‘I read the Sunday Herald version, but I guess it’s much the same.’
‘Did anything strike you about it?’
‘The quote was from Ray Wilding, not Mackenzie; that’s unusually self-effacing for the Bandit.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. He’s just moved into a new patch: he should be taking every chance he gets to make his name.’
‘I’ll have a word with him.’
‘Do that: you know him better than I do. Plus, you’re his line manager.’
‘True, and you’re mine, so there’s something I’d better tell you about. I had big Bob on the blower last night with steam coming out his ears. Alex has been having funny phone calls at her new flat. He wants us to find out who it is, and tell him not to do it again.’
‘Too right we will,’ McGuire exclaimed. ‘Alex works for Paula and me at the Viareggio Trust, soon to be Viareggio plc. I’m not having some hooligan mess her about. What have you done so far?’
‘I’ve got campers on her phone line and on her mobile: so far the bastard’s withheld his number, but if he calls again she’ll try to keep him on long enough for us to get a fix.’
‘Are you watching her as well?’
‘Discreetly, but we are. She doesn’t know it, though. I’m not too worried. Alex is a strong girl and she can handle herself up to black-belt standard. . the boss made sure of that when she was growing up. . but it’s not going to come to that. We’ll pick the caller up, sooner or later.’
‘When you do, don’t interview him without me being there.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s part of the plan. It’ll be just you and me.’
The drive to the crime scene from the police headquarters building took less than five minutes. Swansea Street was lined with cars, apart from an area in front of the victim’s house that had been blocked off by police parking cones. McGuire could have stopped there, but instead he drove round the corner to Anglesey Drive.
As he climbed out of the passenger seat, McIlhenney turned to stare at a car that had just passed them. ‘Hey, Mario, that was the chief,’ he exclaimed.
‘No, surely not. He doesn’t live anywhere near here.’
‘I’m telling you, it was him. He was on his own too; his wife wasn’t with him.’
‘What the hell would Proud Jimmy be doing in Trinity on a Sunday afternoon?’
‘How about checking up on CID?’
‘The big man would just love that, wouldn’t he? If he was, we’ll find out directly.’
The two detectives walked the few yards to the mobile investigation centre. ‘Jesus,’ said McIlhenney, when he saw the big white vehicle. ‘The residents must love this. It’s practically blocking the bloody lane: there’s hardly room for the door to open.’ He trotted up the half-dozen steps with McGuire at his heels and stepped inside.
Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding was at a desk in the middle of the van, with a pile of papers in front of him. He jumped to his feet as the newcomers entered. ‘Sit down, man,’ said McGuire. ‘This isn’t a formal visit.’
‘You haven’t just had the chief constable here, have you?’ asked McIlhenney. The sergeant gazed at him, taken aback by the question, and shook his head. ‘Secret assignation, then.’ The big superintendent chuckled. ‘Where’s DCI Mackenzie?’
‘Not here, sir. He called around ten.’
‘You mean called in?’
‘No, sir, he phoned. He said he was sick and told me to get on with the investigation in his absence.’
‘Are you comfortable with that? You’re just back on the active side after your spell in Dan Pringle’s front office. Have you got enough support here?’
‘I’m all right just now, sir. I’ve got plenty of uniforms to do what needs to be done at this stage, canvassing neighbours for possible sightings and fielding calls about the E-fit as they come in through the hotline.’
‘Have you had many?’
‘A few, but nothing that’s got me excited. There was one bloke called in and said it looks like his window-cleaner, but he doesn’t know what his name is or where he lives. A woman contact said it looked like her daughter’s boyfriend, but when questioned she said that she saw him last night and he had all ten fingers. A pathetic old lady said it reminded her of her grandson: it turned out that he was killed in a motor-bike accident ten years ago. Oh, aye, and a drunk phoned and said it looked like Osama bin Laden. That’s the closest thing to an identification we’ve had, actually. But it can’t be him: he was last seen driving a taxi in New York.’
‘Just about what you’d expect, in other words.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Have you found the murder weapon yet?’
‘We don’t know, sir. There are a few things in the kitchen that look as if they might have done the job, but they’re all clean, or rather Starr’s are the only fingerprints on them. There is one odd thing, though. There’s a full set of kitchen knives in a wooden block, only one of them’s missing; a big one, from the size of the empty slot. But we’ll need to wait for Professor Hutchinson’s post-mortem report before we can take that any further.’
‘Old Joe may need to bring someone in for that. Identifying a weapon from the marks left on a body can be a specialist task.’
‘What about the neighbours?’ asked McGuire.
‘No more productive than the E-fit, I’m afraid. This is a quiet neighbourhood: you don’t find people walking back from the pub at midnight. We’ve had no sightings of anyone entering or leaving the victim’s house.’
‘Okay, Ray, where do you go from here? If it seems that I’m pushing this, it’s because in a way it started on my watch. I was still in Leith when the attempted robbery at Starr’s took place. It’s also because I don’t plan to have any unsolved homicides on my record as head of CID.’
‘Understood, sir. Tomorrow morning I plan to re-interview Big Ming. . that’s Smith, the board man. I’m also going to talk to his clerk, and his ex-wife. I want to find out everything there is to know about Gary Starr.’
‘Do I take it you’re not keen on the idea that the boy with the missing finger came back with friends?’
‘If he had friends, sir, why did he try to stick up Starr’s place on his own with a plastic gun? There is no commonality between the two events other than amputation. I find it hard to accept that someone who was such a disastrous, half-hearted failure as an armed robber could be involved in something as fucking hard-core brutal as this.’
‘I think I agree with you. Don’t stop with the ex-wife, Ray. Talk to his bank manager; look into his accounts for money flowing in. Take his house apart, take his shop apart; find out who his associates were, look for cash piles, go through all his books and pin down every penny he had. If you want assistance from specialist officers, you’ve got it.’
‘What about Mr Mackenzie, sir? He’s the senior investigating officer.’
‘He’s not here, Ray,’ McIlhenney intervened. ‘He can’t run a high-profile murder investigation from his sick-bed. Until he’s back, you report to me directly, and when he is back, the inquiry is to be run exactly as we’ve discussed here.’
‘And something else,’ McGuire added. ‘This is just a wild idea,’ he grinned, ‘but since it’s my wild idea, I expect you to bear it in mind. When you’re building up your list of his contacts and associates, keep an eye out for Muslims. Look at what was done to this man: he had both of his hands cut off. What’s the punishment for theft under Sharia law? Amputation.’
‘But not death,’ McIlhenney pointed out.
The new head of CID smiled, wickedly. ‘Maybe they weren’t trying to kill him. Maybe they just didn’t care.’
Nineteen
‘Where’s Lena? She hasn’t made herself scarce to give us a clear field, has she?’
Aileen laughed. ‘No, I wouldn’t ask her to do that. She’s visiting her parents, as it happens: she’ll be back around eight, in time for Monarch of the Glen.’
‘Will she cough loudly and rattle her keys before she comes in?’
‘I’m sure she will, but there won’t be any need, will there?’