Private Investigations (25 page)

Forty-Two

‘Thank you for joining us, Mr Sullivan,’ Sammy Pye began as the visitor took a seat in his small office, facing him across his desk. Haddock made up a threesome, looking on from a chair beside the window, through which the low morning sun shone into Sullivan’s face.

‘You’ll remember us, DCI Pye and DS Haddock.’

‘Of course, and thanks for the lift,’ the man replied, taking a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses from the top pocket of his sports jacket and slipping them on. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured. ‘Now I can see you guys properly.’

‘Sure,’ Pye said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine. Anyway, I’m not here for coffee, am I?’

The DCI smiled. ‘Not exactly. We want to give you an update on your stolen car. And we have a couple of questions. We’re recording this for the purposes of our investigation. Although you’re here voluntarily, we’ll be happy if you feel you want to have legal representation.’

‘To hell with that,’ Sullivan retorted. ‘I have nothing to worry about, so I don’t need a lawyer. As for an update, I’ve had that from the papers. You’re dead certain it was the lad Francey who stole it?’

‘One hundred per cent,’ Haddock replied.

‘I see,’ he muttered. ‘The other guy I told you about, the man King who came to see the Bristol: did you get anywhere with him?’

‘No, but frankly we haven’t been looking. He stopped being of interest quite early on.’

‘Good, for he turned out not to be a time-waster after all. He phoned me on Monday evening and said he wanted to buy the Bristol, subject to a road test and independent inspection. We’ve done a deal.’

‘Then we’re happy for you.’

Sullivan frowned. ‘Okay, so you’re sure it was Dean Francey that took the Beamer, and used it to kidnap that poor wee girl. Are you working up to telling me you think our Maxwell might have been involved too?’

‘No, there’s no evidence of that at all,’ Pye said, ‘and it’s never been in our thinking. But that’s not to say that Francey acted alone. We believe that Anna Hojnowski was his accomplice.’

‘The girl that was in the car with him when he was found?’

‘The very same. You probably knew her as Anna Harmony.’

All the colour drained from Sullivan’s face, in an instant. ‘You what . . .’ he gasped.

‘Anna Harmony,’ Haddock repeated. ‘You did know her, didn’t you?’

‘Well, yes, but . . . I never knew that was her real name.’

‘You had a party at your house about a year ago, and she was there, wasn’t she?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, so what?’

‘It wasn’t a casual invitation, was it? You knew her before that.’

‘Yes,’ Sullivan admitted.

‘She worked for you?’ Pye asked.

‘In the factory, that’s right. But I never knew her real name; I didn’t hire her personally, or do the wages. She was always Anna Harmony to me . . . although I did hear people calling her Singer.’

‘And she babysat for you?

‘Once or twice.’

‘And you had a relationship?’

He nodded. ‘For a while.’

‘Was she the cause of your marriage break-up?’

‘Hell no. Janine never knew about her, and anyway there were others. What I told you before, it was true; Janine and I just weren’t suited. We both wanted out. It was amicable, and Anna had nothing to do with it. When the divorce went through she and I weren’t seeing each other.’

‘But you thought you might re-start it?’ the DCI suggested. ‘Was that why you invited her to your party in North Berwick?’

Sullivan’s smile was fleeting, and had a touch of shyness about it. ‘Maybe.’

‘So you must have been pissed off when she and Dean Francey hit it off.’

‘You could say that,’ he snorted. ‘I didn’t even invite him, Maxwell did. I barely knew the guy, and anything I’d heard didn’t impress me. As it’s turned out, I was right. There was an incident,’ he continued. ‘One of my Edinburgh guests had a bit too much and got fresh with Anna. She could have handled it herself, but Francey rode in to her rescue like the Lone fucking Ranger. Maxwell and I had to pull him off the bloke. Anna was impressed, of course; so impressed that she left with him. That was that . . . and it got her killed.’

‘Eventually,’ Haddock agreed. ‘But let’s get back to wee Zena. Does the name Grete Regal mean anything to you?’

‘No. Why? Should it?’

