That didn’t put me off. ‘Okay, then we won’t charter it out. We’ll just live on it.’
She laughed. ‘You couldn’t, not all the time. You’d go mad.’
‘No I wouldn’t. If we didn’t take passengers, I would write. There are a couple of true crime books I could do right now, and who’s better prepared than the likes of me to do crime fiction? Or we could sail the bloody world, and do travel books. I could make television programmes.’
She laid a hand on my chest and kissed me. ‘Calm down, big boy,’ she whispered. ‘If wishes were horses we’d all get a ride.’
‘But we can. Maybe we have to, Ali. You talk about going mad; there’s a far greater chance of that happening if I stay in the job than if I leave it. I began this week looking at dead people, some left where they had been killed. I saw a man who’d been disembowelled, in his own home, his own fucking castle. On Thursday I interviewed a kid who’d been systematically crippled with a baseball bat, for reasons that still aren’t entirely clear to me. Later on that same day I had a confrontation with a guy who tried to pull a gun on me. I dealt with all that, love. I switched off from all the blood and the suffering, and I met the violence with greater violence. Then I went home to my daughter, and we had fish for tea. That is my life, and it’s yours; it’s how I live, it’s how you live. This weekend I’ve been shown a way of changing it, and you’re trying to talk me out of it?’
She stroked my cheek, my forehead, my hair. ‘No, lover, I’m not. If that’s how you feel and if that’s what you want, then I want it for you. But will you still want it on Monday morning? And what’s this “we” all of a sudden?’
‘Surely you can’t believe that I’d save my own life and leave you lost in the deep, dark jungle.’ I kissed her. ‘Besides, I’ll need someone to teach me how to sail the thing. Come away with me.’
‘Ask me again, when you’re really ready to do it.’
‘What will you say when I do?’
‘Surely you can’t believe that I’d let you head off into the sunset without a bloody clue how to set the sails?’
But I never did buy that damn boat. I never did ask her. If I had, I’d have saved her life. Ultimately she was someone else I betrayed.
My last great romantic vision endured through that night and into the morning. It stayed with me well into the afternoon, all through the cruise up the windward coast of Arran, and until we were within sight of Inverkip. For all that time, my mind was still set on sailing boats and sunsets.
And then my mobile sounded. I was in the cabin at the time, packing my bag. I retrieved it from the jacket I’d worn at the funeral, where it had spent the last two days. It was at the limit of its battery life, but there was just enough juice left for me to answer.
‘Bob, is that you?’
The voice threw me for a second or two, until I realised that it was Sergeant Payne. ‘Yes, Lowell, what’s up?’
‘I’ve done that checking up for you, on the McGrew family. It’s pretty much as reported in the Tizer. They lived in a house up Wellhall Road, past the Philips factory, a nice big place; a detached villa. The mother’s name was Violet, but there was never any dad around from when they moved in, and that was, oh, about fifteen years ago, when Alafair was at primary school. I had a chat with the neighbours, a Mr and Mrs Shearer; they say that she was a widow, left comfortably off by her late husband. She told them he had been “in business”, that was all. Violet died four years ago, when Alafair was about twenty, from cancer. The house was sold a couple of years later. The son kept it on for a while, then he left.’
‘She’s got a brother?’
‘Yes. He’s seven years older than she is. The Shearers had a lot of time for him.’
‘Did they give you his name?’
‘Yes, Peter.’
‘Anything else about him?’ I asked. ‘Do they know what he did for a living?’
‘Mr Shearer said that he joined the army after he left school. He came back home when his mother fell ill, but they hadn’t a real clue what he did when he lived there after that. Mrs Shearer did ask him once. He told her he was a company director, but no more than that. Their impression was that whatever it was, he worked from home, because he didn’t keep regular hours.’
Just as he finished, my battery gave out, so I couldn’t thank him for his help. But had he helped me? My gut told me that he had, but I couldn’t work out how. Alafair McGrew, the battered Alafair McGrew, had an ex-soldier brother. So was it possible that I’d been wrong about big Lennie? Had she turned to brother Peter, not Manson? Could Tony’s mumble about sending a message have been bullshit, to make me think that he was in charge of the situation? Men like him hate to lose face.
In my mind’s eye, a couple of bricks had moved, and begun to arrange themselves into a pattern. They were a long way from building anything solid, but it was a start, a move in the only direction I cared about, forward.
I didn’t admit it to myself then, but that’s when I knew that I wouldn’t buy that schooner, that I was what I was for a reason, and that I couldn’t run, walk, or sail away from myself.
I turned and saw Alison in the doorway. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘Alex’s future uncle, with the result of a check I asked him to do for me. At the moment, it’s raised no more than a question, but it could turn into an answer to one of my puzzles.’
‘Mine too?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, no.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a pity. I’m not looking forward to that helicopter trip on Tuesday any more than you are.’
We went back into the marina under engine power and tied up. We all helped to make the schooner secure; once it was, I thanked Eden for the experience. ‘We’ll go further next time,’ he promised, ‘and maybe in more normal weather conditions. You’re not a real sailor until you’ve done a whole cruise in waterproofs.’
