‘Yes, sir, can do.’ She looked at Wright, then continued. ‘It wasn’t until well into the investigation that we were led in another direction. Certain forensic evidence was found in the house that led to Sandra Bulloch being interviewed herself. Under questioning she admitted that she and Leo Speight were actually together; they had become a couple, and were even planning to marry. That would have been a first for Leo, and for her for that matter. She didn’t know it at the time but this had to come out. Shortly before his death, Speight had changed his will making her the principal beneficiary. In the process, Faye was disinherited. When she found out she went apeshit . . . so much so that she might have gone to jail for attempted murder. She was actually charged but the Crown Office decided the evidence didn’t give a high enough chance of a conviction.’

  ‘So how did Speight die,’ the sergeant asked, ‘if he wasn’t poisoned?’

  ‘Accidentally; let’s just call it misfortune. Look it up, Jackie,’ she said. ‘There was a book published about his life, and his death. To carry on, Sandra’s reticence would have been a disciplinary matter if she’d chosen to stay in the police service, but she didn’t, she resigned, forthwith, and left the country. I can’t speak for everybody she ever worked with, but I’ve never heard from her or of her from that day on, and I know for sure that Dan hasn’t either. Basically she’s been gone from our world since all that stuff happened. I’m now gob-smacked that on Tuesday I watched her being unwrapped and filleted without having the faintest idea that it was her.’

  ‘When did it first dawn on you that it might be?’ Wright asked.

  ‘As soon as John Stirling mentioned Leo Speight’s name after speaking with Bonar. When he did, I knew for sure.’ She sighed, looking at McGuire. ‘Where do we go from here, sir?’

  ‘You tell me,’ he countered. ‘You’re the SIO.’

  ‘Well, I’d say we begin by reviewing the record of the investigation into Leo Speight’s death,’ she said. ‘Also we should talk to everybody she ever worked with, just in case there was someone she kept in touch with.’

  ‘Everyone?’ the DCC drawled. ‘That’s a big ask. But there is someone I can help you with. You two get back to Glasgow and I’ll call him, right now.’

  Twenty

  ‘Bob,’ Mario McGuire began, as his friend and mentor picked up his call, ‘I have something to tell you. Three days ago, officers were called to a motor home in Irvine. It had been parked there for weeks, the neighbours were complaining and it was starting to smell.’

  ‘I know,’ Skinner said. ‘They found a body inside. Remember, mate, the Saltire’s one of our newspapers, so I scan it every day, whether I’m in Scotland or here. I saw the reports, both of them, the discovery, then the second one labelling it as suspicious. What is it? Drug related? A gang thing?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t appear to be either of those. We haven’t a fucking clue what it is, other than a very brutal and callous murder. The thing is, and the reason I’m calling . . . Bob, we’ve identified the body. It’s Sandra Bulloch.’

  McGuire heard a quick intake of breath, then silence. He was about to ask if Skinner was still there when he spoke. ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Beyond doubt?’

  ‘Beyond a shadow.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She was tied to a chair, a bag was put over her head, and she was hit.’

  ‘Who did the autopsy?’

  ‘Graham Scott.’

  ‘Mmm. He’s the second best in the business, after my lovely wife. What actually killed her, then? The blow to the head?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure,’ McGuire admitted. ‘It could have but equally it could have been asphyxia that finished her off. She’d been dead for months, Bob; four, five, six. She was killed well before the vehicle was dumped where it was found. She was only identified after the crime scene team found fingerprints in the only spot that hadn’t been wiped clean of any traces to her. We’ve only just had confirmation of the ID.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he hissed. ‘The poor lass. Lottie’s the SIO, I take it. Or is Sauce leading?’

  ‘No, he’s not. It’s DCI Mann’s area so she leads, with Jackie Wright as number two. Obviously she’ll get all the backup she needs.

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m not sure where Lottie can begin. The sister will be interviewed for sure, but other than her there’re no obvious leads. As of now we know absolutely nothing about Sandra’s life after she left the police. Lottie’ll have to piece that together. But first she and her team will have to talk to former colleagues, on the off chance she’s kept in touch with somebody.’

