Grievous Angel

Twelve

Neither could she, but the options on a Monday weren’t that great so we settled for fish suppers from Aberlady. A bad move on my part; the batter was heavy and I ate too many chips, a recipe for indigestion and a restless night. Not that I’d have slept much anyway; my mind was in danger of overload, a whirlpool of thoughts, each of them a crisis of sorts: the two murder investigations that I was heading up, and the two women with whom my life had become entangled. As I struggled with the intricacies and implications of them all, I kept coming back to Thornton. Myra’s death had been as great a bereavement for him as for me, yet he’d been my rock in the aftermath, my wise counsellor in the dark hours when I thought I wouldn’t be able to cope…

Jesus, I hate that word now. Cope. All those well-meaning people, who looked at me anxiously and asked, ‘Are you coping?’ I found myself hating them for their pity. I hoped they would choke on their own kindness. I wanted to rage at them, to shout, ‘What fucking choice do I have?’

It was Thornie who got me through, for all that his own heart must have been breaking. I might not have made it without him. My own father was no help to me at all; I didn’t know it then, but he was in the last couple of years of his life. He was working too hard, and the diabetes that he hadn’t bothered to tell me about, and was neglecting, was about to lead to irreversible heart difficulty. My dad had always been a remote figure to me. Now I’m inclined to blame him for a lot of things, but in those days he was someone I barely saw, and as I found out after he died, and I learned just a little of the truth about his war, someone I barely knew.

How I wish now that I hadn’t been so self-obsessed in my youth, and so angry over Michael, that I let him maintain that distance between us. If I had known of the war service that had earned him one of his nation’s highest honours, and had taken the time to ask him about it, to ask him what it was he had done or seen that, I realise now, haunted him forever afterwards, then today I might feel a lot differently about him.

I never loved my father; yes, that’s the sad truth, and I doubt that he ever loved me either. There’s nothing I can do to change history, but maybe I can find out a bit more about it. I’ve made myself a private promise, that one day, when I’m a man of leisure, I will seek out his past, and find out what it was that he did on his country’s behalf that marked him so badly. He left Alex and me comfortably off when he died, but that meant little to me, for he had left me nothing of himself, nor given me anything when he was alive.

Thornie was my real dad, and it was him I cried for in the small hours of that night, something that I never did for William Skinner, GC. But no, it wasn’t just for Thornie, but for everything that he had given me as well, for she who had been taken away. My daughter was learning not to cry; I still had a way to go.

I felt grim in the morning, and in a state of turmoil so deep that I did what I had decided against the afternoon before. I told Alex that I’d be very late that night, and I fixed it for her to sleep over with Daisy. Before I left, I packed an overnight bag and slung it in the car. I was flying on autopilot, but the damn thing was faulty and I was heading for a mountaintop.

I didn’t go straight to my desk; it wouldn’t have been fair to my team. Instead I told Fred that I’d had a family bereavement and wanted some space. I went to the gym and lifted some weights, then put on my running shoes and spent an hour and more taking out my anger on the streets. I must have covered about ten miles around the city centre. By the time I’d cooled out and showered, I felt more human, and more able to face my colleagues without the near certainty of turning into Mark McManus.

I did a quick catch-up. There was no news from Newcastle; Milburn and Shackleton were off the radar completely. Our Northumbrian colleagues had run out of ideas, and places to look for them. However there was a message from Alison, asking me to call her when I could.

I did, there and then. I took care to keep my tone professional. I reckoned that if I did I wouldn’t be overcome with guilt about where I was headed that evening. And anyway, Skinner, why should you feel guilty? No strings, no commitment, careers first and foremost, remember.

‘What have you got?’ I asked her, briskly.

‘A name for McCann’s mate: Charles Redpath. Steele managed to have a chat with him over the phone, but all he could do was confirm the barman’s story.’

‘Description?’

‘The clothes match what the man from the mews house told us, but we’ve got nothing more to go on. Redpath isn’t a fighting man from the sound of things. Stevie reckons he didn’t look too closely at the guy, just in case he took an interest in him as well as McCann.’

‘Any other leads?’

‘No,’ she said, candidly. ‘We’ve got names for a few of the other people who were in the bar, some from Redpath and some from the bar staff. Steele and Mackie are going round talking to them all, in the hope that somebody might have seen the killer and known him.’

