Even as he spoke, Wright felt the tension begin to ease out of her as she acknowledged the truth of his words. She realised, for the first time in their brief acquaintance, how much she liked John Stirling.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she sighed. ‘You’re right and I’m doing that right now. The arrests will be by the book. That doesn’t mean that Gregor isn’t a See You Next Tuesday, but I won’t tell him, honest.’

  ‘Good. Because while you’ve been working yourself into a lather, a specialist colleague and I have been looking at something that Sauce Haddock’s had flown over to us from the Bahamas. It looks like a gold mine; it’s Sandra’s and all her stuff’s accessible there. I’ve only just scratched the surface of what’s in it, but already I’ve found something that you’re going to love.’

  Seventy-Eight

  ‘Standing will be fine,’ the detective chief superintendent said, from her chair, behind her desk, in the fish-tank office that was in full view of everyone in the busy CID squad room.

  That was the moment at which Constable Drew Renwick, the senior of the two patrol officers, knew for certain that they had not been sent to Glasgow ‘probably to pick up an urgent off-the-books parcel for the chief constable’s wife,’ as their station inspector, Grace Kelly, had suggested. His colleague, Constable Sanjeev Kohli, had not believed that for a second. He had read the current chief’s biography on the police service website; that spoke for itself of his integrity. He glanced down at the triangular block on the desk. ‘DCI Charlotte Mann.’ ‘I think I’ve heard of her,’ he thought, as he strove to keep his most innocent, wide-eyed expression on his face.

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Renwick grunted. ‘Would you like us to stand at attention?’

  Her glare froze Kohli, even though it was focused on his colleague. ‘No,’ she growled. ‘If you did that you’d probably strain muscles that you haven’t used in years, and then go on the sick for a couple of weeks. What I want you to do is think back six months, to March and an RTA that you two attended on the road from Lanark to Biggar. A vehicle went off the road, a long straight road, and down a hillside. The only occupant was the driver, female, fifties; she was badly injured. Remember it, Constable Renwick?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  The DCI leaned forward, with eyes so cold and a frown so deep that from Kohli’s vantage point there could have been snow in its furrows. ‘Vaguely?’ she murmured. ‘Vaguely?’ The murmur became an incredulous bark. ‘The woman went off the road, which had to be dry as it hadn’t rained for a week before the incident with temperatures well above freezing, up a small grass bank, took out a three strand wire fence, and turned over several times before coming to rest in a small copse of trees. You know where I got that description?’ she snapped. ‘From the victim herself, and from a report by an insurance company assessor. Where I should have got it, Mr Renwick, is from your incident report. But I didn’t, because that’s a mere twelve words long. “Attended. No other vehicle or persons involved. Driver, female, removed to hospital.” That’s it.’ The icy eyes fixed even more firmly on Renwick. ‘Is your memory a bit less vague now?’

  ‘Okay yes,’ he conceded.

  ‘Okay yes, what?’

  ‘Okay yes, ma’am,’ the constable muttered.

  Just when Sanjeev Kohli thought it was safe to take a breath, her attention turned to him. ‘And you, Constable? No, your cloak of invisibility isn’t working. I can actually see you. What’s your recollection of the incident?’

  He gulped. ‘The same as my colleague, ma’am.’

  ‘How do you know that? He hasn’t told me anything yet. What’s your recollection?’

  ‘Can I refer to my notebook, ma’am?’

  The frown relaxed, became less deep. ‘Does it go that far back?’

  ‘The current one no, but I brought the one before as well . . . just in case, like.’

  ‘Okay, dig it out and tell me what it says about the incident.’

  Not daring even to glance at Renwick, whom he could sense was quivering with anger, Constable Kohli produced two notebooks from a pouch in his tunic, inspected them, held on to one and returned the other. ‘Give me a minute, please, ma’am,’ he murmured.

  She nodded.

  ‘Here it is,’ Kohli said, then began to read. ‘Called to a reported RTA at seventeen forty-two, A73. Informant was a householder whose dwelling overlooked the scene. No skid marks on road, but found a break in the fence. Vehicle at foot of a steep slope. Wedged between two trees by small river, with severe damage. CR . . . Constable Renwick, ma’am . . . ordered me to check. CR remained by police car. On inspection found female driver severely injured, apparently unconscious. Summoned ambulance and remained with driver until arrival, and as she was removed by paramedics. Driver recovered consciousness during removal. Immediately sedated by paramedic. Spoke with householder, Mr Gordon McLennan, male, elderly; home other side of wee river, near vehicle position. Advised he had seen vehicle rolling down hill, unable to render assistance because of age and river. Assisted with physical removal of victim on stretcher. Returned to LPS . . . Lanark Police Station, ma’am . . . CR submitted report. That’s it ma’am.’

