‘A clever bastard would avoid Haddington,’ Singh said. ‘It has street CCTV.’

  ‘True,’ Haddock agreed, ‘but we should check it anyway . . . that’s if it’s still checkable after upwards of four months. Beyond that? We know when he was killed, we know that the body was taken all the way to Spain. I hate assumptions, but we can assume it was by road. Even if it was put in a coffin, air or rail transport would have involved paperwork. I’m sticking with the van.’

  ‘Or an SUV with a roof box?’

  ‘Possible, but we’re talking about the body of a six-foot, fourteen-stone man, intact, not dismembered. Do they make those boxes that big?’ Haddock shrugged. ‘Check it anyway. Right,’ he continued, ‘the body’s concealed, in a vehicle of some sort, and they plan to get it out of the country, off this island.’

  ‘Why?’ the DS asked.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ the DCI replied. ‘They did, that’s all we need to know at this stage. Where do they go?’

  ‘To the nearest ferry terminal?’ Singh suggested. ‘So they spend as little time as possible on the road? That would be Newcastle, wouldn’t it? You can go to Holland from there.’

  ‘You can, but you’d have to cross three, maybe four, EU borders in a vehicle with UK plates. That would mean we’re definitely not talking about a commercial van. It would have to be a private vehicle, Tarvil, a camper van or your SUV with the body in a big box on top. You’d be hoping for nothing more than a passport check at each border, but even then you’d be taking a chance.’ Haddock smiled, his eyebrows rising as a thought came to him. ‘Unless you cut it down to a single border crossing. Unless you take a ferry from Portsmouth or Plymouth to Spain. I’m a clever bastard, Tarvil, so that’s what I would do. I’m so clever that I get to delegate what comes next to you. I want the number of every private vehicle that crossed to all of the northern Spanish ports in a two-week window after Reid’s disappearance. Two weeks because embalming’s only good for so long.’

  ‘Okay Sauce,’ Singh said, ‘but we’ll be talking about a hell of a lot of vehicles, even at that time of year.’

  ‘Yes, but most of them we’ll be able to eliminate, retired teachers from Dorking for example. The rest, we identify the drivers and interview as many as we have to. That’s when I’ll call in the cavalry, Tarvil. That’s when I’ll haul Benjamin back from Dundee, and bring in as many others as I need.’

  Sixty-Two

  ‘No sir,’ Noele McClair hissed, ‘I can’t do that. I can’t trust myself to be in the same room as that woman. Take me off the inquiry if you have to, but I can’t be in the same room as Inez Davis.’

  ‘Calm down, Inspector,’ the deputy chief constable exclaimed. ‘I only said that it had to be done, not that you had to do it. I’m the last guy who’d put you in that position. No, DS Wright will conduct the interview. She and DC Benjamin can call in at Saughton before they go back up to Dundee.

  ‘That fits,’ McClair said. ‘DS Wright and I were meeting a potential witness in Fife tomorrow morning but I can handle it alone. There’s no need for corroboration.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Mario McGuire replied. ‘I can’t overstate the sensitivity of this situation. It’s why I’m getting involved, rather than leaving it to ACC Stallings. It’s Sauce Haddock’s wife who’s at the centre of this; that makes it personal for all of us, and I have no problem saying that. I don’t know how the woman will react when she’s confronted with this. We don’t need corroboration there either, but I want two officers in the room regardless. Is Benjamin up to it, do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ the DI confirmed, ‘she’s come on a lot. I’m happy with her being there.’

  ‘Okay, if you are, so am I. Brief Wright and make sure she calls me as soon as they’ve left the prison. By the way, I’ve told the governor there can be no prison officers in the interview room, only police. He wasn’t very happy, but he’s going to have to live with it.’

  ‘Did you pick that up, Jackie?’ McClair asked, as the call ended. ‘I’m on my own with Mrs Smyth tomorrow morning. You and Tiggy have got a date with Inez Davis at HMP Edinburgh.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a prison,’ Benjamin confessed.

