Autographs in the Rain

by Quintin Jardine

  asked.

  'DCC Skinner,' Rose replied. 'You'll have heard of him.'

  'Aye, vaguely,' Mackenzie chuckled. 'Have you an interview room for

  us?'

  'Use this office.'

  'We need a tape, ma'am. This is an official interview.'

  Pye knew Rose well enough to read the sign as her eyes narrowed. 'Very

  well,' she said icily. 'Ruth. Would you like me to sit in with you?'

  'I don't know if we can have that, ma'am.'

  'Inspector,' she snapped, 'in my station you'll have what I tell you. Ruth?'

  The woman shook her head. 'Thanks, Maggie, but it's all right. I just

  want out of here with a minimum of fuss.'

  'Okay. Mackenzie, there's a vacant interview room at the end of the

  corridor. Use that, and bring Ms McConnell back here when you're finished.'

  The big detective chuckled again. 'Aye, we'll have to see about that too,

  ma'am.' Pye took half a pace towards him, until a glance from Rose stopped

  him in his tracks. Instead, he stood aside and allowed the Strathclyde officers

  to escort Ruth out of the office.

  'There's something about that bastard,' Maggie Rose murmured as the

  door closed on the trio, 'that reminds me of Flash Donaldson . . . and

  we know all too well about him.'

  The interview room was three doors along the corridor. Detective

  Sergeant Dell held the door open for the other woman and ushered her

  inside. The only furniture was a table, upon which there sat a black tape

  recorder, and four chairs, two each on opposite sides.

  'Sit down,' said Mackenzie curtly. He took a tape cassette from his pocket,

  slipped it into one of the twin slots of the recorder, and switched it on. The

  interviewee sat down with her back to the door, laid her handbag on the

  table, then delved into it. Finally, satisfied, she produced a tissue and settled

  back into her chair.

  The inspector stared across at her coldly. This interview is being held at

  Torphichen Place police office, Edinburgh, at five ten p.m. on November

  27, 2000. I am Detective Inspector David Mackenzie, N Division,

  Strathclyde Police. Also present are Detective Sergeant Gwendoline Dell

  and Miss Ruth McConnell.'

  Then he astonished Ruth by reading her a formal caution.

  'What the devil?' she exploded.

  'Quiet please, Miss McConnell,' barked Mackenzie. 'You'll answer

  questions only, not ask them.'

  'The hell with that. Have I been arrested here?'

  'And why should you be?'

  She blazed back at him. 'Don't fence with me. For that bloody tape,

  what's my status here?'

  Mackenzie nodded a concession. 'For the record, you are here voluntarily

  to assist our investigation into the suspicious death of your uncle, John

  McConnell, of number fifteen Glenlaverock Grove, Cumbernauld.'

  'Suspicious? What do you mean?'

  The detective reached across and hit the stop button on the recorder.

  'There you go with the questions again. Listen, McConnell, I don't care

  whose fucking secretary you are. As far as I'm concerned you're just another

  fucking suspect.

  'You know what my nickname is? They call me Bandit; not just the

  other coppers, but our local villains too ... and believe me, through in the

  west we have some real villains, not like the poofs...' He laughed, suddenly,

  harshly, '.. .oh aye, and fucking fish rustlers you lot have through here. It's

  a mark of respect, so they tell me; they call me that because I'm a bad

  bastard and because I'll nick anyone.

  They say about some coppers that they'd lift their own brothers. I did,

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  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  once. So be advised; behave yourself and don't try to pull rank or influence

  on me.'

  He switched on the recorder once again. 'Now, if you're ready, Miss

  McConnell.'

  She looked at him, then turned her head and spoke directly to the microphone.

  'I am, if you've quite finished spraying the room with testosterone.'

  The inspector glowered back at her. 'When was the last time you saw

  your uncle?' he asked, abruptly.

  'Last June. I took him a birthday present and took him out for lunch.'

  'What? You haven't seen him since?'

  'No, I have not.'

  'You didn't see him on or around Saturday the eighteenth of November?'

  'No. I went to see him last Saturday, as you know quite well. You're

  getting your dates mixed up.'

  'No, I'm not, lady. I meant the Saturday before.'

  She shook her head. 'I did not see my uncle on that date,' she said,

  loudly and firmly.

  'We have information that you did.'

  Then your informant is either mistaken, or a liar.'

  The detective's face twisted into an ugly grin. 'And when your uncle

  told a neighbour that afternoon that he was expecting a visit from his niece,

  would he have been a liar too?'

