Blackstone's pursuits

In which Prim says ‘Hello Mum’, and the quest goes on

GOYP let us down for once, but the good old Royal Mail Postal Address book turned up trumps. Celtic Scenery was listed at a quayside address in Leith Docks, less than a mile from the police station in Queen Charlotte Street, where we were to meet Dylan.

We sat on the sofa, clothed this time. At our feet, Wallace’s endless pursuit of the sun had taken him to a square in the middle of the varnished wooden floor where he sprawled contentedly, crunching away at a bowl of Wonder Weinie Iguana Superfood.

I put the Royal Mail book back in a drawer in my desk. ‘Ready to go?’ I asked Primavera.

She stood up. ‘Yes, but can I make a quick call first, to my Mum. I should have called yesterday, but with one thing and another…’

‘Sure, you do that, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No, you wait right here.’

She picked up the black handset and punched a telephone number into the dialling panel, fidgeting nervously as it rang out.

‘Mum?’ Her face lit up with a huge smile. ‘It’s me. I’m back home. Yes, I’m safe, and I’m well. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in years.’ She paused. ‘Why should you leap to that conclusion? Yes, I am; but we’re friends that’s all. Yes, he’s here. I’m at his place in fact … Don’t “Oh yes” me, Mother!’

She glanced up at me. ‘His name’s Oz Blackstone and he’s daft. Here Oz, say hello to Mum.’ She thrust the phone at me.

‘Hello Mrs Phillips,’ I said to British Telecom, ‘how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you Oz.’ Her voice sounded hearty, in a country sort of way. ‘So you’re daft, are you. In that case you and Primavera should get on very well together. She sounds very happy.’

I tried to think of an appropriate answer. ‘I think she is, Mrs Phillips. There’s no accounting for taste. Here she is again.’ I returned the phone to Prim.

‘Mum, we’ve got to go out right now, but we’ll come up to see you as soon as we can. Let’s see how the weekend goes. Yes, he is. ‘Bye.’

She hung up. ‘Mum said you sound charming.’ She kissed me, quickly. I kissed her in return, more slowly.

For a second or two her body moulded itself against mine, until she pulled herself away and held me at arm’s length. ‘Oz, I told you, first things first. My sister’s in trouble, and it’s up to you and I to find her.’

In which we tell porkies for the record, pick up Dawn’s trail, and discover that the law isn’t as big an ass as it looks.

Prim’s phone call had made it impossible for us to fit in Celtic Scenery before the police, and so we headed directly for the Leith Station, a drab Victorian building in Queen Charlotte Street.

I went up to the bar of the general office and introduced myself, and Prim, to the constable on duty. ‘DI Dylan’s expecting us,’ I told her. She looked at me in what I took for slight surprise. ‘Take a seat over there,’ she ordered, pointing. I looked at the uncomfortable wooden bench and decided to disobey.

A few minutes later a businesslike young man in his mid-twenties appeared through a half-glazed door labelled ‘Private’.

‘Good morning,’ he said, although incorrect by a few minutes. ‘I’m Detective Constable Morrow. Mr Dylan’s apologies, but he had to go out on enquiries. He’s asked me to take your statements. He said it was just a formality.’

He led us through to a small, windowless, airless interview room. It smelled of earlier occupants, and I guessed it was that special kind of room you hear about in police stations, with walls which move about on occasions; such as when a suspect proves difficult, or provocative.

Morrow was a nice lad, and actually meant it when he apologised for the conditions. ‘We have all this high-tech stuff now,’ he said, ‘yet we still have to interview ordinary decent folk like you in smelly wee rooms like this.’

He asked us only the most basic questions, allowing us to tell our stories unprompted to the tape recorder. We were lying for the record this time, and that worried me, more than slightly. But with Archer’s secret, my doubts about him, and Dawn’s predicament whirling about in my mind, I plunged on, comforting myself with the hope that one part of our story might well become true, even if retrospectively.

It didn’t take long. When I was a trainee copper, I’d had to take my statements down in longhand in a daft wee notebook, in the knowledge that I might have to read them aloud in court. I had heard tales of what could happen to policemen in the witness box, and afterwards in the Chief Constable’s office if their jotters had been doctored in any way. ‘Let me see your notebook, officer,’ is the last thing any Plod wants to hear the judge say when he’s up there, in the box, under oath. My book was always impeccable, but for all that I was still a pretty awful copper.

‘Thank you very much,’ said young Morrow, when we had finished talking to the tape. ‘I’ll have these transcribed, then I’ll ask you to sign them. It’ll take about twenty minutes, half an hour at most. You can either wait, or look in again later. It’s up to you.’

