Private Investigations

Sixty

‘When I was a laddie,’ Dan Provan said, ‘I used to go fishin’ with my grandpa, on the Clyde, where it runs through Cambuslang. There were hardly any fish there, and those that were wis only a few inches long, but every now and then we’d catch one . . . or he would. I can still remember them lying on the path, flappin’ and gaspin’ till he chucked them back in.’ He smiled. ‘That’s how I feel now, like one o’ them.’

‘A fish out of water?’

‘Exactly, Lottie. See where we were wi’ Skinner yesterday, Newhouse? As far as I’m concerned that’s the boundary of civilisation. Through here? Cannae get my breath.’

‘I’ll throw you back in the river when we’re done here,’ the DI promised, ‘but first we’ve got Mr Hurrell to deal with.’

‘Do Glasgow warrants count in Edinburgh?’

‘Don’t be daft. You know they do.’ She looked at him, as they stood on the pavement. ‘How do you think we should play this?’ she asked, her higher rank deferring to his greater experience.

The sergeant glanced at the four large uniformed officers who stood behind her. ‘Knock politely,’ he replied. ‘If that does nothin’, one of these lads can knock a bit harder. The search warrant gives us right of entry.’

Research had established that the main home of Eden Higgins and his family was an entire house in Moray Place, restored by the businessman to its original eighteenth-century splendour. Its garden flat, which would have been part of the original servants’ quarters, was occupied by Rory Higgins. Because access to the rear of the building was limited, all but one of the family cars were kept in a nearby lane. What had once been stables had become trendy mews conversions; Walter Hurrell lived in one, above a garage big enough to hold four vehicles.

The plan was to arrest him at home, when he returned from work in the evening, but the building had been kept under observation overnight and he had not been seen to leave. Because of the assessed risk, the cobbled lane had been sealed off at either end.

‘You do the honours,’ Mann said.

Provan stepped up to the green-painted door and rapped on the handle. They waited for a full minute then tried again, with the same lack or response.

‘Enough?’ Provan asked.

‘Yes,’ Mann replied. ‘Let’s go in.’ She stood aside as one of the uniforms stepped forward with a red ram. One swing was all that was needed to open the door. The quartet, led by a sergeant, stepped inside and ran up the stairs, weapons drawn, with warning cries of, ‘Armed police.’

Mann made to follow, but the DS held her back. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘This is their job. We wait till it’s clear. I once saw a young DC get shot by going in too early.’

As he spoke, the leader of the armed squad reappeared, at the top of the stairway. ‘You can come up now,’ he called to them. ‘He’s in . . . but then again, he’s not.’

Provan led the way. ‘In there,’ the other sergeant said, pointing towards an open door.

Walter Hurrell was sitting up in bed, naked, leaning back against the headboard, with a duvet bunched at his waist, and a gun lying in his lap. He was staring at the doorway, with the same expression that had registered in his eyes in the instant before he was shot, neatly, just above his right eye.