Fallen Gods

Forty-Five

Angus dAbo had known many an unexpected visit from the police, but he had never rated a detective chief superintendent before, so he was understandably rattled as he looked across the bar table at his visitor.

"How did ye ken to find me here?" he asked, nervously.

"You're a creature of habit, Mr. dAbo," Rod Greatorix told him. "Our local uniformed officers told me that you have your lunch here in the Cannon every day in life." He looked at his plate. "Do they do a decent bridie in here, by the way? I feel a bit peckish myself."

"No' bad," the man replied. "The haggis is best though."

"Why are you not having it then?"

"Ah could dna have it every day."

"You're a bloke who believes in a balanced diet, then?"

Angus dAbo shrugged his shoulders. "Ah like what ah like, ken. There's plenty tae eat up at the Lodge; ah hae the choice frae the kitchen at night. But it's a' salmon or game. The guests that come there dinna expect pie and chips, like."

"Unless it's venison pie and game chips."

"Aye, that's right." He looked down at his plate; the baked beans were starting to congeal.

"Go on," said Greatorix, 'get stuck in. I'm in no rush."

He sipped his ginger ale and watched as the bald, nut-brown handyman bolted down his Forfar bridie. He knew from his file that dAbo was fifty-two years old, and that his last conviction had been ten years earlier, but he noted that the man still looked fit enough to climb a drainpipe without difficulty. He waited, as dAbo mopped up the last of his beans with the last of his chips. "How long have you worked at Fir Park Lodge?" he asked, the moment he was finished.

"Three year; since Mr. Williamson bought it. Ah've never been in ony bother, like," he added, defensively.

"I'm not saying you have. Does your employer know all about you, though? Does he know you've been in prison?"

dAbo blinked, nervously. "He never asked," he exclaimed. "Has someone telt him? Are you goin' tae tell him?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "If he's going to hire people without checking them out, it's not down to me to mark his card. Relax, Angus, this isn't about you."

The handyman looked at him as if he required a lot more persuasion if he was going to believe him. "I've asked about you, don't worry,"

Greatorix continued. "The local people vouched for you. They've got their ear to the ground; if you'd gone back to your old profession, they would know."

"Well, what is it aboot?" dAbo looked only a little less suspicious. "We're making enquiries about a man whose body was found in Perth last Saturday."

The man's de fences went back up so quickly that Greatorix smiled.

"No, Angus, I'm not going to ask if you did it. This guy died of a heart attack, and fell into the river somewhere. All we're trying to find out is where he was. He wasn't reported missing, and he was only identified by chance. We think he might have been a guest at a big house along the riverbank."

"Why no' ask Mr. Williamson?"

"Because we're asking you. We don't know Mr. Williamson. What's he like to work for, as a matter of interest?"

"He's aright. He kens nothing aboot fishin' though, a lot less than most of the guests he has. Ah think he only bought the place because he fancied bein' a country squire."

"Is there a Mrs. Williamson?"

"Naw. There's folk think he's havin' it off withe hoosekeeper, but he's no."

"What makes you so sure?"

DAbo shot him a sudden lascivious grin.

"Ah, I see," Greatorix chuckled. "Tell me, is the Lodge busy?"

"It does a' right. It's fu' this week, but no' every week."

"This man I'm looking for; he'd have been there about two weeks ago."

dAbo frowned. "A fortnight since?" he muttered. "Aye, we were quite fu' then. What would he look like, this man?"

"He'd have looked in his late fifties, grey, overweight, and poorly dressed."

"Poorly dressed? He'll no have been at the Lodge, then. They're a' fuckin' bandboxes we get in there."

Greatorix hesitated, and then took a decision. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and took out a photograph. It showed a man's head, viewed from above and in half profile. It was of Michael Skinner, and it had been taken in the mortuary, once he had been cleaned up. It was presentable, but in no way did it look as if he was merely asleep. He handed it to dAbo. "Are you sure?" he said. "That was him."

The handyman took the photograph and gulped, then gagged. For a second Greatorix thought that bridie, beans and chips were about to come flying his way, but the initial shock seemed to pass. The policeman studied dAbo's face, as he studied the photograph.

"This man was never a guest at the Lodge; Ahim sure o' that." DAbo frowned, and scratched his chin. "And yet… Ah've got a feelin'

Ah've seen him somewhere." He picked up the remains of his shandy and took a drink, swilling it around his mouth before he swallowed, as if to wash away a bad taste. He looked at the photograph again, then across to the bar.

"Aye," he exclaimed. "That could have been him; Ahim no certain, but it could have been. If it was, Ah saw him the week before last, in here, yin lunchtime. He was wi' another bloke, aboot the same age as him." His eyebrows went up, as if a light had been switched on in his head. "Wednesday, it was; Ah ken that because Ah had a bridie for ma lunch, like the day."

"Did you know the other man?"

"Ah never seen him afore; never seen either o' them afore." He tapped the photo. "But this man here, he was awfy fond o' the drink. He was only in here for less than an 'oor, but by the time he left he was as fu' as a fiddler's bitch. The other bloke had tae help him oot the door."

"Was Mr. Williamson in here at the same time? Could he have known them?"

"Neither of them has ever been at the Lodge; Ah kin tell ye that. As for Mr. Williamson, he could dna hae been here. He was at his place in Florida then; he was awa' for three weeks, and Mae the hoosekeeper was runnin' the place. He only got back last Wednesday."