  ‘Was it you who told the paramedics that the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel?’ Mann asked.

  Kohli shifted on his feet.

  ‘No ma’am,’ Renwick said. His posture had altered, from aggressive to submissive. ‘That was me. I took a good look at the road while I was waiting for the ambulance. There was no sign of her trying to stop at all. If she had, the fence posts would likely have been strong enough to keep her from going through it.’

  Mann’s glare returned. ‘That was the extent of your investigation, was it? You never considered any other possibilities before you made your twelve-word report?’

  ‘Such as, ma’am?’ the constable protested. ‘There were no other possibilities.’

  ‘Wrong, there was one: that she might have been forced off the road by another vehicle. Because,’ Mann paused to let her words sink in, ‘that’s what the victim’s saying now.’

  ‘How were we . . ?’

  ‘To know that,’ she exclaimed, ‘when she was sedated for weeks after the accident? Only one way, and that would be by interviewing her. But you never did. Nobody did. A potential attempted murder’s gone un-investigated for six months because you submitted a report that was disgracefully inadequate, yet your senior officers didn’t spot that and follow it up.’

  ‘I submitted my report, ma’am, to my station inspector. Ask him why it was never followed up.’

  ‘How would he have done that?’ she barked, her fire refuelled. ‘There was nothing in it. What was her name?’

  ‘Pardon ma’am?’

  ‘What was the driver’s name? Your RTA report doesn’t even include that. What was the vehicle registration number?’ Her eyes latched on to Kohli. ‘I bet you know, Constable.’

  His gulp was both audible and visible. He reopened his notebook. ‘The vehicle registration was Sierra Mike seven three Juliet Zulu Uniform, ma’am,’ he read, with an apologetic glance to his left. ‘Registered to a Christine McGhee. I did a DVLA check when I was waiting for the ambulance. But it’s my fault,’ he added. ‘I didn’t mention it to Drew, er, Constable Renwick.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have had to mention it,’ she retorted. ‘Renwick was the senior officer. Identifying vehicle and driver’s a no-brainer; which begs the question, does he have . . .’ Mann stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Dismissed, both of you. Kohli, you take the vehicle you came in back to Lanark. Renwick, I’m opening a disciplinary into this. You stay here and report to the office directly below this one, where you’ll be interviewed by officers from Professional Standards. They’ll decide whether you should be suspended or not.’ She looked at Kohli. ‘You don’t get a free pass on this,’ she told him. ‘As far as I can see you did most things right, but you’ll still need to be interviewed. Not today, though; get on your way now. Renwick, wait in the outer office for a couple of minutes, to let him get clear. There should be no further contact between the two of you until this is sorted.’

  Soon as Renwick had left the squad room, she stepped out of her office in search of fresher air. The window had been slightly open but three people in its confined space had been at least one too many. As she moved towards the refreshment table, coffee in mind, Stirling was ending a call. ‘Thanks,’ she heard him say. ‘I’ll have it picked up.’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘A search warrant for the three Later Era care homes. We’re looking for any drugs that shouldn’t be there. Jackie’s got grounds to arrest the Rutherford couple on suspicion of attempted murder, and she’s doing that now. I’ve asked Maya, and two other DCs to get down there, search Biggar first, then do the other two.’

  Mann nodded. ‘Proper,’ she murmured. ‘And we can link them with Sandra Bulloch, yes?’

  ‘Very much so, boss, given what we’ve found on her computer.’

  ‘You got into it that fast?’

  ‘The IT guys have an AI system that generates likely passwords,’ he said, nodding to his specialist colleague, who was at a separate table leaning over the iMac. ‘One of them worked. With that and the mould of her fingerprint that we had done, he cracked it. I’ll . . .’

  As he spoke the DCI’s ringtone sounded. She checked the caller, raised a hand in apology to Stirling, and returned to her office. ‘Sir,’ she murmured as she closed the door behind her. ‘I wasn’t expecting . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Bob Skinner said. ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago it would have been,’ she replied, ‘but I’m clear now.’

  ‘What were you up to?’

  ‘I was reaming a couple of uniforms, one in particular, for something that might just have put us on Sandra Bulloch’s trail six months ago, if it had been properly followed through.’ She explained the circumstances of Chris McGhee’s near fatal accident and the reason for the delay in their discovery.