I made it back to Gullane just inside two hours from Inverkip. I asked Alison if she wanted to stay, but she’d run out of clothes, and also, she didn’t fancy another early start, so she headed back to Edinburgh. Before she left, I asked her to call Shell the next morning, and postpone the oil platform visit by a couple of days. Telfer would keep, and I had some digging to do. I started that evening. At the same course at the police college that John Govan had addressed, I’d met a little man who’d been introduced as Lieutenant Adam Arrow. He was there to talk to us about counter-terrorism; he’d been frank and some of the stories that he’d told had given us all a different slant on Northern Ireland, as well as opening our eyes to coming threats. He and I had bonded, after a fashion, and he’d given me a couple of numbers, office and mobile. As soon as Alex, as bushed after her weekend as I was, had gone to bed, I called him on the latter.
He took a few seconds to answer, time I guessed he was spending identifying my landline number. ‘Bob,’ he exclaimed when he did pick up. ‘How the fook are you?’ His Derbyshire accent tended to come and go, but it was genuine. ‘Who have you killed and what do you want us to clean up?’
‘It’s nice to know my phone isn’t tapped,’ I said.
‘Not by us, it isn’t. I can’t speak for other services, mind you.’
‘I don’t mind them hearing this. I’m looking for some background on a former army man. His name’s Peter McGrew, he’s Scottish, home town Hamilton, and I’m told his service began in the first half of the eighties and ended early nineties. That’s all I know about him.’
‘That should be enough, unless there are two of them. What’s he done?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, I hope. But his sister suffered a bit of domestic violence on my patch and now someone’s reshaped her husband’s legs. You might have read about it, since the guy’s a Scotland international footballer.’
‘That hit and run? Lad wi’ funny name?’
‘That’s the one,’ I confirmed. ‘No vehicle involved.’
‘A punishment beating? I wonder if the guy’s ever served in Ireland,’ he mused. �
��It wouldn’t look good if it came out that one of ours was copying the Provos.’
‘Don’t get too excited. There’s another strong suspect. Anyway, it won’t come out. The victim’s not going to change his story. I want to know the truth, that’s all, out of old-fashioned curiosity. It’s an itch that needs scratching.’
‘Then I will assuage it.’
Adam Arrow was always as good as his word. That was one of the things that kept us close to the very end. I made it into the office by a quarter to nine the next morning, to find a message on my desk, ‘Call Adam’, and a London number.
‘Got him,’ he said, as soon as he took my call. ‘Peter Hastings McGrew, date of birth fifteenth of March nineteen sixty-five . . . the fookin’ Ides of March, mate; beware . . . entered Sandhurst in eighty-three, commissioned one year later, served with the Tenth Gurkha Rifles until nineteen ninety-one, when he left the service shortly after being promoted captain.’
‘Excellent. Do you know where he is now?’
‘Not a fookin’ clue,’ he replied. ‘He could be anywhere in the world.’
‘But don’t your guys remain on reserve after they leave the service?’
‘Not this one. He had an accident while he was on exercise in Brunei. He severed a tendon in his left arm. As a result he can barely grip a cup of tea wi’ that hand, let alone a baseball bat. I’ve seen the medical report, Bob. If this bloke worked his brother-in-law over, then he did it one-handed.’
I sighed. My alternative theory had just gone up in smoke. ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘I owe you one.’
‘Be sure I’ll call it in one day,’ Arrow promised, and hung up.
I was still itching. I called Martin and McGuire into my office. ‘A job for you both,’ I told them. ‘I want information on a man called Peter McGrew, middle name Hastings, age thirty-one. He’s ex-army, ex-Gurkha Rifles, lived formerly in Hamilton, and he is Alafair Drysalter’s brother. I want to be fair to the family. Having spoken to her, I want to talk to him now. Andy, get on to the DVLA in Swansea. Let’s assume he has a driving licence; it’ll have an address on it. While you’re at it, find out if he owns a car; if he does, get its registration details. Mario, he told his former neighbours he was a company director. Phone Companies House. Give them his name, find out if that’s true, and if it is, what’s the company? On your bikes, lads.’
Computer systems weren’t nearly as advanced in those days as they are now, but they existed, and they worked. Martin was back to me first inside fifteen minutes. ‘He’s got a licence, boss, and there’s a car registered in his name. The address on both is in Wellhall Road, Hamilton.’
‘Fuck it!’ I snapped. ‘He hasn’t changed it.’
‘That’s an offence; we can do him for that.’ Martin smiled.
I didn’t. ‘What about the car?’
‘VW Golf GTI, black . . . what else? . . . registration L712FTG. He’s had it from new.’
‘That’s progress, Andy,’ I said.
‘Do you want me to put it on a watch list and have it pulled over on sight?’
‘We’ve got no reason to do that. Sit on it for now.’ I looked through the glass. McGuire was still on the phone, in deep discussion from the looks of things, but as we watched, he nodded a couple of times and hung up, then swung his chair round and headed for us, beaming.
