by Ed James
‘Anyway, Pauline made the poor bastard jump through so many hoops. Put him through hell, you know?’ Wishart settled on smoothing down the thin band of dark hair circling his head. ‘Doug eventually earned her trust and that was them. They’re a great couple, though I haven’t seen Douglas for a good while now.’ He leaned back in his chair and yawned. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Do you know Mrs Ferguson’s daughter, Stephanie?’
‘Met her a couple of times at barbecues and the like.’
‘Did Mr Ferguson ever talk about Stephanie?’
‘Just how well she was doing at school. Guy was proud of her, you know? Treated her like his own daughter. That’s how you’re supposed to do it, right?’
‘So I gather.’ Hunter took a few seconds to let Wishart stew, started counting the beads of sweat on his forehead. Seven, eight, nine. ‘The thing is, Stephanie’s alleging that Mr Ferguson has been abusing her for a number of years.’
‘Bullshit.’ Wishart raised his hands in the air. ‘No way. N. O.’ He shook his head, frowning, giant ripples running across his skull. ‘Doug’s as straight as they come.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘No reason, but…’ Wishart swallowed and looked away. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead. ‘No way, man. No way.’
‘Are you involved?’
‘Christ, no!’ Red blotches covered Wishart’s face, his breathing thick and slow. ‘Look, before I hooked them up, Doug stayed on my living room floor for a couple of weeks when he was between flats.’
‘Do you live alone, Mr Wishart?’
‘I’m married. Not long, as it happens. I met Marie at Christmas and we wed in the Spring.’ Wishart rolled his bottom lip through his teeth. ‘Look, when he was staying at my flat, I … caught Doug looking at porn on his laptop once.’
Hunter scribbled it down. ‘What sort of porn?’
‘See that’s the thing. It was granny porn. Forty-plus sort of stuff.’ Wishart shook his head again. ‘There’s just no danger he’d be after young Stephanie. Doug likes …’ He looked at Jain and shut his eyes. Then whispered at Hunter: ‘A bit of meat.’ Then he wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘You know what I’m saying? I mean, I’d—’ He coughed hard, like his spleen might come up. ‘I’ll leave it at that.’
Hunter flicked back a few pages in his notebook. ‘Mr Ferguson says he was drinking with you in Scottie’s on Monday night.’
‘Did he?’ Wishart frowned. ‘Well I wasn’t there.’
‘Of course, you said you don’t drink anymore.’
‘That’s … correct.’
‘Sure about that?’ Hunter sat back, letting the weight shift from his shoulders. Everything eased out. Then his jaw clicked and sent a spear of pain through his whole head. ‘So you weren’t there?’
‘No.’
Doug Ferguson, you lying little toerag.
Hunter stood up, scraping his chair legs across the floor. ‘Interview term—’
‘Wait.’ Jain grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘Mr Wishart, will you stand up in court and testify to that effect?’
Wishart slumped back in his chair and let out a deep sigh.
‘I said, would you—’
‘I know what you said.’ Wishart stared up at the ceiling. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to be drinking.’
‘Doctor’s orders?’
‘Marie doesn’t like it.’ Wishart ran his left hand across his damp forehead. ‘But she was through in Glasgow on business. Staying over. If she catches me…’
Jain looked up from her notebook. ‘Mr Wishart, during this case, you will be asked to appear in court and recount this tale. If you lie, that’ll be up to seven years at her Majesty’s pleasure. And we’ve got this on tape.’
‘I know that.’ Wishart swallowed hard. ‘Aye, I was with Doug in Scottie’s.’
Hunter pushed open the interview room door and watched the custody officer walk Alec Wishart down the corridor. He stuck his head back in and nodded at Jain. ‘I thought we were getting somewhere there.’
‘No, we weren’t. You just thought we were.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Doug’s got himself an alibi.’
‘So, what now?’
‘I’m going to run this by Sharon, okay?’ She waved her hands around the table at the interview equipment. ‘Once I’ve sorted that lot out.’
‘And what am I supposed to do? Wash your car, ma’am?’
Jain tapped her watch. ‘You’re going to that interview.’
