Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (25 page)

‘Can I go back to St Leonards?’

I patted him on the back. ‘And to that nice tailored uniform?’

‘Mmm,’ he mused. ‘What’s a wee bit of methane against that? Maybe not.’

They’d been gone for around twenty minutes when Alison arrived. I hung her light raincoat . . . it had been drizzling slightly while I ran . . . in my room, and we headed for the Command Corridor, where the dining room is located.

‘On Friday,’ I said as we walked. ‘I’d been thinking that we’d all go in my car.’

‘Me too,’ she agreed, readily.

‘In that case . . .’ I told her about Thornton’s death.

She was shocked. ‘Bob, that’s awful. So sudden. How did Alex take it?’

‘Better than I did. I won’t go into detail just now, in case it makes me cry. That wouldn’t look good in here.’

She squeezed my arm. ‘I don’t know about that. It’s a new man thing, and new men are all the rage.’

‘I’ll stick to being an old one,’ I said, ‘or middle-aged . . . young middle-aged . . . approaching middle-age. Anyway, the funeral’s on Friday afternoon, in Lanarkshire. Will you come with Alex and me? We can head for the boat afterwards.’

She stopped walking, and whistled. ‘Are you sure about that, Bob? This is a family funeral after all.’

‘A very small family now.’

‘Still, I’m not part of it. What would Alex think?’

‘What should she think?’ I asked.

‘Well, that we were . . . more than we are.’

‘She knows how we are, and she’s happy with it. Ali, I’d like you to come.’ I realised that it was true; I wasn’t just saying it because her presence would have been convenient. I hadn’t gone to anything with a partner since Myra died. Indeed, I’d never gone to anything with a partner other than Myra.

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll come, depending of course on . . .’

‘I know, I know, I know: the fucking job. That goes for us both. If there’s a crisis, everything comes second.’

‘What would you be if you weren’t a cop, Bob?’

That was a question I’d put to myself, often. As I’ve said, a few years before I’d been close to becoming a lawyer, although I would have been miserable as the sort of general solicitor that my father was. Probably I’d have made my way to the Bar, with a criminal practice as my objective, or I’d have joined the Crown Office, to concentrate on prosecution. But that was then; my thinking had changed over the years, and journalism had become more attractive to me. I’d a journo friend called Xavi Aislado, a big, serious man, widely regarded as the best reporter in the country. I admired him and could have seen myself trying to fill his enormous shoes. But in truth each of those options would have been a bad second best. If I was snatched away from the job I loved, I’d have been . . .

‘Lost,’ I replied. ‘You?’

‘A lecturer in criminology,’ she replied without a moment’s hesitation. ‘If I couldn’t do it for any reason, I’d want to teach it.’

I opened the dining-room door and ushered her in. While I was a newcomer, in my own right, I’d been there often enough as a guest. I looked around. The chief constable was there, deep in discussion with his deputy. He waved an acknowledgement to me, and I nodded in return. I spotted Alf Stein too, sharing a table with Alastair Grant and big John McGrigor. John was head of CID in the Borders division. He was a massive bloke; he’d been a lock forward in his youth, and he was so much a part of his territory that he could never be moved out of it.

We took a table for two at the wall. Maisie the waitress, as much of a fixture on her patch as McGrigor was on his, gave us a minute or so to study the menu . . . comfort food, most of it; Alf Stein called the dining room ‘the cholesterol highway’ . . . then appeared at my side to take our orders: two ham salads, the chef’s only concession to weight-watching, and sparkling water.

‘So what did Alex say?’ Alison asked quietly.

I told her, word for word, and I saw her eyes moisten. ‘I see what you mean about crying,’ she murmured. ‘Bob,’ she continued, ‘you mustn’t build her hopes up about you and me.’

‘Don’t worry about it. She knows where you and I are. Any problem would come if we moved beyond that.’ I told her about Alex’s
EastEnders
gag, and she laughed out loud, drawing a glance from big John.

‘Who does she think we are? Den and Angie or Grant and Sharon?’

‘Anybody but Pat and Frank.’

‘Anybody but any of them, I think. But not to worry.’ She looked across at me, raising an eyebrow. ‘She’s probably building her hopes up about you and her disc jockey friend.’

I kept my face straight. ‘Oh yes,’ I murmured. ‘The murder victims’ sister, the murderer’s niece, Tony Manson’s mistress’s daughter, all rolled up in one. That would go down well in here.’

