by Val Penny
Tim nodded towards the table where the three remaining men were sitting, and the officers made their way towards it. The Lizard and Brian Squires both tried to make a run for the door, but the place was far too crowded for that strategy to be successful. Then Bear stuck out his leg in front of Squires, and the man clattered to the ground.
“Fucking shit, me knee,” Squires bellowed.
“Sorry, man, an accident, right?” Bear said in a most unconvincing Jamaican accent.
The officers winked at Bear then turned to their prisoner and formally cautioned him.
“Where did that ridiculous accent come from?” Tim laughed. “You’re Ethiopian, not West Indian, although you speak better English than most Brits!”
“I blame the beer. Not enough of it, that is. And it’s your round.”
***
Gillian had never been to an International Rugby match. She looked around in awe as she entered the stadium with Tim, Bear and Mel. She felt Tim’s hand holding hers tightly and smiled as he gave it a little squeeze.
“The stadium seems so much bigger than on the television. It is certainly a lot louder,” she said to him.
They moved slowly along the row to their seats and she was delighted they were near the centre line. She noticed the score board, the big screens and the loud laughter and chatter rising from the crowd.
“This is going to be fun,” she said to Tim.
“Can you see okay? You’ll get close-ups of some of the action over there,” he pointed to the screens.
“Yes these are great seats. I guessed that the screens would help with detail. It’s all very loud, isn’t it?”
“Sixty-seven thousand people can make a lot of noise, but don’t worry. It’s always good-humoured with the Welsh,” Tim said.
At the end of the match, with the score 28-18 in favour of the Welsh, Tim was proved right. There were many Scots shaking their heads and showing no surprise that their national team had lost another rugby match.
***
“Well, at least Italy may save us from the wooden spoon,” Tim said to Bear as they made to leave the stadium.
“Enough of that. Is Kenneth picking you up after the match?”
“Yes, we’ll never get a cab, and it’s too cold and windy to ask Gillian to walk.”
“It is a bit chilly,” Gillian said.
“Great, we’ll all jump in and he can take us back to ours for takeaway pizza, if you can cope with that, Gillian?” Bear asked.
“We have wine as well as beer in the fridge,” Mel whispered.
***
Kenneth stopped outside Bear and Mel’s Marchmont home.
“When shall I come back for you, Mr Myerscough?” he asked Tim.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll get Gillian safely home, thank you Kenneth. Then I'll make my own way. You just enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you. You too, sir. Will you require Alice to leave you some supper?”
“No thank you, I’ll raid the fridge if I need to.”
“Ooh, she doesn’t like when you do that, sir,” Kenneth smiled.
“She never did, even when I was a child. But it’s never stopped me yet.” Tim grinned. He shook Kenneth warmly by the hand before he turned to go into the close that housed Bear and Mel’s flat, bounding up to the top floor two steps at a time.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gillian was glad of the warmth in the flat. She was becoming increasingly fond of Tim. She gazed at him across Bear and Mel’s cosy living room. His tousled mop of blond hair, startlingly blue eyes and relaxed demeanour made an agreeable package. Even his broken nose didn’t spoil his good looks. She felt that she had known him far longer than she really had. More than that, she trusted him. She had not trusted anybody for a long time; not since she had found the cocaine belonging to her last boyfriend amongst her underwear.
However, she could see how important a friend Bear was to Tim, and she knew that, to be any part of Tim’s life, she would have to be accepted into the group by Bear too. Suddenly she became aware that the others were all looking at her and were waiting for a response. She blushed.
“I’m so sorry, I was day-dreaming.”
“Pizza. What kind of pizza would you like?” Tim asked with a smile. He put an arm around her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m glad it’s not something more important,” Gillian smiled back.
“What’s more important than pizza, woman?” Bear joked.
“Garlic bread,” said Mel.
“Chips,” said Tim.
They settled on two large pizzas, one a Quattro Stagioni and the other a stuffed crust meat feast, and added four sides of chips to the order.
“It’ll probably take for ever to get here because I doubt we will be the only people to have this idea today,” Mel said.
“You’re right,” Bear said. “Would anybody like a drink?”
“Just a beer, thanks,” said Tim.
“I think there’s some white wine in the fridge. I’ll have a glass of that,” Mel said smiling at Gillian.
“Could I just have a coffee, please?” Gillian asked.
Bear paused and then grinned, “Yes, coffee is a drink! How do you take it, Gillian?”
“Just milk. Can I help?” Gillian asked.
“Those three words are music to my ears. Come on through to the kitchen and we’ll get everything sorted. I think we have a couple of garlic breads and some onion rings in the freezer. We can cook those through so we don’t starve to death before the pizza arrives.”
Gillian followed Bear through to the kitchen, and was surprised how bright and modern it was. The cosy living room had made her think the rest of the flat might also be more traditional. She was also struck by the fact the kitchen was spotlessly clean.
Bear noticed her glance. “Mel is OCD about hygiene. Cleaning the kitchen and bathroom are two of her favourite hobbies. It would be unkind of me to stand in her way.” He winked at Gillian and they set about getting the drinks and snacks organised.
