‘Why do you think I didn’t want to be chief constable?’ McGuire retorted. ‘It was so I could leave shit like that until the next day.’

  ‘Pussy! Anyway, I’ve just had an email from my opposite number in Victoria, reporting progress in executing our warrant. He sent me a video attachment; he said that was easier than trying to explain it. I have to give him credit for having the stones to do it and not covering it up. You’ll understand what I mean when you see this.’ He moved the cursor and clicked.

  A video opened on full screen; it showed a large house in a suburban street, with a BMW and a white Nissan truck side by side in its driveway. As it began there was the sound of two car doors closing. McGuire realised immediately that he was watching footage from a police officer’s bodycam. Initially there were two uniforms in shot, but as they moved towards the house the camera wearer took the lead. Arriving at an imposing white entry door, he pushed the entry button and waited.

  ‘Money in this place,’ a voice murmured.

  ‘Too fucking right,’ another agreed. ‘My father-in-law knows his guy. He did the flooring in his car dealership. It cost a fucking fortune, he said, and he’ll never get it back, now that half the country’s buying their cars on . . .’

  The remark was curtailed as the door was opened by a stocky middle-aged man wearing a white open-necked shirt and grey suit trousers. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’ he asked. The accent was unmistakeably Scottish, even though it was overlaid with an acquired Australian twang.

  ‘Mr Trott? Mr Samuel Trott?’

  ‘Yes? Like I said, how can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Trott,’ the officer continued, ‘we’ve been asked to bring you to the police station. The cops in Scotland want to interview you in connection with an investigation they’re running.’

  Trott gasped. His face paled. ‘What kind of an investigation?’ he squeaked.

  ‘We haven’t been told, sir. Look, we’d like you to come voluntarily, but we do have a warrant to detain you. It would be much better if we just go quietly,’ the camera-wearer half turned, giving a sweeping view of the street, before fixing once again on Trott, ‘neighbours and everything. Better, yeah?’

  Trott nodded vigorously. ‘Of course, I’m happy to co-operate. You’ll let me get my jacket, yes?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, guys, come in, why don’t you?’ He smiled weakly. ‘Neighbours and everything.’ He ushered them into a spacious hall. The sound of a closing door came from somewhere off camera, then Trott reappeared. ‘It’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to feed the dog too. I won’t be a minute.’ He went towards a door beside a staircase, and then out of shot.

  The image changed as the camera-wearer turned, giving a full face shot of the other officer, a ruddy-complexioned man whose belly hung slightly over his belt. ‘Did you catch the game last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Fat chance, Jase,’ the cameraman snorted. ‘Myrtle had a yoga class, so I was stuck with the kids. Had to watch In the fucking Night Garden, feed Danni her last bottle and get her to bed. Then she needed changing. By that time, fuck it. How was it?’

  ‘Okay. Early season, but it’s looking good for Essendon.’ The chubby cop yawned. ‘Where is this guy?’

  As he spoke, the microphone picked up a distant sound; it was disturbingly like a heavy diesel engine firing up.

  ‘Wait a fucking . . .’

  The image blurred as the camera-wearer turned and rushed into the kitchen. ‘What the . . .’ There was no sign of Trott. The rear door came into view, then a fist gripping an unyielding handle. The officers turned, Jase leading the way through the hall to the front door. ‘He’s fucking locked that too, the bastard!’ he shouted, just as the image froze.

  ‘If those two were on our force,’ McIlhenney chuckled, ‘I’d post them to St Kilda.’

  ‘St Kilda’s uninhabited, Neil,’ McGuire pointed out.

  ‘Exactly. It’s the only place where they couldn’t do any damage.’

  Eighty-Seven

  ‘Sum up for us, John,’ Lottie Mann looked at her DS across the table where she sat beside ACC Stallings and Sauce Haddock.