‘Aye, maybe,’ I murmured sceptically.

She read my mind. ‘I know, anybody who could might think twice about it.’

‘So where do you go now?’

‘Back to Wyllie, as you suggested,’ she replied. ‘I’ve read his statement again. It’s one of the vaguest things I’ve ever seen. I do not believe that it’s a straightforward account of what happened, so I am going to give him another chance to get it right.’

‘That’s good,’ I told her, ‘but don’t you go to him. Have the bugger lifted; have him brought to Torphichen and tell the uniforms who pick him up to have their serious faces on. Let’s get him as jumpy as we can.’

‘That was what I was planning. But I thought we should give him the full treatment. So, how are you placed?’

I frowned. ‘Ali, I told you this was your gig.’

‘I know, but I want your help.’

She didn’t sound desperate, or indeed anxious in any way. What she was asking was logical: the more weight we could put on Wyllie, the more we would squeeze out. ‘Yeah, fine,’ I agreed. ‘Tell you what. Let’s bring him here. Do you know where he works?’

‘Same place as Weir did. B amp;Q at the Jewel.’

‘Right, I’ll send my boys Andy and Mario to lift him there. Those two would scare cheese. Speaking of which, come for lunch at one, and we’ll see him at two, two thirty, once he’s had a wee sweat in our smelliest interview room.’

‘When you say lunch, do you mean senior officers’ dining room?’ she asked, with the smile in her voice that always managed to put one on my face, even then.

My promotion had opened its door to me, although I hadn’t had time to take advantage of the privilege. ‘If that’s what you’d like,’ I replied. ‘But if you’d prefer it, I could get a takeaway from Pizza Hut.’

‘You’d be wearing it as a hat, my dear.’

I’d done it again. I’d begun my conversation with Alison fighting off guilt about my date with Mia, and ended it by inviting her to lunch. But the fact was, she’d lifted my spirits in those few minutes; she’d taken the last of my anger away. Instead of replacing the receiver, I pressed the button in the cradle to get the dial tone. I tried to dial Mia’s mobile number from memory so that I could call her to cancel, but I lost my way after half a dozen digits, so finally I did hang up and reached for my mobile, where it was in the memory. I was scrolling through my directory when the thing sounded; ‘Jean’, it told me.

‘How are you doing?’ I asked, before she could speak.

‘How did you know… oh, these bloody clever mobiles. I’m doing all right, thanks, Bob. I stop for a cry every now and again, but there are things to be done after a death. You just have to get on with them. The undertaker’s been to see me. The funeral’s arranged for Friday afternoon, two o’clock at Daldowie Crematorium.’

That’s good, I thought, instantly. We’ll still be able to go sailing. My face flushed as quickly as my reaction, at its selfishness.

‘You know how to get there?’ she continued.

‘My God, Jean, I haven’t lived in the east for that long,’ I reminded her. ‘My parents were sent off from there, remember, and your mother.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry, Bob. Will you be bringing Alexis?’ My sister-in-law never shortened her niece’s forename.

‘Of course, to that question as well.’

‘It won’t be too much for her?’

‘You’ve got some catching up to do, Auntie. She would drive cocktail sticks under your fingernails if you asked her that question. At her age, a day’s a week in maturity terms.’

‘Mmm,’ she sighed. ‘I keep forgetting. You’re right, I should see more of her, Bob, I know.’

‘I hope you will now that she’s your closest blood relative.’

‘God, you’re right there too,’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Come and visit us,’ I said, ‘when we’re past all this. Bring the new man too.’

‘I’m not sure if he’s ready to meet you,’ she replied, cagily.

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

‘Because he’s a policeman too; a sergeant, uniform, stationed in Hamilton. He’s heard of you.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Lowell Payne.’

‘What’s he heard?’

‘That you’re a hard bastard. His words, not mine. I told him you’re very gentle, really.’

‘I’ll look out for him if I’m ever through in that direction and he can make his own mind up. But he’ll meet me on Friday, remember, whether he’s ready or not.’

‘True,’ she conceded. ‘Will you be bringing anyone, other than Alexis?’

The idea hadn’t occurred to me, but given the timing and the geography, we’d be heading for Inverkip Marina after the funeral so. .. ‘It’s possible,’ I told her. ‘But if I do,’ I warned, ‘don’t read anything into it.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement on that. You can read anything you want into Lowell. I like him. You will too.’