“How do you and Tim know Lord Buchanan?” Gillian asked.
“He was in the same year as us at school. He was at Fettes and we were at Merchiston Castle, so there’s quite an old school rivalry.”
“Unusual to have Merchiston Castle boys in the police force, surely, because it’s such a posh school?”
“Not so unusual as you would think. I am thick and Tim is principled, that’s how come we are here. And it’s a great job. We both love it.” Bear smiled.
Gillian doubted Bear was nearly as thick as he would have her believe, but she let that drop. When they went back into the living room with the drinks, Mel and Tim were deep in conversation.
“What is the boss’s full name, again?” Mel laughed.
“I told you before: Christian Cyril Hunter Wilson!” Tim grinned.
“Save me, that’s too funny,” Mel squealed.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Bear said.
When the laughter died down a bit, Tim turned to Bear suddenly and asked, “Bear, did you ever hear from the boss why George had those guns and precautions in his flat?”
“No, he never said. To be honest, I’d forgotten about the guns. One was the very old style that was used by the Stasi in East Germany, wasn’t it?”
“I think I might be able to answer that,” Gillian said. She was sitting on a sofa to Tim’s left. Her feet were stretched out in front of her and she held her mug of coffee in both hands.
“What do you know about it, Gillian?” Tim asked her.
“Well, I can tell you how he got the old gun. George took it from the Stasi officer who he killed, when he ran away. George’s diaries indicate that he carried it all the way across Europe in case he needed it to defend himself, but, even when he was attacked by dogs who savaged his leg, he never used it. My guess is he was traumatised by what happened and having to leave home. But he didn’t say that; it’s just my guess.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t say that? George is dea
d,” Mel said.
“Yes, but when I translated his diaries, I felt like I got to know him.”
“Did they say what he was so afraid of? His home was more secure than Fort Knox,” Bear said.
“He remained a private and cautious man all his life,” Gillian replied.
“This was more than cautious,” Bear said. “He had bomb-proof curtains.”
“George Reinbold helped with the conviction of many villains, some of whom had contacts that stretched all the way across Europe. Maybe further, but it was Europe he was worried about. I think last year he helped convict a drug dealer, Arjun Mansoor?”
Tim nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“George’s diaries from the time of that conviction show that Mansoor’s car dealing was contaminated by his drug dealing. George was concerned that the contacts Mansoor worked with would be furious when he was taken out of the loop. It would make their businesses much less profitable, and they would also have to take time out to find a new willing contact.”
“He couldn’t have been so worried, because he didn’t say anything,” Bear said.
“He was private,” Gillian said firmly. “He was cautious. George’s view was that the fewer people who knew about him and his life, the safer he would be.”
“That worked well, didn’t it?” Mel said sarcastically.
“I only know what he wrote. He began getting postcards from all over Europe. All bore the same message in German: Beware your sins will find you out. But none of them was signed.”
“Does his diary state the dates on which he received the postcards?” Tim asked.
“Yes, and the date of each postmark.”
“Does the boss know about all this?” Bear asked.
“He has my translations. I very much doubt he’s had time to read all the diary entries, though.”
“I wonder if that’s why Saleh had to come over?” Mel said. “To stop Mansoor’s druggie contacts from finding someone new to work with and leaving him high and dry?”
“That would make sense,” Tim said.
“Should we call the boss?” Bear asked.
“He’s got a darts practice tonight,” Tim said.
“Then let’s tell him when we get in tomorrow,” Mel suggested.
“Agreed!” Tim and Bear said simultaneously.
The doorbell rang. “Pizza!” Bear jumped up with ease and flexibility.
Mel organised more drinks. This time, Gillian accepted a large glass of chilled white wine.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mick gave Sir Peter a note written by Mansoor. It instructed him to go to chapel on Sunday and bring two packets of cigarettes. Sir Peter had never been particularly religious in his life to date, especially since his wife had died so young. He was still angry with God for taking her. He missed Louise more than he could ever admit. She was the brightest and best person he had ever known, or (with the exception of Tim and Ailsa) ever would know. Although their children bore his looks, long limbs, athletic physique, blond hair and blue eyes, they were their mother’s children: athletic, sociable, intelligent and charming.
However, since his incarceration, while he could not claim to have ‘found God’ as so many did, Sir Peter did make a point of going to both the religious services provided by a local Protestant minister and the Catholic priest. He went to the gym when permitted to do so. He went to change his books at the library regularly. He even went walking around the exercise yard in the rain. Indeed, Sir Peter did whatever he was permitted to do that took him out of his cell.
So being asked to attend chapel was not a problem. His name was already on the list, and, thanks to Ian Thomson’s warning, he had added three packets of cigarettes to his shopping request for ‘essentials’. It was many years since the then Chief Constable Peter Myerscough had given up smoking. However, he had discovered that cigarettes, and chocolate, were currency in his new abode. Tim always made sure that there was money in his father’s prison account, so he could afford a few extra supplies of both.