  'Either he or the neighbour would certainly have been mistaken.'

  Mackenzie glanced sideways at Sergeant Dell. 'It's amazing the number

  of times people say that to us, Gwennie, isn't it?'

  'It is, sir.' Ruth looked at her for a sign that she might be the soft cop in

  the old routine, but found none.

  They're usually the ones that are lying, though. Isn't that right?'

  'It is indeed, sir.'

  'Well this time she isn't, Inspector.'

  'So when was the last time you spoke to your uncle?'

  'A few weeks ago.'

  'How did he sound?'

  'Old, Inspector, he sounded old. He was eighty.'

  'And what did you say to him?'

  'I promised him a visit soon, but I wasn't specific about it, I couldn't tell

  him any date for sure.'

  'What kind of car do you drive?' Mackenzie asked abruptly.

  'A Corolla hatchback.'

  'What colour is it?'

  'Blue.'

  'So if a blue hatchback was seen outside your uncle's house on the day

  he died, the day he told his neighbour that he was expecting a visit from

  you, that wouldn't have been yours, then?'

  'No, it would not.'

  'What do you earn, Miss McConnell?'

  'Mind your own business.'

  t'It is my business, hen. Have you not worked that out yet? No point in

  being coy anyway; could find out by picking up a telephone.'

  'Okay; my salary is around twenty-two thousand.'

  'Not bad, eh?'

  'Reasonable. I work for two of the most senior police officers in Scotland,

  on a confidential basis. I have their trust,' she added, pointedly.

  Mackenzie laughed again, this time with undisguised mockery. He

  reached across and switched off the tape once more. 'And your man

  Skinner's never made a mistake about a woman has he? I seem to remember

  he was all over the tabloids not so long ago. Something to do with him

  shagging a woman detective sergeant on his staff.

  'Does he give you one as well, now and again?'

  'This is outrageous,' Ruth spluttered. 'Listen, Bandit, or whatever your

  damned name is, unless you stop peddling innuendo and get specific about

  the purpose of this conversation, I'm walking out of that door, and I am

  going to see Mr Skinner ... and if that doesn't worry you, then you are an

  even bigger fool than you are a playgroun
d bully.'

  The Strathclyde inspector reached across and pressed the record button

  of the tape once again. 'All right, let's just jump to the "Detective Sums

  Up" bit. Your old Uncle John tells a neighbour on Saturday the eighteenth

  of November, in a state of some excitement, that he's expecting a visit from

  his niece... namely you, because I've confirmed that you're the only niece

  he had.

  'Later that afternoon, just as it was getting dark, a blue hatchback vehicle,

  just like yours, pulls up outside his door. A tall, dark-haired woman, whose

  description you fit perfectly, is seen to get out and walk straight into the

  house.

  'And right at that time, someone sticks the old man in a scalding bath

  and drowns the poor old sod.'

  48

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  She stared at him across the desk, speechless, truly shaken for the first

  time.

  'And there's more. Your uncle hadn't shown up at his golf club for a

  while, so one of his cronies went to see him. He found him concerned and

  confused, as if the ageing process had caught up with him, finally.

  'But he noticed that things were missing from the house. There was a

  silver trophy he won at golf years back; there was a very fine grandfather

  clock; both missing. When your uncle's pal asked what had happened to

  them, all he said was that his niece had money troubles.

  'Then he told his old friend to bugger off and mind his own

  business.'

  Mackenzie paused. 'So you see, Miss McConnell. I'm engaged in a search

  for a cold, cruel murderer, and all the evidence I have points straight at you,

  his only niece, the sole beneficiary in his will.

  'Yet when I ask a neighbouring force to do me a favour by picking you

  up and bringing you through for interview, I get a call from some jumped

  up woman refusing and telling me to report to her. I don't mind telling you

  that pisses me off, and it doesn't make me inclined to go any easier on you

  than on any other suspect.

  'So... If you weren't drowning your uncle on November the eighteenth,

  what the hell were you doing, Miss McConnell?'

  'I was with my boyfriend.'

  'Who is?'

  'Detective Sergeant Pye; he's on the staff of Detective Chief

  Superintendent Martin, the Head of CID.'

  'There you go dropping those names again. Is he the lad who brought

  you here? The same guy who found your uncle's body?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, that was Sammy.'

  'Do you live with him?'

  'As of today, yes, I think I do. But not then.'

  For the first time she sensed Mackenzie becoming more cautious. 'Did

  you spend all day with him?'