‘It won’t make any difference if I don’t; it didn’t the last time, when you married that arsehole.’

‘True,’ she admitted. ‘But Dad liked Lowell, and that’s enough for me. On second thoughts, Bob, you should come to Dad’s house on Friday; the cortege will be leaving from there at one twenty.’

I promised that I would. As soon as we had said our farewells, I rang a guy I knew in Strathclyde Special Branch and asked him if he’d do me one of those favours that he owed me, by checking up discreetly on Sergeant Lowell Payne, and his reputation within the force. Thornie had started off by liking Cameron, I recalled; he’d always given people the benefit of the doubt, until there was none. If there was anything on Payne’s file that I didn’t like, I didn’t want Jean to find out about it the hard way.

I went outside into the main office… yes, I’d forgotten about the call I’d been about to make when Jean had phoned. McGuire and Martin were both at their desks, making their way through files of continuing investigations that Fred Leggat had given them. I tasked them with picking up Wyllie. ‘Don’t smile,’ I warned. ‘DI Higgins has a feeling about this man, so I don’t want him brought in here full of confidence. If he wants to speak while he’s waiting for us, don’t let him. If he asks for tea or coffee, give him water. If he wants to pee, go with him.’

‘What if he wants to take a dump, boss?’ McGuire asked, cheerily.

‘Wait outside the cubicle door.’

‘Can I go back to St Leonards?’

I patted him on the back. ‘And to that nice tailored uniform?’

‘Mmm,’ he mused. ‘What’s a wee bit of methane against that? Maybe not.’

They’d been gone for around twenty minutes when Alison arrived. I hung her light raincoat… it had been drizzling slightly while I ran… in my room, and we headed for the Command Corridor, where the dining room is located.

‘On Friday,’ I said as we walked. ‘I’d been thinking that we’d all go in my car.’

‘Me too,’ she agreed, readily.

‘In that case…’ I told her about Thornton’s death.

She was shocked. ‘Bob, that’s awful. So sudden. How did Alex take it?’

‘Better than I did. I won’t go into detail just now, in case it makes me cry. That wouldn’t look good in here.’

She squeezed my arm. ‘I don’t know about that. It’s a new man thing, and new men are all the rage.’

‘I’ll stick to being an old one,’ I said, ‘or middle-aged… young middle-aged… approaching middle-age. Anyway, the funeral’s on Friday afternoon, in Lanarkshire. Will you come with Alex and me? We can head for the boat afterwards.’

She stopped walking, and whistled. ‘Are you sure about that, Bob? This is a family funeral after all.’

‘A very small family now.’

‘Still, I’m not part of it. What would Alex think?’

‘What should she think?’ I asked.

‘Well, that we were… more than we are.’

‘She knows how we are, and she’s happy with it. Ali, I’d like you to come.’ I realised that it was true; I wasn’t just saying it because her presence would have been convenient. I hadn’t gone to anything with a partner since Myra died. Indeed, I’d never gone to anything with a partner other than Myra.

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll come, depending of course on…’

‘I know, I know, I know: the fucking job. That goes for us both. If there’s a crisis, everything comes second.’

‘What would you be if you weren’t a cop, Bob?’

That was a question I’d put to myself, often. As I’ve said, a few years before I’d been close to becoming a lawyer, although I would have been miserable as the sort of general solicitor that my father was. Probably I’d have made my way to the Bar, with a criminal practice as my objective, or I’d have joined the Crown Office, to concentrate on prosecution. But that was then; my thinking had changed over the years, and journalism had become more attractive to me. I’d a journo friend called Xavi Aislado, a big, serious man, widely regarded as the best reporter in the country. I admired him and could have seen myself trying to fill his enormous shoes. But in truth each of those options would have been a bad second best. If I was snatched away from the job I loved, I’d have been…

‘Lost,’ I replied. ‘You?’

‘A lecturer in criminology,’ she replied without a moment’s hesitation. ‘If I couldn’t do it for any reason, I’d want to teach it.’

I opened the dining-room door and ushered her in. While I was a newcomer, in my own right, I’d been there often enough as a guest. I looked around. The chief constable was there, deep in discussion with his deputy. He waved an acknowledgement to me, and I nodded in return. I spotted Alf Stein too, sharing a table with Alastair Grant and big John McGrigor. John was head of CID in the Borders division. He was a massive bloke; he’d been a lock forward in his youth, and he was so much a part of his territory that he could never be moved out of it.

