Dead And Buried

Forty-seven

Ray Wilding hung up the phone. He had been in for forty minutes, since eight thirty, but there was still no sign of Mackenzie. He had checked with the switchboard to see if a call or a message had come in from Spain; there had been nothing and so he had decided to ring Gary Starr’s ex-wife, to make sure that she would be at home when he and the chief inspector visited her that morning.

Kitty Philips had been terse, but not downright rude. She had told him that she worked afternoons only in a DIY store, and had shopping to do that morning, but that she would be ready for them at ten o’clock. He glanced at his watch. The traffic could be a bitch across town; before long they would be tight for time.

When his phone rang, his first thought was that it might be the chief inspector, calling in to say that he had been delayed. He almost sighed as he answered. ‘Wilding.’

‘Call for you, Sergeant,’ said the operator. ‘A Mr Smith: James Smith.’

He had to think for a second before it clicked: Big Ming. ‘Put him through.’

‘Hullo.’ The voice was gruff, but clearer than it had sounded across the desk in the interview room.

‘Mr Smith, what can I do for you?’

‘Ah’ve been thinkin’, ye ken. Aboot that lad. The one wi’ the finger.’

‘Or, rather, without it.’

‘Whit? Oh, aye. Ah see whit ye mean. Onyway, I telt you Ah thought Ah might hae seen him: well, Ah remember where.’

Suddenly Wilding’s morning was more interesting. ‘Oh, yes? Where?’

‘Ah dae a bit o’ door work sometimes, helpin’ oot a guy Ah know; bouncin’ ken. There’s a place Ah’ve been tae sometimes, an’ that’s where Ah’ve saw him.’

‘What’s this place called?’

‘Ah cannae remember; a lot o’ they clubs dinnae hae big signs outside, but Ah kin take ye there.’

‘Okay. Have you seen this man in the queue?’

‘Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw. He wisnae a punter; it wis his place, like, or at least he wis one o’ the lads that ran it. He wisnae dressed like he wis in Evesham Street either. He wis smart, like, no’ a scruff.’

‘What makes you so sure it was him?’

‘Ah’m no certain. Ah jist think it wis; the lad at the shop looked awfy like him.’

Wilding glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s check it out, then. You come here, to Queen Charlotte Street, at twelve o’clock this morning. You can show me where this place is, and we’ll take it from there.’

‘Twelve?’

‘Are you doing anything else?’

‘Naw.’

‘Just as well, or you’d miss it. See you at midday; do not be one minute later.’

He rang off, and looked up to see Bandit Mackenzie approaching; he looked tired, heavy-lidded. ‘Morning,’ he growled. ‘How’s your day been so far?’

Wilding grinned, and nodded towards the phone. ‘I think it just got better.’