  ‘Everyone’s luck runs out eventually,’ said the DI. ‘It could be worse. I lost my cherry, figuratively speaking, in the Bar-L, HMP Barlinnie. The smell of piss and boiled cabbage will never leave my nostrils. They’ll be knocking that down, I imagine, when the new HMP Glasgow opens next year. They’ll have to dig a few up first.’

  ‘A few what?’

  ‘Bodies, Tiggy, bodies,’ Wright told her. ‘In the days of the death penalty those that were executed were always buried in the prison grounds. The DI means that they’ll have to be exhumed before the old prison can be sold for redevelopment.’

  Benjamin winced. ‘That’s awful. I’m glad I wasn’t around when they did that.’

  ‘None of us were. It’s over fifty years since the last man was hanged in Scotland. There’s still a lot of people would like to bring it back,’ she added.

  ‘That won’t happen, will it?’

  ‘No,’ McClair said, shaking her head. ‘It’s against all sorts of conventions that we’re signatories of.’ She frowned.

  ‘You’re not in favour of it are you, ma’am?’ the young DC asked.

  ‘That’s enough, Tiggy,’ Wright snapped, taking her by surprise.

  ‘No, it’s okay, Jackie,’ the DI exclaimed as she turned to her junior. ‘It isn’t so easy to stand up for the sanctity of life and oppose capital punishment when someone close to you is a murder victim. Trust me on that; I speak from too much experience. Still, you stick to your principles, Tiggy, that’s your right. For your sake, I hope they’re never put to the test.’

  An uncomfortable silence hung over the small room. ‘Come on,’ McClair called out. ‘Lighten up, ladies. There are no hangings scheduled for today.’

  Sixty-Three

  ‘Are you sure about this, John?’ the uniformed figure on the screen asked.

  ‘Yesterday I was eighty per cent sure,’ Cotter replied. ‘Today I’m one hundred per cent certain. It was okay when I was in Aberdeen, but since I was transferred to Glasgow it’s all turned to shit. My face doesn’t fit here, David. My DCI doesn’t like me. Another female DCI doesn’t like me because I wanted to arrest her ex-husband for murder.’

  ‘Did he do it?’ Inspector David Christian asked.

  ‘No, but at the time the evidence said he did. Okay, he used to be chief constable, so maybe I should have been more circumspect.’

  ‘Fuck, John.’

  ‘I know, but we’re supposed to show neither fear nor favour, aren’t we?’

  ‘In principle, yes, but we’re not advised to stick our head above the parapet without knowing that it ain’t going to be shot off.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Cotter conceded. ‘Anyway, I’ve been on the back foot with Lottie, my DCI, ever since. She’s fucking ferocious, Dave. Legend has it she once knocked a bloke out in a police boxing tournament. Then, to top it off, I was at a Zoom briefing this morning, and Bob fucking Skinner no less, shot me down, twice. I’ve had it, man. Anything you can do to get me a move back down south, do it, please. Any strings you can pull, yank them; don’t say we’re family though, that would probably blow it.’

  ‘On promotion?’

  ‘Anything. I’ll even go back to uniform if I have to. Anywhere. Fucking Sunderland, even.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Cotter’s cousin remarked. I heard there’s an inspector job going there. Let me look into it.’

  ‘Cheers, you’re a mate.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll be in touch.’ The figure on screen froze for a second, then disappeared.

  Cotter sighed, and returned to the list of Catholic schools in Ireland. He was perhaps a quarter of the way through. Most of the contacts he had made had been polite but regretful. ‘Sergeant, we couldn’t tell you who the department heads were forty years ago, far less find a temporary teacher whose employment might not even have been recorded.’

  He picked up the phone and called the next name on his list, a co-educational school in County Wicklow. Three rings and he was connected to a lady who identified herself as the school secretary, Miss Wicklow. ‘No, Sergeant,’ she said, anticipating an inevitable question, ‘I was not named after the county. The county was named after me. I’ve been here for quite a while.’

  ‘Forty years?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Not quite. Thirty-seven.’

  ‘Does your school keep staff records from that far back?’