We took a table for two at the wall. Maisie the waitress, as much of a fixture on her patch as McGrigor was on his, gave us a minute or so to study the menu… comfort food, most of it; Alf Stein called the dining room ‘the cholesterol highway’… then appeared at my side to take our orders: two ham salads, the chef’s only concession to weight-watching, and sparkling water.

‘So what did Alex say?’ Alison asked quietly.

I told her, word for word, and I saw her eyes moisten. ‘I see what you mean about crying,’ she murmured. ‘Bob,’ she continued, ‘you mustn’t build her hopes up about you and me.’

‘Don’t worry about it. She knows where you and I are. Any problem would come if we moved beyond that.’ I told her about Alex’s EastEnders gag, and she laughed out loud, drawing a glance from big John.

‘Who does she think we are? Den and Angie or Grant and Sharon?’

‘Anybody but Pat and Frank.’

‘Anybody but any of them, I think. But not to worry.’ She looked across at me, raising an eyebrow. ‘She’s probably building her hopes up about you and her disc jockey friend.’

I kept my face straight. ‘Oh yes,’ I murmured. ‘The murder victims’ sister, the murderer’s niece, Tony Manson’s mistress’s daughter, all rolled up in one. That would go down well in here.’

‘Wouldn’t it just?’ she agreed. ‘But love is blind, they say.’

‘It would have to be fucking stupid as well.’ The point was unarguable… so why was I still struggling to convince myself?

Lunch arrived, and we got down to business as we ate, planning our approach to Robert Wyllie. ‘What’s making you twitch most about his statement?’ I asked her.

‘It’s the pub itself. It’s called Pink’s, and Wyllie described it as a gay bar. That was accepted by the interviewing officers, but when I described it that way to the station commander, he told a different story. He drinks there himself, and he told me that while it has a certain gay clientele, they’re almost exclusively women. It’s much the same as the Giggling Goose; gays go there because they know they’re not going to be hassled by the rest of the clientele. That’s the way these places are marketed.’

‘Indeed? So you’re thinking that if you were hanging around there waiting for a shirt-lifter to bash, you couldn’t always be certain who was and who wasn’t.’

She smiled. ‘Your turn of phrase not mine, but yes.’

‘So Mr Wyllie’s been telling us porkies.’ I sucked in a breath. ‘Wasting police time during a murder investigation. Wait till we put that to him.’

We lingered over coffee, to keep our visitor waiting for a little longer, before I settled the bill and we made our way back to Serious Crimes. Andy Martin was at his desk, but McGuire was absent. ‘Have you got him?’ I asked.

‘Yes, boss,’ the blond DC replied. ‘Mario’s keeping him company; interview room three. When I left he was beaming at him like Shere Khan about to have Mowgli for dinner.’

‘Have you read The Jungle Book, or just seen the movie?’ I laughed. ‘We’d better get down there or there’ll only be bones left.’

Alison and I made our way down a couple of flights of stairs to the level where what we called our ‘guest rooms’ were located. Room three was signed ‘occupied’ but I ignored that and opened the door without knocking. I let her go in first, and stood just outside for a few seconds sizing up the scene. Robert Wyllie was sitting at a small Formica-topped table with a madly marked top, on which sat an ashtray

… empty… and a twin-deck recorder. He was slightly built, with a pale face and pinched mouth, frowning and nervous as he faced Mario McGuire, massive and smiling. I knew as surely as if I’d been a fly on the wall that the DC had not said a word to him in all the time they’d been alone together, and from the look of relief on Wyllie’s face as Alison walked in, I judged that he was well marinated. When I stepped in after her, not smiling, his expression became much less certain.

McGuire rose from his chair and went to stand in the corner, but still in Wyllie’s eyeline. Alison and I took his place. I glared across the desk. There’s this thing I’ve always tried to do with a suspect, or a dodgy witness. I lock my eyes on theirs, I never look away, and I never blink. It’s surprising how effective that’s been over the years. I’ve stared down some tough guys, until they were ready to tell me their life stories.

Robert Wyllie wasn’t even a wee bit tough, however much he tried to appear so, in his biker jacket and with his dagger tattoo, carefully located so that the tip always peeked out from under his cuff. It took less than half a minute for him to look down at the tabletop, then to gaze up at Alison, timidly, and exclaim, ‘What?’