‘We’ll come back in,’ I said, taking an executive decision. ‘Will you be ready by one?’

He nodded, and showed us out through the front office and into the street, where yet another traffic warden was prowling around my car. We jumped in quick and drove off, leaving her scowling in frustration.

It took us a while to find Celtic Scenery. You don’t expect to find business offices right on a dockside, but that’s where it was, tucked in behind the Malmaison Hotel, not far from the radio station.

The entire resources of the company turned out to be two networked computers, and two bright, energetic young women. This time, I left the talking to Prim.

The ladies looked at us in surprise as we entered. I guessed that theirs was a business which attracted few customers to the door. There was no counter and only one spare chair. We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, until they stood up and came round from behind their desks.

‘Hi,’ said Prim. ‘I hope you can help us.’ She fished in her handbag and produced a driving licence. ‘I’m looking for my sister, on a very urgent family matter. She’s an actress; her name’s Dawn Phillips. And here’s mine, look.’ She held out the driving licence for the women to inspect. They looked at it, but the suspicion on their faces was unwavering.

Prim ploughed on, using everything she had to establish her credibility. ‘Rawdon Brooks, at the Lyceum, sent us down to see you. He told us that Dawn has a part in an American movie that’s being shot on location over here. He couldn’t remember the name, but he said it was a Highland epic, and he thought that you might have been involved with them.’

The women looked at each other, then at Prim, then at me, then at each other again. Finally one of them nodded, and went back to her work-station, leaving the other to deal with us. She was stocky and confident, dressed in jeans, a tee-shirt and sandals.

‘It sounds like the remake of Kidnapped;’ she said. ‘It’s Miles Grayson’s new project. He’s playing the lead and directing as usual. It’s the second time he’s used us to do setups for him.’ Her face shone with professional pride. I wasn’t surprised. Apart, maybe, from the President of the United States, the Pope and the Queen, Miles Grayson is the most famous human on the planet.

‘We don’t see the cast list,’ the woman went on, ‘so I can’t tell you if your sister’s there or not, but yes, we do know where they’ll be today.’ She paused. ‘Look, it would be more than my life was worth to send you to the set, but I’ll take a chance and tell you that they’re booked into the Falls of Lora Hotel, in Connell Ferry, tonight and tomorrow.’

‘Could we phone the hotel and check whether Dawn’s there?’ asked Prim.

The woman shook her head. ‘No. We made a block booking for them, and they won’t have checked in yet. If it’s as urgent as all that you’ll just have to go up there to look for her. It’s not that long a drive, actually. Go via Bridge of Earn and you’ll do it in about three hours.’

We thanked the girls and went back out to the dock. There was a breeze coming in off the sea. We stood there and looked around, across the grey-blue river mouth to the Waterfront Bistro, and beyond, to the new Government office building, in all its white awfulness. We grabbed a coke and a quick sandwich in the Malmaison Bar, then drove back up to the police station, parking this time outside the bakery in Elbe Street, seeking sanctuary from the wardens.

Young Morrow was in the front office as we entered the old building, at about twenty past one. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘did we keep you from your lunch?’ He smiled and shook his head, giving me the impression that lunch was for wimps.

‘Here you are; they’re all typed up and ready. There’s no need to go through to the Black Hole again. If you’ll just read them and sign them, that’ll be it.’

We did as we were told. I gulped inwardly as I put my pen to our economies with the truth. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ I asked, by way of conversation.

Morrow looked at me, unsmiling for the first time. He leaned towards me and whispered, so that only I could hear. ‘The boss said to me that you used to be one of us, so I’ll tell you. We identified the guy an hour ago. His name’s William Kane. He’s a stockbroker. He left his wife a wee while back, for another woman. The wife says she doesn’t know who it was, but Dylan’s going on the assumption that it was your girlfriend’s sister. So if she shows up, we’re going to want to speak to her.’

I winced with a show of concern. ‘Shit!’ I said quietly. ‘Thanks for that. I can’t believe that Dawn would get herself involved in that kind of situation, but don’t worry, if she shows up in town I’ll bring her to see you myself.’

We turned to leave. My hand was on the doorknob when he called after us. ‘Oh! Miss Phillips, I almost forgot. Mr Dylan told me to ask you about that torn fiver you picked up yesterday. He said that technically he shouldn’t have let you take anything from the house, so he asks, could he have it back for now?’

Prim looked at the young detective, all sweetness and blushing innocence. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, ‘but I taped the two halves together and spent it. On groceries, I think. Inspector Dylan won’t get into trouble, will he?’ Morrow smiled grimly, as if trouble for Mike Dylan wouldn’t bother him too much.

‘Let’s hope not,’ he said, untruthfully.