A Rush of Blood

Fifty-six

The last thing that George Regan wanted was a call-out at five o’clock. He had spent the day in the CID office in Haddington completing an itemised list of goods stolen from the Witches’ Hill pro shop in the second robbery, and had just submitted it for circulation to police forces throughout the country. He knew what would be coming his way once it hit the intelligence network: wisecracks and innuendo from all over Scotland. Not that they were needed. None of his senior officers seemed to be blaming him for not anticipating a possible return visit by the thieves. . a fresh tyre track matching one left the previous day had been found at the scene that morning. . but he was, for sure. The presence of the Marquis and of Proud Jimmy had made for one of the most embarrassing moments of his professional life, and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and, whether she was up for it or not, insist that she spruce herself up so that they could take the train to Edinburgh for a meal in his favourite Chinese, the Kweilin in Dundas Street, with a nice bottle of Chablis, or maybe two if he could persuade Jen to share them with him, and afterwards. .

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the notion of getting your wife drunk in the hope of sex was just too pathetic, repugnant even. Maybe instead he’d ask Lisa McDermid if she was up for a night out; sometimes he thought he saw a look in her eye that suggested she might be. Then again, maybe he’d take the easy option; go down to the Longniddry Inn and get quietly blootered. But that wouldn’t get his end away, though, would it?

‘Hey, Lisa,’ he began.

She looked across their facing desks and smiled. He wondered if she had been reading his mind, or if. . Christ, he hadn’t been thinking aloud, had he? ‘Yes, George,’ she replied. . and that was when the phone rang.

He snatched it up, annoyed at the shattering of the moment. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

‘If that’s what it’s going to be like, I might as well not bother,’ said Marty White, the station inspector.

‘Not bother with what?’ Regan said, more gently.

‘Asking you and Lisa if you’d do me a big favour, one that’s going to be a real pain in the arse for you.’

‘No, maybe you shouldn’t. But go ahead anyway; what is it?’

‘I’ve just had the communications centre on the blower. They’ve had a call from a member of the public who says he’s found a car off the road up behind Garvald, with a guy in it he says is dead. My problem is that all my vehicles are committed elsewhere, and I can’t get one from Midlothian or Edinburgh for upwards of forty-five minutes. It’ll be well dark before they can get there. I don’t have an available uniform. You’re my only hope, Obi-Wan Kenobi.’

Regan smiled, for the first time that day. ‘You got lucky, Marty; you picked my favourite movie. Hold on while I have a word with Princess Leia here.’ He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Lisa, are you up for helping uniform out of a jam? It could be messy, mind.’

‘Why not?’ she replied. ‘Better than watching you sat there scowling.’

‘OK,’ said the DI to White. ‘You’re on. Where is it? How do we get there?’

‘Bloody incomers,’ sighed the East Lothian native. ‘Head south, over the Tyne, towards Gifford at first, but you’ll see the sign for Garvald soon. It’s only about five miles away. When you get there, head up the hill out of the village, past Nunraw Abbey and on towards the White Castle. Don’t go looking for a castle, though; it’s an old hill fort, that’s all. A bit past that and you’ll find it. On you go now, before you run out of daylight.’

The two detectives headed out to Regan’s car, parked at the back of the station. The inspector’s directions were easy to follow, and the road was quiet once they were out of Haddington. They reached Garvald in less than ten minutes, and drove through, as directed. ‘That’s the White Castle,’ McDermid pointed out as they passed a Historic Scotland sign by the roadside. The DI glanced to his left, but saw nothing, other than a flat hilltop.

‘Wow,’ he replied, poker-faced.

They had gone no further than a few hundred yards when he had to brake, hard. A truck sat ahead of them, pulled as far up on to the verge as its driver had been able. He stood beside it, a countryman dressed in blue overalls and muddy boots, of middle height and age, slim, and bald, with a narrow moustache. Regan took a torch from the dashboard compartment and switched on his emergency warning lights as they stepped out. ‘Are you the polis?’ the man asked. ‘I’m Joe Leghorn; Ah’m the grieve at the farm just up the road. Some business this. Poor bugger’s doon there.’

He stepped aside and the detectives saw that the fence behind him was shattered. Beyond it the ground sloped away for a few feet and then disappeared. ‘It’s a wee cliff, ken,’ Leghorn told them, as he led them to the edge. ‘The road’s muddy, like, after the thaw the day, but he must have been doing a hoor of a speed tae have gone off like that.’

The DI peered over the edge and saw, in the fading light, the underside of a car; one of its wheels was turning slowly.

‘Can we get down there?’ he asked.

‘Oh aye.’ The farmer pointed to a track that led off to the right. ‘This used to be a wee quarry, long before my time. You’ll need to be careful, mind, cos it’s still slippy, but if you walk roon there ye’ll get doon. That’s how Ah did. Ah switched off the engine, by the way, so it’s no goin’ tae explode.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Regan wryly, as he headed down the path with McDermid at his heels.

The car had landed on a rocky bed at the foot of the abandoned quarry. As they approached it they could see that it was a Jaguar, a red Mark II, the model driven by a TV cop whose name the DI could never quite recall. The weight of its underside had crushed the passenger compartment, making it difficult to see how anyone could have survived. He crouched beside it and shone the torch inside. The only occupant was, or had been, a man. His body was squashed between the roof and the steering wheel, which had almost severed his head. Regan looked for long enough to make certain that there was no one else inside, then straightened up, and reached for his phone.

As he dialled Inspector White at Haddington he walked round to the rear of the car. ‘The situation’s as advised,’ he told his colleague as he answered. ‘Red Jag, single occupant, white male, dead as last Christmas’s turkey. We need a recovery vehicle, a fire and rescue team to cut the body out and a mortuary wagon. You better run a check on the registration: it’s G20 KSG.’

‘Repeat, please.’

‘Golf twenty, Kilo Sierra Golf.’

‘I don’t need to run a check,’ said White. ‘I’ve seen that Jag parked behind the Sheriff Court many a time, and I recognise the plate. That’s Ken Green, the lawyer.’