Aftershock

Twenty-seven

‘How are we going to play this? The usual way?’ McIlhenney was gazing from McGuire’s office window down the driveway that approached the entrance to the force headquarters building. ‘It does no harm to be able to see who’s coming and who’s going,’ Bob Skinner always maintained. As he watched the uniformed figure walking up the slope from the patrol car that had dropped him off, the detective superintendent understood what he meant.

He recognised Constable Theodore Weekes from the photograph in the personnel file that lay open on the head of CID’s desk. Even from that distance he read the look of uncertainty on his face, and detected his hesitancy as he walked up the rising pavement. Chippy Grade had told him he was wanted at Fettes, no more than that, and had detailed a car to take him straight there, with a colleague beside him in the back seat as if he were a prisoner.

‘You nice guy, me nasty guy, you mean?’ McGuire replied. His eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘No, let’s change the act; let’s give this man no comfort at all.’

‘Treat him as a suspect from the off, you mean?’

‘He’s more than a suspect: he’s guilty of failing to report information that might be relevant to a murder investigation. So let’s not offer him as much as a single smile, from either of us. The best that’s going to happen to him is that he walks out of this room with a reprimand on his record stiff enough to end any hopes he might have of ever making sergeant.’

‘Fine by me.’ McIlhenney’s face set hard as he took a seat beside the chief superintendent, facing the door, watching and waiting.

The reception staff had been ordered to say nothing to Weekes as he arrived, to answer no questions he might ask, but simply to escort him to his final destination.

There was no name on McGuire’s door, only a number. When, finally, the two detectives heard their visitor’s knock, they waited. The knock was repeated, louder this time.

‘Come in,’ McIlhenney shouted. The door was opened slowly and PC Weekes stepped inside.

In the days of heavy serge uniforms, all police officers had had a substantial look to them. The modern tunic may suit some better than others, but Weekes filled his impressively. He was over six feet tall, with strikingly good looks, enhanced by a honey-brown complexion that would have suggested at least one parent of Caribbean origin, had McGuire and McIlhenney not known already from his file that his mother was Barbadian.

He stared at them, patently puzzled.

‘Cap off,’ McGuire snapped. His briskness broke the constable’s trance. Instantly, he swept his cap from his head and tucked it under his arm as he stepped up to the head of CID’s desk and came to attention.

They let him stand there for over a minute, rigid and staring straight ahead, until McIlhenney, in an even tone, with just a hint of menace, asked him, ‘Do you know who we are?’

Without easing his stance, Weekes swept his eyes from one seated man to the other. ‘No, sir,’ he replied.

‘Then why the fuck are you standing to attention?’ the superintendent snapped. ‘Do you know how many civilian management staff this force has?’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I just assumed.’ Weekes’s voice was surprisingly soft; his accent was Scottish, but with a hint of his mother’s influence.

‘You’re brought here with no notice,’ McGuire growled, leaning his massive forearms on the edge of the desk, ‘no indication of what it’s about, but your assumption seems to be that you’re in the shit. That, of itself, tells me a hell of a lot about you, Constable. You can stand easy. .’ he paused as Weekes relaxed his stance ‘. . but not too easy. You’ve upset my colleague and me, and that’s never a good thing to do.’

‘Sorry, sir: beg your pardon, sir. How have I upset you?’

‘By not fucking knowing us! For your enlightenment, I’m DCS McGuire, the head of CID, and this charmer on my right is Detective Superintendent McIlhenney, known occasionally to our friends as the Glimmer Twins, and to our rapidly dwindling body of enemies as the Bad News Bears. For better or worse, we’re two of the most recognisable officers on this force. You’re standing there with five years’ service, and you don’t know us?’

‘Sorry, sir. Now you say it, I …’

‘Bullshit! What’s your station inspector’s name?’ McGuire asked.

‘Chippy. . Sorry, sir, Inspector Grade.’

‘Name and rank of your divisional commander?’

‘Eh. .’

‘Failed that one. Who’s the chief constable?’

‘Mr Proud.’

‘Sir James to you. Deputy chief?’

‘Mr Skinner.’

‘ACC?’

‘Eh. .’

‘Exactly. You’re not interested in the force, Weekes. You’re interested in the uniform. You like the job security, and the promise of an early pension. Most of all, though, you like the power it gives you. It lets you throw your weight about, scare the wee neds in the town centres, slap the odd law student around.’ The constable’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t think that’s been forgotten, do you?’ the chief superintendent challenged.

‘No proceedings were taken, sir.’ The response was mumbled.

‘None were,’ said McIlhenney, ‘but only because the divisional commander whose name you don’t even know wrote a letter of apology to the kid’s parents. . lucky for you they weren’t lawyers themselves. . blaming your recklessness on the stress that beat officers suffer on the job.’

‘I didn’t know that, sir.’

