Funeral Note

Lowell Payne

The man McGuire decreed that he and I would pay the call on the Varleys. He was head of CID so it was his decision.

I couldn’t argue with his reasoning. ‘It’s not one that I can delegate,’ he said, ‘but there’s no need for more than two of us. Lisa, Special Branch or not, you’re still on overtime and we have to keep an eye on that budget. DCI Payne, I still want an outside officer on this. So,’ he looked at Mackenzie, ‘David, thanks for your significant input to the investigation so far. For now, you can go home to Cheryl and the kids and collect some brownie points.’

The ex-Bandit nodded and murmured, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but I could tell he wasn’t happy to have been excluded. He’d wanted to be part of the end game, and share the credit. I thought I’d seen a certain frisson between McGuire and him earlier, and his reaction confirmed it. I’m a natural sceptic, and I’d been doubtful about the ‘reformed character’ story from the beginning. I’m pretty sure I’m right, but time will tell on that one. One thing I do know for certain; if it does come to a pissing contest between those two characters, Mackenzie will wind up wet and smelly.

We took McGuire’s car. It was a Lexus, four-by-four hybrid, brand new, the kind that gets attention, especially when a cop’s driving it. He caught me looking at it and read my mind. ‘It’s Paula’s,’ he explained, without being asked. ‘Company car. She runs the company, so she can have what she likes, and with a baby on the way she wants something big and safe. Mine’s an Alfa Giulietta,’ he added, ‘much more modest.’

It would have to be Italian, I guessed, since the Irish don’t make cars.

The Lexus was impressive, and very comfortable, but it couldn’t fly over the Saturday shopping traffic in west Edinburgh or in Livingston, where there’s an enormous shopping complex that attracts people from all over central Scotland.

‘Have you been to Varley’s place before?’ I asked as we broke clear of what I’d hoped would be the last traffic queue and headed towards a housing estate.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I’ve programmed the postcode into the satnav.’

As he spoke a male voice, not the usual patiently polite woman, told him to turn right in three hundred yards. ‘There’s a speech style option,’ he said. ‘It seems that Paula prefers the bloke; I must ask her about that.’

One turn later, we were in a cul-de-sac, and our navigator told us that we had reached our destination. ‘Obviously, mate,’ McGuire muttered.

He didn’t tell us which was the Varley home, though; we had to find that out for ourselves.

‘Number seven, wasn’t it?’

I nodded.

We had pulled up outside number three. The big man rolled forward, counting as we went, until we found ourselves in front of a detached villa, facing back down the short street. It was the last house in town, literally; behind it we could see open fields. ‘That’s it.’

There was a car in the driveway, a blue Nissan from the last century: not what you’d expect from somebody with going on for a hundred and fifty grand in an offshore bank account.

The chief superintendent didn’t give it a second glance as he braked, switched off and climbed out. I followed him up the path to the front door, crunching small white pebbles under my feet. He rang the doorbell and we waited.

And waited, then waited some more. I pressed the button second time around, with the same non-result. ‘Shopping, God damn it,’ I said.

‘Her maybe, but he fucking well shouldn’t be,’ McGuire growled. ‘Varley’s effectively under house arrest. We gave him police bail, but the condition was that he didn’t go out.’

‘Their car’s still here,’ I pointed out.

‘That heap of shit?’ he muttered. ‘They must have another. Maybe they’re in the back garden.’ He led the way again. I knew my role; independent witness more than anything else. ‘Inspector,’ he called out. ‘Mrs Varley.’ Considerate, in the circumstances, I thought; advance warning in case Mrs V was doing a spot of topless sunbathing; the garden looked secluded enough.

She wasn’t, though. There was nobody there, nothing, save some washing hanging on a line, a couple of shirts and a few tea towels. Actually the garden was smaller than I’d expected; much of it was taken up by the extension that had been described to McDermid.

Its size hadn’t been exaggerated; it must have made the ground floor fifty per cent bigger. The way the land sloped meant that it was large enough to boast a cellar. McGuire crunched his way up to the back door. It had a bell too, but the result was the same when he rang it. While he was doing that I peered through the kitchen window. There were unwashed plates and pans on the draining board by the sink; next to that there was a chopping board with vegetable scraps on the work surface.

‘They must have eaten before they went out,’ I said.

‘Well I hope Jock enjoyed it,’ the chief superintendent retorted, ‘for his next meal’s going to be fucking porridge. Come on,’ he said, and turned away from the door.

‘What do we do now?’ I asked him. ‘Go in?’

‘We don’t have a search warrant,’ he replied. ‘In other circumstances, I might be tempted to hear sounds of distress from inside and kick the door down, but in this case I don’t want Varley to have as much as one wee toe on the side of the angels. No, we wait. I’ll give him half an hour. If he’s not back by then, we bugger off and I’ll arrange for patrol cars to do regular drive-bys. The first one to find him in will have orders to arrest him and take him to Gayfield Square.’

‘Gayfield?’ I repeated.

‘Nowhere else. The guy’s fucked me about; he’s betrayed my trust in giving him bail, when a civilian would probably have been held in custody. He can reflect on the stupidity of that when I lock him up in his own station for breaching the conditions. He can stay there until Monday, when he goes before the sheriff. He won’t be getting bail then either; he’ll be on remand in Saughton, alongside his pal Kenny Bass.’

‘You don’t miss, do you?’ I observed.

‘Not when I take aim, Lowell, no.’