Pray for the Dying

Forty-One

‘Where have you been, Sarge?’ Banjo Paterson asked, as Provan came into the room. ‘The DI was on the phone looking for you.’

‘Did ye tell her I’ll call her back?’

‘No. I thought you might not want to. It’s awkward with her being suspended.’

‘She’s not fuckin’ suspended!’ Provan yelled, flaring up in sudden fury. ‘She’s on family leave. If I hear that word used once more Ah’ll have your nuts in a vice, son.’

The DC backed off, holding up his hands as if to keep the little man at bay. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Aye, well. . just mind your tongue from now on.’

‘Understood. So,’ he continued, ‘where have you been? You went out that door like a greyhound. I’ve never seen you move so fast.’

‘Doesnae do tae keep the chief constable waiting,’ the DS said, a smirk of bashful pride turning up one corner of his mouth.

Paterson whistled. ‘A summons from on high, eh? What did he want?’

‘He wants us to do a wee job for him. Ah need you to get intae your computer and find me a phone number for the equivalent of the General Register Office in the Republic of Mauritius. . wherever the fuck that is.’

‘It’s in the Indian Ocean. Give me a minute.’

Provan looked on as he bent over his keyboard, typed a few words, clicked once, twice, a third time, then scribbled on a notepad. ‘There you are,’ he announced, as he ripped off the top sheet and handed it over. ‘That’s the number of the head office of the Civil Status Division, in the Emmanuel Anquetil Building, Port Louis, Mauritius.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘I make that fifteen seconds short of the minute.’

‘Since you’re that fuckin’ clever, can you access birth records through that thing?’

‘I doubt it, but I’ll have a look.’ He turned back to the screen and to his search engine, but soon shook his head. ‘No, sorry; not that I can see. You’ll have to call them.’

‘Will Ah be able to speak the language?’

‘Possibly not; it’s English.’

‘Cheeky bastard,’ the DS growled, but with a grin. He dialled the number Paterson had given him. The voice that answered was female, with a musical quality.

He introduced himself, speaking slowly, as if to a child. ‘I am trying to find the record of a birth that may have taken place in your country two years ago.’

‘Hold on please, sir. I will direct you to the correct department.’

He waited for two minutes and more, becoming more and more annoyed by the sound of a woman crooning in a tongue he did not understand, but which he recognised as having Bollywood overtones. Finally, she stopped in mid-chorus and was replaced by a man.

‘Yes, sir,’ he began. ‘I understand you are a police officer and are seeking information. Is this an official inquiry?’ His voice was clipped and his accent offered a hint that he might have understood the lyrics of the compulsory music.

‘Of course it is,’ Provan replied, his limited patience close to being exhausted, ‘as official as ye can get. It’s a murder investigation.’

‘In that case, sir, how can I be of help?’

‘Ah’m lookin’ for a birth record. Ah don’t know for certain that it’ll be there, but ma boss has asked me to check it out. All we have is the name of the mother, Antonia Field.’

‘What is the date?’

‘We don’t know that either, just that it was two years ago, in the period between January and June. The lady took six months off work tae have the child, so our guess is that it was probably born round about May or early June.’

‘Field, you said?’

‘Aye, but when she lived in Mauritius she was known as Day Champs.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Day Champs.’

‘Are you trying to say Deschamps, officer?’ He spelled it out, letter by letter.

‘Aye, that’s it.’

‘Very good. I will search for you. If you tell me your number, I will call you back. That way I will know that you really are a policeman.’

‘Fair enough.’ Provan gave the official the switchboard number, and his own extension, then hung up.

With time to kill, he wandered into Lottie Mann’s empty office, sat at her desk, picked up the phone and dialled her number.

She answered on the first ring. ‘Dan?’

‘Aye. How’re ye doin’, kid?’

‘Terrible. Wee Jakey isn’t buying the story about his dad any more. I’ve had to tell him the truth, and it’s breaking his wee heart.’

‘Maybe he’ll be home soon,’ the sergeant suggested, knowing as he spoke how unlikely that was.

‘Get real, Dan,’ she sighed. ‘There’s more. On Sunday I gave Scott thirty quid to take the wee man out for the day. They went to that theme park out near Hamilton. It occurred to me, that’s a hell of a lot more than thirty quid’s worth, so I had a rummage in his half of the wardrobe. I found an envelope in a jacket pocket, with four hundred and twenty quid in it. The envelope had a crest on the back: Brown Brothers Private Hire.’

Provan felt his stomach flip. ‘Lottie,’ he murmured. ‘What are ye telling me this for? Ah’ll have tae report it now.’

‘No you won’t. I’ve done that already, I called ACC Gorman and told her.’ She paused. ‘Here, did you think I was going to cover it up? For fuck’s sake, Danny!’ she protested. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’

‘Aye, right,’ he sighed. ‘Ah shouldae known better. Sorry, lass.’

‘Have they interviewed him yet?’ she asked. ‘The big bosses?’

‘They’ll just be startin’ about now. Ah’m no long back frae seein’ the chief. He was just gettin’ ready to go down there, him and Bridie.’

‘Then God help my idiot husband. There’s no prizes for guessing who’ll play “bad cop” out of that pair, and I would not like that bugger sitting across the table from me. Why were you seein’ him anyway?’ she asked. ‘Are you telling me there’s been a development?’

‘No, just something he asked me to handle for him.’ As he spoke he heard a phone ring outside, then saw Paterson pick up his own line. The DC spoke a few words, then beckoned to him. ‘I think that’s ma contact now,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll need tae go. Ah’ll call ye if I hear anything from the interview.’