Private Investigations (6 page)

Seven

‘How the hell do you get parked in this place?’ Sauce Haddock exclaimed. ‘It’s Monday, it’s winter and yet there isn’t a space to be seen.’

‘That’s the way it is here on most days,’ Pye replied. ‘I was stationed in East Lothian for a while, in uniform, so I was here quite often. Most towns this size wouldn’t have a manned police station any more, but all through the summer, and on most weekends, North Berwick is bulging with people. It’s a resort. There are a couple of caravan sites, there’s still property for holiday rent and on top of that there are loads of casual visitors, golfers and day trippers from Edinburgh. Because of that, parking’s always murder.’

He smiled. ‘Fortunately,’ he continued, making a right turn into an opening that came into view as they approached a pub, ‘there are a couple of spaces for police cars behind the local nick, and there’s usually at least one free during the day.’

In fact, both slots were vacant. Pye parked in the first and led the way to the back door of the station. As they approached, Haddock noticed that all of the windows were barred. ‘How many cells do they have here?’ he asked.

The DCI laughed as he pressed the door buzzer. ‘One of those is the toilet,’ he said. ‘There was a celebrated incident in this nick, about thirty-five years ago. They were holding a prisoner here on suspicion of murder. They let him go for a piss and he climbed out the window. Hence the bars.’

They were admitted by a young female constable, a woman with a strong Glasgow accent who made a show of inspecting their warrant cards.

‘Mr Sullivan’s in the interview room, wi’ Sergeant Tweedie,’ she told them. ‘It’s at the end of the corridor. The Sarge said just to go in when you arrived.’

‘That was our plan,’ Haddock murmured.

Sergeant Tweedie was a woman also. ‘Lucy, isn’t it?’ Pye asked her, after she had introduced them to Callum Sullivan, who was seated at the interview table.

‘That’s right, sir,’ she confirmed. ‘I remember you from Haddington. You were a DC then and I was very new. Are you still pally with Karen Neville, that used to work there too?’

‘I see her now and again. She reports to me, but not for much longer. She’s moving through to the west, on promotion.’

‘Did she not marry . . .’ Lucy Tweedie began.

Pye cut her off with a nod. ‘Our new chief constable, yes: then she divorced him.’ He turned to the third man in the room. Heavily built and round faced, he was looking at the two newcomers with curiosity in his eyes. He had a takeaway coffee in a plastic cup clasped in his hands, holding it as if for warmth.

‘Would you like one?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I can send Margie out to Gregg’s, no problem.’

‘That would be good.’ Pye glanced at Haddock. ‘Sauce, it’s your round.’

The DS sighed. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet, and handed it over, then seated himself at the table. ‘Afternoon, Mr Sullivan,’ he said, cheerfully.

‘Finally,’ the man muttered, his bulky shoulders hunched in a tweed jacket.

‘Sorry about that,’ Pye retorted, briskly, ‘but you might be pleased to hear that we’ve found your car.’

Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘You have? That’s good news.’ His accent was Scottish, Edinburgh rather than East Lothian. ‘Is it in one piece?’

‘It is, but it’s been damaged, I’m afraid.’

‘Have you caught the sod that stole it?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Your vehicle was involved in an accident and the man who was driving it ran off. We’re still looking for him.’

‘Well, you got the Beamer back,’ the owner conceded, ‘that’s the main thing. Not that it was worth a hell of a lot. I’m a car dealer; I specialise in classic vehicles. That one’s a long way short of being classic, it’s only a runabout, but I’ve just sold on the Daimler that I’ve been driving for a couple of years, and I switched my personalised plate to it until I find something that I like. When can I pick it up?’ he asked.

‘As soon as we’re finished with it,’ Haddock replied.

Sullivan frowned. ‘What does that mean?’ He paused, as if for thought. ‘Wait a minute,’ he murmured, ‘a chief inspector and a detective sergeant, on a car theft; that’s a bit heavy-duty, is it not? Has it been involved in a robbery or something?’

‘We’ll get to that,’ Pye said, tersely. ‘When did you discover the theft, Mr Sullivan?’

‘This morning, when I went to my garage in Kingston: I keep some of my lesser stock there, and I do some refurbishment there too. The rest,’ he continued in explanation, ‘my best cars, are in a showroom on the way into Haddington, off the dual carriageway.’

‘How did the thief get in?’

‘Through a side door.’

