Fatal Last Words

Forty-two

Standing on the second of the steps that gave access to the caravan, Regan rapped on the door. ‘Mr Playfair,’ he called, loudly enough to be heard inside. ‘Police. We’d like a word.’ He jumped down and waited; the seconds ticked away, but there was no reply.

‘Inspector.’ He turned to see Derek Baillie approaching.

‘Yes?’ he snapped impatiently.

‘He’s gone. Don’t you see? His car’s not there. My wife heard him drive off, must have been over an hour ago, she reckons. Yes, because it was before you arrived.’

‘Would that have been before or after the body was found?’ McDermid asked.

‘Afterwards. She said she saw Hugo coming back from that direction; he was talking to a policeman, then he turned and headed back to the camp, not to his own van, but to Az’s. She thought nothing of it at the time, because, well, we didn’t know then about him being dead. She wondered what the cop was doing there, right enough, but we see plenty of them, so she didn’t dwell on it. About ten minutes after that she heard his car start up and drive off.’

‘How did she know it was Playfair’s car?’

‘He drives a clunky old Peugeot diesel, noisier than a Meat Loaf album. It was him all right.’

‘OK. Thanks again, Mr Baillie.’ He reached up and tried the door handle; it was locked fast. ‘I don’t suppose you have a key for this thing, do you?’

‘No, I don’t, but he’ll probably be back soon.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Sure.’ Baillie stopped and stared at the detective. ‘You don’t think Hugo would have. .’

‘I haven’t even ruled you out for sure as a suspect, mate, and you’re still here.’ He turned to McDermid. ‘Lisa, I want you to find Sergeant Hope. An hour ago, there was only him and Reid here, and Reid was at the top of the lane, so it must have been him that Mrs Baillie saw talking to Playfair. Confirm that, ask him why the hell he didn’t bother to tell us, and have him give you every detail of their conversation.’ As she left, Regan’s attention returned to Baillie. ‘What’s this guy like?’ he asked. ‘And what’s his relationship to Mr Mustafic?’

‘I told you. He’s a pompous wee chap, but he’s useful to us at times.’

‘When did he join your crowd?’

‘A couple of years ago; just before he brought Az along, in fact.’

‘Did it strike you as strange that he should want to become a traveller?’

‘We get people like him from time to time. “Fellow travellers”, I call them, romantics who fancy the roving life. Unless they’re real arseholes, we tolerate them for as long as they stick around, and that isn’t long, as a rule. Our life is OK if you’re born to it, but most of those people have left behind en-suite bathrooms in the south of England and do not have a fucking clue what they’re letting themselves in for. Hugo stuck it out, though; he had his charity behind him, and like I said, he’s useful for his legal knowledge.’

‘Is he a lawyer?’

‘I don’t think so. I did ask him what his background was, a while back, one time when we’d all had a couple of beers and he was more relaxed than normal. Now that I think about it, I’m still waiting for a straight answer. “I suppose you could call it social work.” That was what he said.’

The DI grinned. ‘Do you think he’d object to my kicking his door in?’

‘I’d wait for him to come back, if I were you. He has the capacity to make as much noise as his fucking car.’

‘George!’ The call came from the path, twenty yards away. Regan swung round to see Detective Superintendent Neil McIlhenney heading his way. He was dressed in summer mode: light slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck. His jacket was slung over his shoulder.

‘Sir.’

‘Any result yet?’

‘No, boss. This isn’t a simple domestic; the man was ambushed.’

‘What have you got? Anything to go on?’

‘At the moment, a problem. The man who owns this van, his name’s Hugo Playfair, he brought Mr Mustafic to join the group, and I’d like to interview him. . only he’s not here. He shot the craw over an hour ago.’

‘Magic, just magic,’ McIlhenney groaned. ‘Not another one.’

‘Boss, we weren’t here!’ the DI protested.

‘I’m not getting at you, George,’ the superintendent assured him. ‘It’s been a trying day on more than one front, that’s all. When Playfair left, did he have knowledge of Mustafic’s death?’

‘Lisa McDermid’s confirming it, but we believe so.’

‘What’s your next move?’

‘I’m considering whether to effect an entry in Mr Playfair’s absence,’ Regan replied stuffily.

‘Without a key?’

‘Nobody has one.’

‘Then stand back.’ The big superintendent smiled and handed his jacket to his colleague. ‘It’s been too long since I booted somebody’s door in.’