‘I don’t know, that’s why I asked. Thing is, she was Zena’s mother, and at the moment she’s lying in the Western General, unconscious, having had her skull fractured by Dean Francey.’

‘That’s very sad, but . . . so?’

‘So, Mr Sullivan,’ the DS said, ‘you knew Francey, and you knew Anna Harmony. He assaulted the mother and kidnapped the child. She was going to help look after her in a rented cottage up in the Pentlands.’

‘Does that mean they were going to hold her for ransom?’

‘They weren’t taking her on her holidays,’ Pye snapped. ‘She was going to be exchanged for money, or something, that’s for sure, but what’s equally certain is that those two young people, Dino and Singer, weren’t acting on their own initiative.

‘They were being paid to do it. We know that beyond doubt. And what we believe is that when Francey screwed up, the person who paid them shot them both, to silence them for good and all.’

‘Okay,’ Sullivan protested, ‘but why the hell are you talking to me?’

‘Because we have a problem,’ Haddock told him, his ‘good cop’ tone calming the situation. ‘You bank with the Clydesdale in Lothian Road, sir. We know that. It’s quite a way from North Berwick, isn’t it?’

‘Yes I do,’ he agreed. ‘You want to know why? When I sold my company, I had to stay in there for two years because the price was profit-related, over that period. It’s called an earn-out. One of the sale conditions was that its banking had to be integrated with that of the new parent company. So the business accounts moved from HSBC to the Clydesdale. When it happened I was offered sweeteners to shift my personal accounts there as well, so I did. That’s what’s behind it. However,’ he added, ‘my car business accounts are still with Bank of Scotland in North Berwick. Satisfied?’

‘Not quite,’ the DS said. ‘In the middle of last month, you withdrew twelve thousand, in untraceable used notes of the bank’s own issue, from your Clydesdale account. When we searched Dean Francey’s flat on North Berwick Mains Street, we found five thousand, also in untraceable used notes, many of them from the Clydesdale. Given that it’s a relatively small bank and there aren’t a hell of a lot of those around, you might understand our curiosity.’

Sullivan ran his hand over his chin, muttering a muffled, ‘Oh fuck.’

‘Does that mean, “Oh fuck, you’ve got me”, sir?’ Pye asked.

‘I think I want a lawyer,’ the other man replied.

‘If you feel you need one, we’ll suspend this informal discussion and resume it under caution, where everything you say will be on the record.’

Sullivan leaned forward. ‘Look, that money you found in Francey’s, it didn’t come from me. But . . .’

The DCI held up a hand. ‘Stop. If you’re going to admit to criminal activity, yes, probably you do need a lawyer.’

‘I don’t know. Tell me something first. How do you guys relate to the taxman?’

‘HMRC handles its own investigations,’ Pye replied. ‘We don’t report everything we hear to them.’

‘Then don’t report this, and switch off the recorder.’

‘Okay.’ He pressed the ‘stop’ switch.

‘Remember the car I told you about, the Bristol?’

‘Yes.’

‘The twelve grand was for that. I bought it from a classified ad in the local paper. It was only described as a classic car, no make specified, and it was price on application. The seller wanted fifteen K, but he would only do a deal off the books. He said he needed money but he didn’t want his wife to know how much the thing was worth. She’d always thought it was an old junker, so he was going to tell her he got two grand for it and pocket the difference.’

‘Husband of the year, but go on.’

‘Normally,’ Sullivan continued, ‘I wouldn’t do that sort of deal, but the car was worth twenty-five, with a minimum of touching up. So I beat him down to twelve and we shook on it.’

‘As a matter of interest,’ Haddock asked, ‘what’s Mr King paying for it?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Jeez!’ the DS whistled. ‘Gaffer, are you sure that’s not criminal?’

‘Not unless there’s misrepresentation,’ Pye laughed. ‘If someone wants to pay that much for a forty-year-old car, good luck to all parties involved.’

‘That’s right,’ the dealer declared. ‘I’ve had people pay upwards of ten grand for a Mark One Escort, ten times the original costs.’