‘Don’t look away from me,’ I barked at him. ‘This isn’t a scene from a crime novel. DI Higgins isn’t “good cop”. We’re all “bad cop”, all three of us. We’re all mightily pissed off at you, and do you know why?’

He opened his mouth, but I reached across the table and closed it for him, forcing his jaws together before he could make a sound.

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ I shouted. ‘When you were interviewed about the attack on you and Weir, you told us that it was a mugging gone wrong. You told us that you and your now deceased mate hung around Pink’s bar waiting for a gay to beat up. You told the interviewing officers that it was a homosexual hangout and they bought that story. Okay, the bar staff in Pink’s couldn’t remember seeing anyone matching the description you gave in the pub that night. “Orange hair, officer? No, sorry. But it was very busy, and there was a party of students in, all in fancy dress for some daft student reason, so maybe…” But that’s not why nobody could remember the guy you described, is it?’

I leaned across the table. ‘No, Wyllie,’ I continued, ‘they couldn’t because your story was a lie, your description was a fucking lie, and because of it you’ve sent an entire police investigation off chasing wild geese for a whole bloody week! Pink’s isn’t a gay bar, not for the men at any rate, so your loitering story just doesn’t add up. You and your mate were up to something completely different. This is a murder investigation now, chum; it was serious before, but it’s front page now, so you are in very deep shit with us.’

I nodded to my left. ‘See that tape recorder? That is your shovel. You can use it to dig yourself out by telling us exactly what did happen, or we can just switch it on to record us charging you with wasting police time, perverting the course of justice, and public urination too, if we feel like it.’

Wyllie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay,’ he whispered, ‘but you’ve got to give me protection.’

‘No, mate,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got to tell us the truth. After that we’ll see what you’re worth.’

Alison checked that there were fresh tapes in the deck and switched it on, then she spoke, identifying everyone in the room. ‘Mr Wyllie,’ she continued, ‘please give us your account of what happened on the night you and the late Archie Weir were attacked. I repeat Detective Superintendent Skinner’s earlier warning that any further statements you make that are found to be false will make you liable to be prosecuted.’

‘Aye, okay,’ he grunted.

‘Speak clearly, for the tape,’ she admonished him. ‘Now go on, but take your time; you need to get everything right.’

‘I will, I will,’ he said, loudly. ‘Okay, Archie and I didnae wait outside Pink’s that night, like I said before. We were in the pub ourselves. So was the bloke that stabbed us. He didnae have orange hair either. It was black; everything about him was black. His jacket, his polo neck, his troosers.’

‘Did he have a moustache?’ I asked.

‘No, he didnae; nor even a stubble.’

‘What made you notice him?’ Alison continued.

‘It was him that noticed us. He came up to the bar for a drink, and he bumped into Archie. Then he gave him the look, like, and said, “Watch it, mate.” Archie said, “What are you fuckin’ on about? You bumped me.” Then the guy said, “That’s the fuckin’ least of it. Hard man, eh.” Archie just shrugged and said, “Aye, fine, have it your way,” but the guy wouldnae let it go. He said to Archie again, “Fuckin’ hard man, eh,” and he kept on lookin’ at him.’

‘Did anyone notice this exchange?’

‘No. The bloke was quiet-spoken, ken.’

‘Did you become involved?’

‘Me? No’ me. I thought he was drunk at first, but I saw that he wisnae. He was fuckin’ spooky though, I’ll tell you. I could see that Archie was a wee bit scared, ken. He just said, “No, no’ me, sorry, pal,” and turned his back on him. The guy leaned over and whispered, “See you later,” then he went away.’

‘But not for good?’

‘Ah could see him in the mirror behind the bar. He was standing at the back of the bar, near a’ those students, but he’d his eyes on us too. After a wee bit, he put his pint on the shelf behind him and he went off tae the gents’. I told Archie… he was still shakin’, ken

… and I said, “Let’s get out of here.” And we did. We got fuckin’ out of Dodge like, and headed up Morrison Street as far as Grove Street. I never thought he’d come after us, but he did. We never heard him though, or even saw him. The first Ah knew was when he stabbed me in the leg. I yelled and I went down, but he didnae bother wi’ me after that; he went after Archie before he could move and he stabbed him, half a dozen times at least.’

