Aftershock

Twenty-four

Inspector Grade had carried his nickname from childhood, having inherited it from several generations of male forebears, since his official Christian name, Joyner, had been introduced by marriage to his family in the mid-eighteenth century. In his infancy he had been known as ‘Wee Chippy’, until, in his seventh year, his grandfather had died and the sobriquet ‘Young Chippy’ had passed to him. He still wore it within his circle of relations, friends and neighbours in and around the town of Broxburn, where he had been born and where he still lived. His father. . plain ‘Chippy’; the term ‘senior’ was never used. . was a hearty sixty-nine. Grade hoped that he would still be ‘Young Chippy’ long after he had given up work, and that his older son, aged fourteen and six feet tall, would have to wait far longer than he had before the time came for him to move up the pecking order.

In fact, when the current ‘Wee Chippy’ had been born, he and his wife had considered breaking the chain by naming him William, but had bottled out in the face of his father’s silent glare when they had broached the subject.

So, when the call was put through, he replied automatically, ‘Chippy Grade.’ ‘Young’ was beyond the pale at work and his given name had simply disappeared from the public domain.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Detective Superintendent Neil McIlhenney.

Grade tried to read his tone, but failed. He barely knew the recently appointed Edinburgh CID commander, or his boss, DCS McGuire, but their formidable reputations had spread throughout the force: they were to be treated with caution.

‘And the same to you, sir.’ He carried on, briskly, ‘I’ve looked out those rosters Mr McGuire asked me about. PC Weekes was indeed on duty the day that Stacey Gavin’s body was found. But without asking him directly, I’ve no way of telling whether he was at the scene or not. I do know this, though: less than two hours after it was reported, he was at the scene of a traffic accident on the A90. So if he did respond to the Gavin call. .’

‘He wasn’t there long,’ McIlhenney concluded. ‘That’s fine, Inspector; at least we know he was in the vicinity. He’s on shift now, yes?’

‘Yes, sir. He clocked on at eight.’

‘And the poster we circulated, the one asking for information about Sugar Dean, with her photograph, that’s on prominent display in your station?’

‘You can’t miss it,’ Grade assured him. ‘You can’t walk into this building without coming face to face with the poor woman. It’s in the locker room too, as DCS McGuire asked.’

‘Has Weekes reacted?’

‘In what way?’

‘Has he said anything about it, to you or his sergeant?’

‘No.’ Grade drew a deep breath. ‘Look, sir,’ he sighed, ‘what’s this about?’

‘Maybe nothing, but we’ve discovered from the woman’s folks that Weekes was engaged to her a couple of years back.’

‘And he hasn’t volunteered the fact? I’ll have him on the carpet right now.’

‘No, Inspector, don’t do that. We’ve got other plans for him. Say nothing to him, unless he walks into your office and asks to make a statement about the relationship. If he does that, let me know at once. If he doesn’t, make sure that at midday he’s somewhere we can get our hands on him double quick.’