27
Hunter stood outside the meeting room door, peering through the glass.
A woman sat at the table, scribbling in a notebook. Hair in a tight bun, wearing a trouser suit. Late thirties, maybe, and at least six months pregnant, judging by the size of her bump.
Kandahar Province has nothing on this…
Hunter cleared his throat. Gave it another good go. There we go. Then he knocked on the door and kicked it open. ‘Donna Nichols?’
‘Craig Hunter, I presume?’
‘Sorry, I’m late. Had an interview.’ He stepped into the room and stopped. ‘A police interview. You know, a suspect interview.’
‘I understand.’ Donna glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘We’re awaiting my co-interviewer, so if you’ll just have a seat…’ She waved at the seats across from her.
Hunter took a chair and tried to slow his breathing.
The door slid open behind him. ‘Sorry I’m late, Donna.’
Hunter swung around.
Scott Cullen walked into the room, strutting around like he owned the place. ‘That shooting’s on its way to the PF’s office, so I’m all yours for the next hour.’ He frowned at Hunter. ‘You taken up boxing?’
Hunter slumped back in his chair.
Terrific…
‘—been asking leading questions. Should the confession stand?’ Cullen was grinning like he just knew he’d snared him.
You complete wanker.
They’re getting harder. Wonder who picked these questions?
Hunter cleared his throat again. ‘I’d suggest that, under the PACE Act, it’s the court’s duty to exclude confessions we have obtained by coercion. And the lawyer should—’
‘Any further questions?’ Donna smiled at Hunter. ‘Anything at all?’
An ice pick and a quiet room.
Hunter tried clearing his throat again. Still something stuck there. Felt like a lump of coal. ‘Just like to know which team this Acting DC role’s going to be in, if that’s okay?’
Donna smiled over at Cullen. ‘Sergeant?’
‘That’s an interesting question.’ Cullen spent a few seconds nodding, like the posy wanker he was. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘I’d just like to know who I’d be working for.’ Hunter coughed into his hand. ‘Should I get the position.’
‘Okay…’ Cullen smiled at him, eyes narrow. ‘While the approval for this role goes back to last year, we’ve yet to find a suitable candidate. We’ve had to re-advertise.’
‘Is the role working for you?’
‘I’m afraid not, Craig. I’ve been on secondment to Operation Venus for the last fourteen months and, while I’ve just returned to the MIT as of today — I hope — the role’s unlikely to be in my team. Besides, it’s the DIs who take charge of team structure. As it stands, I took a number of officers with me to Venus and they’ll be returning with me. Once we’ve finished supporting the conviction, I probably won’t be allowed an Acting DC.’
‘So is it likely to be with DI Davenport?’
‘Is there a reason for that assumption?’
‘Not in particular. I’d just … rather work for another DI. To … expand my skill set…’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you who the successful candidate will be working for.’ Cullen’s smile inverted itself into pursed lips, but his eyes stayed friendly. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘It does.’ Hunter took a sip of water. ‘And what’s the tenure?’
‘It’ll be a year, maximum. Shape up or ship out.’
‘Quite.’ Donna reached over for Cullen’s interview pack, barely scribbled on, and put it on top of hers. ‘Now, is that everything?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘That’s all from me.’
‘Cheers.’ Cullen got up and wandered over to the other side of the table. He dropped his pen on the floor, a silvery Pilot thing, and reached down to pick it up, watching Donna leave the room. Then he settled back onto the desk and folded his arms. ‘Let’s have a chat about this at some point.’
‘Right. Cheers.’ Hunter sat back in his seat, hands stuffed in his pockets. ‘Whenever you want, Scott.’
‘Cool.’ Cullen play-punched his shoulder and minced out of the room.
Hunter slumped back in his chair and groaned. His gut felt like someone had thrown a bowling ball into it. A dentist’s trip might be in order. His knees needed to be replaced with ceramic joints. And as for his crown…
‘Oh, hi Scott.’ Jain stood in the doorway, waving Cullen off. ‘You cowboy wanker.’
Hunter got up and sat on the table. ‘That was a complete disaster.’
‘You think?’