  ‘That should include me,’ Skinner said. ‘In my brief tenure as chief of the old Strathclyde force, Sandra was my exec.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ McGuire told him. ‘How soon can she speak to you? Where are you just now? Here or there? What’s your availability in Scotland?’

  ‘It’s very limited,’ he admitted. ‘I’m going home tomorrow morning. Twenty four hours later, the whole family are flying to Spain. It’s moving day, Mario. I suggest that Lottie calls me tomorrow afternoon if she can. If she prefers a face to face, I suggest we meet at Edinburgh Airport.’

  Twenty-One

  ‘Sergeant Knox?’ John Stirling rose as the uniformed figure approached his desk in the squad room.

  ‘That’s me,’ the newcomer confirmed, extending a hand. ‘Brian. And you’ll be DS Stirling I guess.’

  ‘John, yes.’

  They shook hands; Knox looked around. ‘So this is the nerve centre,’ he said.

  ‘I prefer to think of it as the hive,’ his shirt-sleeved colleague replied, ‘’cos it’s where the queen bee lives.’

  The newcomer laughed. ‘Nice one. Is she about?’

  ‘No, she and DS Wright are at the place in Gartcosh, hoping to confirm the identity of the victim. I’ve had no feedback so far, so I don’t know if we have it yet. Anyway it’s not relevant for what we’ve got to do. The boss said you’ve got a video link for us.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Knox paused. ‘Have you ever been to Gartcosh, John?’

  ‘Inside it? No. But I’ve driven past it often enough.’

  ‘What is it, exactly? It’s just a name to us country plods.’

  ‘As I understand it, it’s where all the specialist services are located. For example, it’s where the forensic scientists do their science. That’s who the boss and Jackie have gone to see. It’s not just them though; there’s all sorts there. Somebody told me once that HMRC are there; that they have their own investigators. I don’t know that for sure, though,’ Stirling added.

  ‘Mmm, those bastards are everywhere. They sent me a text yesterday saying I’d be fined unless I gave them the information they needed. Bastards!’ Knox repeated, vehemently.

  ‘You didn’t respond, did you?’ his colleague asked.

  ‘I had to, didn’t I? I don’t want to be fined. It can affect your credit score and everything.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ the DS whispered. ‘It’s a scam, Brian. HMRC never send text messages, and they never ask you for personal information.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, fucking google it.’

  ‘Jesus, what’ll I do? Where do I report it? Gartcosh?’

  ‘There’s little point in reporting it anywhere. What you do need to do is change all your passwords, on your banking apps, credit cards, subscription services, the lot.’

  The visitor stared back at him. ‘What sort of a world is this, John?’

  ‘A very complicated and dangerous one, mate. I had a text myself on Monday from the Royal Mail. It said that a delivery had been delayed because of incorrect information, and asked me to log on to a link and then resend it to an online address. I almost fell for it, until I looked at the link and saw that it led to somewhere in Italy. Last night I had an almost identical text from another courier company. In both cases I deleted and reported as junk. For a while I thought that might be part of the scam, but no, that option’s genuine. You’d better change those passwords now. Use the boss’s office. Give me that video link before you go, and I’ll get started.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘I’ll just write it down rather than text it. Nothing seems to be safe online.’ He pulled a notepad across Stirling’s desk, scribbled on it, then handed it over. ‘That’s the link to the security company’s monitoring site, and the client password. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve made myself safe again.’

  As he left, the DS settled into his swivel chair, and pulled his computer terminal closer. Opening his browser he keyed in the link that the uniformed sergeant had left. It took him to the home page of an entity calling itself Busara Security Solutions. It described and depicted the services offered by the company, with heavy emphasis on discretion. ‘Overt security relies on deterrence,’ the opening paragraph read. ‘Discreet solutions are just as effective and better at identifying property predators.’

  Stirling smiled. ‘Property predators,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll bet someone in a marketing consultancy got a bonus for coming up with that line.’