‘Wouldn’t it just?’ she agreed. ‘But love is blind, they say.’

‘It would have to be fucking stupid as well.’ The point was unarguable . . . so why was I still struggling to convince myself?

Lunch arrived, and we got down to business as we ate, planning our approach to Robert Wyllie. ‘What’s making you twitch most about his statement?’ I asked her.

‘It’s the pub itself. It’s called Pink’s, and Wyllie described it as a gay bar. That was accepted by the interviewing officers, but when I described it that way to the station commander, he told a different story. He drinks there himself, and he told me that while it has a certain gay clientele, they’re almost exclusively women. It’s much the same as the Giggling Goose; gays go there because they know they’re not going to be hassled by the rest of the clientele. That’s the way these places are marketed.’

‘Indeed? So you’re thinking that if you were hanging around there waiting for a shirt-lifter to bash, you couldn’t always be certain who was and who wasn’t.’

She smiled. ‘Your turn of phrase not mine, but yes.’

‘So Mr Wyllie’s been telling us porkies.’ I sucked in a breath. ‘Wasting police time during a murder investigation. Wait till we put that to him.’

We lingered over coffee, to keep our visitor waiting for a little longer, before I settled the bill and we made our way back to Serious Crimes. Andy Martin was at his desk, but McGuire was absent. ‘Have you got him?’ I asked.

‘Yes, boss,’ the blond DC replied. ‘Mario’s keeping him company; interview room three. When I left he was beaming at him like Shere Khan about to have Mowgli for dinner.’

‘Have you read
The Jungle Book
, or just seen the movie?’ I laughed. ‘We’d better get down there or there’ll only be bones left.’

Alison and I made our way down a couple of flights of stairs to the level where what we called our ‘guest rooms’ were located. Room three was signed ‘occupied’ but I ignored that and opened the door without knocking. I let her go in first, and stood just outside for a few seconds sizing up the scene. Robert Wyllie was sitting at a small Formica-topped table with a madly marked top, on which sat an ashtray . . . empty . . . and a twin-deck recorder. He was slightly built, with a pale face and pinched mouth, frowning and nervous as he faced Mario McGuire, massive and smiling. I knew as surely as if I’d been a fly on the wall that the DC had not said a word to him in all the time they’d been alone together, and from the look of relief on Wyllie’s face as Alison walked in, I judged that he was well marinated. When I stepped in after her, not smiling, his expression became much less certain.

McGuire rose from his chair and went to stand in the corner, but still in Wyllie’s eyeline. Alison and I took his place. I glared across the desk. There’s this thing I’ve always tried to do with a suspect, or a dodgy witness. I lock my eyes on theirs, I never look away, and I never blink. It’s surprising how effective that’s been over the years. I’ve stared down some tough guys, until they were ready to tell me their life stories.

Robert Wyllie wasn’t even a wee bit tough, however much he tried to appear so, in his biker jacket and with his dagger tattoo, carefully located so that the tip always peeked out from under his cuff. It took less than half a minute for him to look down at the tabletop, then to gaze up at Alison, timidly, and exclaim, ‘What?’

‘Don’t look away from me,’ I barked at him. ‘This isn’t a scene from a crime novel. DI Higgins isn’t “good cop”. We’re all “bad cop”, all three of us. We’re all mightily pissed off at you, and do you know why?’

He opened his mouth, but I reached across the table and closed it for him, forcing his jaws together before he could make a sound.

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ I shouted. ‘When you were interviewed about the attack on you and Weir, you told us that it was a mugging gone wrong. You told us that you and your now deceased mate hung around Pink’s bar waiting for a gay to beat up. You told the interviewing officers that it was a homosexual hangout and they bought that story. Okay, the bar staff in Pink’s couldn’t remember seeing anyone matching the description you gave in the pub that night. “Orange hair, officer? No, sorry. But it was very busy, and there was a party of students in, all in fancy dress for some daft student reason, so maybe . . .” But that’s not why nobody could remember the guy you described, is it?’

I leaned across the table. ‘No, Wyllie,’ I continued, ‘they couldn’t because your story was a lie, your description was a fucking lie, and because of it you’ve sent an entire police investigation off chasing wild geese for a whole bloody week! Pink’s isn’t a gay bar, not for the men at any rate, so your loitering story just doesn’t add up. You and your mate were up to something completely different. This is a murder investigation now, chum; it was serious before, but it’s front page now, so you are in very deep shit with us.’