  ‘Yes, it does. We’re proud of our history.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to search through them for a name? Matthew Reid. I believe he was a temporary teacher in an Irish school back then, one with priests on the teaching staff. Would that have been likely in your school?’

  ‘Forty years ago it would have been almost obligatory, Sergeant. That’s a coincidence,’ she said. ‘There’s a Matthew Reid all over this morning’s paper.’

  ‘No coincidence,’ Cotter told her. ‘It’s the same one. We’re trying to fill in details of his early life, for our inquiry into his death. How long would it take you to look for him?’

  Miss Wicklow laughed. ‘A few seconds. We joined the twenty-first century a couple of years ago, Mr Cotter. They’re all in digital form now. Hold on and I’ll look for him.’

  The DS felt his spirits rise. ‘Thanks,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll hold.’

  He waited, for a few seconds, for a few more and for a few more still. Finally Miss Wicklow came back on line. ‘Sorry,’ she announced, ‘not one of ours, I’m afraid. I tried all the spellings I could think of, but none of them worked.’

  Cotter sighed, audibly. ‘Too bad. Thanks for trying.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. Sergeant,’ she continued, ‘are you sure that Mr Reid taught in a school?’

  ‘Where else could it have been?’ he asked.

  ‘A boys’ home,’ she suggested. ‘Orphans, kids in care. There would have been quite a few forty years ago, and some survive to this day. To be honest, if Mr Reid was temporary, and by that I’m guessing you mean unqualified, that’s where he’d have been more likely to find a job. And,’ she added, ‘there would definitely have been priests on the staff. Give me your email; I’ll make up a list of those that still exist and send it to you.’

  ‘Miss Wicklow,’ Cotter exclaimed, ‘may all the saints watch over you.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ she replied. ‘Saint Patrick will be quite enough.’

  Sixty-Four

  ‘Of all the restaurants in Catalunya,’ Xavi Aislado declared, ‘El Celler de Can Roca is my favourite.’

  ‘Michelin seem to agree,’ Sarah Grace said. ‘It’s on their three-star list.’

  He shrugged ‘Yes, but that means nothing to me. I like it for what it says to me. It’s more than the food . . . I once had a meal in a back-street restaurant in Madrid that blew me away . . .’

  Bob Skinner nodded. ‘I was there. I agree.’

  ‘Yes,’ Xavi continued, ‘but this place, it’s a combination of factors. The food, sure, but the ambience just as much, the sheer class of the place . . . and I don’t mean that in a socially divisive way. I love it. Sheila did too. We had a table booked on the first Friday of every month. I still have, but I haven’t been able to come here since she died. It’s been used by Intermedia as a reward for staff . . . employee of the month, kind of . . . but tonight, with such good friends, it feels right. Thanks, both of you, for getting me out of the bloody house.’ He paused, drawing a breath, then went on. ‘And thank you, Bob for introducing Captain Houseman.’

  ‘He passed the interview?’ Bob asked. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ his friend confirmed, ‘he scooshed it. But you knew he would, otherwise you wouldn’t have put him in the frame. He’s a quietly impressive man. He told me as much about his life as he thought appropriate with Paloma being present.’

  ‘She sat in?’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘Of course, and she had a vote. He’ll be protecting her as well, when she’s at home; and maybe in London too. Not personally, but I may ask him to find someone he knows and trusts to keep an eye on her security.’

  ‘Have you discussed this with Paloma?’ she asked, warily.

  He grinned. ‘Not yet, but don’t worry, Sarah. I’m not crazy enough to do it without her knowledge and approval.’

  ‘Where is she tonight?’

  ‘Dining with Clyde in a place near the cathedral, after giving him a quick tour of the city.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about his life when Paloma wasn’t in the room?’ Skinner asked, as the waiters served another course.

  ‘He was discreet about his present employment. He told me that the Security Service didn’t do detailed references, but he said that he could arrange for me to have access to his military records. On a personal level, I asked him how he felt about his brother’s death, and if he had used his Security Service position to investigate. He told me he trusted the police to do that. They were better equipped for the job, he said. I asked him what he would do if he caught the killer. He tapped his forehead three times. A Special Forces trademark, I believe.’