  He nodded. Behind her through the window he could see the red stone façade of Ibrox Stadium. It made him think of Sunderland and its Stadium of Light. ‘The Stadium of Shite’ they had called it in Newcastle. ‘Following on from your interview with Verona Lyon, ma’am,’ he began, ‘I was tasked with finding out anything I could about Matthew Reid’s early adult life in Ireland. I’ve established that he was employed in his early twenties as a teacher in a Church of Ireland residential establishment for boys in the south of the country. He left that post abruptly. Very soon afterwards, the mother of a pupil made a complaint to the Church. She alleged that Reid had sexually abused her son. There was a hearing, effectively a church court. Reid didn’t attend, possibly because he couldn’t be traced, I don’t know. In his absence the allegations were found to be true; I say that because they were never actually proved. The Church paid compensation to the victim and the whole thing just went away . . . as did the institution; that closed soon afterwards. The accuser, the boy, was named David Murphy. I haven’t been able to trace him, but my informant, the clerk to the hearing, swears blind that he saw him recently, heading for the Rosslare ferry port in an Irish-registered mobile home, a Winnebago or something similar, on a date that would be consistent with the movement of Reid’s body from Scotland to Spain.’

  ‘Irish plates,’ Haddock repeated. ‘Your man was sure of that, was he?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘And as such, EU plates, and so not liable to be stopped leaving the ferry wherever it docked . . .’

  ‘Cherbourg?’ Cotter suggested.

  ‘Right, nor would it have been stopped crossing the French border into Spain. Have we checked with the ferry company about Winnebago bookings around that period?’

  ‘I’m waiting for their response, sir.’

  ‘Pressure them, please. We shouldn’t put all our eggs in this basket but, DS Cotter, you may well be right. Adding ten years on to his age may well have been Reid trying to distance himself still from a child-abuse scandal. Equally, he might have been trying to distance himself from the victim. If we can place him on that ferry, finding David Murphy will be our priority.’

  Eighty-Eight

  ‘They’ve got him, Mario,’ the chief constable told his deputy. ‘A big white Nissan truck with a company logo on each side is not the smartest thing to use as a getaway vehicle. They picked him up heading north about five minutes after he filled his tank and a couple of cans at a petrol station with camera coverage that the police could access.’

  ‘What are they doing with him?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘They’re taking him back to Melbourne and they’re going to hold him under the terms of our warrant until we decide how we want to proceed.’

  ‘Or until he hires a sharp lawyer who goes to court and challenges it.’

  ‘There is that,’ McIlhenney admitted.

  ‘So, how do we play it?’ the DCC wondered. ‘Do we have him put on the first plane?’

  ‘It’s your ball, mate, you run with it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We can’t fly him back until we get people out there to escort him. That’ll take a couple of days and by that time the sharp lawyer will have an appeal in place. The fact that he’s alive and we have evidence that he was involved in the burial of his sister’s body should see that off, but we’ll still have to put our case to an Aussie judge. If we win, there’ll probably be an appeal against that to a higher court. We could be looking at months unless he decides to come back voluntarily.’

  ‘I’m not as confident as you,’ McIlhenney confessed. ‘We’ve got one piece of DNA evidence that puts him at the scene of the interment, a hair on a tablecloth. That probably came from the family home. Any half decent advocate’s going to point out that we can’t prove when that hair got there.’

  McGuire nodded. ‘They’ll be right too,’ he conceded. ‘The court will piss all over us, if we get that far. But, Trott’s immediate reaction to the police knocking on his door was to panic and do a runner. That tells me all I need to know. He’s still panicking, I’ll bet; we need to get to him before the fear wears off.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m going to ask the Victoria police to have him ready for video interview at midday their time tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s two in the morning here, Mario.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the middle of their night just now. We need to wait for their morning to ask them to set it up.’

  ‘Who’s going to lead?’ the chief asked.

  ‘Me. I’m not delegating this one; McClair’s the SIO. I’ll ask her to join me, providing she can make arrangements for her kid. She’s a single parent. I’ll tell the Aussies it’s informal, under Scottish legal jurisdiction. He won’t be cautioned, not at this stage. That means that we won’t be obliged to let him have a lawyer present.’

  ‘You know how Bob’s going to react when he finds out. We’d never have found Trott without him. There’ll be steam coming out of his ears.’

