Pray for the Dying

Twenty-Two

‘I’m too old for this shit, Lottie,’ Dan Provan moaned.

‘Agreed,’ DI Mann retorted. ‘But you’re here and you’re all I’ve fucking got as a second in charge, so get on with it, eh? Oh and by the way, you’re not too old to collect the overtime.’

‘There is that,’ the sallow sergeant conceded. He smiled. ‘Keeps us both out the house as well. How’s your Scottie gettin’ on?’

‘He’s fine. Moans a bit but he’s doing great in the battle against the bevvy; that makes me happy. He took the wee guy to the big shows in Strathclyde Park yesterday. A year ago, even, I’d never have trusted him to do that.’

‘Theme park,’ Provan corrected her. ‘The shows are what you and me went to when we were kids.’

‘Maybe you did. My dad never took me anywhere. All his spare money went on that bloody football team. “Follow, Follow”,’ she sang, off-key. ‘I remember my mum making me hide from him many a Saturday night. . well, maybe not that many, for they didn’t lose all that often, but when they did and he got in with a couple of bottles of Melroso in him, nobody was safe.’

‘No’ even you?’ He looked her up and down, trying to tease her. In all the time they had worked together she had never before mentioned her childhood.

‘Not when I was eight or nine. If my mum gave me and my big brother money for the multiplex on a Saturday night, we knew there was going to be trouble.’

Provan frowned. ‘Did he. .’

‘Batter my mum? Oh yes. Don’t get me wrong, he was a quiet man all the rest of the time.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen to me, defending him.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Stomach cancer happened to him, when I was twelve. Then I grew up, joined the police, got married, and found myself in the same situation as my mother had. She warned me, ye know, but I never listened.’

‘Scott was like him? Is that what you’re saying?’

She nodded.

‘Just as well you could handle him,’ the sergeant said, ‘like you proved at that daft boxing night.’

‘Not all the time. There were re-matches, Danny, without the gloves and the head guard. I didn’t always win. That was around the time when he was fuckin’ up his police career through the drink. When that finally happened I gave him an ultimatum. I gave him two of them, to be honest. The first was that if he ever raised a hand to me again, I would leave him. The second was that if he ever raised a hand to Jakey, I’d kill him. He believed both of them; he’s been off it, more or less, ever since. He still goes AWOL every now and then, but he comes back sober, and that’s the main thing.’

‘Then good for him. He’s gettin’ on fine at work too, is he? In that cash and carry place o’ his?’

‘Yes. He’s a supervisor now. The head of security’s due to retire in a couple of years, and Scottie’s in with a chance of getting the job.’

‘Mibbes he could find somethin’ for me if he does,’ Provan muttered. ‘Like Ah said. .’

She sighed. ‘I know, I know, I know. You’re too old for this shit: but you’re here, and we’re both standing in it, so just you keep on shovellin’, Danny. I’ve got another press briefing at ten o’clock. By then I’d like an answer from that car rental company.’

The sergeant nodded; a small shower of dandruff settled on the shoulders of his crumpled, shiny jacket. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They should have been back tae us by now. Time tae rattle their cage.’ He checked the number on the key-ring fob, then snatched his phone from its cradle and punched it in.

‘Drivall Car Hire,’ a young female voice chirped. It made him feel older than ever.

‘DS Provan, Strathclyde CID,’ he announced. ‘Ah spoke to somebody in your office last night. The lad said his name was Ajmal; Ah wanted some information about one of your cars that we found in Glasgow. He was going to get back to me, but I’m still waitin’. I need tae speak to him, now.’

‘I’m sorry, caller,’ the irrepressible youth replied, sounding anything but regretful. ‘Ajmal’s off duty today.’

‘Then go and get him,’ Provan barked, ‘or dig up your manager! This is a major inquiry Ah’m on.’

The girl sniffed. ‘There’s no need for that tone of voice, sir. If you hold on I’ll see if Mr Terry’s available; he’s our manager.’

‘You do that, hen.’ He sat and waited, but not for too long.

‘Sergeant err. .’ a querulous male voice began. ‘I’m sorry, Chantelle didn’t catch your name.’