  He looked at the menu, found a section labelled ‘Client Portal’, and entered the password when prompted. A page opened, revealing the personal profile of Jordan McColl, of Twelve Dredgerton Way, Irvine. He scanned its contents until he found a further link leading to footage from the system’s six cameras. Two were external, front and rear, four indoors, named as ‘Living’, ‘Kitchen’, ‘Hall’ and ‘Camila bedroom’.

  ‘They don’t have one on their own room,’ he observed. ‘A wise move considering what Knox is doing right now. Any bugger could hack in there, find all sorts and post it anywhere.’

  His fingers were crossed mentally as he clicked on ‘Front’. He sighed with relief as he saw, beside an image that appeared to be live, given the light and weather conditions, a calendar. He selected a time window covering July and clicked again, on the first day of the month. The image grew to fill most of his screen. ‘Now,’ he whispered, as he hovered his cursor on an arrow beneath and pressed it. In the bottom right corner of the screen a date and time indicator, that had been still, began to move more rapidly than he could follow. Above it the image remained still.

  ‘It’s got a motion sensor, ya beauty,’ he said, just as the picture came to life, showing a female figure, Miss Berry, no less, walking her dog on the pavement, past the parking bay where the motor home had been left. As she passed out of shot, the image and the clock froze once again, until it was triggered once more but only for a few seconds, by a car passing through the camera’s field of vision.

  He searched the indicators for a fast forward option and found it, doubling the speed of his review and then trebling it as he played his way through the first twenty four hours of footage. As he had expected, having no through traffic the area was quiet, with very few cars and not many more pedestrians. Miss Berry walked her dog twice a day; as did three other owners, everyone in the senior age bracket.

  At nineteen minutes past eleven on the fifth of July, just under an hour after an elderly man and his Labrador had triggered the camera, with darkness fallen on an apparently moonless night, the screen sprang to life as a large white vehicle appeared from the left of the frame. Instantly, Stirling hit the ‘Stop’ icon. As he had been able to accelerate playback, so he was able to slow it down before restarting. As he watched the reactivated recording, he saw the vehicle settle carefully into the parking bay. It had been designed to accommodate at least two cars, but the motor home’s positioning left no room for any other. He paused playback again, studying the image. The camera’s night vision was excellent, but the view of the windscreen was affected by the reflection from a streetlight on the periphery of its range of vision. Focusing on it he advanced the video frame by frame, and was able to see a blind being drawn within the van.

  ‘What’s happening now?’ he whispered, as the recording crept on for a few more seconds, then stopped. He could only guess the answer. Both the driver’s and the cabin doors were on the left, hidden from his view. Possibly, the driver was still inside, sanitising the space, removing any identifying traces. Or possibly that had been done elsewhere, in which case the perpetrator had emerged and was fixing the clamp to the rear nearside wheel. And a further possibility, that he or she had made their exit from the scene without ever being captured by the camera. There were no homes on the other side of the motor home, only an open field.

  Stirling was resigned to that outcome and to the video trawl having been a waste of police time, when the still image changed, subtly. There was a slight alteration in the reflection of the windscreen. A windvane in the McColl garden, which had been still throughout began to veer from side to side. A cyclist appeared in shot heading right from behind the motor home, on the pavement, but for less than two seconds before disappearing from sight down Dredgerton Way.

  ‘Yes!’ the DS hissed. He froze the play once more then rewound, frame by frame until he had a still image of the mounted cyclist. He saved it to his computer, zoomed in as far as he could, then saved it for a second time.

  As he leaned towards the screen, he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You got something?’ Brian Knox asked. ‘The driver?’

  ‘Has to be,’ he replied. ‘Eleven thirty at night there can’t be much cycle traffic on that estate.’

  ‘Male?’

  ‘Christ Brian, who knows? Whoever it is, they’re wearing trainers, tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. It’s not loose either, like hoodies nearly always are. It’s tied at the neck, to hide the face as much as possible. Whatever the gender is, male, female, non-fucking-binary, that’s our killer and they’re leaving nothing to chance.’