‘When was the last time you saw the car?’

‘Saturday. I had a guy interested in a Bristol; it was in Kingston being prepared for the showroom. It’s not street legal at the moment, so I took him there to view it. The Beamer was still there when I locked up.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘About half four.’

‘Did you make the sale?’

Haddock’s question drew a scowl. ‘No. Nowhere near. The man was a time-waster. He told me he’d phone me back on Sunday with a decision, but he didn’t. Nor will he; I could tell at the time he was a chancer. You always know, don’t you?’

The DS nodded. ‘Yes, we find that too, in our line of work. What was the man’s name, the time-waster?’

‘King; that’s all he told me. No first name.’

‘Can you describe him?’

Sullivan frowned. ‘He’s about my age, give or take a year or two. I’m thirty-seven,’ he added. ‘He had a beard, glasses with dark frames and he was wearing a Barbour. That’s the best I can do. Why are you interested in him anyway? Do you think he came back and stole the BMW? If he did, he’s got no bloody taste. I’ve got better cars than that in the Kingston garage. If you’re going to suggest he was looking for a getaway vehicle, that was one of the slowest in the place.’

‘We’re looking at all possibilities,’ Pye said. He broke off as the PC came into the room, carrying two coffees in takeaway beakers. She placed them on the table, laying a five-pound note and a few coins beside them. As she left, the DCI continued. ‘Did Mr King give you a contact number?’

‘No.’

‘How did he get in touch with you?’

‘He rang my mobile: he said he’d seen my ad for the Bristol in the
East Lothian Courier
; the number’s on that.’

‘Do you have your phone with you?’

‘I do,’ Sullivan told him, ‘but if you’re thinking you might find his number on it, you’re out of luck, lads. I deleted all my recent calls last night.’

‘Is that a regular practice?’ Haddock asked.

‘Pardon?’

Pye sighed. ‘Do you do that frequently?’

‘Every so often. Like I said, I’m sorry. I’d love to help you but it’s just bad luck.’

The DCI nodded. ‘As you say. That’s life; some you win, some you lose.’

‘Good. We’re agreed on something. Now, can I leave here?’ Sullivan asked. ‘I’ve got a business to run.’

‘Not yet,’ Pye said. ‘We’re not finished. When you called this morning to report the theft of the BMW, which phone did you use?’

‘The mobile.’

‘Where were you when you made the call?’

Sullivan stared at him. ‘What do you mean? I was in bloody Kingston. I was looking at the empty space where my motor had been.’

Haddock cut in. ‘Do you have a landline in your garage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you use that?’

‘I just didn’t, okay?’

‘No it’s not. Can you prove you were at Kingston when you made the call? Does anyone else work there? Do you have a mechanic?’

The dealer shook his head. ‘No, I don’t need one full-time. When I have to, I use a guy at Fenton Barns. So no, there was nobody else in the garage, only me.’

‘Therefore,’ Haddock continued, ‘as far as we’re concerned, you could have been anywhere when you reported the theft.’

‘I suppose.’

‘You could even have been standing beside the car.’

Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘Why the hell would I want to do that?’ He paused as a possible answer presented itself. ‘Are you thinking this was an insurance scam?’

‘No,’ Pye replied. ‘One, if that was the game you’d have totalled the car. Two, any insurance claim would arise out of the subsequent collision, and you weren’t driving when that happened. There is a third scenario where you’d give the car to someone else to take away and write off, but we don’t believe that one either.’

‘Good for me,’ the dealer drawled.

‘Maybe not. Do you know, or know of, a child, a wee girl, aged around five, by the name of Zena?’

He frowned. He stared at the two detectives, from one to the other. ‘No, I don’t. Means nothing to me. What’s a five-year-old lassie got to do with my car?’ He laughed, a short, barking sound. ‘Do you think she stole it? Is that what you’re getting at?’

‘No,’ Haddock said quietly. ‘When the boot of your car was opened, after the collision in the Fort Kinnaird car park, and after the driver had absconded, Zena’s body was found inside.’

Sullivan gasped and sat upright in his chair, his hand knocking over his coffee beaker and spilling what was left of its contents across the table. His eyes were wide, and suddenly very frightened. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re making this up. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Oh, but it’s not,’ the DS retorted. He took a small iPad tablet from his jacket and switched it on. ‘Take a look. There’s a photograph to prove it. That’s Zena, or so says a label in the jacket she’s wearing, and she’s dead. In: your: car.’ He ground out the last three words.