‘Not this fella,’ the DCI said, tapping his chest. He frowned at Sullivan. ‘You do realise we’ll need to confirm your story with the original seller of the car?’

The dealer shrugged. ‘
Que sera, sera
. His name’s Paul Cockburn and he lives in Longniddry. If you can do it when his wife’s out you’ll be doing him a favour.’

‘We’ll try. Meantime, if you put that sixteen grand profit through your company accounts you’ll be doing yourself a favour. I’m not saying we’d go running to HMRC, but it’s never a good idea to give guys like us a club to hit you with.’

Sullivan winced. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can I go now?’

‘Yes,’ Pye said, ‘we’re done. We’ll arrange a lift back for you.’

‘That’s okay. I’ll hang around town till lunchtime and visit Kayleigh and her mum.’ He sighed as he stood. ‘It’s too bad about Anna; I’m struggling to get my head round that. She was a really nice kid; friendly too. If only I hadn’t let Francey come to that party, they’d never have met. She might even have been with me today.’

‘My granny used to say,’ Haddock murmured, with a wistful smile, ‘“If wishes were horses, we’d all get a hurl.” Maybe she would have been, but I’m not sure how you’d have handled your girlfriend being a pole-dancer, Mr Sullivan.’

The man stared back at him. ‘Why would it bother me? I own Lacey’s. How do you think Anna got the job?’

Forty-Three

‘That’s quite correct,’ DC William Dickson declared. ‘Callum Sullivan bought Lacey’s bar nine years ago; it was called the Peregrine then. His ex-wife’s owned fifty per cent of the place since the divorce, and she’s the licensee of record. It’s vested in a limited company called CJ Inns that owns a total of four pubs in the city.

‘The fact is,’ the DC continued, ‘he’s a very wealthy man; he sold his company, CS Compressors, for eight million. Since then all he’s done is play around with his classic cars, but that’s profitable too. His company accounts showed a taxable profit of a hundred and seventeen thousand pounds in his first year’s trading. He has no debt, he’s a member of the Renaissance and North Berwick golf clubs, and of the New Club in Princes Street.

‘He’s been single since his divorce, with no particular attachments. Everybody likes the guy, including his former brother-in-law, Sergeant Harris. I spoke to him and he’s full of praise for the way that Callum’s looking after his son.

‘Most important of all, I can find absolutely nothing to connect him with Grete Regal. Nothing, period. That’s it, sir, Sarge.’

‘Who bought the company?’ Haddock asked.

‘It’s now a subsidiary of Higgins Holdings,’ the DC replied. ‘That’s the holding company for Eden Higgins, the guy who used to be a furniture tycoon and now does even better as a venture capitalist.’

‘Never heard of him,’ the DS admitted. ‘I don’t read the business press.’

Pye shifted in his chair. ‘Ever heard of Alison Higgins?’

‘Yeah. She was a detective super, wasn’t she? Killed on the job?’

‘That’s right; she was also Eden Higgins’ sister. And Bob Skinner’s . . .’ His voice tailed off.

‘What?’ his colleague asked.

‘Never mind. It was fifteen years ago, and more. Ancient history now.’

‘Okay, so back to the present,’ Haddock declared. ‘If we’re all agreed that Callum Sullivan’s a paragon, now can we have a look at Hector Mackail?’

‘Okay,’ Pye laughed. ‘You win.’

Forty-Four

‘You do realise we might as well have interviewed Sullivan at home,’ Sauce Haddock grumbled as he stared into his cup. ‘Two hours later and here we are in bloody North Berwick . . . again. They should change the name to fucking Punxsutawney.’

‘Puncture-what?’ Pye laughed.

‘Punxsutawney. Have you never seen
Groundhog Day
? It’s about a town where the same thing happens over and over again. That’s us, Sammy. We’re trapped in a fucking time loop.’

‘There are worse places to be trapped, mate. This Sea Bird Centre coffee’s quite acceptable, and so are the scones. I’ll tell you what; there are a couple of holiday parks here, why don’t you and Cheeky buy a wee cabin? Then you can nip down for the weekend.’

‘Why don’t you . . . ’ He threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Sir.’