‘No, you thought you’d got off with a telling-off from Inspector Varley, and that’s all you cared about. You probably thought that the transfer to South Queensferry was a bonus. It wasn’t. It was what they do with an officer whose attitude might lead to him picking on the wrong ned and getting a blade stuck in him. Have you ever done any firearms training, Weekes?’ The change of subject was so swift that the man blinked, and his mouth fell open.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, when he had recovered himself. ‘Three years ago I applied for armed-response duty. I was tried out, but I didn’t get in.’

McIlhenney knew from the file that he had been a good shot, but had fallen short in the rigorous psychological assessment given to potential members of the armed unit.

Curiosity seemed to embolden Weekes. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’

‘Just wondering, that’s all.’

McGuire checked his watch. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’ve just broken the record.’

‘What record, sir?’

‘You’ve been in this room for five minutes without asking what you’re here for. The previous best was four and a half. But you don’t need to ask, Theo, do you? You bloody know why you’re here.’

The man stuck his chest out, his first show of defiance. ‘No, sir. Sir, I’d like a Police Federation rep present.’

‘You’d what?’ McIlhenney exploded. ‘It’s not a Fed rep you need, it’s a lawyer. . but you’re not having one of them either, not yet at any rate. You’re here for questioning in a murder investigation, Weekes, not for backchatting a sergeant.’

‘A murder investigation?’ the constable exclaimed.

‘Sugar Dean. You were engaged to her, until you dumped her, two years ago. True?’

Weekes’s gaze dropped to the floor; he nodded.

‘Have you been locked in the bog for the last twenty-four hours, maybe missed the TV news, not seen a paper?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you have your eyes closed when you walked into your station this morning, past the poster with your ex’s face plastered all over it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why have you failed in your duty as a police officer by not volunteering the fact of your relationship with a murder victim to the officers handling the inquiry into her death?’

Weekes’s shoulders quivered in what might have been a shrug. ‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘Look at us when you’re insulting us,’ McGuire ordered, ‘not at your feet.’

The command was obeyed. ‘I never insulted you, sir.’

‘Of course you did. You insulted our intelligence.’

‘Are you two picking on me because I’m black?’ the man exclaimed.

McGuire stared at him, in genuine astonishment. ‘Are we what? Constable, you’ve just insulted us again. We’re questioning you about what appears to us to be a serious failure on your part in your duty as a police officer. Your skin tone has nothing to do with it. You could be purple and it would make no difference to us. Is that understood?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I apologise.’

‘Fine, as long as we’re clear about that. Now, please answer Superintendent McIlhenney’s question.’

‘I never thought it was important, sir. That’s the truth.’

McGuire sighed. ‘He’s done it again, Neil, and you know how much I hate it when suspects take the piss.’

‘I hoped nobody would find out,’ Weekes blurted out. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay?’ McGuire gasped. ‘Of course it’s not fucking okay! Why did you want to keep your broken engagement to a murder victim a secret? How did you ever think you could? Did you not think that her parents would tell us about you?’

‘I hoped they’d forgotten about me by now.’

‘Oh, no, Weekes. From what the investigating officers tell me, John Dean is not going to forget you in a hurry. Come on; for the last time, why were you so shy about being engaged to Sugar? I promise you, you’re not leaving this room without telling us the truth.’

Weekes looked the chief superintendent in the eye, and became a believer. ‘I’m engaged again,’ he said tamely.

‘We know that. Her name’s Mae Grey and she’s a constable, stationed at Livingston. I don’t see your problem. Did you tell her you’re a virgin? Or were you worried that she might think you’re a bad bet, having chucked one fiancée already?’

‘I never chucked Sugar. She chucked me.’

‘Why did she let her parents think it was the other way around?’ asked McIlhenney.

‘I suppose she didnae want to tell them the truth.’

‘And what was that?’ McGuire asked impatiently.

‘We had problems.’

‘Christ, I feel like a fucking dentist here, drawing wisdom teeth. What sort of problems?’

‘Sexual problems.’

‘Elaborate,’ said McIlhenney, ‘or we really will start pulling your teeth out.’

‘I gave her a dose. The clap. Gonorrhoea. Ken?’

‘Yes, Weekes, we may be senior officers but we know what the clap is. But I’ve got a problem with that. There’s no record of it in her medical history.’

‘She didn’t go to her own doctor, so there wouldn’t be. She went to a clinic: we both did.’

‘Okay. This infection, where did you pick it up?’

‘Off a bird I was with.’

‘Name?’

‘Christ, sir, I dinnae ken.’

‘Casual sex, indeed. As in “Good morning and what’s your name again?” Were you on duty when this encounter took place?’

‘Do I have to answer that?’ The constable looked at McIlhenney hopefully.

‘Oh, do you ever!’ the superintendent told him.

He nodded.

‘Say it!’

‘Yes, sir, I was on duty.’