‘Peter Hastings McGrew, boss,’ he began, almost before he was through the door, ‘is a director of several companies, all tying into a single holding company called Rodatrop plc. Together the group owns pubs all over Scotland, a casino in Glasgow, a video hire chain and three private hire and taxi businesses. McGrew is one of two directors of all the companies; the other’s his sister, Alafair Drysalter.’
I whistled.
‘It gets better,’ he laughed. ‘The companies were all set up two years ago, to acquire the assets of an earlier company, called Conan plc. Its sole director was one Perry Holmes. Even I know who he is.’
I leapt out of my chair. ‘Come on, you two boys, with me. Fred,’ I called to Leggat as we headed for the door, ‘we’re off out.’
We were in Frederick Street before McGuire ventured the question. ‘Where are we going, boss?’
‘You’re a detective, Mario,’ I chuckled. ‘You tell me.’
‘Back to see Alafair?’
‘Good try, but not yet. Andy?’
‘Register House.’
‘Nearly. In fact, it’s New Register House, but you’re on the right track.’
I parked in Register Place; on that occasion I did leave a ‘Police business’ card, with the force crest and the chief constable’s facsimile signature, showing on the dashboard. It wasn’t there to be abused, but it was easier than having tickets written off. I led the way round past the Cafe Royal and the Guildford Arms, where Charles Redpath had encountered Don Telfer, and through the front entrance of New Register House. It’s a fine edifice in its own right, although it was created by the Victorians as a mere overflow from, and is hidden behind, Robert Adam’s Register House, built in the previous century, a public building in which Scotland’s national archives are housed.
As a cop you make some professional friends, and if you’re wise you’ll keep them throughout your career. Jim Glossop was one of mine; I’d known him for ten years and during that time he’d cut a few corners for me. I asked for him at the front desk. As we waited, I explained to the boys the reason for our rush from Fettes. ‘When Violet McGrew and her kids lived in Hamilton, she led the neighbours to believe that she was a widow. Maybe that was true, but then again . . .’
‘Mob-handed, are we, Bob?’ Jim Glossop exclaimed, as he appeared through a door on my right.
‘New playmates. I thought they should meet you; Mario McGuire and Andy Martin, detective constables both. I need a parentage check, Jim. Two people, brother and sister: Peter Hastings McGrew, date of birth March fifteen, sixty-five, birthplace uncertain, and Alafair McGrew, no d.o.b. but she’s seven years younger than him. Mother’s name Violet, now deceased; I’d like to know who Daddy was . . . or rather, is.’
‘Or daddies,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re making an assumption.’
‘There’s a good reason for it,’ I assured him
He made a few notes on a small pad he was carrying. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’
Rather than wait idly, we went for a stroll down into Princes Street. The two DCs spotted a sandwich stall and headed off in search of coffee; I went in the other direction, to a nearby book store. I was short on reading matter, so I picked up a couple of paperbacks; one of them was called Let It Bleed, a yarn featuring the latest adventure of a fictional Edinburgh cop who was beginning to gather attention. I didn’t know if he was based on a real-life character, but if he was, I’d worked with a few candidates.
I was a minute or two late returning; Jim and the boys were all waiting for me when I stepped into the foyer. ‘Results,’ my friend announced. He handed me two photocopied extracts. ‘Both children were born in Rottenrow, that’s the main maternity hospital in Glasgow. You were right, same father, but he and Miss McGrew never went through a marriage ceremony. Indeed, as you’ll see, they don’t appear to have lived at the same address.’
I turned my back on the trio and walked across to a corner. I closed my eyes for a second or two as I laid a private bet with myself, then opened them and stared at the top sheet, ignoring everything else and focusing only on the section headed ‘Father’s name and address.’ And there it was: I’d won my bet. Peter Hastings McGrew and Alafair McGrew were the children of one Peregrine Holmes, better known as Perry.
I was smiling as I faced my officers once more. I handed one of the extracts to each of them. ‘There you go, lads,’ I exclaimed. ‘The whole bloody world, me included, thought that Holmes disposed of all his dodgy businesses after he was shot, all the stuff that was linked to the drugs trade, the prostitution, the protection, the money laundering. But he didn’t; he simply transferred them to his kids, and nobody noticed. We th
ought he’d gone away, but he hasn’t.’
‘So where’s Peter?’ Martin asked.
‘That’s one question, but we’re cooking by gas here, lads, so let’s see if we can answer another first.’ I glanced at Jim, and took out my mobile. ‘Mind if I make a call?’
‘Not at all.’
I found McFaul’s number and called it, then jumped on him when he picked up. ‘Ciaran, Bob Skinner. I need to know something. The Seagull Hotel: I know there’s no CCTV coverage inside, but what about the car park?’
‘That’s the second thing we checked,’ he replied. ‘Yes, there’s a camera outside, but it’s no great help. People come and go all night, it’s poorly lit and the coverage isn’t complete.’
Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel Page 35
