Natural Causes (31 page)

58

Interview room four was a dark little space, its tiny, high window obscured by the later addition of ductwork to the outside of the building. The air conditioning unit clonked and burbled, but didn't seem to be conditioning any of the air it dribbled into the room. At least it wasn't too warm yet, the full heat of the sun some hours away.

Christopher Roberts looked as if he hadn't slept a wink since McLean had seen him at McAllister's the day before. He was wearing the same suit, and his face was frizzed with a dark shadow of stubble. He'd been picked up by a patrol car at the Bridge Motel in Queensferry, which was an odd place to stay for a man who lived in Cramond. The number plate on his shiny red BMW matched the partial DC MacBride had managed to lift from the CCTV footage of the car that had picked up Chloe Spiers. It might have been a coincidence; plenty of dark coloured BMWs with that year number and first two letters. But lately McLean had been seeing rather too much coincidence to believe in it any more.

'Why didn't you go home last night, Mr Roberts?' McLean asked after the formalities of the interview had been dispensed with. Roberts didn't answer, instead studied his hands and picked at his fingernails.

'OK then,' McLean said. 'Let's start things simple. Who are you working for?'

'I work for Carstairs Weddell, the solicitors. I'm a partner in their conveyancing department.'

'That much I know already. Tell me why you were in Tommy McAllister's office yesterday. You were arranging the sale of Farquhar House in Sighthill. Who was the buyer?'

Roberts' face went pale and beads of sweat started to swell on his forehead. 'I can't. Client confidentiality.'

McLean grimaced. This wasn't going to be easy. 'OK, then. Tell me this. Where did you take Chloe Spiers after you picked her up on Princes Street at eleven thirty the night before last?'

'I... I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Mr Roberts, we have CCTV footage of Miss Spiers getting into your car. Even now our forensic experts are taking it apart. It's only a matter of time before they find evidence that she was in it. Now where did you take her?' This was a lie. The car was in the police garage, it was true, but how long it would take to persuade the forensic experts to get to work on it was anyone's guess.

'I can't say.'

'But you did take her somewhere.'

'Please, don't make me say anything. They'll kill me if I say anything. They'll kill my wife.'

McLean turned to Grumpy Bob, who was leaning against the wall behind him. 'Get a patrol car around to Mr Roberts' house and take his wife into protective custody.'

The sergeant nodded and left the room. McLean turned his attention back to Roberts.

'If someone's been threatening you, Mr Roberts, then it's best you tell us who they are. We can protect you and your wife. But if you keep silent and Chloe Spiers is hurt, then I'll make sure you go to prison for a very long time.' He let the words hang in the air, falling silent for the long minutes it took for Grumpy Bob to return. Roberts didn't say a word.

'Tell me how you persuaded Chloe to get in,' McLean said after a while. 'She's a smart kid, so I'm told. She wouldn't just jump into a car with any old stranger.'

Roberts kept his mouth shut, his eyes wide with fear.

'It wasn't a chance meeting, you were looking for her weren't you.'

'I... It shouldn't have been me. They made me do it. They said they'd hurt Irene.'

'Who should it have been, Mr Roberts? Should it have been Fergie? Did they make you pretend to be him?'

Roberts said nothing, but his head nodded imperceptibly, as if he wasn't even aware of it.

'So who's Fergie? And why couldn't he do it himself?'

Roberts clamped his mouth shut, twisting his hands together in his lap like a schoolboy who needs to be excused. The fear was like a fever on him, God alone knew what had been used to scare him so. McLean knew it was no good; he wouldn't say anything at least until he knew his wife was safe. Maybe not even then. But he also reckoned he knew why Fergie had failed to turn up for his appointment with Chloe Spiers. Now all he had to do was prove it.

*

HMP Saughton was not a place you would want to visit often. McLean hated it, and not just for the inmates he'd put inside its lifeless walls. There was something about the prison that sucked the joy out you, drained your will to live. He'd visited plenty of other jails in his career, and they all had it to some extent, but Saughton was worst.

They were shown into a small room with a single, high window and no air conditioning. Even though it was still morning, the heat was enough to be uncomfortable. McReadie's lawyer was already there, waiting. His gaunt face, hooked nose and long mane of silver hair made him look like a vulture; no doubt why he had chosen his profession in the first place.

'You understand that this constitutes harassment of my client, inspector.' No handshake, no nod of greeting or casual hello.

