But I … took a wrong turning. Came the long way round.’
‘We’re off to the hospital next,’ said Dangerfield. ‘See how Magister’s doing.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Shona. ‘I’ve some more shopping to do. I’ll see you on Wednesday, Mr Dangerfield. You too, Harry?’
‘Probably.’
‘’Bye, then.’
‘’Bye.’
‘Is Shona married, Danger?’ Harry oh-so-casually enquired as they made their way to the car park.
‘Widowed. Her husband was killed in an accident on one of our rigs. Bernie McMullen. Nice guy. It was a real tragedy.’
‘A good-looking woman like her doesn’t need to stay a widow, though, surely.’
‘Her druggie son could be the reason. I don’t know.’
‘Does she have to travel far to clean for you?’
‘No. She lives in Torry, just over the river. Why are you so interested?’
‘Oh, just curious.’
‘You should concentrate on getting the police off your case. How did it go?’
‘Fine. But I’m not exactly out of the woods. They want to see me again tomorrow. For a formal interview.’
‘You need a solicitor, Harry. You really do.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve had a call from Jabber’s daughter, by the way. She’s on the train with her mother. They’ll be staying at the Caledonian. I’ve agreed to meet them there this evening for dinner. I didn’t mention you. It didn’t seem … a good idea.’
‘It’s OK, Danger. I get the message.’
‘I’m trying to be fair to everyone, Harry. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now, are you going to phone my solicitor?’ Dangerfield flourished his mobile. ‘Or am I going to do it for you?’
It was in fact Dangerfield who did the phoning. Harry sat in the Merc, gazing vacantly at the blank wall of the car park and listening to him as he sought help from his friend and senior partner in Legg, Stevenson, MacLean. In the event, Harry did not have to say a word.
‘All fixed,’ Dangerfield announced as he rang off. ‘One of his juniors, Kylie Sinclair, will—’
‘Kylie?’
‘She’s good, Harry, OK? Try not to hold it against her that she’s young enough to be your granddaughter. She’ll be expecting to see you at ten o’clock, so you can cover the gro
und with her before you report to the police station. Their practice is in Bon Accord Square. You’ve got the address on the card. There’s a street map in the pocket next to you. Borrow it if you like. We don’t want you keeping her or the police waiting tomorrow, do we?’
‘We do not. Thanks, Danger.’
‘Don’t mention it. One thing, though.’
‘What?’
Dangerfield turned to look at him. ‘You are playing a straight bat on this, aren’t you, Harry? I mean …’
‘I haven’t a clue what’s going on, Danger. All I know for sure is that I know nothing about it. Fair enough?’
‘Fair enough.’ Dangerfield started the car. ‘I won’t ask again.’
Chapter Nineteen
AT THE HOSPITAL, Dangerfield left Harry in the same drab seating area where they had waited the day before while he went in to see how Wiseman was – and to find out if Harry was still persona non grata.
Ten minutes later, he was back, the expression on his face hinting at the answer before he even opened his mouth. ‘He’s looking a lot better. Reckons they’ll discharge him tomorrow. Refuses to see you, though, Harry. Says the police obviously suspect you sabotaged his car and, until they rule you in or out, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.’
‘Great.’
‘Advised me to kick you out of my house, as a matter of fact.’
‘Even better.’
Dangerfield smiled. ‘Magister always was too quick to believe the worst of people.’
‘So, what do we do now?’
‘I’ll go back and try to talk some sense into him. I have to arrange for him to meet Jabber’s wife and daughter, anyway. Widow and daughter, I should say. Why don’t you wait in the car? Sit here long enough and there’s no telling what you might catch.’
* * *
Harry wandered off glumly towards the exit. Wiseman’s readiness to believe he had tried to kill him would have been risible had it not been so depressing. He was an intelligent man. Could he not grasp the absurdity of the idea? Apparently not.
Which only made it more obvious that the sooner Harry was off the hook the better. The day had yielded one tantalizingly frail lead. And he was determined to follow it.
At the hospital’s main reception area, he sweet-talked the woman on duty into letting him consult a copy of the Aberdeen telephone directory. There was only one S. McMullen listed. He jotted down the address and headed for Dangerfield’s car.
Sure enough, the street map located S. McMullen in the Torry district of the city. He had her. And therefore …
‘Gotcha,’ he announced, for no one’s benefit but his own.
Dangerfield was out within half an hour. He drove Harry away, heading straight for Sweet Gale Lodge, where he proposed to spruce himself up before heading back into the city to meet Mrs Lloyd and her daughter. Harry, of course, was not invited.
‘There’s plenty to eat in the fridge. Help yourself. That goes for the wine rack too. And I’ve got Sky on the television. Watch a film. Or a football match. There’s always one on. Take it easy. I won’t be back late. I wish I was having a quiet night in myself.’
‘This relaxing evening you’re sketching out for me sounds great, Danger, but contemplating my appointment with the local constabulary tomorrow and knowing how they’ve convinced Magister I’m party to some crazy plot to do him in isn’t likely to put me in the ideal frame of mind for slurping your claret and surfing the satellite channels.’
‘Miss Sinclair will force the police to put up or shut up. In the end, it’ll be the latter. Once they’ve admitted defeat, Magister will have to fall into line. I still think it was an accident. These hire cars get some seriously rough treatment. Magister was just unlucky.’
‘But not as unlucky as Jabber.’