‘Aye, made an arse of at least two of the questions. The one about coercing a confession?’
‘Oh, Craig. Donna always asks that one. How could you not know?’
‘Cullen was setting me up. Total arsehole.’
‘Woah, angry much?’
‘He’s just…’ Hunter slumped back on the table, his head clattering off the wood. Felt like he’d just reopened the wound. He sat up and gently rubbed at his crown. ‘What’s been happening in the real world?’
‘Nothing much. Had a baked tattie for lunch. The tuna tasted off, but I still ate it.’
‘And with the case?’
Jain got out her iPhone and unlocked it. A blog filled the screen, some sort of amateur site with all the wrong fonts and images stretched out of recognition.
“School girl taken by beast stepfather”
‘Terrific.’ He handed the mobile back.
‘Aye, this is Sharon’s blogger mate.’ Jain pocketed her phone. ‘Her charm offensive didn’t exactly work.’
‘How the hell did she get that, though? It’s not common knowledge.’
‘Or anywhere near accurate, as far as we know.’ Jain helped him to his feet. ‘Anyway, Sharon wants us to check Doug’s alibi.’
‘You’ve not done that yet?’
28
Hunter stopped outside the front door of the Scottie Lounge, a diagonal wedge cut into the sixties single-storey thing attached to the rogue Georgian two-storey building next door. At least the cream walls made it look cared for, unlike the shady boozer next door, the sort of drinking den that either didn’t like natural light or didn’t want anyone seeing who was inside. A couple of rum punters supped on a pair of halves at a standard pub table and chairs outside.
Hunter thumbed at the chippy and Chinese takeaway further down the street. ‘Everything a man needs.’
‘Right.’ Jain pushed through the door.
Still tasted of smoke ten years after the ban kicked in. No sign of anyone chucking crafty ashtrays behind the bar, though.
She propped herself up on the wood, looking like she was sizing up the beer pumps.
Just a Guinness as a safety drink in amongst the lager pumps, generic drinks you got everywhere that tasted less than the sum of their ingredients. The craft beer revolution was a distant dream, maybe the name of a band they’d have on a bank holiday.
A gruff guy in his late forties wandered in from a back room, white bristles sticking out everywhere in his face, like he’d been blasted in a carwash. ‘Can I get you?’
Jain nodded at him. ‘Looking for the manager?’
‘That’s me.’ He held out a hand, enough gold hanging off it to replenish Fort Knox. ‘Leslie Owenson.’ He kept glancing at Hunter. ‘So, who needs an alibi today?’
Jain smirked. ‘Know a Doug Ferguson?’
‘Not in a Biblical sense.’ Owenson winked at her, then turned his attention to some clean glasses. ‘But aye, Doug’s a regular in here. What’s he done now?’
‘Now? What was it last time?’
‘Nothing. Doug’s one of the good ones. Drinks a skinful, gets some chips from next door and keeps himself to himself.’
‘Was he here on Monday night?’
‘Had the football on.’ Owenson grunted. ‘The English stuff, mind. Boy was putting the beer away, I’ll tell you.’ He pointed to the side door out onto Piersfield Terrace. ‘Doug must’ve had a bet on the match, cos he got through a twenty-deck in the ninety minutes. In and out of here like a demon.’
‘Okay…’
Owenson frowned at her. ‘Sounds like I’ve given the wrong answer there, darling. Want me to phone a friend?’
Jain looked around at the other punters, a pair of old men losing themselves in their lagers. ‘Is there any way of proving it?’
‘Well, I’ve got CCTV.’ Owenson thumbed at the door behind him. ‘You lot made me put it in after a wee bit of bother during an Old Firm derby. Not that there’s been many of those for a while.’
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘Well, he was with a couple of regulars. God, I can’t remember the laddie’s name. Well, he was with Alec Wishart. Boy’s not been in for months. Thought he’d had a stroke.’
Terrific… Hunter’s lungs emptied. ‘Who was the other one?’
‘Oh aye, and…’ Owenson clicked his fingers a few times. ‘Aye, that’s it. Davie Boyle.’