'Your client is a suspect in a child abduction. If that becomes a murder investigation, then I'll show you the meaning of harassment.' McLean stared at the lawyer, who sat impassively and did not respond. Grumpy Bob lurked in the corner, leaning against the wall. After a few minutes, a guard arrived, pushing Fergus McReadie ahead of him. He shoved the prisoner into a seat, jerked his thumb at the door, presumably to indicate that he would be outside if needed, then retreated. The lock clacked shut, just the four of them alone.

McReadie looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well since he'd been placed here on remand. It was a far cry from his usual haunt, the penthouse apartment, neighbour to the stars. He bent towards his solicitor, who whispered something in his ear, then straightened up again, shaking his head and scowling.

'Prison suits you, Fergus,' McLean said, leaning back in his chair.

'That's a pity. I wasn't planning on staying here long.' McReadie sat uncomfortably, his hands cuffed together, his prison clothes ill-fitting for a man used to designer wear.

'You must think you're on easy street, Fergus. White collar crime, a little bit of hacking, a bit of light burglary. Your record's pretty clean, so the judge'll go easy, even if I ask the chief constable to put in a word. You never know, a good lawyer and you might get away with five years. Knock that back to eighteen months for good behaviour. An open prison, since you're not a violent man. Not much, really, for robbing the dead.'

McReadie said nothing, just stared insolently. McLean smiled at him, leaning forward. 'But if word got out in here that you'd been grooming a fifteen year old girl for sex. Well, prisoners are an odd lot. They have this strangely warped moral code. And they like to make the punishment fit the crime, if you see what I mean.'

Silence fell on the room, but McLean could see that his words had got through. The look of insolence disappeared, replaced by a worried stare. McReadie's eyes darted to the door, to his brief, then back to McLean, who leant back in his chair and let the silence grow.

'You've got nothing on me. It's not true.' McReadie broke first.

'Mr McReadie, I'd advise you not to say anything,' the solicitor said. McReadie stared at him, an angry scowl on his face. McLean read the animosity and decided to play it.

'We've got your emails, and Chloe's too. Oh, I think we've got plenty on you, Fergie. Was that wise, using your own name?'

'It... It wasn't like that.'

'What was it like, then? Love?'

'I cannae tell youse. He'll kill me.'

'Mr McReadie, as your solicitor I must insist...'

'Who'll kill you?'

McReadie didn't answer. McLean could see the fear in his eyes; it would be hard to break that. Roberts he could understand, but McReadie was a hard man. What had they done to get to him so badly?

'We've picked up Christopher Roberts, Fergus. He had quite a lot to say about you. How you groomed young Chloe. What was it about her that attracted you? She's almost of age. I thought you lot liked them a bit younger.'

'What d'you mean, you lot? I'm no' a kiddie fiddler.' Anger blazed in McReadie's eyes. McLean had hit a nerve.

'So you just like to hang around teenage girls' internet chatrooms, that it?'

'I didnae choose her. They gave me her name. I was just doin' my job.'

'Who gave you her name? What job?'

McReadie said nothing, but McLean could see he was scared of something, worried he might have said too much already. He decided to change tack.

'Why did you try to set me up, Fergus? Was it just petty revenge because I'd caught you?'

McReadie laughed, a nervous little wheeze. 'And waste all that money? You're joking. It was my stupid mistake you caught me. I don't hate you for that.'

'All part of the game, eh. So why'd you do it then? You saying someone set you up to it? They give you the drugs too?'

McReadie's face was a picture as competing emotions fought across it. He was scared, true. Someone had put the wind up him good and proper. But he was also a chancer desperate to play his way out of this hole. 'What's in it for me, eh? Get me out of this shite-hole. Get me on a witness protection scheme an' maybe I'll tell youse.'

'I think I'd like to talk to my client alone for a moment,' the solicitor said. His vulture face looked like he'd been sucking lemons, his eyes popping wider and wider as McReadie had incriminated himself.

McLean nodded. 'That's probably not a bad idea. Try and talk some sense into him. If the girl's hurt, then all deals are off.'

He stood up. Grumpy Bob knocked to have the door unlocked. Outside in the corridor, they were accosted by another prison guard.

'Inspector McLean?'

'Yes?'

'Phone call for you, sir.'

McLean followed him out, along the corridor to an office, where a telephone handset lay on the desk. He picked it up. 'McLean.'

'MacBride here, sir. I think you might want to come over. They've found a body. It's just round the corner from your grandmother's house.'