‘Can I get a better look at her face?’ the other man croaked.

Haddock scrolled through the photographs in the tablet until he found a close-up.

‘Oh my!’ Sullivan was close to tears. ‘It’s not . . . I’ve got a daughter myself. Kayleigh; she’s five and she lives with her mum. Sorry, I just had to be sure.’

Pye nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘So you see now,’ he continued, ‘why we need, for the purpose of our inquiry into her death, to establish your whereabouts. Okay, you say you called us from the garage. I’m inclined to believe that, but I need to corroborate it. Who was the last person you saw before you found the theft of the car?’

The car dealer gazed at the table, as if he was looking for the answer in the small streak of cold coffee, ‘My neighbour,’ he replied at last. ‘Her name’s Beth McGregor. I left the house just after nine. Mary had gone to work by then. My car was in the drive, and as I went to get in I saw her through her kitchen window. I waved to her and she waved back.’

‘Thanks, that’s a help. We’ll confirm it with her for the record. Now, let’s move on. What sort of work do you do in your garage?’

‘Like I said, repairs and renewals mainly: if a vehicle needs engine work and it’s drivable, I take it down to Fenton Barns. If not, the mechanic comes to me. The other main thing would be upholstery. With a classic car you’ll find that the leather lasts forever but the seats degrade. I’ve got another bloke that comes in to renew them when I need him.’

‘I won’t ask you to look at the photos again,’ the DCI said, ‘but the boot of your BMW was lined, with thick black foam rubber. Do you keep that at Kingston?’

‘Yes, I do. But there was none in it the last time I looked, I’ll swear. What does that tell you?’

‘It suggests to us,’ Haddock replied, ‘that the person who stole your car did so with the intention of using it to abduct Zena. Also, it suggests that whoever took it might have known about the rubber being there in your garage, so it makes us think we’re looking for somebody who’s been there before.’

‘The guy that was driving,’ Sullivan ventured. ‘What was he like?’

‘Thin-faced white man in his twenties, wearing a hoodie and quick on his feet.’

‘In his twenties, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry.’ He gazed at the table once more. ‘That doesn’t suggest anyone in particular to me. I know a few people who look like that.’

‘Still,’ Pye said, ‘we might ask you to look at an artist’s impression when we can get one prepared.’ He looked Sullivan in the eye. ‘What can you tell me about your relationship with Mary Jean Harris?’

‘Eh? Mary? She’s my sister.’

‘She lives with you, yes?’

The other man nodded. ‘Yes. She has done since just after my wife and I split up, a couple of years back. She lived through in Cumbernauld and she’d had a rough time, so I offered her a change of scene and a roof over her head.’

‘A rough time? How rough?’

‘Her husband had walked out on her,’ he replied, ‘and she was struggling financially.’

‘So it had nothing to do with your nephew, Maxwell?’

‘No,’ Sullivan retorted. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Is Maxwell still at school?’ Haddock asked.

‘No. He left at the end of last year.’

‘Does he have a job?’

‘He helps me out, from time to time. He got enough Higher passes last summer to tie up a university place next autumn, so he’s calling this his gap year.’

‘How does he help you out?’

‘Driving mostly. If I’m delivering a car to a buyer, he’ll come behind me to bring me back. If I’m taking one to the mechanic, same thing.’

The DS paused. He looked sideways at Pye, who nodded, a signal to carry on.

‘Tell me more about your sister’s problems in Cumbernauld,’ he continued.

Sullivan drew a breath, exhaling through his nose. ‘It just wasn’t a happy place for her. She didn’t like the town, and she didn’t like her job.’

‘What did she do?’ Haddock asked.

‘She’s a teacher. Mary was educated at Watson’s and did her degree at Moray House. She taught in Royal High at the start of her career, a good school. Then she married Stewart Harris, and it all started to go wrong. They lived in Bathgate at first. She could commute from there, but he was posted to Paisley, and that was the end of that. Then he was promoted and transferred to Cumbernauld. The only jobs she could find in either place were in rough, low-end schools. She just wasn’t cut out for them, but she needed to work.’

‘What did her husband do?’

‘He was one of your lot. He was a PC in Airdrie when they married. He left her two years ago, when Maxwell was fifteen. He was a sergeant by then, but going no higher.’