Hunter shared a look of contempt with Jain, her lips forming a tiny circle, though not as small as her eyes. ‘What’s Boyle like?’
‘Bit of a lad, but no better or worse than the rest of them, you know.’
Jain stood up tall. ‘Let’s see this CCTV, then.'
Hunter leaned back in the chair and held up the greyscale screen grab from Scottie’s, trying to compare it with the official version from the City Council.
No two ways about it, Doug Ferguson was at Scottie’s on Monday night. Smoked enough to need a second mortgage on his house, by the looks of things.
Hunter dumped the sheets on the desk and looked across the Observation Suite. On the main screen, McNeill and Jain were back interviewing Doug Ferguson.
Hamish Williams was scribbling in his legal pad as per. This time he looked like he’d found the golden ticket in his chocolate bar. ‘My client has documented his whereabouts and you’ve validated them. That’s the end of the matter.’
‘Mr Ferguson, we’re releasing you from custody.’ McNeill’s arms were so tightly folded it looked like she might turn inside out. ‘We aren’t releasing you because we think you didn’t abuse your stepdaughter. You’re being released because you have an alibi for the night Stephanie alleged she was last assaulted. Given her subsequent disappearance and abduction, it’s our belief that you’ve either scared her off or are responsible for that abduction, albeit through a third party.’
Williams’ pen flew across the legal pad and clattered into the microphone, producing a giant pop from the speakers. ‘You cannot talk to my client like that, Inspector.’
‘We’re done.’ McNeill got up and led Jain out of the room.
Williams clapped Doug on the shoulder. ‘Good news, Mr Ferguson.’
‘Aye. Cheers.’ Doug slouched back in his seat and stared into space. More like he’d been given a death sentence than his freedom. He started whispering in the lawyer’s ear, the microphone just picking up a dull rumble.
The Obs Suite door burst open and McNeill stormed in, pacing around like her first day in prison. ‘I hope this doesn’t bite us on the arse.’
‘Shaz, we had no choice.’ Jain perched on the edge of the table next to Hunter. ‘We’ve got no evidence against him with Stephanie missing and nothing incriminating him.’
‘Aye, and then some.’ Hunter dumped a sheaf of papers on the table. ‘Spoke to that Charlie Kidd guy up in Forensics. He’
s finished going through Doug’s computers. No sign of anything remotely dodgy on them.’
Jain sat up straight. ‘So no kiddie porn?’
‘And no telltale signs of it, either. Stuff like TOR and all that.’
Jain rolled her eyes. ‘Wish I knew what that was.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’ Hunter frowned. ‘Thought you lot would’ve been on that dark net course?’
‘Next month.’ Jain smoothed her hair behind her left ear. Made her look even more like a pixie. ‘There’s something weird going on here. You heard that Wishart guy. Sounds to me like Doug’s been looking for an impressionable young mother.’
‘Not sure that’s exactly what he said. He said Doug’s into granny porn, not kiddy.’
‘No trace of that?’
‘According to Charlie, it’s the kind of porn you have to hide from your wife, but not from the police.’
‘Well, he’d know.’ Jain hid a smirk with her hand cupping her mouth. ‘I think we should be following Ferguson.’
McNeill stopped her pacing and shook her head. ‘We’ve got no budget for that sort of surveillance.’ She stuffed her hands into her pockets, but it didn’t seem to dull her frenetic movement any. Like she was at a rave and on her fifth E. ‘Our priority’s getting Stephanie on the record and—’
Someone knocked on the open door.
Elvis, lurking with his usual daft grin. ‘Butch, got—’
‘Never call me that, Constable.’ McNeill stormed over, looking like she’d take him down if she could get away with it. ‘Okay?’
‘Aye, sorry.’ Elvis nodded at Hunter. ‘Thought I’d find Hunter in—’
McNeill shook her head at him. ‘Has someone finally found a use for you, Elvis?’
Jain smirked. ‘What, acting in granny porn?’
Elvis huffed. ‘Quit it, would you?’
‘Paul.’ Hunter got between them and forced Elvis to look at him. ‘What is it?’
Elvis thumbed out into the corridor. ‘The lawyer said the dad had something else for you?’