‘Can you describe the knife?’ I asked him.

Wyllie winced. ‘It was fuckin’ sharp,’ he whimpered. ‘It was big, no a wee dagger like, or a flick knife, but that’s all I can tell ye.’

‘Okay. Go on.’

He blew out his breath. ‘Archie stopped movin’ after a while. Ah thought he was dead, then the guy came back to me and I thought I was too, but he never touched me. He just said, “Tell no one, or you’re on the same train to heaven as your pervie pal there.” He was walking away, when the other bloke came round the corner and found us. He never ran or anything, just kept on walking, and the bloke never even looked at him.’

‘That’s borne out by the other witness’s statement,’ Alison confirmed. ‘He only referred to finding the two wounded men. He never mentions the attacker.’ She frowned across the table. ‘So, Mr Wyllie,’ she continued, ‘that’s the truth, is it?’

He nodded.

‘The tape doesn’t have a camera,’ I growled. ‘You need to say it.’

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s the truth. Honest.’

‘So where did all that other shite come from? Why did you make it up?’

‘I had tae say something. I didn’t want you lot asking questions and findin’ out about the guy pickin’ on us in the pub, so I just made up that story about queer-bashin’. I don’t want him coming after me.’

‘Is… queer-bashing as you call it… something that you and Weir have done in the past?’ Alison snapped.

Wyllie shifted in his chair, glanced at me, and thought better of replying.

‘Had you ever seen this man before?’ I murmured, just loud enough to be picked up by the tape.

He shook his head, vigorously.

‘Say it!’

‘No, sir. I’d never seen him before.’

‘But the description you’re giving us now is accurate?’

‘Aye, I swear!’

‘It better be, otherwise next time you see me, we’ll be having an even more serious talk. Do you think that Archie Weir could have known him? Is that possible?’

‘Ah don’t think so. If he did, he never said. No, he didnae. I’m sure he didnae.’

‘What did he call him, when he spoke to you after he’d stabbed him? Tell us again.’

‘He called him “your pervie pal”. At least that’s what it sounded like; I could have got it wrong. Maybe he said “your pushy pal”; maybe that was it. Mister, I was bleedin’, and I still thought he was goin’ tae stab me again.’

‘Do you know what he meant?’ Alison asked him.

He shook his head, then looked at me and replied, ‘No, miss,’ loudly.

‘That would be Detective Inspector,’ she said, icily. ‘Come on, Weir was your pal, you must have an idea.’

‘He wasnae a big pal, though,’ he protested. ‘We were at the school thegither…’

‘Which school?’ I interrupted.

‘Maxwell Academy,’ he replied, then carried on, ‘… and we go out for a pint, but he wasnae best man at my weddin’ or anything.’

‘You’ve got a wife?’

‘Aye. Ah got married three years ago; we’ve got two bairns.’

‘So what were you doing out on the batter with Weir?’

For the first time, he seemed hesitant. ‘The wife chucked me out a couple of weeks ago. I was bunking wi’ Archie for a bit. But Ah’m back home now, ken,’ he added.

‘I see.’ She paused. ‘When you went out with Archie, did anyone else ever tag along, any other men?’

‘No, no’ really. It would be just the two of us usually.’

‘Archie was single, wasn’t he?’

‘Aye, lucky bastard.’

‘Yes, dead lucky,’ she said. ‘Does the name Albert McCann mean anything to you?’

‘Naw, I don’t think so. Naw, it doesnae. Why?’

I leaned forward, eyeballing him again. ‘Because, Mr Wyllie, Albie McCann was murdered on Sunday night by the man who killed Weir and stabbed you, the man you effectively protected for a week by giving us that made-up bloody story.’

‘And you havenae caught him yet?’ he squealed. ‘Ah want protection.’

I nodded. ‘We’ll protect you, Robert. You lied to us; that’s a criminal offence. You’re going to be charged with perverting the course of justice. You’ll be held here overnight and will appear in court tomorrow morning. You can apply for bail if you like and the sheriff will probably allow it, since we’ll have no real reason to object, or you can stay nice and safe in the remand section at Saughton. It’ll be up to you.’ I rose to my feet. ‘Detective Inspector Higgins, I’ll leave the formalities to you and DC McGuire.’

