‘Then I will assuage it.’
Adam Arrow was always as good as his word. That was one of the things that kept us close to the very end. I made it into the office by a quarter to nine the next morning, to find a message on my desk, ‘Call Adam’, and a London number.
‘Got him,’ he said, as soon as he took my call. ‘Peter Hastings McGrew, date of birth fifteenth of March nineteen sixty-five… the fookin’ Ides of March, mate; beware… entered Sandhurst in eighty-three, commissioned one year later, served with the Tenth Gurkha Rifles until nineteen ninety-one, when he left the service shortly after being promoted captain.’
‘Excellent. Do you know where he is now?’
‘Not a fookin’ clue,’ he replied. ‘He could be anywhere in the world.’
‘But don’t your guys remain on reserve after they leave the service?’
‘Not this one. He had an accident while he was on exercise in Brunei. He severed a tendon in his left arm. As a result he can barely grip a cup of tea wi’ that hand, let alone a baseball bat. I’ve seen the medical report, Bob. If this bloke worked his brother-in-law over, then he did it one-handed.’
I sighed. My alternative theory had just gone up in smoke. ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘I owe you one.’
‘Be sure I’ll call it in one day,’ Arrow promised, and hung up.
I was still itching. I called Martin and McGuire into my office. ‘A job for you both,’ I told them. ‘I want information on a man called Peter McGrew, middle name Hastings, age thirty-one. He’s ex-army, ex-Gurkha Rifles, lived formerly in Hamilton, and he is Alafair Drysalter’s brother. I want to be fair to the family. Having spoken to her, I want to talk to him now. Andy, get on to the DVLA in Swansea. Let’s assume he has a driving licence; it’ll have an address on it. While you’re at it, find out if he owns a car; if he does, get its registration details. Mario, he told his former neighbours he was a company director. Phone Companies House. Give them his name, find out if that’s true, and if it is, what’s the company? On your bikes, lads.’
Computer systems weren’t nearly as advanced in those days as they are now, but they existed, and they worked. Martin was back to me first inside fifteen minutes. ‘He’s got a licence, boss, and there’s a car registered in his name. The address on both is in Wellhall Road, Hamilton.’
‘Fuck it!’ I snapped. ‘He hasn’t changed it.’
‘That’s an offence; we can do him for that.’ Martin smiled.
I didn’t. ‘What about the car?’
‘VW Golf GTI, black… what else?… registration L712FTG. He’s had it from new.’
‘That’s progress, Andy,’ I said.
‘Do you want me to put it on a watch list and have it pulled over on sight?’
‘We’ve got no reason to do that. Sit on it for now.’ I looked through the glass. McGuire was still on the phone, in deep discussion from the looks of things, but as we watched, he nodded a couple of times and hung up, then swung his chair round and headed for us, beaming.
‘Peter Hastings McGrew, boss,’ he began, almost before he was through the door, ‘is a director of several companies, all tying into a single holding company called Rodatrop plc. Together the group owns pubs all over Scotland, a casino in Glasgow, a video hire chain and three private hire and taxi businesses. McGrew is one of two directors of all the companies; the other’s his sister, Alafair Drysalter.’
I whistled.
‘It gets better,’ he laughed. ‘The companies were all set up two years ago, to acquire the assets of an earlier company, called Conan plc. Its sole director was one Perry Holmes. Even I know who he is.’
I leapt out of my chair. ‘Come on, you two boys, with me. Fred,’ I called to Leggat as we headed for the door, ‘we’re off out.’
We were in Frederick Street before McGuire ventured the question. ‘Where are we going, boss?’
‘You’re a detective, Mario,’ I chuckled. ‘You tell me.’
‘Back to see Alafair?’
‘Good try, but not yet. Andy?’
‘Register House.’
‘Nearly. In fact, it’s New Register House, but you’re on the right track.’
I parked in Register Place; on that occasion I did leave a ‘Police business’ card, with the force crest and the chief constable’s facsimile signature, showing on the dashboard. It wasn’t there to be abused, but it was easier than having tickets written off. I led the way round past the Cafe Royal and the Guildford Arms, where Charles Redpath had encountered Don Telfer, and through the front entrance of New Register House. It’s a fine edifice in its own right, although it was created by the Victorians as a mere overflow from, and is hidden behind, Robert Adam’s Register House, built in the previous century, a public building in which Scotland’s national archives are housed.
As a cop you make some professional friends, and if you’re wise you’ll keep them throughout your career. Jim Glossop was one of mine; I’d known him for ten years and during that time he’d cut a few corners for me. I asked for him at the front desk. As we waited, I explained to the boys the reason for our rush from Fettes. ‘When Violet McGrew and her kids lived in Hamilton, she led the neighbours to believe that she was a widow. Maybe that was true, but then again. ..’
‘Mob-handed, are we, Bob?’ Jim Glossop exclaimed, as he appeared through a door on my right.
‘New playmates. I thought they should meet you; Mario McGuire and Andy Martin, detective constables both. I need a parentage check, Jim. Two people, brother and sister: Peter Hastings McGrew, date of birth March fifteen, sixty-five, birthplace uncertain, and Alafair McGrew, no d.o.b. but she’s seven years younger than him. Mother’s name Violet, now deceased; I’d like to know who Daddy was… or rather, is.’
‘Or daddies,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re making an assumption.’
‘There’s a good reason for it,’ I assured him
He made a few notes on a small pad he was carrying. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’
Rather than wait idly, we went for a stroll down into Princes Street. The two DCs spotted a sandwich stall and headed off in search of coffee; I went in the other direction, to a nearby book store. I was short on reading matter, so I picked up a couple of paperbacks; one of them was called Let It Bleed, a yarn featuring the latest adventure of a fictional Edinburgh cop who was beginning to gather attention. I didn’t know if he was based on a real-life character, but if he was, I’d worked with a few candidates.
I was a minute or two late returning; Jim and the boys were all waiting for me when I stepped into the foyer. ‘Results,’ my friend announced. He handed me two photocopied extracts. ‘Both children were born in Rottenrow, that’s the main maternity hospital in Glasgow. You were right, same father, but he and Miss McGrew never went through a marriage ceremony. Indeed, as you’ll see, they don’t appear to have lived at the same address.’
I turned my back on the trio and walked across to a corner. I closed my eyes for a second or two as I laid a private bet with myself, then opened them and stared at the top sheet, ignoring everything else and focusing only on the section headed ‘Father’s name and address.’ And there it was: I’d won my bet. Peter Hastings McGrew and Alafair McGrew were the children of one Peregrine Holmes, better known as Perry.
I was smiling as I faced my officers once more. I handed one of the extracts to each of them. ‘There you go, lads,’ I exclaimed. ‘The whole bloody world, me included, thought that Holmes disposed of all his dodgy businesses after he was shot, all the stuff that was linked to the drugs trade, the prostitution, the protection, the money laundering. But he didn’t; he simply transferred them to his kids, and nobody noticed. We thought he’d gone away, but he hasn’t.’
‘So where’s Peter?’ Martin asked.
‘That’s one question, but we’re cooking by gas here, lads, so let’s see if we can answer another first.’ I glanced at Jim, and took out my mobile. ‘Mind if I make a call?’
‘Not at all.’
I found McFaul’s number and called it, then jumped on him when he picked up. ‘Ciaran, Bob Skinner. I need to know something. The Seagull Hoteclass="underline" I know there’s no CCTV coverage inside, but what about the car park?’