‘Provan,’ the Glaswegian growled. ‘Detective Sergeant Provan.’

‘Thank you, sorry about that; I’m John Terry, the general manager. This will be about our vehicle LX12 PMP, is that right?’

‘Indeed.’

‘We have been acting on this, I assure you,’ Terry declared. ‘My colleague Ajmal left me a note when he went off duty. The vehicle hirer has died and you’re trying to find out who he was through us, is that the case?’

‘I suppose it might be possible, sir,’ Provan said, ‘that a guy hired a vehicle, shot himself three times in the chest, shut himself in the boot and disposed o’ the gun, but we don’t really believe that.’

The manager gulped. ‘Pardon? I didn’t quite catch all of that.’

‘Okay, mate. Let me spell it out for ye’, in words of one syllabub.’

‘My God,’ Terry exclaimed, before he was finished. ‘Mr Provan, I think we’ve had a little language difficulty here. Ajmal’s English is not the best, and your accent is, let’s say, quite regional.’

No, let’s fuckin’ no’ say! With difficulty, the detective managed to keep his thought to himself, as the manager continued. ‘Ajmal left me a note with the registration number of the vehicle and the information that a man had been found dead in the vehicle and that the Glasgow police wanted the name of the hirer. What you’ve just told me is news to me and shocking news at that.’

‘Well, now that we understand each other,’ Provan said, weighing each word to avoid further ‘language difficulties’, ‘maybe yis can get me the information Ah need.’

‘Oh, I have that already, Sergeant. The office where the vehicle was hired. . it’s in Finsbury Park. . was closed last night. I spoke to the person in charge five minutes ago. The vehicle was rented a week ago yesterday, for return by five p.m. yesterday evening. The hirer’s name was Byron Millbank, address number eight St Baldred’s Road, London. I happen to know where that is; it’s very close to what was Highbury Stadium, the old Arsenal football ground, before they moved to the Emirates.’

‘Did he have a UK driving licence?’

‘I don’t know, but I assume. .’

‘We don’t deal in assumptions, Mr Terry. Will they have a record in your other office?’

‘Oh yes. And a photocopy. Not everyone does that but we always do; take a photocopy of the plastic licence and the paper counterpart.’

‘In that case,’ Provan told him, ‘I need you tae get back on to your other office and get those photocopies faxed up to me. Haud on.’ He found a number that he had scrawled on a pad on his desk for another inquiry, a week before, and read it out to Terry.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have fax machines in our regional offices any more,’ he said. ‘Old technology these days.’

‘Well, find one, please. Go to the Arsenal if ye have tae; they’re bound tae have one.’

‘Oh, we won’t have to do that. We can scan the copies and send them.’

‘Eh?’

‘Scan them, Mr Provan. Turn them into JPEGs.’

‘Eh?’

‘Photographic images. Then we can send them to you as email attachments.’ Terry giggled. ‘Or don’t you have email in Scotland?’

Nancy! Provan, an old-school homophobe, kept another thought to himself. ‘Oh aye, sir, we have. It runs on gas, right enough, but we get by.’ He read his force e-address, then spelled it out, letter by letter. ‘Soon as ye can, please; Ah need it within the next half hour.’

‘You’ll have it in ten minutes.’ Terry paused. ‘Can I send somebody along from our Glasgow Airport depot to collect our car?’

‘Eventually,’ the DS told him. ‘Ah’m afraid your car’s a crime scene, sir. Ah’m no’ sure how long we’ll need to hold it for. When we’re done with it, we’ll bring it back to you. We’ll even clean aff the bloodstains fur ye.’

He hung up and turned to Mann. ‘A name for ye, Lottie. The car was hired by somebody called Byron Millbank.’

‘What do we know about him?’ she asked.

‘Eff all at the moment, but we should have a wee picture soon, off his driving licence. Meantime, his name’s enough tae go searchin’ for his birth certificate.’

‘Maybe,’ the DI cautioned. ‘That’s assuming it’s his real name. Let me see the image as soon as you get it, and blow it up as large as you can. I want to let the big boss see it.’