Autographs in the Rain

by Quintin Jardine

so, his office door opened unexpectedly and a tall, beautiful woman, in full bloom, stepped into the room. 'Hello Karen,' Pye exclaimed, jumping to

  his feet and pulling a chair from the wall up to the desk.

  'For God's sake, Sammy,' Karen Martin laughed, 'I'm not that pregnant!'

  She turned towards her husband. 'Hope you don't mind me being early for

  lunch, but shopping for a lump dress took less time than I thought.'

  Andy grinned back. 'Miracle of miracles. No, that's fine; but hold on for

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  a minute, okay. There's something we want to hear.' He pushed the radio's

  'on' button.

  They had to wait for only a minute before the bulletin began. The second

  item was a report of a midday press conference held in Glasgow by

  Strathclyde Police, to announce that a full-scale murder investigation was

  under way into the death of Mr John McConnell, of Cumbernauld.

  It included a short soundbite from Detective Inspector David Mackenzie,

  appealing to the public for information about Mr McConnell's last days,

  and in particular for any sightings of a tall, dark-haired woman, and a blue

  car, seen outside his house on the afternoon when he was believed to have

  died.

  'Well, there you are,' murmured Martin, switching off the Sorry as his

  ex-detective wife looked at him, with her former professional curiosity

  aroused. 'The wrath of God hath fallen upon the woeful Bandit, who

  repenteth, plenty.'

  'Where do we start, though, sir?' asked Gwendoline Dell. 'Now that your

  fii$t principle of detection's been stood on its head, "Never look further

  than the obvious without good reason", how do we actually progress this

  investigation?'

  'Don't chance your arm, Gwennie,' Mackenzie growled. 'We're going

  to do the things that the uniformed numpties who handled the thing until

  the post-mortem report came in never bothered to do.

  'For a start, no one's even talked to Mr McConnell's GP. We don't know

  anything about the old man's medical history. All we have is assumption

  and hearsay. For all we know the mystery woman in the blue car could

  have been a doctor. The old boy might have been under treatment for

  something that didn't show up in the PM.

  'We should go back to the people we've interviewed so far, see if we can

  get them to be more specific about the things they told us. For example ...

  not that we're going to get it... a registration number for that motor would

  be more than useful.

  'You get your wheels turning on that, instead of sitting there laughing to

  yourself about me getting turned over.'

  'As if I would, sir,' the blonde sergeant chided, with the very faintest of

  smiles.

  'Gaun, bugger off,' Mackenzie laughed. 'There's something else I've

  got to do and you're not sitting in on that. Seeing a grown man crawl can be

  an awful experience.'

  He waited until the door closed behind Dell and he heard her footsteps

  recede down the corridor, before picking up the phone on his desk and

  dialling a number which Bob Skinner had left him.

  Bob Skinner. Mackenzie felt a cold pang at the memory, still fresh, of

  his introduction to the man. He knew within himself that it would stay

  fresh, always. What a mixture; cold and terrifying one minute, then, message

  transmitted, received and understood, affable, positive and helpful the next.

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  He had heard stories about the Edinburgh DCC; his old boss, Willie

  Haggerty, spoke of him often. But nothing had prepared him for the reality,

  or warned him of the extent of the folly of crossing him.

  He made the call and heard two rings at the other end of the line before

  the woman answered. 'Ms McConnell,' he began, doing his best not to

  sound ingratiating, 'this is an apologetic David Mackenzie, from

  Cumbernauld.'

  'I've been told that it's up to me whether I accept your apology or not,

  Inspector,' she said coldly,'... but it's been suggested that I should, and so

  I will. What can I do for you?'

  'You could come through here, if you'd be good enough, and meet me at

  your uncle's house. I promise we'll let you in this time. Please, if it would

  make you feel easier, bring someone with you; DS Pye, maybe.'

  'Sammy's my boyfriend, Mr Mackenzie, not my minder. Anyway, I don't

  imagine I'll need company, do you? I'm sure you'll be as considerate today

  as you were inconsiderate yesterday, bearing in mind that the last time I

  was in that house, my uncle was lying dead in the bath.

  Til need to clear it with both my bosses, but assuming that it's all right,

  I'll meet you there at four o'clock.'