*

He remembered playing in this dark little cul-de-sac as a child. Back then it had been a regular haunt of walkers, the road giving way to a leafy track that angled down the steep side of a narrow glen to the river. Without adequate street lighting, it had fallen out of favour in recent years and was now so overgrown as to be almost impassable. Discarded coke cans, chip pokes and used condoms showed the use it was being put to nowadays.

Squad cars blocked the road completely, forcing them to park some distance away. McLean and Grumpy Bob walked down the uneven pavement in the shade of huge mature sycamores towards the knot of uniforms clustered at the end

'Over here, sir.' DC MacBride waved them towards the dense bushes and a couple of paper-overalled figures kneeling down.

'Who found it?' McLean asked.

'Old lady walking her dog, sir. It wouldn't come when she called it, so she came down to see what was so interesting.'

'Where is she now?'

'They've taken her off to hospital. She had quite the shock.'

At the sound of the detective constable's voice, the white-overalled figure with his back to them stood up and turned. 'You do bring me the most interesting bodies, Tony,' Angus Cadwallader said. 'This one seems to have been beaten heavily with fists. I've seen similar bruising on men injured in bare-knuckle boxing fights. Only there doesn't seem to be enough damage to have killed him.'

McLean stepped forward to view the body. He had been a short, stout man, though perhaps bloating had made his stomach stretch at his pale blue shirt a bit more than it would have done in life. He lay sprawled in the leaf mould, arms thrown out as if he had just rolled onto his back to have a snooze. His head was tilted over to one side, his face bruised, nose broken. His clothes were tattered and dirty, a tiny red 'virgin rail' insignia on his dark blue jacket.

'Have we got an ID?'

DC MacBride handed over a slim leather wallet. 'He was carrying this, sir. Face fits the photo in his driver's licence.'

'David Brown, South Queensferry. Why does that name ring a bell?'

Grumpy Bob came forward, knelt down and looked at the dead man.