  ‘I know there will,’ McGuire agreed, ‘but what can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ McIlhenney said, ‘not even for old time’s sake. Think of the conflict of interests. Let’s face it, he’s a bloody journalist now. Ironic, isn’t it? I remember a day when one of those annoyed him. He hung the guy out of a third-floor window!’

  Eighty-Nine

  ‘Have you any idea how many camper vans there are in Ireland registered to people called Murphy?’ the Garda officer asked. ‘I’ll look into it and draw up a list for you, but it’ll be a hell of a long one. As soon as I can,’ she added, ‘but I’m promising nothing.’

  ‘I get that,’ John Cotter told her. ‘I have other lines of inquiry, but if you can come up with something it might help.’

  He hung up and dialled the next number on his list, Normandy Ferries, in the port of Rosslare. After a five-minute hold, punctuated by regular pre-recorded apologies, he was finally connected. ‘Reservations, Brendan speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cotter, Serious Crimes Unit, Glasgow,’ he replied.

  ‘Indeed,’ Brendan exclaimed, cutting across him, ‘and where would you be wanting to go?’

  Possibly Sunderland, the sergeant thought. ‘I wouldn’t be,’ he replied. ‘I’m trying to track down someone who sailed with you at the end of last October or early November. The vehicle was a large mobile home.’

  ‘Do you have a number?”

  ‘Not yet. We’re trying to trace that too.’

  ‘What was the make of the thing?’

  ‘We don’t know that either.’

  ‘Do you have passenger names?’ Brendan asked, hopefully.

  ‘Murphy. David Murphy.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ he chuckled. ‘Of course, it would be. Where would he have been going?’

  ‘Cherbourg, I suppose.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Brendan corrected him. ‘We have sailings from Rosslare to Bilbao as well. Personally, I would not go near the Bay of Biscay at that time of year, but some folk will to anything to get to the Costas. So let me sum up, Sergeant Cotter. You’re looking for a camper van of unknown manufacture, and effectively no number plate, driven by a man with the most popular surname in Ireland.’

  ‘That sums it up,’ the DS agreed. ‘You sound like a resourceful man, Brendan. I’m sure you’ll find it in no time.’

  Ninety

  ‘This is surreal,’ DI Noele McClair said, hanging her dripping coat on a stand by the door of the Serious Crime squad room. Heavy late-winter rain had drenched her on the short walk from her car to the entrance to the Fettes Avenue police building. ‘It takes me back to my days as a plod in Glasgow.’

  DCC Mario McGuire concurred as he greeted her. ‘Me too. I remember being on patrol in Leith with Neil McIlhenney on a night like this. It was so wet that not even the hookers were on the street. Thanks for doing this, Noele,’ he added. ‘I hope it wasn’t too much trouble making arrangements for your boy.’

  ‘It wasn’t. My mum had bridge last night so he’s staying with the Skinners. He’ll go to school with their kids tomorrow. He’ll like that; their Jazz is his idol.’

  ‘Christ,’ McGuire exclaimed. ‘Does that mean Bob knows about this?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. It couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Stoically. He said I should tell you he’ll expect the Saltire crime reporter to have an exclusive briefing in advance of the press announcement when Trott’s charged.’

  ‘If he’s charged,’ the DCC countered.

  ‘There’s a doubt about that, sir?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It won’t be our decision,’ he reminded her. ‘The Crown Office decides who’s prosecuted and who isn’t, and it isn’t always done on the basis of evidence. That’s why I’ve asked Maria Mullen, the deputy procurator fiscal, to join us for the interview.’ As he spoke, he peered out of the window and saw a taxi discharging a passenger in Fettes Avenue. ‘I think that’s her now.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘About time; we need to be ready when the Aussies open the session.’

  It would have to be her, McClair thought. She’d had issues with Mullen, and had found her difficult to deal with.

  The deputy fiscal did not smile as she joined them. ‘Well,’ she began, as she placed her opened umbrella beside the police officers’ coats, ‘where is he, this historic absconder?’

  McGuire ignored her sharp question. ‘Come through here,’ he said, ‘we’ll use the DCI’s office. There’s more room there.’