  'The Ruth business is all sorted out then, boss?' Detective Inspector Neil

  Mcjlhenney asked, rhetorically. 'What sort of a super-hero does that guy

  Mackenzie think he is, waltzing on to our patch and giving one of us ... as

  Ruthie is ... the third degree?'

  'Ach,' said Skinner, 'we can all get a bit carried away with ourselves

  from time to time. The boy Bandit got carried too far away, that's all. He's

  a good copper, when you strip the bullshit away.'

  'You sound as if you wish he was working for you.'

  'He is working for me. I'm taking a personal interest in this investigation;

  apart from bloody terrifying Ruth last night, they owe it to her to find out

  what happened to her uncle. Fucking weird, Neil, I tell you. A fit old man

  till last summer, still with two good hips and playing single-figure golf

  going into his eighties, shooting well under his age practically every time

  he set foot on the course, then a few months later he just drowned in his

  bath.

  'Mackenzie's promised to copy me all the reports coming out of his

  investigation. Meantime, there's something I'd like you to do for me. Get

  on to the pathologist in Glasgow who did the PM on the old boy, and ask

  him to fax or e-mail me his complete report, photos and all. I think I'll

  show it to Sarah, to see if anything occurs to her. I suppose you'd better tell

  him that, too; I don't want to ruffle any professional plumage.'

  Mcllhenney nodded. 'Will do, boss. I've got something for you, though.

  'I've just had a call from that lad from the Met, the one who called me at

  the weekend. He told me that one of their uniformed women was on foot

  patrol in Regent Street early this morning when she spotted something in

  the gutter about two hundred yards away from the spot where you had your

  bother.

  'It was bent out of shape, and looked as if it had been run over by a car,

  but it turned out to be a spent shotgun cartridge.'

  'Is that right?' The DCC's eyes shone in triumph. 'I'd like to shove it up

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  Assistant Commissioner Dumpty's arse,' he muttered, 'just to teach him

  not to doubt the word of a brother officer.'

  He paused, still smiling. 'Oh aye. Thinking about Regent Street and all

  reminds me. Lou Bankier's coming up to Scotland on Friday, and I've invited

  her to dinner at Gullane. I was going to ask Alex to join us, and to take her

  back to the Balmoral afterwards, but it turns out she's going
to Paris on

  business.'

  He caught the twitch of Mcllhenney's eyebrows. 'I know. Bloody lawyers

  move in a different world these days.

  'Anyway, if you can find a child-sitter, Sarah and I wondered if you'd

  like to join us. You can do the taxi run, of course, which won't be a problem

  since you insist on being teetotal these days.'

  The big inspector looked at him oddly. 'It's nice of the two of you to ask,

  Boss, but... I don't know. The truth is, I haven't sat down to dinner with

  any adult other than you and Sarah since Olive died. I don't know what

  kind of company I'd be.'

  'I do, or I wouldn't have asked you. I'll tell you from the perspective of

  one who's made such a mistake; you can't be a social hermit all your life,

  man. Furthermore, you know damn well that your wife would have been

  the very first to agree with me. Anyway, for God's sake, I'm offering you a

  date with a movie star!'

  Mcllhenney grinned. 'Now that would give Olive a laugh!' He glanced

  upwards for a second. 'Aye, all right, Boss. She says it's okay. Thanks.'

  That's good. Now go and get me that PM report, and let's see what I

  can stir up.'

  There was only one car parked in the street, when Ruth turned into

  Qlenlaverock Grove; it was a bright red Ford Ka with colour-matched plastic

  bumpers, and it stood directly outside number fifteen. She pulled up her

  blue Corolla close behind it.

  As she did so, Bandit Mackenzie climbed out of the driver's seat, almost

  catching his long overcoat in the door as he closed it behind him. The coat

  suits you, Inspector,' she said, a shade archly. 'It goes with your image.

  The car doesn't, though; of course, if you were wearing a pointy blue hat

  with a bell on the end . . .'

  'It's not mine, honest,' he assured her, hurriedly. 'Mine's in for a service;

  this is the wife's.'

  'My God, you have a wife?'

  'Aye, and three kids.'

  'Indeed? And what do you do if one of them comes home with a bad

  school report? Shine hot lights in his eyes and give him the third

  degree?'

  Mackenzie smiled at her. The hostility of the day before had vanished; if

  she had never met him before she might have taken a liking to him at first

  sight. 'My kids don't get bad reports,' he said. 'Other than my four-year

  old, when he tried to correct a playgroup teacher's spelling.'