‘Too bloody true.’ Dangerfield tut-tutted. ‘Poor old Jabber.’
‘We’ll never know now whether his memory of being on the castle roof fifty years ago was genuine or not.’
‘No.’ Dangerfield looked round at him. ‘We won’t, will we?’
‘Watch out!’ Harry saw the van braking in front of them before Dangerfield did. By the time their own brakes were on, they were closing fast. But, thanks to Mercedes technology and a tiny margin for error, they stopped a couple of feet short of the Transit’s bumper.
‘Christ almighty,’ said Dangerfield, slapping his forehead. ‘Nearly another bloody accident.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘At least this one definitely wouldn’t have been your fault, Harry.’
At Sweet Gale Lodge, while Dangerfield took a bath, Harry phoned Donna. He did not mention the police’s doubts about the crash being an accident, far less their suspicion that he was somehow responsible for it. And he did not even hint at what he intended to do that evening. As far as Donna was concerned, he and Dangerfield were dining with Lloyd’s grieving relatives and giving them as much help as they could.
‘I should be able to leave tomorrow. Wednesday at the latest. And you’ll be pleased to know I did buy a camera yesterday. So, I’ll have pictures to remember this weekend by – whether I want to or not.’
Dangerfield set off shortly after seven o’clock, leaving Harry on the sofa, supposedly watching a Test Match in the West Indies on Sky Sports Xtra.
‘I guess you don’t see a lot of cricket in Canada,’ said Dangerfield as he hurried out.
‘None at all,’ Harry responded, adding ‘Thank God’ under his breath.
‘See you later.’
‘’Bye.’
Harry waited a minute or so after the front door had closed before he prodded at the remote, silencing the commentary. He listened for the sound of the Mercedes starting, followed by the crunch of its tyres on the gravel of the drive. Then he jumped up, stabbed the off switch on the television and went to fetch his coat.
Harry had to wait twenty minutes for a bus into the centre, but he was in no particular hurry. In some ways, the later he left it the better.
He would have travelled by tram back in 1955. He remembered the streets of Aberdeen as mostly cobbled, lit by gas, traversed by grim-faced people in belted overcoats, old before their time. It was a different world, as so much of his past seemed to him, despite the fact that he had lived in it.
Old Blackfriars had altered little in its essentials, but the barmaids were younger and prettier – and that went for most of the customers as well. Harry ordered a toasted sandwich and took his beer off to the non-smoking area to await its delivery, smiling at the thought of what he would have said fifty years ago were the chances of living to see any part of an Aberdonian pub unobscured by a blue-grey haze.
He took out the postcard he had bought in Braemar, still lacking an appropriate stamp, and made a start at filling it in. Darlings D and D, Having a grotty time. Wish I wasn’t here. Well, that was undeniably true. As far as it went.
It had not, in fact, gone any further at all when his sandwich arrived. He washed it down with a second pint, restrained himself from ordering a third and concluded, at half past nine by the Town House clock visible through the pub window, that the time was ripe.
The number 12 bus took Harry out past the ferry terminal and the fish market, over the Dee and into Torry, an area of the city he had never previously explored. Nothing he saw as the bus trundled past down-at-heel shops and Victorian terraces suggested he had missed much. He traced his progress on Dangerfield’s map and hopped out when the bus got as close to his destination as he judged it was ever going to.
He headed downhill towards the docks, a large oil storage tank squatting floodlit beyond fencing at the bottom of the street. Halfway to it, he hung a right into a short cul-de-sac of two-up-two-downs and walked slowly along towards its end, before stopping in the darkest midway point between a pair of street lamps and gazing across at the house opposite.
There was a light visible at the ground-floor window, but the curtains were closed. The window above was unlit, as was the dormer above that. The house was in fact only on
e of two on that side with a dormer. An extra bedroom perhaps. Converted by Bernie McMullen before his untimely death, making it more plausible still that his widow had taken in a lodger recently.
But how to prove it? Harry hesitated to march across and ring the bell. He could not force Shona to let him in, far less insist on searching the house. If she brazened it out, what was he to do? He had no Plan B to fall back on. And Plan A was hardly distinguished by its subtlety.
Then, quite suddenly, in the form of leather-shod footfalls approaching from the corner, providence intervened. A hatted, raincoated figure was steering a direct course for the very door Harry was watching, moving fast, with a faintly pigeon-toed gait that was instantly familiar.
The man was on the point of sliding a Yale key into the door lock when Harry tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Hello, Barry. Long time no see.’
Chapter Twenty
‘HARRY,’ SAID CHIPCHASE in a hoarse whisper. ‘Christ Al-bloody-mighty, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry about that, Barry. I know how it feels. I’ve had one or two nasty shocks myself recently.’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘Will you keep your voice down, for God’s sake. I don’t want Shona knowing you’ve rumbled us.’
‘Hard to see how we can avoid that. Aren’t you going to show me in?’
‘No, I’m bloody not.’
‘We have to talk, Barry. Seriously.’
‘All right, all right.’ Chipchase considered the problem, then proposed a solution that, given the many hours they had spent together on licensed premises over the years, hardly counted as original. ‘There’s a pub round the corner. We can talk there.’
Cameron’s Bar was a comfortless harbourside den dedicated to the consumption of strong lager, high-tar cigarettes and deep-fried snacks. Custom was slack, the atmosphere chill. Chipchase bought a couple of large Scotches, then steered Harry to a window table, as far as possible from eavesdropping bar-proppers.
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