Private Investigations

Twenty-Two

‘Is there anything in this part of Edinburgh that isn’t a student flat?’ Sammy Pye wondered, as he and his sergeant walked along Davie Street, searching for number seventy-seven.

‘Not much,’ Haddock replied. ‘I lived here myself for a while when I was one of the rarely washed. My mum was terrified; she thought the place was a fire trap. She was probably right, but it looks as if it’s been refurbished since then.’

‘What was the number again?’

‘Seventy-seven, F two A. That’s it, look.’ He pointed to a backlit panel beside a blue-painted entrance door, then pressed a button.

‘Hi, who’s that?’ a bright young female voice asked.

‘Detective Sergeant Harold Haddock, Edinburgh CID, with Detective Chief Inspector Pye. We’re looking for Anna Hojnowski, also known as Anna Harmony.’

‘Singer? She’s out. I suppose she’s down at Lacey’s, dancing on her pole.’ The speaker fell silent. The DS pressed the button again.

‘What?’ The girl had a low annoyance threshold.

‘We need a word,’ Haddock said.

‘Sure you do,’ she drawled, sarcastically. ‘This is a raid, isn’t it? I’ve heard you lot have been cracking down on students lately, since the national shock troops replaced our so-called friendly local bobbies.’

‘So young and yet so cynical,’ the DS chuckled. ‘If this was a drugs bust, it would be two detective constables ringing your doorbell, and at least one would be female . . . in case of a strip search,’ he added. ‘We don’t give a bugger what you’ve been inhaling, miss. We need to talk to you about Singer, okay? You can come down here if you want but it’s fucking Baltic.’

The young woman gave in. ‘All right, all right. Come on up, if you insist.’ A buzzing sound came from the doorframe; the DS pushed and it swung open.

‘Nice touch about the female DC,’ Pye murmured as they jogged up the two flights of stairs.

The door of 2A was open as they stepped on to the second-floor landing; a tall blond girl in black leggings and a sweatshirt with Prince Harry’s face emblazoned on it stood, waiting. ‘I’m Celia Brown,’ she announced, in a polished accent that came from somewhere well south of Edinburgh. ‘Can I see your ID?’

‘We insist that you do,’ the DCI said as they produced their warrant cards and held them up for inspection.

When Celia was satisfied, she stood aside and let them in; the atmosphere was a cocktail of odours, a mix of cosmetics and fried food. ‘The living room is straight ahead.’

They stepped through the door she indicated. Inside, another blonde, who was lounging on a sofa, frowned at them over her shoulder. ‘Corrie’s on,’ she complained. ‘Take them into the kitchen, Celia.’

Haddock smiled; he picked up a remote from the arm of the couch and pressed a button. The screen froze. ‘I’ve got the same Freeview box,’ he explained. ‘You can watch the rest when we’re done.’

‘Bugger!’

‘And you are, miss?’ Pye asked.

‘Ilse Brogan.’

‘You’re a student too?’

‘Of course, we all are. Celia and I are doing math and economics, Singer’s doing business studies.’

‘Anna’s a student?’

‘Of course. Just because she pays her way by gyrating round a pole for sweaty middle-aged losers, don’t assume that she’s dumb.’

‘That’s right,’ Celia chipped in. ‘She makes more cash on that bloody pole than she will when she graduates and gets a proper job.’

‘The tips are that good?’

‘They are in the private booths, where special services can be offered.’

‘Are you saying Singer’s a hooker?’ Haddock exclaimed.

‘Not really, but if a punter wants a hand job, it’s fifty quid. She’s a nice girl, but she’s not a posh bird like us, with a well-heeled daddy behind her, so it’s hard for her to turn down easy money.’

‘Is that why her boyfriend caused a ruck in there one night?’

‘Dino could start a ruck in an empty house,’ Ilse volunteered. ‘He’s a creep. I don’t know why she’s so smitten by him.’

Celia smiled. ‘There is a certain rough charm about him.’