  ‘So they say,’ Skinner murmured.

  ‘He did tell me that he never bought into the idea that Matthew Reid killed his brother: not because he didn’t think him capable. Any reasonably strong man with a taser and a machete could have done it, he said. He said that his girlfriend had been adamant that it wasn’t him and he trusted her judgement.’

  ‘He could have,’ Sarah said. ‘He would certainly have been strong enough.’

  ‘What did he say about his personal life?’ Bob asked. ‘About his girlfriend? You know who she is, yes?’

  ‘Sir Andrew Martin’s ex-wife, yes. He told me that she had more or less decided to go back to her marriage. He said more or less because she wanted to be sure that . . .’ Aislado stopped, abruptly.

  Skinner grinned. ‘That she wanted to be sure there were no flickering embers of his relationship with my daughter.’

  ‘Almost in those words.’

  ‘I can’t speak for Andy,’ he said, ‘but there are none on Alex’s side. She’s a workaholic now, and I’m happy about that. Men have brought her nothing but trouble. The closest thing she has to a relationship these days is purely platonic. Maybe Karen will go back to Andy, maybe she won’t. He’s trying to break into politics. He has ambitions of being elected to the Scottish Parliament . . . and yes, before you ask, Xavi, the Saltire’s political editor is all over that story. I suspect that’s the main reason for him wanting a reunion. I even suspect that if it happened Karen could sleep with whoever she likes.’

  ‘That would be Clyde’s business if it was him,’ Aislado remarked. ‘I’m giving him a one-year rolling contract, living in Joe’s old quarters twenty-four seven, but with four weeks’ holiday, during which he’ll provide a deputy approved by me. He’ll fly back with you and Paloma on Saturday, negotiate his release from MI5 and move out here as soon as possible.’

  ‘Sounds fine. I hope it works out, for all three of you.’

  ‘It will,’ Xavi said, but the smile left his face. ‘Sarah,’ he said, ‘you oversaw the autopsy on Matthew Reid . . .’

  ‘Observed,’ she corrected him. ‘Dr Martinez did the job.’

  He nodded. ‘But you know the outcome. How long had he been dead?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say exactly, for a couple of reasons, but months. We couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was killed in Spain after fleeing Scotland, but we’ve told our own police that he was probably killed on their territory.’

  ‘So he couldn’t have sent that text, Bob?’

  ‘No. His killer did.’

  ‘But why? Why me?’

  ‘God knows, but I think it was probably a distraction of sorts. From what, neither he nor I have any idea. They’ll need to catch him before we find that out.’

  ‘You’re using the singular. You think one person could have done all that?’

  He nodded. ‘Logic says it must have taken at least two, but there’s nothing logical about murder.’

  ‘I wish you were still involved,’ Xavi murmured.

  As Skinner looked at his friend, a grin spread across his face. ‘Most of the people involved in the search, they’re mine, my apples, if you like, and they haven’t fallen far from the tree.’

  Sixty-Five

  ‘It may be better than Barlinnie,’ Detective Constable Benjamin remarked as she looked at the high wall behind the secure entrance to Her Majesty’s Prison Edinburgh, ‘but this place still gives me the creeps.’

  Jackie Wright laughed. ‘Maybe you should rethink your career choice,’ she said. ‘People are banged up here as a consequence of your job.’

  ‘I know, but being so close to one, it makes me think about that. When I do and I try to put myself in the shoes of someone being told by a judge that they’re going to be confined to the same building for five years, ten years, fifteen years, forever, I can’t. I can’t imagine how it would feel.’

  ‘You’re young, Tiggy,’ her sergeant reminded her, ‘very young to be in CID. You haven’t met any of the sort you’re talking about. Up in Perthshire, you’re seeing the effect of what people can do to each other. That crime was committed so long ago, we’ll probably never find the person that did it but if we do, make sure you look in their eyes and try to find any humanity in there. I’m almost sorry to say this, but you’ll change with that experience and the others that’ll follow it. You might never be able to imagine what facing years inside actually feels like, but pretty soon you won’t give a shit.’