  ‘Maybe we can get an ID from the clothing,’ Knox suggested. ‘Or the bike. I’ve always thought they should have number plates.’

  ‘Yes, and maybe if I let the video run for a couple of minutes more it’ll start to snow. I’ll send the image to the specialists at Gartcosh and see what magic they can work, but I reckon this is even beyond Harry Potter.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘What does your gut say, John?’ Mann asked as she studied the magnified image of the cyclist that Stirling had extracted from the video still. ‘Male or female?’

  ‘My gut?’ Stirling repeated. ‘Well . . . my gut says he’s a man, but,’ he added, glancing at her with a half-smile, ‘that’s perilously close to making an assumption, boss. The clothing’s too loose; it could be either. It’s a Trespass logo on the hoodie, but there’s bloody millions of them. That won’t take us anywhere.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ she conceded. ‘Did you and Knox stop your playback when the vehicle appeared in shot or did you carry on further?’

  ‘First off we reviewed it right through until the eighth, when the bin truck turned up. Quite a few people stopped to look at it but most of them were dog walkers, apart from a few curious neighbours, among them the male householder of the camera owner. But we didn’t stop there, boss. We scanned right up until Monday when Miss Berry got her phone out and called the police again. I say again, because on July the thirteenth there’s footage of one of our cars arriving at the locus. The driver and his partner spoke to a guy from the house next door to the camera, and drove off again all within five minutes. They didn’t even look at the vehicle. Brian knows them. I think he was embarrassed by the way they brushed off the complainant. No I don’t think so, I know, he was steaming after he saw it. He said he’d be taking it to the station commander.’

  ‘He won’t be the only one,’ Mann growled. ‘I’ll be rattling their cage too. If they’d had the nous to check the registration number, Sandra’s body could have been discovered then.’ She turned to Jackie Wright. ‘Has anyone followed up the owner of the stolen plates?’

  ‘No, but we know they were taken in a supermarket car park in Drumchapel, in Glasgow, on June the twenty-eighth. The theft was reported on the same day.’

  ‘A week or so before the motor home was abandoned. Jackie, I want to know if it was acted upon, if patrol vehicles were warned to look out for the number.’

  ‘I’ll find out, boss,’ the DS promised, ‘but even if it was, the likelihood was that the thing was off the road until the perpetrator was ready to dump it.’

  ‘I agree,’ the DCI conceded, ‘but the fiscal’s likely to ask when we submit a report so I want everyone’s arse covered. On the positive side,’ she continued, ‘if we can look at it that way, we can take it from the video review that there was only one person involved in the dumping of the vehicle. Right John?’

  Stirling nodded. ‘I would say so, ma’am. We looked at the disposal footage several times, with that in mind, just in case we’d missed somebody else heading off in another direction.’

  ‘Okay.’ She leaned forward, forearms on the meeting table in her office and looked at her two colleagues. ‘That’s what we know so far: only a little more than bugger all. In a little over half an hour, at two o’clock, I’m going to have to tell the media that a former senior police officer, someone that quite a few of them will have known, has been murdered. I’m not going to share any more than I have to but I’m going to be asked all sorts of questions, and very few of those I’ll be able to answer. I worked with Sandra Bulloch, but we were never close, nowhere near friends. She was above me on the ladder, DCI to my DI, and I was never happy reporting to her. I hope I’m nowhere near her as a line manager. If I am, I apologise. The truth is, I didn’t like the woman, pure and simple. She was rude, peremptory and rarely cracked a smile. Because of that I knew very little about her, just that she’d dumped a long term partner, and had no friends anyone knew about, male or female. When it all came out about her and Leo Speight, I was as surprised as everyone else. You know the story, Jackie, about her and Leo, from our meeting with the DCC. For John’s benefit, when he was found dead in suspicious circumstances, and a major investigation began, she was one of the first on the scene, but said nothing about them being together. In fact she actually lied to us. There was a very hush-hush internal inquiry, run by Bob Skinner . . . probably a mistake because she’d worked for him and he did rate her . . . and she never came back to work, just went away.’