I nodded to my left. ‘See that tape recorder? That is your shovel. You can use it to dig yourself out by telling us exactly what did happen, or we can just switch it on to record us charging you with wasting police time, perverting the course of justice, and public urination too, if we feel like it.’

Wyllie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay,’ he whispered, ‘but you’ve got to give me protection.’

‘No, mate,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got to tell us the truth. After that we’ll see what you’re worth.’

Alison checked that there were fresh tapes in the deck and switched it on, then she spoke, identifying everyone in the room. ‘Mr Wyllie,’ she continued, ‘please give us your account of what happened on the night you and the late Archie Weir were attacked. I repeat Detective Superintendent Skinner’s earlier warning that any further statements you make that are found to be false will make you liable to be prosecuted.’

‘Aye, okay,’ he grunted.

‘Speak clearly, for the tape,’ she admonished him. ‘Now go on, but take your time; you need to get everything right.’

‘I will, I will,’ he said, loudly. ‘Okay, Archie and I didnae wait outside Pink’s that night, like I said before. We were in the pub ourselves. So was the bloke that stabbed us. He didnae have orange hair either. It was black; everything about him was black. His jacket, his polo neck, his troosers.’

‘Did he have a moustache?’ I asked.

‘No, he didnae; nor even a stubble.’

‘What made you notice him?’ Alison continued.

‘It was him that noticed us. He came up to the bar for a drink, and he bumped into Archie. Then he gave him the look, like, and said, “Watch it, mate.” Archie said, “What are you fuckin’ on about? You bumped me.” Then the guy said, “That’s the fuckin’ least of it. Hard man, eh.” Archie just shrugged and said, “Aye, fine, have it your way,” but the guy wouldnae let it go. He said to Archie again, “Fuckin’ hard man, eh,” and he kept on lookin’ at him.’

‘Did anyone notice this exchange?’

‘No. The bloke was quiet-spoken, ken.’

‘Did you become involved?’

‘Me? No’ me. I thought he was drunk at first, but I saw that he wisnae. He was fuckin’ spooky though, I’ll tell you. I could see that Archie was a wee bit scared, ken. He just said, “No, no’ me, sorry, pal,” and turned his back on him. The guy leaned over and whispered, “See you later,” then he went away.’

‘But not for good?’

‘Ah could see him in the mirror behind the bar. He was standing at the back of the bar, near a’ those students, but he’d his eyes on us too. After a wee bit, he put his pint on the shelf behind him and he went off tae the gents’. I told Archie . . . he was still shakin’, ken . . . and I said, “Let’s get out of here.” And we did. We got fuckin’ out of Dodge like, and headed up Morrison Street as far as Grove Street. I never thought he’d come after us, but he did. We never heard him though, or even saw him. The first Ah knew was when he stabbed me in the leg. I yelled and I went down, but he didnae bother wi’ me after that; he went after Archie before he could move and he stabbed him, half a dozen times at least.’

‘Can you describe the knife?’ I asked him.

Wyllie winced. ‘It was fuckin’ sharp,’ he whimpered. ‘It was big, no a wee dagger like, or a flick knife, but that’s all I can tell ye.’

‘Okay. Go on.’

He blew out his breath. ‘Archie stopped movin’ after a while. Ah thought he was dead, then the guy came back to me and I thought I was too, but he never touched me. He just said, “Tell no one, or you’re on the same train to heaven as your pervie pal there.” He was walking away, when the other bloke came round the corner and found us. He never ran or anything, just kept on walking, and the bloke never even looked at him.’

‘That’s borne out by the other witness’s statement,’ Alison confirmed. ‘He only referred to finding the two wounded men. He never mentions the attacker.’ She frowned across the table. ‘So, Mr Wyllie,’ she continued, ‘that’s the truth, is it?’

He nodded.

‘The tape doesn’t have a camera,’ I growled. ‘You need to say it.’

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s the truth. Honest.’

‘So where did all that other shite come from? Why did you make it up?’

‘I had tae say something. I didn’t want you lot asking questions and findin’ out about the guy pickin’ on us in the pub, so I just made up that story about queer-bashin’. I don’t want him coming after me.’

‘Is . . . queer-bashing as you call it . . . something that you and Weir have done in the past?’ Alison snapped.

Wyllie shifted in his chair, glanced at me, and thought better of replying.