Pye reached down and picked up a document case from the side of his chair, then produced an iPad. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at Dickson’s report on Mackail.’ He opened a Pages document and read through it. ‘The business was called Mackail Extrusions,’ he began.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Haddock asked, puzzled.

‘It made window frames for the double-glazing industry,’ Pye explained. ‘It seems to have been a victim of the slump. It suffered three consecutive years of trading losses, until finally its bank pulled the plug. Quite a few suppliers caught a cold in the collapse, Grete Regal Graphics among them, but she was the only one who pursued the directors personally. Actually there was only one director, Hector Mackail. His address is given in the final court decree as Seventy-five Adelaide Avenue, North Berwick, and he’s described as unemployed. Dickson checked the electoral register; also listed as voters there are his wife, Gloria, and daughter Hazel.’

‘Did William come up with anything else?’

‘No. That’s it.’

‘Does he know we’re coming?’ Haddock asked.

The DCI shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want him forearmed.’ He drained his coffee and finished the last of his scone. ‘Come on, let’s give him a pleasant surprise.’

Adelaide Avenue was not the prettiest street in the coastal town, but it looked respectable and its houses were well maintained. The street had begun life as part of a council estate, but most of its homes had been purchased by their tenants in the right-to-buy surge of the nineteen eighties, and so their appearance was less uniform than once it had been, with a variety of window designs and decorative colours and one or two substantial extensions.

‘I grew up in a street like this,’ Haddock observed.

‘Me too, funnily enough,’ his colleague said. ‘It’s ironic, that the Mackail family should wind up here. It’s a monument to the double-glazing industry, where he made and lost his money. I’m older than you, so I remember when the C. R. Smith and Everest vans were everywhere.’

Number seventy-five was a semi-detached villa, painted in off-white Snowcem. A privet hedge enclosed the garden, and the drive to the side was laid in brick.

The detectives walked up the path to the front door, and Haddock rang the bell. They had been waiting for no more than a few seconds when a gruff male voice called to them from the pavement. ‘They’ll be naebody in.’

‘Do you know where we could find them?’ the DS asked the grey-haired septuagenarian shuffling along with a Co-op bag in each hand.

‘Ye’ll look far for him, but she’ll be doon at the Eddington. She’s a nurse.’

‘Thanks. What’s the Eddington?’ the sergeant murmured.

‘It’s the health centre cum cottage hospital,’ Pye replied. ‘I know where it is; it’s not far from here.’

In fact it was less than half a mile away, along a wide road and beside a church. The car park was full, and Pye was forced to find a space in the street, uncomfortably close to a set of traffic lights.

The reception area was busy as they stepped inside, filled with people with heavy eyes and puffy noses. ‘Whatever they’ve got, I don’t want it,’ Pye whispered, as they approached the counter.

‘We’re looking for Mrs Mackail,’ he told the receptionist, quietly.

‘Sister Mackail,’ she corrected him, primly. ‘I’ll see if she’s free. Who will I say is calling?’

In reply, the two officers displayed their warrant cards. ‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘You’ve got somewhere at last, have you? Just wait here.’

She left her post and turned into a corridor behind her. Within a minute she returned. ‘Gloria’s available,’ she said, pointing behind her. ‘Along there, second door on the right.’

They followed her finger, to find the door ajar; they stepped into a square surgery, with a frosted-glass window behind a desk and an examination bench against the wall on the left. Gloria Mackail stood beside it, in uniform, eyeing them with a frown on her face.

‘Gentlemen,’ she began, ‘this is a surprise. I honestly thought the police had given up on me.’

‘Oh no, Sister Mackail,’ Pye replied. ‘We never give up.’

‘Does that mean you’ve caught him?’

The DCI felt his eyebrows rise. ‘Pardon?’ he exclaimed. ‘Caught who?’

‘Caught the man who knocked down Hector, of course!’ she snapped, then paused. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know that my husband was the victim of a hit-and-run? That you don’t know he’s dead?’

I’ll fucking kill Dickson
, Pye thought.

