‘So how many people is he “counselling”?’ asked Tony.
‘I was just coming to that, Anthony,’ Danny growled at him. ‘I suppose the answer is too many or not enough, depending on your point of view. I couldn’t get a handle on how many clients he has because he is a one-man bandit. I spoke to an old contact in the psychobabble business and she reckoned he could easily be stringing along dozens, probably hundreds, maybe more. The way the whole Internet thing works, he could be conning mugs from here to China.’
‘I think I need to pay Mr Irving another visit,’ Rachel sighed. ‘See if my first call has got him rattled enough to tell me the truth.’
They all fell quiet again. The more they found out, the more they knew they still had to learn. A fresh round of beer and tea was set on the table and consumed in silence until Rachel broke it again.
‘Okay, Tony,’ she turned to him. ‘Your turn. What have you got?’
Winter sighed theatrically.
’Okay, well, first of all I took a chance with Paton’s email account.’ Rachel and Danny looked at him curiously.
‘I still had his login details and his password, and I figured I could use them. Someone was blackmailing Paton but that didn’t mean the blackmailer knew he was dead. Or if the other three names on the email did. So I sent a message to all of them. From Paton.’
Danny was smiling and Rachel’s eyebrows were arched in surprise and dubious approval.
‘I got one reply but I don’t think it takes us anywhere.’
‘Which one?’ Rachel asked.
‘Adamski. It was sent directly to Paton and not copied to any of the others. It simply said, “Leave me alone”. No signature; nothing else. The others might still reply but, so far, that’s it.’
‘That big build-up for nothing,’ Danny sighed. ‘I guess it was worth a try. So do you have good news to go with your bad?’
‘Well, I also got the crappy lead to look into, of course. This bollocks about Lily being the daughter of gypsies, killed because she wanted to run away with some gajo.’
‘Gajo?’ Rachel asked.
Tony grinned.
‘I’ve been doing my research. Gajo is the Romany word for a non-gypsy. Like Muggles in Harry Potter, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve been online to see what I could find out.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s quite interesting actually. There are reckoned to be up to twenty-three thousand travellers in Scotland, all in. But they’re broken down into different groups. First up there’s your gypsy travellers, far and away the biggest group. They are gypsies by birth or, very rarely, by marriage. They have their own cultural identity and there’s a big emphasis on extended families and clan links. They’re the ones that have your big fat gypsy weddings and put a curse on you if you don’t buy clothes pegs from them. That’s a load of old-fashioned bollocks, of course, but you can’t beat a good stereotype.
‘There are New Age travellers, your anti-war hippy types. There aren’t too many of those and they and your traditional traveller families don’t really see eye to eye. Then there are fairground travellers, show people. When they’re not on the road, they mostly live here in Glasgow, even though most people don’t know it. There’s a tonne of them in Dalmarnock around Swanston Street, Shore Street and Cotton Street. One article I read reckoned a third of the local population there was show folk.’
‘So which group are we looking at?’ Danny asked him.
‘Gypsy travellers, if the rumourmongers in Callander are right. But even then there’s lots of different ethnic groups within that group. Ready? There are Irish Travellers, Romany Chals, Border Gypsies and Welsh Kale Romanies. You can learn a shitload of stuff on the Internet.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Danny grumbled. ‘But you said it was quite interesting. So how about getting to the interesting part?’
Winter blew out hard.
‘Tough crowd. Okay. Most of them are regularly on the move, usually staying in one place for less than a year, sometimes only for five minutes. But the local authorities provide them with official sites so they can settle for a few months and get the kids into schools. I had a hunt round the Port of Menteith area and there are a few official sites for travelling people not too far away but one in particular caught my eye.’
Winter paused as he looked at the other two to make sure they were listening.
‘You waiting for a drum roll, son? Spit it out.’
‘Aye, okay. There is an official site for travellers in Stirling — in Riverside.’
Narey and Neilson stared at him, seeing the smile slowly appear on Winter’s face.
‘It’s on a bit of land set back from Abbey Road. Less than two hundred yards from Laurence Paton’s house.’
Tony leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied look on his face.
‘Probably a complete coincidence,’ Rachel countered.
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Danny.
Tony’s expression lapsed into crestfallen and stayed that way until Rachel and Danny couldn’t contain themselves any longer and sniggered.
‘Never trust anything that looks like a coincidence, you know that,’ Danny told him. ‘How about you and me take a wee drive back out to Stirling?’
Tony grinned.
CHAPTER 21
Winter and Neilson turned left over the bridge before Stirling railway station and drove carefully down the hill into Riverside. The Ochils loomed in front of them, caked in white like giant iced cakes, a pink haze rising over them, suggesting yet more snow could be on its way. The streets hadn’t been clear of the white stuff in nearly a week now; it lay piled up and frozen within a few feet of the kerbs on both sides of the road. Driving was a nightmare on the roads that remained open and there had already been several lives lost because of it. Worse still, there was no sign of the freeze beginning to ease.
It had been a week since the pair of them had last been in Stirling, paying an unauthorised late-night visit to Laurence Paton’s house. This time it was mid-afternoon but the light was already fading fast and it would probably be dark within an hour. Daylight in Scotland in deep midwinter lasted less than a third of a day and even that was assuming the rare appearance of the sun.
They both cast a glance left towards where Wallace Place lay behind the Edwardian terrace that ran the length of the left-hand side of Abbey Road. On the right was a cycle shop and Danny parked opposite it, leaving a hundred yards or so to go to the opening that would take them into the recessed parcel of land that formed the travellers’ site. Neilson and Winter emerged somewhat reluctantly from the relative warmth of the car and zipped up their jackets, Danny pulling a woollen hat over his head as they carefully negotiated the icy pavements.
The entrance to the site, wide enough to take mobile homes, chalets and caravans, was guarded on both sides by a seven-foot-high wall. As Winter and Neilson passed through the opening, they saw a large piece of land with a number of static mobile homes plus caravans of all sizes, trailers, a couple of pieces of what seemed to be fairground equipment and half a dozen cars. Not surprisingly perhaps, given the weather, there was no one to be seen and the two men looked at each other as if deciding which door they should try first. Danny hesitated, then nodded towards the biggest of the caravans, a grubby once-white vehicle on their right that had clearly seen better days. Winter shrugged as if to say ‘why not’ but before they were halfway there they were stopped in their tracks by a voice from behind them.