‘He’s as charming as a rabid dog,’ her flatmate declared. ‘I think that Celia puts up with him,’ she told the detectives, ‘because she has a crush on his friend.’

‘I don’t see Jagger as being in Celia’s league,’ the DCI observed.

Both young women laughed. ‘God, not him!’ Ilse hooted. ‘I mean the other one, Ian, the brooding guy that Dino’s going to call Drizzle once too often.’

‘How did they meet, Singer and Dean?’

Celia frowned. ‘I’m not sure. He just seemed to materialise, like some nasty weather.’

‘Does he ever stay over here?’

‘No, that’s not allowed; it’s a house rule. We don’t have the space here, plus the walls are like paper.’

‘So where do they go for . . . privacy?’

‘Dino’s place, I suppose. It’s out at the seaside somewhere, I believe. If she’s not on her pole . . .’

‘She isn’t,’ Haddock said.

‘Then that’s where I’d go looking for her.’

‘If they were there we’d have been told by now.’

‘I know how they met.’

Three heads turned towards Ilse Brogan.

‘Enlighten us, please,’ Pye invited her.

‘Singer’s a couple of years older than we are, yet she’s a year behind us at uni. She came to Scotland with Polish entrance qualifications, and had to get them upgraded before she could start a degree course. She had a job while she was studying for her Highers. She worked in a factory, and sometimes she babysat for the guy who owned it. Between us, I think she might have had a small fling with him, but if she did, it wasn’t serious.’

‘I’ve never heard this before,’ Celia murmured.

‘No, but you only moved in here last autumn. This story goes back before that.’

Haddock nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Some time early last year, in the spring maybe, Singer told me that her old boss had been in touch and invited her to a party in his new house. His marriage had broken up and he was celebrating, he told her. She went along. I don’t know if the chap had any ideas, but if he did, they didn’t work out, for that was the night when Anna met Dino Francey. One of the people at the party was drunk and he made a pass at her. Dino saw him off, and that was the start of it all.’

‘Interesting,’ the DS said. ‘Can you remember where this party happened?’

‘Sure, and I can even tell you the name of the host. It was in North Berwick, and his name was Callum Sullivan. He introduced the two of them, Singer and Dino.’

The two detectives stared at each other. ‘Are you sure about that?’ Pye asked.

‘Of course. Singer had a Christmas card from him.’ Ilse frowned. ‘What’s this about anyway? Are you going to tell us? So far you’ve done nothing but ask questions.’

‘No, we’re not going to tell you,’ Pye replied. ‘All I will say is that it’s Dean Francey we need to locate, not Singer, but as far as we can see, she’s our best route to him. So when she shows up, tell her to get in touch with us. I repeat, tell her, don’t ask her.’

He caught a look in Celia’s eye, an anxious look. ‘Ian’s not involved in whatever it is, is he?’

He smiled. ‘No. As far as we can tell he’s on the side of the good guys.’

They left the two students to return to Coronation Street, and made their way back outside. ‘I’ll drop you at the office,’ the DCI told Haddock, ‘so you can pick up your car.’

‘I’d expect no less,’ Haddock replied cheerfully. ‘What’s tomorrow’s priority?’ he asked.

‘Assuming Dino hasn’t turned up, we visit the man Mackail. In fact, we might ask him to visit us, just to sweat him up a little. After that, another chat with Callum Sullivan would seem in order.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ the DS agreed.

He was just about to slide into Pye’s car when his phone sounded. ‘That’s probably Cheeky, telling me my salad’s in the oven,’ he said as he took it from his pocket. ‘No it’s not,’ he murmured as he checked the screen. ‘It’s Jackie.’

‘Sarge,’ she exclaimed as soon as he answered, ‘I’ve just had a call from the control room.’ Her tone told him, unequivocally, that their working day was not complete.

‘A patrol car just answered a call to a location on the road to the Glencorse Reservoir, just past the Flotterstone Inn. They found a Toyota car abandoned and burned out. The number matches Donna Rattray’s Aygo.’ Her voice quivered with tension.

‘There are two bodies inside,’ she added.