Alison followed me out into the corridor. ‘Do you really want to be that hard on him?’ she asked. ‘The fiscal will probably reduce it to wasting police time.’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘He might, but my guess is he’ll let it run to secure a plea to the reduced charge. I know, Wyllie was a victim himself, and he was scared, but he concocted a story, and now we have two murders on our hands. There’s also the chance that he might still be in danger from this man, and we’ll be doing him a favour by locking him up. If the fiscal does query the charge, refer him to me and I’ll deal with him.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, smiling.

I grinned back at her, awkwardly. ‘What’s your next move?’

She turned serious. ‘To look for a connection between Weir and McCann. These may be two random attacks by a psychopath out for kicks, but then again, if there is a link between the two victims, it might provide the motive for both murders.’

‘Absolutely. Where will you start?’

‘With Maxwell Academy.’

‘Logical, but if McCann was at that lunatic asylum as well, wouldn’t Wyllie have known him?’

‘They could have been in different years.’

‘True. Okay, run with it and see where it takes you. But I’m interested in what the man said to Wyllie as well. Maybe he got it right first time. Have another look at Weir’s background too.’

‘I will, but I’ll also get warrants to search both victims’ homes. There might be things there that put them together.’

I left her to charge Wyllie and went back upstairs. I took Fred Leggat into my glass-walled closet and gave him a rundown on how the interview had gone, and on Alison’s investigation in general. I didn’t expect him to be involved, but he was my de facto deputy in the Serious Crimes Unit, so it was only right for me to keep him in the loop on all of its business, even that which had been slung our way for reasons of convenience, office politics and public relations. When I’d been offered the job by Alf and the chief, they’d given me fair warning that would happen.

‘What’s your thinking, Bob?’ he asked.

‘I don’t have any yet. Same weapon, same killer, same approach, provoke and attack. Three possibilities: it could have been random, the man with the knife could have had a grudge against the victims, or someone else might have. I’m not going to make any guesses; Alison’s are as good as mine at this stage, and she’s running the inquiry.’ I paused. ‘How are we going on the other priority task?’ I asked, without much optimism. There were no grounds for any: we were seven days from the murder, five days into the investigation, no sign of any motive and our two major suspects were nowhere to be found.

‘Well,’ he began; something in his tone took my attention. ‘I don’t think we’re any further forward than we were, but this fax came in from Newcastle.’ He’d been holding a couple of sheets of paper, clipped together. He laid them on my desk and pushed them towards me. ‘It’s the full intelligence file on the man Winston Church; there’s something in there that jumped out at me.’

I picked it up and began to read through it. Church was an archetypal local hoodlum of his era. He was sixty-nine years old, and had emerged in the post-war period as a black marketeer, diversifying, when rationing ended, into just about anything that was criminal and, typically, some things that were not. He had been the top man in his city through the sixties, seventies and through the eighties, by force of arms; the feudal lord of Tyneside. His file suggested that he was the man who had got the real Carter, in the real-life gangland episode that had been fictionalised for the screen. In a biopic of his life he might have been played by Ricky Tomlinson or Warren Clarke, or even by Michael Caine.

But he was history, the file said; an old man with little power left to direct or restrain the new breed who had moved in on his patch. They tolerated him, in the same way that the outgoing chairman of a football club is made president for life, and they ignored him. Even his one-time loyal retainers, like Milburn and Shackleton, had gone freelance, their muscle and other services for hire.

I was wondering why Fred had wanted me to read his tired story when a name jumped off the page at me, one of a list of ‘former associates’.

‘Alasdair Holmes?’ I exclaimed. ‘What the fuck was Al Holmes doing with this guy?’

‘Probably supplying him,’ Leggat volunteered. ‘If you look at the timeline in the file, Church’s decline began after the Holmes brothers were shot.’

‘That’s of some interest,’ I conceded. ‘We both know that Al never did anything on his own initiative. His brother was his keeper, in every respect. But as you say, they were indeed shot. Al’s dead, and even if Perry wasn’t a cripple with round-the-clock care needs… he never went within miles, personally, of the likes of Winston Church.’

‘So I understand,’ Fred agreed. ‘That’s why I don’t see it as relevant. Just a curiosity, really; that’s why I drew it to your attention.’

I gazed at the report, and I smiled. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s no more than that, but given who’s involved… I think I might just go and visit the sick.’