‘They’ve abandoned two children, Bob,’ Steele told me. ‘They were left with her mother, like, just left with her. There was no contact, no nothing. The woman is frantic.’
‘Okay, I’m convinced,’ I conceded. ‘Something’s up. Now are you going to tell me who it is? I doubt that it’s a rank and file officer, or you wouldn’t have your knickers in such a twist.’
‘Would you like to take a guess?’ she asked.
‘Aw, come on, Maggie! No party games.’
‘I’m serious. You’ve got the best instincts in the force. I’d like to know which of my senior officers you think is capable of going off the rails.’
‘If you must,’ I sighed. ‘Well, leaving you out of it, and also big McGuire, and taking a broad view. .’
I paused, considering the possibilities. ‘George Regan’s a sound bloke, but his wife has never got over losing their son, and neither has George, completely. She’s borderline crazy, so is it possible that she’s talked him into a suicide pact? But what am I talking about? You mentioned children, plural. George junior was an only.
‘Of course,’ I exclaimed, as the answer hit me between the eyes, ‘there’s only one obvious candidate: a man with a history of depression, alcohol abuse, and as volatile as they come. It’s David Mackenzie, isn’t it? The guy I plucked from Strathclyde, without ever realising that his colleagues through here were lining up to wave him goodbye.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘Has he been under stress lately?’
‘Self-inflicted, but yes. He’s had trouble settling into Neil’s old job, and he had to be more or less reprimanded at the weekend. Now Mario and I are blaming ourselves for putting him there.’
‘Then stop bloody blaming yourselves,’ I retorted. ‘Blame me for making him your problem in the first place; I could have got rid of him, but my sheer stubborn pride wouldn’t let me. What are you doing about the situation?’
‘We’re treating it as a suspicious incident,’ Maggie replied, ‘but keeping it confidential. We’re not making any public statements or appeals, not until Thursday at the earliest. Ray Wilding’s the investigating officer, working alone. Because of something that was found on Mackenzie’s computer, he’s looking at ferry terminals.’
‘All of them?’ I exclaimed.
‘We’ll have to. A computer check by all the major companies on bookings might lead us to him, but I’m not holding out any great hope. The security on outward Channel and North Sea crossings is a long way from perfect. In practice, you can book under an assumed name, without giving a vehicle registration. They, or he, if our worst fears are realised, could be out of the country already. They could be anywhere by now.’
‘If.’
‘Everything’s “if” just now, Bob. If we can’t find Mackenzie’s details or registration number on the ferry companies’ lists, Wilding’s plan is to ask forces at each terminal to look at CCTV, without knowing they’re searching for a cop. That’s where I’d like your help.’
‘You’re wondering if he might have gone north, to the islands, rather than south, to Europe?’
‘Either that or to Ireland,’ she said. ‘There’s a route from Troon to Larne on your patch as well as all the CalMac ferries and lots of smaller ones. There are as many ferry routes within Scotland as there are to foreign countries from the entire United Kingdom.’
‘I’ll put people on it.’ Two names came to me, a matched pair. ‘In fact, I’ll put my best on it. Tell Ray Wilding that somebody will be in touch. But there’s one thing to consider, Maggie: this is David’s old patch. I hear what you’re saying about confidentiality, but people here will have known him and it might help if I share the name. Don’t worry, I can trust the officers I plan on using to be discreet.’
‘Whatever you think best.’ I heard the worry in her voice, and sympathised. Every conscientious officer will fret about the job from time to time, but once you reach the chief constable’s office it goes to a whole different level.
‘Thanks, Bob,’ she continued. ‘Us cops, we’re just ordinary people with a warrant card, so I’m still hoping that the pair of them will turn up with their tails between their legs and full of apologies, but we have to picture the worst, then act as if it’s happened.’
‘I know. The bugger is, it usually has. Anyway,’ I told her, ‘this is my day for doing you good turns. I’d like you to pass something on to Mario for me. Tell him that I’ve spoken to Bella Watson’s landlord, and he’s put a quite unexpected name in the frame, one that he will know from the days when he was fresh out of uniform. . if he can remember that far back.’
I was frowning as I hung up, then walked the short distance to Sandra Bulloch’s office.
‘I want you to give someone a message from me,’ I told her, ‘but before you do, I’d like you to call Strathclyde University. Have them find Mr Jackson and ask him to call me back. They can tell him that I want to consult him professionally.’
I smiled to myself. ‘Didn’t I just tell him that we’d work together some day?’
Twenty-Five
‘Peter Hastings McGrew,’ Sammy Pye repeated, his eyes on the image on his computer screen, through its video call facility. ‘Should I know him?’
‘No,’ Mario McGuire replied, ‘that I wouldn’t expect. Does his father’s name, Perry Holmes, ring any bells with you?’
‘One or two wee ones. I’ve heard it mentioned, but only by old-timers reminiscing.’
‘Thanks, Inspector,’ the ACC growled. ‘He was still around when I joined CID. I’d suggest that you read up about him if you want to understand how his son might possibly relate to the Bella Watson inquiry. One of our former colleagues, a man called Tommy Partridge, wrote a book about him after he retired. That’s as good a source document as any. Tommy spent his career chasing Holmes but never came close to nailing him. The book was only published after Perry died and couldn’t sue anyone for defamation. Big Xavi Aislado, the owner of the Saltire newspaper, helped him write it.’
‘I’ll see if I can download it,’ the DI promised.
‘You can try, but you might not find an e-book version. While you’re at it, there’s something else you should follow up, something that had completely slipped my mind. Bella Watson had a grandchild.’
‘What?’ Pye exclaimed. ‘How? Whose?’
‘When Bob Skinner and I attended Marlon Watson’s funeral,’ McGuire replied, ‘a girl turned up that we’d known nothing about. She was the dead man’s bird, and she was noticeably in the family way, at least seven months gone. I remember that she was really upset, and that Bella took her away in the funeral car, although the kid had come with her pals.
‘Bob got talking to her. He asked what her name was, and when she told him, it stuck in my mind, ’cos she was named after a pop singer, Lulu; that’s all though, I’m buggered if I can remember her second name. I never heard of her again, but the child must be eighteen by now, assuming he or she arrived safely. It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’
‘We’ll get on to it,’ the DI promised. ‘By the way, I’ve located its grandfather, Bella’s ex-husband, but only after a fashion.’
‘Clark Watson?’
‘Yeah. He died two years ago, in Worthing, England. I’ve spoken to his widow, but she wasn’t any help. She told me that Clark never spoke about his first family. The subject was off limits.’
‘I’m not surprised. I remember Bob Skinner talking to him as well at the son’s funeral, but being just a sprog DC then, I stood well back, being respectful and all, so I never heard what was said. Focus on the grandchild, Sammy. He or she, whatever, might be in Edinburgh, but he could be anywhere, in Australia even, for all we know.’