Hour Of Darkness

Forty-Seven

Friday was the day I’d meant to do something about the decision I’d reached while Sarah and I were in Spain. I had faced a straight choice: embrace the future and shape it to my will, or look to maintain as much of the status quo as I could. Either way would have to be best for my family, among whom I included Sarah, for me, and for the police service, in that order.

I knew how I’d jumped and I was sure it would please at least two of those, and maybe all three.

It was the day I was going to tackle it, but it was sidetracked, because I found myself up to my oxters. . that is, my armpits, to those who don’t speak Scottish. . in events that ran pretty quickly beyond my control.

I’d been at my desk for just over an hour when Sandra knocked on my door and stepped into my room without waiting for an answer. I was with my deputy, Bridie Gorman, at the time, talking about the practicalities of the handover to the new unified Police Scotland, or rather its impracticalities, as far as Bridie was concerned, so neither of us minded the interruption.

‘I’m sorry, sir, ma’am,’ Bulloch said, ‘but you did say that when this came back you wanted to see it right away.’ She handed me a package, about the same size and shape as the one Maggie Steele had sent through from Edinburgh.

I thanked her and told Bridie that it concerned a sensitive matter that I had to deal with on my own. I could tell that she was miffed that I didn’t trust her enough to share, but I decided to apologise later.

I tore the package open and found the Mackenzie HR file, and an added bonus, a second envelope containing a handwritten note from Arthur Dorward. . it couldn’t have been from anyone else; his style is unique.

You asked me to dust the first entry document in this extensive file for fingerprints, and to run comparisons of all the results through the national fingerprint library. You did so, in your usual cryptic and enigmatic ******* [his asterisks, not mine] way without giving me any clue about who I was ******* looking for. As usual, you assume that I can work blindfolded at one hundred per cent efficiency. As usual I have proved you right.

From seventy-three fingerprint traces in total, I’ve managed to find three matches in the library. All three relate to individuals whose prints are held for purposes of elimination, and not as convicted persons.

Not unnaturally, one of those sets is your own. Jesus Christ, Chief Constable, will you ever learn to wear disposable gloves? Another belongs to one David Mackenzie, currently, as I am advised, a detective superintendent in Edinburgh. Since the document is his employment application, that’s hardly a surprise. The third and final set, left thumb, partial left palm print, right thumb and right index finger, belong to the recently retired Assistant Chief Constable Max Allan.

I have no idea what any of this means. Maybe one day you’ll tell me, maybe you won’t, but whatever, you can go to court on it.

Arthur D

Was I surprised? Was I hell. Max had professed little knowledge of Mackenzie’s background to Dan Provan, and yet he had told Tom Donnelly that he was the investigating officer when the boy had chucked the chips at his uncle.

I thought about sending the file back to Arthur and telling him to dust every entry looking for Max’s prints, but that really would have been pushing my luck. I reckoned that I had enough to go on, so I left it at that. Instead I called the head of Human Resources, direct.

‘Chief Constable here,’ I said; I was thinking too hard to exchange pleasantries. ‘I want to see the HR folder on ACC Max Allan. I know he’s retired, but if you tell me that you’ve destroyed it I won’t be happy.’

‘Then you can relax, Chief,’ she said. ‘We’ve just finished processing his pension, and because of his rank, it came to me to be signed off. His file’s still in my office, awaiting return to storage. You’ll have it in five minutes.’