Hour Of Darkness

Twenty-Six

‘Is that DI Ray Wilding?’ a woman asked, and even with only five contralto words in his ear, he knew that she was a Glaswegian.

‘The same,’ he replied, curious.

‘This is DI Charlotte Mann, Strathclyde CID. My big boss, as in the chief, told me to call you. . or rather his exec just told me, and that’s as good as. Apparently you’ve got an all points out for somebody, only it’s secret. The way he put it, via Sandra Bulloch, was that it’s as sensitive as a haemophiliac wi’ haemorrhoids. My DS and I are to give you any help you need on our patch.’

‘Ah, thanks, Charlotte,’ Wilding said. ‘I’ve been expecting to hear from someone, but not this quick. Our head of CID’s only just off the phone to tell me you’d been brought in.’

‘Right. Now first things first; I answer to Lottie, not Charlotte. So, what do you need from us?’

‘I’d like you to find him for us,’ he responded, ‘if he’s in your part of the world. He, and his wife, have been missing for two days, and there are possible signs of violence in their house. We have reason to be looking at ferry terminals, but none of the carriers have a record of a booking by our man, or of his registration number. We also know that he hasn’t used his bank card or a credit card to book a crossing.’

‘None of that means he hasn’t been on one,’ Mann pointed out.

‘Granted; he could have turned up at any port and paid cash. We know that on Sunday evening he withdrew over two grand from his bank account and credit cards, at various terminals in Edinburgh, and that he used one to fill his tank up at a wee garage on the south side of the city.’

‘But those are the only transactions?’

‘That’s right. There’s been no card activity since then. Also his car’s a Honda CRV hybrid; that means that one tankful could get him to just about any port in Britain. Obviously there’s a stop-on-sight order out on the vehicle nationwide. Maybe that’ll be enough, but I doubt we’ll be that lucky.’

‘Does he have any other cards?’ she asked.

‘The wife has, but it hasn’t been used.’

‘Are all his blocked?’

‘Of course they are,’ Wilding said, his tone a little peevish, ‘as of an hour ago.’

‘All right, all right, keep your hair on,’ she laughed, ‘that’s assuming you’re not a baldy. I’m only establishing known facts. So, what you’re telling me is that you suspect that this guy’s killed his wife, put her body in the car and fucked off into the wide blue yonder, maybe using a ferry crossing.’

‘That’s one scenario, yes.’

‘Right. Obvious question: what makes it so fucking sensitive, and why haven’t you got the guy’s name and face on every front page and TV screen in Scotland?’

He told her. ‘My chief constable’s given me authority to disclose that name to you two, and only you. She says that Mr Skinner’s vouched for your discretion, personally.’

Her silence lasted for almost half a minute, but Wilding left it uninterrupted.

‘Okay,’ Mann said when she had absorbed his news. ‘I’m with you; it’s a CCTV job down at Troon to check whether he’s off to Ireland. Fucking magic! Exactly how I like to spend my Tuesdays. But no worries, Ray, DS Provan and I will do that for you, and not a cheep to anyone, like you say. Give me the registration.’

She noted it down and hung up, then looked across her desk at the shabby, grey-haired, fifty-something figure who sat facing her. ‘It’s a fuckin’ cop, innit?’ he murmured.

‘Yes, it is. And not any old fucking cop either. Did you ever work with Bandit Mackenzie?’

Dan Provan’s eyes widened to the point of incredulity. ‘It’s him?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ve had that displeasure, although not that close. We were both in the same division when he was a DS, but we were never on the same investigation. I always thought he was unstable, but not that he’d go off his rocker. They’re certain, are they?’

‘Not certain, but from what Wilding told me, they think it’s a bit more than likely.’

She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly, drawing herself up to her full, and not inconsiderable, height. Provan assumed she was ready to leave for Troon, until he saw that her eyes were on the door. He looked over his shoulder, then started out of his own chair.

‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ Bob Skinner said. ‘I assume you’ve been in touch with Ray Wilding by now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lottie Mann confirmed. ‘I’m just off the phone with him, and he’s brought us up to speed. We’re still taking it in.’

‘Me too. Mackenzie and I have some shared history, so I’m taking this personally. I thought I’d drop down here to let you know that.’

‘No pressure, eh?’ Provan chuckled.

‘Shut up, you insubordinate wee bastard,’ Skinner retorted, but with a hint of a smile.

‘Do you have any insight that would be useful to us, sir?’ the DI asked.

‘You mean did I ever see him as a wife murderer, Lottie? Hardly, not even as a wife-beater. I’m not sure I do yet, for the evidence they have isn’t conclusive. The day that I’d even suspected as much, he’d have been on suspension and undergoing counselling. The day I’d been able to prove it, he’d have been in the dock.

‘But. . the fact is, the more intelligent someone is, the harder it is to see what’s inside their head. Now you, Dan, I can read you like a fucking book, but Mackenzie, no I couldn’t. For example, I never thought that he would bottle it on an armed operation, but he did.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘The dangerous thing may be,’ he continued, ‘that he never thought so either. I’ve just had a conversation with a friend of mine, a consultant psychologist, one with a special insight, you might say. His view is that when someone as smart and ambitious as David Mackenzie finds that he isn’t the person he believed he was, the consequences can be dramatic.’

‘In which case,’ Provan observed, ‘if he’s as smart as a’ that, Christ, even if he’s only as smart as me, and he has done something bad to his wife, he might not be at any ferry terminal yet.’

The chief nodded. ‘I was wondering about that too, Dan. Why do you think so?’

‘Drugs,’ the dishevelled DS declared. ‘These days, at any ferry terminal you’re likely to find a dog or two, trained to sniff out all sorts of contraband, fags, drugs, even humans. Worst case, if he has done her in, as they’re fearing in Edinburgh, turn up at one of these places wi’ her in the boot of your car and you are seriously pushing your luck.’

‘Absolutely,’ Skinner agreed. ‘And that ties in with something my psychologist said. If the Bandit has killed poor Cheryl, no way was it premeditated. He will have no getaway planned, he’ll be in a panic. In that situation, my consultant says, people in a panic don’t run away; either they sit tight and wait for the inevitable, or they go somewhere they know. We’ve all got a hidey-hole mapped out in our minds, people. We need to find out where Mackenzie’s is, just in case he’s heading for it.’