  'I wonder where he got that trait from?'

  'Ah, but he was right.'

  'He must take after his mother, then.'

  The inspector sighed. 'I'll tell you what, Ms Connell; I know this is a

  smokeless zone, but if you can come up with some ashes, I think I could lay

  my hands on the sackcloth. I am really sorry about yesterday; all our

  information did point to you, and I got pissed off at having to traipse through

  to Edinburgh. But still I went over the top; I must have scared the hell out

  of you.

  'A big mistake on my part, I tell you.'

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  Finally she smiled back at him, with a degree of satisfaction. 'You don't

  ha veto.'

  She paused. 'Very well, Inspector. Apology accepted; let's start off fresh.

  Let's go inside; it's chilly out here.'

  Mackenzie nodded, then reached into his overcoat pocket and produced

  a labelled key ring. 'Here,' he said, handing them to her. 'You can have

  these back; our forensic team are all finished here. I'll keep the second set

  for a while, if you don't mind; just in case Gwennie and I need to go back

  to check up on something.'

  'Such as?'

  'I have no idea at this moment, but you can never tell. It would be useful,

  that's all.'

  'Okay, if you have to.'

  She looked at the keys and found the two which opened the front door,

  as the detective ripped away the plastic crime-scene tape.

  The house was cold as they stepped inside; Ruth looked at a wall

  thermometer in the hall, with a circular switch alongside. 'This controls

  the central heating,' she said. 'It's set at five centigrade. One of your people

  must have turned it back.'

  'No,' replied Mackenzie. 'It was like that when we were called out.'

  She frowned. 'Yes,' she murmured. 'I remember now; it was cold when

  Sammy and I came in at first. I'd forgotten. That was unusual; I always

  remember Uncle John's house as being uncomfortably hot.'

  The inspector stepped up to the control wheel and peered at it. 'There

  you are, right away; that's something we'll need to come back for. This

  doesn't look as if our technicians have dusted it; we must, though, just in

  case our dark-haired lady found it uncomfortably hot as well.'

  He turned back to Ruth. 'Where do you want to begin?'

  'What about the garage?'

  'What about it?'

  'He didn't drive much, Mr Mackenzie, but he still had a car, a big old Rover coupe, with real leather seats. He's had it all my life, so it must be

  over thirty years old. It was his pride and joy; he used to spend hours cleaning

  and polishing it.'

  'I've been in the garage, Ms McConnell,' said the detective quietly.

  'There's no car there; a back wall racked with carefully arranged tools, but

  no car.'

  For a few moments, Ruth had to fight to hold back tears. 'Oh no,' she

  whispered. 'The grandfather clock, the trophy; okay, they're gone. But

  something very bad must have been happening for Uncle John to sell his

  car.'

  'Maybe he didn't sell it. Maybe someone just took it.'

  'But who? Why?'

  'I don't know. But presumably the same people who've been emptying

  his deposit account in the Hibernian Building Society in Coatbridge over

  the last few months.'

  'What?'

  i Mackenzie nodded. Tm afraid so. How much did you know about your

  uncle's finances?'

  'Only that he was comfortably off; nothing much else.'

  'Mmm. He had two bank accounts; a current account with the Bank of

  Scotland that his pension was paid into, and the other one, with the

  Hibernian. Last summer, that had over seventy grand in it. Just under three

  weeks ago the last of the money was drawn out. Each of the withdrawals

  was made by a third party, on the basis of a form signed by the old man,

  nominating Ms Ruth McConnell as his representative.

  'The tellers who handled the transactions all described a tall, attractive

  woman, with long dark hair.'

  'Didn't they ask for evidence of identity?'

  'They did. She showed them a credit card with your name on it.'

  He looked at her. 'So you see, Ruth, on the basis of all that, plus what

  the old man said to his friend about you having money troubles, maybe

  you can understand a bit better why I was so bloody sure of myself

  yesterday.'

  She bit her lip, unconsciously. 'Yes,' she conceded. 'I'll give you that.'

  'Can you remember the car's registration number?'

  'Yes. CDV 32.' She laughed quietly, taking the policeman by surprise.

  'I remember Uncle John telling me, about ten years ago, that a man called

  Charles de Were offered him five thousand pounds for it... for the plate