He was searched as he lined up at the door of the block to be escorted over to chapel. He was glad he had given one of the packets of cigarettes to Ian Thomson to carry for him. The men going for worship walked in a straight line, single file. Men from each different block sat in the rows specified for them by their prison officers.
Sir Peter was lucky; Mansoor was only two rows in front of him. He noticed the imperceptible nod from Mansoor as he sat down. The cigarettes were passed forward in silence during the service. Nothing was returned, and Sir Peter was becoming anxious. But as they all lined up to leave, Mansoor leaned over and shook his hand.
“No hard feelings, Sir Peter,” he said, slipping the wrap of cocaine over without further comment.
When Sir Peter spoke about this to Ian Thomson, the man explained Mansoor’s actions.
“There’s no way he would risk passing snow back through the men to you. There would be a less than fifty percent chance that it would reach you.”
“Even coming back only two rows?”
“Did you see who was behind Mansoor? It was Muscle. No way could Mansoor be sure he’d pass it back. So, anyway, what now? You’re not going to take that stuff?”
“No. I need to borrow your phone and tell my son I’ve got it. Then his boss can question Mansoor with a view to finding out the external supplier.”
“Good luck with that,” Ian Thomson said doubtfully.
***
When Tim told Hunter about the cocaine his father had scored from Mansoor, he could sense the DI’s delight.
“Good. Your father is a new customer, so his request would not have been included in any previous supplies Mansoor had.”
“But, Sir, won’t he have extra cocaine in case he needs it?” Tim asked.
“Where would he keep it? He’s not manager of Thomson’s Top Cars any more, with its unlimited hiding places. No, he will get the supplies for the orders he has, and then get rid of the gear as quickly as he can, so he doesn’t get caught with it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Now all we need to do is find out who visited Mansoor in the last week.”
Hunter lifted the phone and dialled the prison governor. At the end of the conversation he turned to Tim and said, “Mansoor has only had one visitor in the last ten days. I think we have our man.”
“Excellent news, Boss. What now?”
“Will you ask your father to order another wrap? The governor will inform us the next time the supplier arranges a visit to Mansoor.”
“Of course,” Tim said.
“I’ll admit, lad, I never thought I’d see the day when I was working co-operatively with your father.”
“Yes, Boss. I mean, no Boss.” Tim grinned sheepishly.
“Get out of here, Tim. Go and phone your father and arrange for Jamie Thomson to be there too. He will be willing to play along, and the supplier will never suspect he’s co-operating with us.”
Tim hesitated.
“Now!” Hunter smiled.
Tim went back to his desk and dialled the mobile number that had come through on his phone when his father called. Tim found himself speaking to Ian Thomson.
“I can’t get your dad just now. We’re in lock-down. Something kicked off. A stabbing about a love rival,” Ian Thomson said.
“Is my dad okay?”
“Yes, he was in the gym and was brought back and locked up. I saw him coming back. I’ll give him the message when I can.”
“Thanks, Mr Thomson.” Tim rang off and went to tell Hunter.
“Fine, now it’s just a waiting game.”
“Have you read the diary entries Gillian Pearson gave you from George, Sir?” Tim asked.
“There are fifty years of diary entries. What do you think?” Hunter asked crossly.
“Well, she was talking about some of them yesterday. Maybe we should read them? At least for the last year. She says they show George becoming increasingly security-conscious.”
Hunter picked the files off the floor and handed them to Tim.
“Briefing’s tomorrow is at ten. Make sure we know the relevant details by then.”
“Sir?”
“Divide and conquer, young Myerscough. Spread the load amongst the team so that by tomorrow’s briefing, we know all that is relevant.”
Tim tucked the heavy files under his arm and walked slowly back to the incident room. He was fairly sure his first experience of delegation was not going to make him popular amongst those in the team.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Meera agreed to release Jenny’s body for burial. She doubted there was more the poor girl could tell her. However, just in case the body was required to provide evidence in the future, the coroner insisted that the body be buried and not cremated. Meera knew Jenny had been overpowered, tied up and bundled into the boot of that Volvo. She could imagine Jenny: terrified, alone in the dark, trying to scream through the scarf that secured her mouth. With every breath that she struggled for, more cocaine entered her system – and finally, mixed with the heat and smoke, as the car burned, Jenny’s efforts came to naught: she fell unconscious and died.
All that Meera knew, but she did not know who was responsible for Jenny’s death. Whoever it was had been careful; the killer had worn gloves, and any DNA they had left was destroyed in the fire. Meera knew the When, the Where and the How: she would have to leave it to Hunter and his team to discover the Who.
***
Meera had a full diary on the day of the funeral, so it was agreed that Dr Aiden Fraser would attend the funeral from the pathology department. The department always made a point of attending the service for the patients they had examined. Aiden arrived with Hunter and Tim to join the small congregation at South Leith Parish Church in Henderson Street.
“I remember coming here as a kid,” Hunter said to Aiden. “My dad used to deliver services here when the regular minister was on holiday. The Church was called the Kirk of Our Lady back then.”
“Oh, I didn’t know your father was a Church of Scotland minister, Hunter,” Aiden said.