‘So who was the woman?’

‘Inspector Varley’s wife.’

‘Aw, Jesus.’ McGuire groaned. ‘If you think you’ll get us to back off by telling us a story like that. .’

‘It’s true, sir, honest. I had to pick the inspector up from home once. I thought she gave me the eye then, but I wasn’t sure. Then a week later I was on patrol in the shopping centre in Livingston and I saw her with a load of parcels. She said that he had the car so I ran her home, tae save her the taxi fare, ken. Ah’d no sooner dumped her bags in the kitchen than she grabbed me by the ba’s.’

‘Did you threaten to charge her with assault, as you should have?’ the head of CID asked.

‘No.’

‘You gave her one on the kitchen table instead?’

‘Well, it was upstairs, but aye.’

‘And you’re sure that Mrs Varley was the source of your later infection?’

‘It couldn’t have been anybody else.’

‘Did it ever occur to you that Sugar might have given it to you rather than the other way around?’

‘No, Sugar wasn’t like that. Besides,’ he added, ‘I had the symptoms before Sugar and I actually did the business ourselves.’

‘You incredible bastard.’ McGuire sighed.

‘I never kent what it was, though. At that stage it was a bit sore when I had a pish, that’s all. It was after that the discharge started.’

McIlhenney leaned forward. ‘How much of the truth did you tell Sugar?’

‘All of it.’

‘So she knew that Inspector Varley’s wife puts it about?’

‘I told her that. I said I couldnae help it. I said I was feart she’d tell him it was me that made the move. It did no good, though. She broke it off.’

‘I’ll tell you something now, Weekes,’ said the superintendent, sincerely. ‘If I ever find a bloke like you around my daughter, I’ll fucking rip it off.’

‘When was the last time you saw Sugar Dean?’ asked McGuire.

‘Two months ago.’

‘You did? Where?’

‘At the Gyle. I asked her to meet me there, so I could tell her about me and Mae getting married.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She said she was pleased for me and wished me all the best. She seemed really happy for me.’

‘When you saw her did you refer to the break-up of your relationship?’

‘I might have mentioned it, sir.’

‘Did you ask her to promise to keep the truth to herself?’

‘No, sir, I didn’t, honest.’

‘Were you worried that she might not?’

Weekes shifted his stance; his cap slipped from under his arm and fell to the floor. ‘Ah’ve been worried about that for the last two years, sir,’ he replied.

‘Do you remember Stacey Gavin?’ McIlhenney fired the question at him.

He frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Do better.’

The constable wrinkled his brow as if to give the impression of thought. ‘Was she the lass that was murdered in South Queensferry?’

‘That’s the girl. Were you on duty that day?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Were you at the scene?’

Weekes shook his head. ‘No, sir, I was baby-sitting a probationer that week, so the desk sergeant sent Taffy Jones and Meg Ritchie.’

‘Did you talk to them afterwards?’

‘I might have. They got the piss taken out of them when it turned out to be a murder. They came back saying it was an overdose.’

‘But that’s all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

McIlhenney leaned back, handing the floor to McGuire. ‘Back to attention, Weekes,’ said the head of CID. ‘I’m advising you that I’m recommending that the chief constable issues a formal reprimand to you because of your failure to offer information immediately on your relationship with Sugar Dean. That was a clear dereliction of duty, whatever the reason. I’m ordering you now to rectify that omission by going to the investigation team, and making a formal statement to Detective Inspector Stallings, who’s in charge. If she should ask you for details of your break-up, you may tell her for the record that you decided you didn’t want to marry her after all. That’s what her family believe, and it’s fine with me.’ He stood, for the first time since Weekes had entered the room. ‘Now get the fuck out of my sight, and don’t even dream of ever applying for CID.’

The two colleagues watched the door as it closed behind him. ‘Do you believe him?’ the superintendent asked.

‘Dunno,’ McGuire admitted. ‘You?’

‘I’m not ruling him out. I’m going to check Jock Varley’s record, to see if he had any sick leave a couple of years back.’

‘Do that, and go further. Tell Shannon to do a Special Branch vetting job on Varley; I want access to his medical records, and his wife’s. Plus, get her to check all the places in our area that offer advice on sexual matters. She’s to look for records of Sugar and the shit that just left here, and also to see if the Varleys were treated anywhere too.’ He looked at McIlhenney once more. ‘Could he have done it?’

‘You heard him, Mario. He’s been worried for two years that she might spill the beans. Maybe he decided to make sure she didn’t, and set her up to look like Stacey Gavin as cover.’

‘Is he that clever?’

‘Desperate people do desperate things. Let’s see if we can find out where he was when Sugar died. We didn’t put that to him, but I’ll make sure Stallings does, just to keep him on edge. If he satisfies her, fair enough; if not, we look further. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a talk with PC Mae Grey. Maybe the lass needs to know what she’s marrying.’