'I know who this is,' he said quietly. 'I interviewed him just a few days ago. He was driving the train that hit Sally Dent. What in God's name is he doing here?'

~~~~

59

The post mortem on David Brown was scheduled for later that afternoon. McLean filled the time by wading through the mountain of paperwork on his desk. It didn't matter that he had been told to take a week's leave, the overtime sheets, requisition orders and a thousand and one other useless bits and pieces had still continued to mount up. What would happen if he disappeared for a whole month? Would the office eventually choke up with paper? Or would someone else finally roll up their sleeves and get on with it?

A knock at the door distracted him. Looking up, he saw DC MacBride staring wide-eyed at the chaos.

'Come in, constable. If you can find some room.'

'It's all right, sir. I just thought you ought to know. They're going to charge Emma this afternoon.'

'What with?' McLean clenched his fists in embarrassment and anger. In all the rushing about with brown, she'd slipped his mind.

'Dagwood wants to go the whole hog with accessory to murder, but I think the super's persuaded him to go with perverting the course.'

'Shit. Do you think she did it, Stuart?'

'Do you, sir?'

'No. But if they're charging her, then they must have some evidence.'

'You've been into the SOC lab, sir. You know they all share their computers and passwords. Security's a joke.'

McLean had a thought. 'That site where you found the pictures. Is it still up?'

MacBride nodded. 'It's hosted on an overseas server. Could take us months to get it pulled.'

'And the crime scenes aren't identified, are they. There's just the pictures.'

'And dates, sir. But no location descriptions. Just stuff like 'crushed torso' and 'cut throat'.'

'Lovely. Have we been able to identify the other scenes posted by MB, whoever she, or he, is?'

'I don't think anyone's tried, sir. The photos from Smythe's and Stewart's crime scenes were enough. Emma was SOC photographer at both.'

'But everyone had access to her computer. And we spread those photos around our incident rooms like it was Christmas. Do me a favour, Stuart. Emma was based in Aberdeen before she came down here. Get a sample of the earlier photos and send them up to Queen Street. See if anyone recognises them as coming from their patch. And find out who else has transferred into our SOC team recently. Do the same for their old areas.'

'I'm on it, sir.' MacBride's eyes filled with enthusiasm as he hurried off to complete his task. McLean wished he could borrow some of it; he'd hardly made any progress on the paperwork. He reached forward for the next folder full of meaningless numbers, knocking the whole pile to the floor by mistake.

'Bollocks!' He squeezed out from behind the desk and bent down to pick up the papers. There were a few case files in with them, and one had fallen open. The dead face of Jonathan Okolo stared up at him with accusing eyes. He picked it up, and was about to put it back in the folder when he noticed the case file for Peter Andrews' suicide lying close by. He flicked it open, seeing another dead face. That same reproachful stare, as if they were criticising him for not caring enough. But what had the two of them got in common, apart from being dead?

'Well, they both slit their throats in a public place.' McLean barely recognised the voice as his own. It was a wild thought, but easily-enough checked. And far more interesting than wading through the monthly crime-report statistics. He grabbed both photographs, shoved them in his jacket pocket and headed out the door.

*

The Feasting Fox was quiet in the afternoon; just a few late lunchtime drinkers cooling their throats before braving the shops once more. A chip-fat fug hung in the air, almost but not quite overpowering the smell of coffee from an underused espresso machine behind the bar. Fewer than half the tables were occupied, and the barman looked bored as he polished glasses, his eyes focussed on something far away.

'Pint of Deuchars,' McLean said, noticing the hand pump.

'Deuchars's off.' The barman twisted the clip-on label around the handle so it faced away from the punters.

'Never mind then.' McLean reached into his pocket and drew out the two photographs. He put the first one down on the bar, Peter Andrews. 'This man ever come in here?'

'Who's asking?'

McLean sighed, reaching for his warrant card. 'I am. And it's a murder investigation, so being helpful would be your best course of action right now.'

The barman peered at the photo for all of two seconds, then said: 'Yeah, he drinks here most evenings. Works round the block somewhere. Not seen him recently, mind.'

'Did you ever see him talking to this man?' McLean put down the photograph of Jonathan Okolo. The barman's eyes widened.

'That's the man... You know.'

'Yes, I do know,' McLean said. 'But did you ever see him talking to Peter Andrews here?'

'I don't think so. Can't say as I ever saw him before the night he came in here.'

'And exactly what did you see then?'

'Well, like I told the other officers. I was here at the bar. It was crazy busy, know what it's like, with the fringe and all. But I noticed when this guy comes in, right. Coz he's filthy, acting a bit strange, but he heads straight for the gents before I can get to him. I went after him; we don't want his type in here. But he was bleeding all over the floor. Christ it was a mess.'

'Was there anyone else in the toilets when he killed himself?'

'I dunno. I don't think so.' The barman scratched at his stubble. 'No, hang on. I tell a lie. There was someone came out of there just before I went in. Could've been this man, now you shown me his picture.' He pointed at Peter Andrews.

'I don't suppose you've got CCTV.'

'In the bogs? Nah, that'd be disgusting.'

'What about the rest of the bar?'

'Yeah, there's a couple of cameras, one on the front door, one on the back.'

'How long do you keep the tapes?'

'A week, maybe ten days. Depends.'

'So do you have the tape for the night these two were in here?' McLean pointed to the photographs.

'Nah, sorry. You lot took that one away. Ain't brought it back yet.'

*

'Back it up a bit. That's right. There.'

The quality was worse than the CCTV on Princes Street, one frame every two seconds making the people jump and disappear like insane wizards. Grainy colour and dim lighting didn't help, either, but at least the camera covering the back door to the pub also covered the entrance to the gents toilet.

It hadn't been easy, getting the tape from Duguid. McLean knew he could expect no goodwill from the man; he was an arse, after all. But he wished once in a while that the chief inspector wouldn't be quite so obstructive. Still, he had it now, and in the darkened confines of the video viewing room, otherwise known as interview room four with the blinds drawn, they could watch the drinkers in the Feasting Fox as they clustered tightly together almost two weeks ago.

'Health and safety'd love to see this tape,' MacBride said as a pile of drinkers cluttered up the narrow passageway past the gents towards the back door. From the other camera angle it was easy to see why; the main area of the bar was sardine-packed standing room only. Then the door opened and Jonathan Okolo came in.

He was filthy; you could see that even on the poor quality picture. As he made his way past the camera area in a series of small jumps, the crowd seemed to part around him, like the red sea in front of Moses. McLean had read the witness statement taken at the time, and wondered how it was that no-one had been able to remember seeing much of the man. He must have stunk to high heaven to get them to move like that. But then they were all drinking like booze was going to be banned, and who wanted to talk to the police these days?

A few seconds after disappearing off the first camera, Okolo reappeared on the second one. The crowd in the passageway shifted away from him as he pushed into the gents. There was a pause for a few seconds, and then the door opened again.

'Freeze that,' McLean said. MacBride hit the pause button. It was a strange angle, looking down from the ceiling. And the fish-eye lens distorted features. But for some reason, the man coming out of the gents had looked up as he left, as if he had known that this was his moment in the limelight.

And he was unmistakably Peter Andrews.

~~~~