Pray for the Dying

Fifty-Eight

‘The chief seems in better form today,’ Dan Provan remarked, as they stepped back into the suite in Pitt Street that he had left the week before. ‘When Ah saw him on Thursday, when Ah wis closing this place up, he wis like a panda that discovered he’d slept in and missed his big date wi’ Mrs Panda.’

‘Why’s he interested in Marina Deschamps all of a sudden?’ Lottie Mann pondered.

‘How come you can say that and Ah cannae? Day Champs.’

‘Possibly because I have a wider outlook on life than you, and expose myself to other cultures,’ she suggested. ‘You’ve got no interest in anything that doesn’t involve crime, real or imaginary.’

‘Maybe no’, but Ah’m shit hot at that. Ah’ve thought about puttin’ ma name up for Mastermind.’

Beside him Banjo Paterson spluttered.

‘You can laugh, son, but tell me, how many murders was Peter Manuel convicted of?’

‘Eight.’

‘No, seven. One charge wis dropped for lack of evidence. What was Baby Face Nelson’s real name?’

‘Who was Baby Face Nelson?’

‘Eedjit. Lester Gillis. What was Taggart’s first sergeant called?’

‘Mike?’

‘Naw, he wis the second. It was Peter, Peter Livingstone.’

‘Enough!’ Lottie Mann laughed. ‘If they ever have a “Brain of Cambuslang” contest you might be in with a shout, but until then stop showboating for the lad. All these things happened before he was born.’

‘So did Christmas,’ Provan retorted, ‘but he knows all about that.’

He shuffled off to the desk he had adopted, and dug out the old-fashioned notebook that was still his chosen style of database. He opened it at the most recent entries and found the number of the Mauritian government. He keyed it in and waited.

‘Mr Bachoo, please, Registry Department,’ he asked. ‘Tell him it’s DS Provan again, Strathclyde Police in Glasgow, Scotland.’

Paterson grinned across at him. ‘You didn’t have any problem with that name,’ he said.

‘It sounds like a sneeze. Yes, Mr Bachoo,’ he carried on, without a pause, ‘it’s me again. Ah’ve got another request for ye, another registration Ah’m trying to trace. This one goes back thirty-two years, but Ah’ve got a birth date this time: April the ninth. The name of the wean. . Ah mean the child, is Marina Day Champs. Could ye do that for me?’

‘Without difficulty,’ the official replied. ‘That period has not been computerised yet, and the records are kept on this floor. This time, could you hold on, please. Last week I was reprimanded for making a foreign call without permission.’

‘Aye sure. Sorry about that; your bean counters must be worse than ours.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothin’, nothin’. Ah’ll hold on.’

He leaned back in his chair, the phone pressed loosely to his ear, expecting more Bollywood music but hearing instead only the background chatter of an open-plan office. He glanced across at Paterson’s desk but saw that it was empty, and guessed that the DC and DI were pressing on with their task.

He passed the time by listing, mentally and chronologically, the fictional officers who had been Jim Taggart’s colleagues and successors, and the names of the actors who had played them. He was wondering, not for the first time, about the real relationship between Mike and Jackie, when he heard the phone in Mauritius being picked up.

‘I have it,’ Mr Bachoo announced, sounding pleased with himself. ‘The child Marina Shelby Deschamps, Mauritian citizen, was born in Port Louis on the day you mentioned and registered on the following day. The mother was Sofia Deschamps, Mauritian citizen, and the father, who registered the birth, is named as Hillary, with two ls, Shelby, Australian citizen. I could fax this document to you; my superior has given me permission.’

‘If ye would, Ah’d appreciate that.’ He scrambled through the papers on the desk, and found the Pitt Street fax number, which he read out, digit by digit. ‘Thanks, Mr Bachoo. Ah’m pretty sure that’ll be all.’

‘It was a pleasure, Detective Sergeant. As I believe you say, no worries.’

Provan smiled as he hung up, then added the name he had been given to his notebook. ‘Hillary Shelby,’ he murmured. ‘Hillary Shelby.’ And then he frowned, as another potential Mastermind answer popped out of his mental treasure chest.

‘Hillary Shelby,’ he repeated as he booted up his computer. ‘Now that name definitely rings a bell.’