  ‘Not good,’ he agreed. ‘I could say that would never have happened in my day, but I’d be kidding both of us. Of course it did; you can’t root out all the wormy apples. Who does this go back to? The station inspector, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, and maybe her boss too, a superintendent called Murphy.’

  ‘Ah,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘I remember him from my Strathclyde time. He was on my hitlist but I wasn’t there long enough. He’ll likely wriggle out of the professional standards complaint, but if you give Mario McGuire all the details, he’ll make sure that what’s for him doesn’t go past him.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mann said. ‘It’s the second time we’ve encountered something like this on this investigation.’

  ‘Then make sure Mario knows,’ he repeated. ‘Neil McIlhenney’s facing manpower cuts. I know he’s keen on using that to get rid of the dead wood, and hold on to the best people.’ He laughed. ‘Those two; the stuff they tell me, I’m sure they forget that I’m a working journalist these days.’

  She smiled. ‘Should I be talking to you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, you should be listening to me. Being a working journalist is actually a lot like being a detective. You investigate things and find answers maybe quicker than you would if you wore some of the handcuffs that cops have to.’

  ‘You mean search warrants and the like? My DS Stirling’s just had to pull one of those to look for evidence against a couple whose names came up in the Bulloch inquiry. We might have been able to exercise hot pursuit searches, but with defence counsel involved, and some of the judges we have these days, no way would I chance that. Still,’ she added, ‘you’re talking to a seriously satisfied officer because once it is all done, and all the bits are fitted together, we may very well have found Sandra’s killers. They’re prime suspects at the very least.’

  ‘Oh,’ Skinner said, in a tone that curbed her enthusiasm, instantly. ‘I hate to spoil your day, Lottie, and maybe I’m not going to, but, going back to my new role and the freedom of action it gives me, I’ve been using a resource of mine to chase, let’s call it this story. On the basis of what he’s told me, the people you’re talking about aren’t your only prime suspects. Let me fill you in on what my guy’s discovered.’

  Seventy-Nine

  ‘Was all that necessary?’ Gregor Rutherford demanded. ‘Handcuffing us like common criminals and marching us out of our own properties, in front of our staff and our clients? And bringing us to Glasgow? What’s that about?’

  ‘Standard procedure,’ Wright told him, calmly, ‘in any homicide investigation.’

  ‘Homicide?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re having a laugh.’

  ‘We don’t do stand-up here,’ the DS said, ‘as Ms DaCosta will confirm.’

  Lottie Mann gazed at the live feed from the interview room as it played on her computer screen. John Stirling was beside her, seated on a chair in a space that was barely big enough to accommodate it. The images came from a camera set high on the wall behind a table at which sat five people. On one side, facing the lens, Gregor and Amina Rutherford, flanking their lawyer, Johanna DaCosta; on the other, Jackie Wright and Maya Smith.

  ‘Who’s the solicitor?’ Stirling asked.

  His boss corrected him. ‘Solicitor Advocate. She’s an associate of Alex Skinner KC, newly installed. She works out of Alex’s office. Ms DaCosta might act as her junior in a really big criminal case, but mainly she operates independently.’

  ‘Are you saying this isn’t a big case?’

  ‘No I’m not. It may very well become one, but Alex won’t be involved in it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too close to her dad.’

  ‘She’s . . .?’

  ‘Yes, now shut up, listen and learn. You’re here to learn, just like Maya is, in that room.’

  As a whispered conversation between lawyer and clients ended, DaCosta looked across the table. ‘Mr and Mrs Rutherford are confused about the reason for their arrest, DS Wright. Will you enlighten them? Also, what Mr Rutherford was trying to say was that it seemed to be precipitate. Can you explain that also?’

  ‘Of course,’ Wright assured her. ‘I’ll deal with the second question first. We moved to arrest Mrs Rutherford because we have evidence that two days ago, she attempted to murder one of the residents in the company’s Later Era residential home in Biggar, Mrs Sally Crawford, aged ninety-two, by injecting her with morphine. As I’m sure you know, that’s a controlled drug to be administered only on the instruction of a physician, and by a medical professional.’

  ‘I’m a doctor!’ Amina Rutherford protested. Nothing showed in DaCosta’s eyes but she leaned to her left and whispered in her client’s ear.

  Mann could only imagine Wright’s smile, but she knew it was there as she replied. ‘Only in India, and even there your degree’s only in alternative medicine. By the way, as I’m sure you’ve just been told, it’s never a good idea to incriminate yourself this early in an examination. Are you saying that you injected her, because you’re qualified to do so? If you are, that defence didn’t do Dr Shipman too much good.’