  Ruth took a deep breath, and decided to tell the truth. 'No. I went round

  to his place in the morning; we had a sandwich lunch, watched television

  for a bit, and then I went shopping in Jenner's and John Lewis. I left Sammy's

  at about two thirty, and I got back just after six. Later we went out for a

  meal and a drink.'

  'I see. And can you prove you were in Jenner's or in John Lewis? Do

  you have any credit card slips, for example, with your signature and the

  date and time?'

  'No,' she admitted. 'I didn't buy anything. I didn't see anything I fancied.'

  At once all the hardness was back in the dark-haired detective, as he

  turned to his sergeant once more. 'I see. Piss poor cover story, Gwennie,

  isn't it?

  'Miss McConnell, even by your own account you had plenty of time to

  drive through to Cumbernauld that afternoon, do the old man, then drive

  back to the love-nest in time for a nice evening out.

  ", 'It was a really smart touch too, going back the following Saturday and

  arranging for the boy Sammy to find the body.

  'Miss, I want to see your car, I want to see any record you have of petrol

  purchases, and I want to see all your bank accounts. I expect that when I've

  done all that I will have more than enough evidence to justify a charge of

  murder. In fact, I could arrest you right now, and take you back to

  Cumbernauld, but that would just be too much fucking hassle. Since your

  man's a DS, I'll trust him to be professional enough to ensure that you

  don't do anything silly, and that next time, when I send for you, you're

  delivered, gift-wrapped.

  'This interview is terminated at five thirty-seven p.m.' He switched off

  his tape. 'You can go. I'll tell Rose what's happening. Be available to us at

  any time tomorrow.'

  Ruth picked up her bag, looked down her nose at the two detectives,

  then stood up from the table and left the room.

  She was shaking as she walked up to Pye, who was waiting for her

  outside the building, in accordance with Skinner's order. He saw her

  agitation at once. 'What's up, love?' he demanded.

  'Not here! I can't tell you here. I have to get out of this place, right now.

  Sammy, love; please take me to Mr Skinner, wherever he is. I need to see

  him, right now!'

  50

  12

  Dan Pringle looked around as he stepped out of his car. It was eight thirty

  five on a late November morning, and the sun had only just struggled above

  the eastern horizon. Yet as he breathed in the clean, crisp, morning air, the

  burly detective superintendent felt a sudden, strange burst of pleasure and

  relief.

  To his great surprise, he was discovering that, with each passing day, he

  liked the Borders more and more. When Bob Skinner and Andy Martin had

  invited him to move south, following John McGrigor's decision to hand in

  his warrant card, he had felt that it was no more than a step towards his

  own being put out to grass.

  Sure, they had said all the right words; they had explained that the Borders

  division was a mature area which required maturity and experience of its

  senior police officers, even... especially, perhaps... those in the detective

  branch. Yet he had felt a niggling suspicion that he was simply being put

  out of the way, a belated punishment for his scarcely disguised annoyance

  when the young Head of CID had been appointed over his head.

  Now, only a few days into the new job, he realised that they had been

  right. He took a sniff of the agricultural air and smiled. 'No bullshit,' he

  whispered. Never before had his career taken him on to a farm of any

  description. Never before had he consciously mixed with countrymen; a

  different sort entirely, stolid, straightforward, undissembling men who

  looked you straight in the eye, unimpressed by titles or authority.

  He knew that no bright young lad, or fast-tracking young woman from

  the city could hope to step into a place like this, particularly not to follow a

  massive son of the soil like McGrigor, who had carried an awe-inspiring

  reputation from the rugby field into the senior ranks of CID.

  More than that, he knew that Skinner and Martin had done him a favour.

  He thought back a year, to a time when he and Stevie Steele had visited an

  office on the attic floor of a city centre building. The breathlessness which

  had almost overwhelmed him at the end of the climb had been like a first

  intimation of mortality, a quiet messa
ge, gasped, not whispered, that he

  was a prime member of an 'at risk' category.

  He had tried since then to improve his physical condition; however, being

  in his fifties, and as prone to a drink as the next polisman... sometimes, he

  had to admit, being prone as a result of it... he had found it difficult.

  Now, translated with little warning from a city to a country copper, he

  felt instantly the better for it. As he trudged up the curving track towards

  the distant building, looking at the rolling hills all around him, he did not

  regret for a second his decision to come in his own road car rather than a

  "force Land Rover. He realised with astonishment that this morning walk

  was the most pleasurable thing he had done at work... apart, maybe, from

  belting that Russian... for more years than he could remember. He breathed

  deep and drank in the physical and psychological good that it was doing

  him.