Dottie Shannon sat opposite him, engrossed in a Sheila O’Flanagan novel that she had bought at the airport. She was dressed more formally than the DCC, in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt. It had concerned her at first, but he had put her at her ease. ‘You’re fine; it’s no problem. You’ll make a good impression. I’ve been there before, so I can dress like a slob, as most of the people who work there do.’
‘Where are we going?’ she had asked.
When he told her that they were bound for the headquarters of the Security Service, she had gone instantly pale.
‘Don’t worry, Dottie. It’s just another office, and the people we’ll be interviewing will be subjects, that’s all, just like any others.’
‘But why, sir?’ she had asked anxiously.
‘Because they need their problem signed off by someone from outside.’
‘Why us?’
‘Because my signature counts for something, and because I’m privy to the nature of the problem and its aftermath. It isn’t the sort of aftermath where you can stick a retired judge in a room for a month, let him hold public hearings and then write a whitewash report. But that’s enough for now: I’ll give you a full briefing when we’re there.’
He glanced down at his own reading choice, a golf autobiography. . he had never been able to concentrate on fiction when he had things on his mind. . and was about to reopen it when his mobile sounded, deep within his jacket. He took it out and glanced at the screen identification. ‘Hello, Jimmy, how’re you doing?’ he asked.
‘Where are you?’ the chief constable asked.
‘On the Heathrow Express, heading to Paddington.’
‘Can you speak?’
‘Within reason. Why?’
‘I’d like some advice, that’s all.’
‘Sure, if I can.’
‘If you were looking for a missing person, where would you start?’
‘At the place where he was seen last, or in the mortuary: one or the other. How long’s he been missing?’
‘Forty-one years.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Forget the morgue, then. Their fridges aren’t that good. In that case I’d be checking with the people at the General Records Office to see if his death’s been registered.’
‘I’m told it hasn’t.’
‘Do you have a birth certificate for him?’
‘No.’
‘Then get one. What age is this absconder?’
‘Mid-seventies.’
‘Then try the Department of Work and Pensions. Give them all the details from the birth certificate, and as much employment history as you can, and see where they’re paying his pension.’
‘What if I do that and find he isn’t claiming one?’
‘Then you’ll need to go back to his friends and family from forty years ago. You’ll need to go back to my starting-off point, the place where he was seen last. Jimmy, fill me in on this.’
He listened as Proud described his meeting with Trudi Friend, and about her search for her mother.
‘So what you’re telling me,’ he said, when the story was over, ‘is that this married man, with a cracking-looking wife, bewitched a naïve, if not innocent, girl from up north, and told her he was going to marry her, then they both disappear from jobs, home and everything else on the same day. Question: did Annabelle know he was married? Answer: assume that she did. They worked in the same school; he couldn’t chance her finding out in casual conversation, especially if Señora Bothwell was known there and gave you your running cup. . congratulations, by the way. Question: he vanished, she vanished, so what about the wife? She seems to have been a confident woman, by your account and by Mr Goddard’s. So what did she do when the pair did their runner? If their house was empty when Goddard went looking for Adolf, where the hell was she?’
‘I don’t have answers for any of these.’
‘Then find them. But if I was in your shoes, right now I’d be trying to find out everything there is to know about your old teacher.’
‘But who’s going to tell me?’
‘There’s always somebody. You don’t live for thirty-six years in a modern, developed country without leaving a pretty big trail behind you. While you’re waiting for your SSTA lady to get back to you, look for his social-security number and his NHS number. Do his health records still exist somewhere? Could he have paid social security after the day of his disappearance? Most of all, when you go to GRO, find out about every public record on which his name appears.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s his own marriage certificate for a start. Then, maybe he was a witness to someone else’s. It’s a long shot, but if that’s the case and those people are still alive, they could be of assistance. Last but not least, and this is where my detective’s nose starts twitching, was he married before Montserrat? If he proposed to commit bigamy with Annabelle, was he a first offender?’
‘Bob, that’s great. That’s a big help.’
‘Thanks, but, Jimmy, you’re going to need more help than that.’
‘Not at all. It’s a private matter, my own initiative, something any citizen’s entitled to do off his own bat. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing, if you weren’t the chief constable. This woman’s reported her mother missing. Okay, she’s forty years late, but she still deserves to have her complaint handled officially.’
‘Bob, I’m not passing this down the line, and that’s final.’
‘You’re the boss, but you still have to open a file on it. Once that’s done, it has to be followed through. You have other duties, Jimmy, and you owe it to the public not to be diverted from them by something not worthy of an officer of your rank. Supervise the search by all means, but use a leg man at least. Take big Jack McGurk, my assistant. He’ll have time on his hands till I get back.’
The chief constable considered Skinner’s advice. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do that. But bloody hell, you’re some man to be giving me lectures about delegating.’
Twenty-five
Ray Wilding looked at the name on the brass plate on the railing, with the blue Legal Aid logo alongside. ‘Oliver Poole WS,’ he read aloud. ‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘it amazes me why allegedly smart people use lawyers like this one. Whenever they or their assistants turn up to represent someone in custody, it’s as if they scream “guilty by association” at us.’
‘There are plenty of them in Glasgow too,’ Bandit Mackenzie told him. ‘But you shouldn’t read anything sinister into it. There are big corporate law firms who make most of their money out of business clients, and there are those like this one who look to the criminal legal-aid system for their turnover. They all provide a service, that’s all, so don’t go putting them in the same box as their clients.’
‘I’m not. What I’m saying is that when a straight citizen retains a firm like this, he doesn’t know the signal he’s sending out.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t. But Poole and guys like him advertise in the press and on telly, so maybe he’s the only lawyer your Mr Straight knows by name. Let’s find out.’ He led the way up the three steps to the front door.
Although the solicitor’s plate was the only one showing on the street, he shared the Haymarket office building with several other firms, including a secretarial agency, and an accountancy practice. Each had its own entry buzzer: the chief inspector pressed and waited for an answer. ‘Oliver Poole WS.’ Even through the tinny intercom the woman’s voice sounded nasal.
‘DCI Mackenzie and DS Wilding for Mr Poole.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘We’re the polis, dear; we don’t make appointments. We called to tell him we were coming.’
‘Just a minute.’ Mackenzie heard something unintelligible, shouted across an office, then, ‘Open the door when you hear the buzzer, and come down to the basement.’