I’ll fucking kill Dickson
, Haddock thought.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the senior detective replied, deadpan. ‘We’re involved in another investigation altogether. I’m the senior CID officer in Edinburgh, not East Lothian, but of course, if you wish, I’ll make it my business to find out about the inquiry into your husband’s death.’

‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ she said stiffly. ‘Nonetheless, I’d have expected you to know about it before you turned up here.’

‘I can only apologise.’

‘No matter. What is this other investigation?’

‘In the circumstances,’ Pye said, waiting for the ground to open beneath him, and half hoping that it would, ‘we’ll be quite happy to postpone this.’

Gloria Mackail shook her head. ‘That won’t make it go away. You’re here, so out with it.’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure whether you can help us. It relates to your husband’s former business, and to a claim against it by a woman named Grete Regal, a graphic designer who did some work for the company, then missed out on payment when it went into liquidation. You may not even be aware of it.’

‘Oh yes,’ the woman declared, bristling in her blue uniform, ‘I’m only too well aware of it. Ms Regal was late with her invoice, or rather her bloody aunt was. By the time it was received by the liquidator of the business, he had already closed his list of creditors and they had all agreed a payment schedule, to be met from the sale of the company’s assets. They were all going to get around fifteen pence in the pound, that’s all.’

She fell silent, sniffed, and for a few moments the detectives thought she might break down. ‘It wasn’t Hector’s fault,’ she murmured. ‘He was let down too, as badly as everyone else was. Those bloody bankers,’ she hissed, bitterly. ‘That bloody company. That bloody man.’

Composing herself, she carried on. ‘Anyway, Grete Regal didn’t take it lying down . . . or rather, her harridan of an aunt didn’t.’

‘What did the aunt have to do with it?’ Haddock asked.

‘She manages her business. Grete Regal couldn’t run a raffle; she’s a brilliant designer, but as a businesswoman she’s all over the place. Her work is excellent, her costs aren’t excessive and she never missed a deadline for Hector, but if she didn’t have the Rainey woman behind her she’d be lost. Grete’s a lovely girl; Ingrid Rainey is not. Have you met her?’

Pye nodded. ‘Yes, but I can’t comment on that.’

‘I suppose not. But I will tell you that the woman pursued Hector through the civil courts, on the advice of a lawyer who should be ashamed of himself. The bloody sheriff found in their favour of course, with costs. He found that Hector had acted irresponsibly in commissioning the design work when he should have known that the business wasn’t viable any longer. He even banned him from acting as a director. It wasn’t fair; he had this idea that rebranding would help him turn the corner. If his biggest customer had paid him, and the bloody bank had given him another few weeks, that would have seen him all right.’

She paused, to dab at her eyes with a tissue. ‘It would have meant our house going on the market,’ she continued, ‘not the one in Gilmerton, that was long gone; no, the house here, although we didn’t have nearly enough equity in it to meet the claim. Our car too; Ingrid Rainey would have taken that too. We’d have been beggared, out in the street.’

‘That’s too bad,’ Haddock said, feeling that a show of sympathy was in order.

‘Damn right it was!’ Mrs Mackail snapped. ‘Rainey didn’t even stop when Hector was killed. Her lawyer tried to arrest the insurance money, but fortunately, that was tied to the mortgage, so he couldn’t. Instead Rainey told him to get a court order against me, personally, for Hector’s debt.’ She glowered at Pye. ‘That’s the background. Now, what does it have to do with your visit?’

‘Have you seen much of the news this week?’ he asked.

‘Some, why?’

‘Did you see the sad story of a child being found dead in a car in Edinburgh?’

‘Yes, I did. Awful.’ She frowned. ‘And wasn’t . . .’

The DS cut across her. ‘The child was Grete Regal’s daughter. Grete herself is in a coma, in hospital in Edinburgh.’

Gloria Mackail gasped. ‘And they’re saying that the young man Francey did it?’