  ‘Where’s the DCI?’ Mullen asked. ‘Shouldn’t he be here given the seriousness of the matter . . . and the exceptional circumstances?’

  ‘DCI Haddock isn’t leading the inquiry, Maria,’ the DCC explained, calmly, ‘for reasons that will probably become clear as we progress. For the avoidance of doubt, I’ll conduct this interview not you. You’re here so you can make an informed decision, if one needs to be made.’

  He had set up Haddock’s computer on the conference table. It was switched on and the mail box was open. At one minute past two a sound alert announced the arrival of an invitation, sent by Assistant Commissioner J. Flatt, to join a Zoom meeting. McGuire clicked acceptance. A window opened, framing a uniformed officer. He was tanned with a crew cut and a neatly trimmed moustache, and he appeared to be around forty.

  ‘Joe Flatt,’ he said, ‘AC Crime.’

  The DCC introduced himself and his colleagues. ‘Are we ready to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ the Australian replied. ‘I’ll have Trott brought through in a moment. I need to warn you that I don’t think we’ll be able to hold him beyond today. His lawyer’s in court now petitioning for his release. I told her this wouldn’t be under caution; she was okay with that, but she has a paralegal here as a witness. We have counsel at the court, but your warrant doesn’t really have enough content to persuade a judge to remand him. At the very least he’ll be bailed. When that happens, if you want to proceed you’re going to need people here, and maybe legals too.’

  ‘You’re not surprising me there, Joe,’ McGuire admitted. ‘Let’s have Trott in if you’re ready.’

  ‘Sure. Gimme a moment.’

  They watched and waited as AC Flatt went out of shot. Less than a minute later he returned accompanied by another man, older with dark greying hair. Samuel Trott looked tired and anxious, but he was clean shaven and well groomed. The DCC noted that the white shirt and grey trousers that he had been wearing in the body-cam video had been replaced by a Tottenham Hotspur replica strip and denims. He sat facing the camera, with a younger man by his side, wearing a light business suit and twirling a Mont Blanc ballpoint. As they settled into their places, Trott’s anxiety seemed to increase. He fidgeted and licked his lips, then poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table.

  McGuire allowed him a few more seconds before introducing himself and identifying his companions. Then he drew a breath.

  ‘Mr Trott,’ he began, ‘as we’re all aware this is an informal interview. You haven’t been charged with anything and you haven’t been cautioned. That means nothing you choose to tell us can be used against you or even repeated in court, should this matter ever get there, unless you later make it part of a formal statement. What’s going to happen is, I’m going to tell you a story, and then I’m going to give you a chance to respond. You don’t have to. Indeed, you can leave at any point. But I want you to think of this as an opportunity to help us understand things that we’ve discovered. If you do that, there’s a very good chance you could be helping yourself. Do you understand?’

  He nodded, vigorously. ‘Aye, yeah,’ he replied: Scots and Australian.

  ‘Very good,’ the DCC said. ‘I’ll begin.’ He leaned forward, massive forearms on the table, fingers interlinked. ‘Ten days ago, we had a big storm in Scotland. We’ve been having more of them lately; they say it’s global warming, although you wouldn’t think so if you were here this morning. They give the storms names now. God knows why but they do. This one was called Boromir, and it did damage across the country. Buildings were damaged, lorries were turned on their sides, and across the country hundreds, maybe even thousands of trees were blown over. Some of those trees were in an estate in Perthshire, between Perth and Dundee but closer to Perth. Does that location sound familiar to you?’

  Trott shifted on his chair, his eyes avoiding the camera. ‘Don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I’ll carry on, then,’ McGuire continued. ‘Next morning the storm had calmed down a bit and people went out to inspect the damage. Tangled in the roots of one of those fallen trees, they found a skeleton. It was male, the pathologist said. There wasn’t enough left for her to determine beyond reasonable doubt what killed him.’ He paused. ‘I almost said “it”, but no, it was a man and he deserves that dignity. Anyway, as I said, she couldn’t be sure of a cause of death, but she did find anomalies in two of his ribs that suggested he might have been stabbed.’