  ‘I am saying nothing.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to, for now. I’ll continue, will I? We believe, Ms DaCosta, that your client did this with a degree of urgency that was triggered by my visit to Mrs Crawford earlier that day. I went there to talk to her about her niece, Sandra Bulloch, and a visit she paid to her in early March. Staff at the home denied any knowledge of this, but it happened. This is proved by the home’s visitor registration book, which we’ve seized as evidence.’ She paused. ‘That’s charge one. The second relates to the illegal possession of morphine and midazolam, discovered in searches under warrant of the Rutherfords’ three establishments. It’s our intention to charge both of your clients with that. That’s already been authorised by the fiscal, as has the attempted murder charge.’

  DaCosta nodded. ‘Charges to which they will respond in due course, but for now it’ll be no comment.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Wright agreed. ‘But there’s more: modern slavery, tax fraud, coercion. The Crown Office hasn’t worked out all the charges yet, but trust me they will follow.’

  ‘Noted,’ the solicitor advocate said. ‘Still, those charges don’t explain Mr Rutherford’s speedy arrest.’

  ‘They don’t. But I’ll get there. What I propose to do now is to play a voice recording that’s been recovered from Cloud storage on a computer owned by Sandra Bulloch, whose murder we are also investigating. When you’ve heard it, Mr and Mrs Rutherford, I’ll let you have a private discussion with Ms DaCosta to consider your response. DC Smith, if you would . . .’

  A laptop computer sat on the table. Maya Smith opened it, scrolled through its contents, clicked on a file and leaned back. Looking on remotely, Lottie Mann smiled. ‘Listen to this, John,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll be like throwing a hand grenade into a loch.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Rutherford.’ Another voice was picked up by the microphone in the interview room; mature, strong and confident. ‘Thanks for meeting with me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Gregor Rutherford, disembodied, was heard to say. ‘But we’re short of time, so get on with it.’

  ‘I will, but time won’t be an issue. I’m your top priority. You know me as Alexandra Vernon, the name under which I visited Later Era Biggar. In fact my real name is Sandra Bulloch, I’m a former police officer, detective chief inspector, and I’m the niece of Mrs Sally Crawford, one of your oldest residents. I’ve lived in the Bahamas for the last five years, but I’ve been touring Europe on business for the last few months, with Scotland as my last stop. I’d been planning to visit Aunt Sally anyway, but then I had a message from my cousin Christine, her stepdaughter and her legal next of kin. What she told me made me change my plans. Instead, I became Alexandra Vernon, a name that I use for business purposes, and signed in as her when I visited. While I was there I kept my eyes open, I observed a few things and I asked a couple of questions of staff. They brushed me off; they all told me the same story, that they were not allowed to speak with family members or any other visitors. While I was asking those questions, I had one of Chris’s observations in mind. Every person I spoke to was of African origin, apart from the assistant manager at Biggar, who was Indian. His name is Hardeep and I’ve discovered that he’s your nephew, Mrs Rutherford. You have a big family; the assistant managers at your other two homes are his brother and sister. That one visit told me that Chris was right. Once a cop always a cop, and so I followed up on her concerns. I put each of your homes under observation, watching staff arrive and leave. I saw that apart from your family members, all of them were indeed African, and remarkably that they all lived in the same three places, each one a former council house with only basic modernisation. I was able to speak with a few of them. Three of them told me how things really are, about their contracts, the slave wages they’re paid, the temps that are brought in when they get advance warning of visits by the Care Protection Agency. Those eighteen Africans and your family members are all you’ve got as full-time staff. Bottom line, every one of those elderly clients you have, each one paying you a minimum of five grand a month, are being defrauded.’ As Sandra Bulloch told her story, anger was mounting in her voice. She paused. When she resumed she was as calm as she had been at the outset. ‘In case you think I can’t prove this,’ she continued, ‘I can. When I was in the police I had a spell in Special Branch. I still have a contact in the Home Office, who gave me details of every visa that’s been issued under your sponsorship. I still have another in HMRC, who told me what you’ve been reporting as payments to your staff. Only you haven’t been paying them anything like that. You’ve been putting them through the books on a minimum wage, but keeping half of their net earnings to cover accommodation. You disgust me, both of you. All of my instinct and all of the professionalism I have left makes me want to turn you in. But you know what? I don’t intend to. If I did, and you were closed down, as you would be for sure, a hundred and fifty old people would be homeless. Those poor sods that you’re exploiting with your bogus contracts and your threats would probably be deported. To avoid all that I’ve got another solution.’