‘We’re saying it, Mrs Mackail. Dean Francey abducted the girl and attacked her mother. That’s a given, although he’s beyond being called to account for it.’ He glanced at Pye, who nodded for him to continue. ‘Thing is, Francey was paid to do it. I’m sorry to be blunt about this, but we’re looking at anyone who might have had a grudge against Grete. By your own admission you’ve been in serious dispute with her, and in addition to that, your daughter Hazel knows Dean Francey. So you see, we have to ask the question.’

Silence seemed to engulf the room as the nurse stared at the floor. The tension that was building in her was almost palpable and it communicated itself to the two officers.

‘You have to ask the question,’ she whispered.

‘I’m sorry,’ Pye said, ‘we do.’

‘Then here’s the answer. Suppose I was the sort of sadist who’d use an innocent child as a weapon to right a grievance, suppose I was that sort of animal, I’d have had to pay Francey with Monopoly money, because I don’t have any of the real stuff! I have just spent my daughter’s pitifully small university fund on burying her father, after your colleagues finally deigned to release his body, and I am down to my last seven hundred quid. Having seen one mortgage paid off I’ll have to take out another just to keep myself afloat. It’s either that,’ she shouted, ‘or bloody Wonga!’

The DCI reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, as if his touch would draw the anger from her.

‘We had to ask the question,’ he repeated, gently. ‘And now we have, and we believe you.’

She shuddered and then she was calm once more. ‘Is Grete going to die?’ she asked.

‘We hope not. I can’t say any more than that. But the word coming out of the Western General is a bit more optimistic today.’

‘Then pray God she makes it, poor girl. I say that selfishly for if she doesn’t, I’m probably back to square one. Grete and I, and Ingrid Rainey, and Harrison, their damn lawyer, all had a meeting last week. Rainey and the bloodsucker wanted my house, but when Grete realised what I’d been up against, she said no, that enough was enough.

‘She said that she would take fifteen per cent of the debt, the same amount that the official creditors got, and she and I agreed a repayment schedule. I’ll still have to mortgage to pay off bloody Harrison’s costs, but the rest is manageable. She’s a decent, generous girl, and to have such a horrible thing happen to her . . . it puts my situation into perspective. Now I’m terrified that if she doesn’t make it, her awful aunt will revert to type.’

‘If she does survive, Sister Mackail,’ Pye said, ‘she’ll need friends. Maybe you can be around for her. We won’t trouble you any longer.’

As he turned to leave, Haddock picked up a pad from the desk. He scribbled on it, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to her.

‘That’s the number of a very good lawyer, and I have a feeling she’d enjoy eating your Mr Harrison. You might like to call her. If you do, mention my name. Hers is Alex Skinner.’

He followed the chief inspector outside, into the street. ‘Should we check out her bank details, for the record?’ he asked, a dispassionate cop once more.

‘That needs to be done,’ Pye agreed, as he started the car. ‘But we’ll get Dickson to do it . . . or what’s left of him when I’m finished chewing him out.’

Haddock nodded. ‘I want a bite too,’ he growled. ‘That was bloody embarrassing. When you’re asked to check someone out, the fact that he’s dead ought to show up fairly early on.’

They were waiting for the lights to turn green when an incoming call sounded through the Bluetooth speakers. Pye touched a button on the steering wheel.

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, it’s Jackie.’

‘I knew that as soon as you opened your mouth,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘What’s the new crisis?’

‘No crisis, sir,’ the detective constable said. ‘The opposite really. Ms Iqbal from the Western General’s been in touch. Grete Regal recovered consciousness just after ten this morning. She’s stable and you can talk to her.’

‘Call her back,’ the DCI ordered, ‘and tell her we’re on our way.’

They were approaching Dirleton Toll, listening to Pablo Milanés, a Cuban singer who was a favourite of Pye’s wife, when Haddock cut across his Spanish anthem.

‘I’m just thinking, gaffer. I know someone, a girl I was at school with; her name’s Macy Robertson and she’s a business journalist so she might be able to give us some more background on Hector Mackail.’

‘Do we need that?’ Pye asked. ‘Doesn’t being dead cross him off the list of suspects?’

‘It didn’t get Francey off the hook,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘He could have set it up before he walked in front of that car. Hazel knew Francey; he was handy for the job.’