‘Yon fuckin’ polis!’ Booth brandished his right arm. His hand was encased in plaster.
The tall detective frowned. ‘Elaborate, please.’
‘The young lad, he did it. Ah never meant to shoot Vicky, but he hit me with his stick and the gun went off. He broke ma hand!’ Booth pouted, as if to emphasise that he was a victim also.
‘The statements that we have from the two police witnesses both say that the gun was discharged before DS Haddock’s baton made contact with you.’
‘It’s no’ true,’ Booth protested. ‘He hit me and that made me do it. I was never going to shoot her. That polis kilt her, no’ me.’
‘So who were you going to shoot? If not Vicky, it must have been one of the police officers. Right?’
‘Ah never meant tae shoot anyone. The safety catch was on.’
McGurk looked at the solicitor, a faint smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Frankie,’ he said, ‘I assume that you’ve read the crime scene report. Are you going to tell your client he’s an idiot or am I?’
She winced slightly, shook her head, and leaned towards Booth. ‘Patrick,’ she murmured, ‘the firearm was an old Glock. It doesn’t have a manual safety catch.’
‘Do you have anything else?’ McGurk asked her.
‘Of course,’ she responded, while glancing sideways at Booth. ‘I have a client who has, let us say, an alternative lifestyle, which makes him feel the need for personal protection. Whether the weapon he carried was legal or not isn’t the issue here.
‘Patrick came into his home and found the door open; that alarmed him straight away. When he moved through to his living room, he found his partner and child being menaced by two unknown men. He assumed they were criminals and acted accordingly. Obviously, we’ll plead to a charge of illegal possession of a firearm, but as for the rest. .’
The acting DI smiled, with a degree of admiration. ‘You’re a fine advocate, Miss Birtles,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing that you weren’t able to look me in the eye while you were explaining all that. The police witnesses both say that Miss Riley called out “It’s the polis” while Mr Booth was still in the hall, then she was killed by his gun, in his hand.
‘You and I both know that to have even a slim chance of an accidental death plea being accepted, he should have surrendered himself there and then, as soon as the gun was discharged. But he didn’t. Instead he kicked DS Haddock four square in the privates and he legged it, as fast as he could. Why did you do that, Patrick?’
Booth frowned and fixed him with a deep, piercing stare. ‘Because I was scared, mate, that’s why,’ he replied.
‘Accepted, but assaulting a policeman and running away was never going to make you less scared. And, as I said to your solicitor, it’s made your position even worse. You were never going to get away, man.’
‘Aye, fine, but all Ah could think about at the time was gettin’ the fuck away.’
‘Even with your partner lying dead on the floor, and your child sitting beside her with her mother’s blood all over her?’
‘Even then. It wasnae you bastards I was scared of, or doin’ some time. Have you any idea how much gear there was in the place?’
‘We’re not interested in the drugs,’ McGurk said, quickly. ‘That’s a separate investigation, by other people.’
‘Maybe you’re not,’ Booth wailed, ‘but I fuckin’ was! You guys’ll only bang me up for a few years, but there’s others would cut my feet aff wi’ a fuckin’ chainsaw. Look what. .’
‘Patrick!’ Frankie Bristles exclaimed. ‘Enough. Don’t say another word. They have to prove you knew about the drugs.’ She turned in her chair and looked at the detectives. ‘If I advise my client to plead guilty to a reduced charge of culpable homicide, will you go for that?’
‘It’s not my decision,’ the detective replied, ‘but if the Crown Office agree to a plea deal we won’t oppose it. I’m not dropping the police assault, though; Sauce Haddock would be seriously annoyed if I did. As for the gun, your man will have to take his chances there. If he’s lucky, he might get off with no more than ten years, all in.’
‘Fair enough,’ the lawyer declared. ‘In that case this interview’s over. Charge him and let’s go on to the next.’
Thirty-Six
‘Is this it?’ Dan Provan asked.
‘My satnav says so,’ Lottie Mann replied, as she drew her car to a halt and pulled on the handbrake.
‘If ye believe her; I don’t know how you can stand that bloody woman. If we’d followed her advice we’d be in Tarbert.’ He paused. ‘You are sure we’re no’ in Tarbert?’
‘The sign we’ve just passed read “Tighnabruaich”. If you’d been awake you’d have seen it.’
‘I was awake. Who could sleep with you driving?’ He blinked and peered across her at a terrace of white-painted cottages that stood above a raised embankment overlooking the wide flowing waterway on their left, and across to a hillside beyond.
‘So that’s the Kyles of Bute,’ Mann said. ‘I’ve heard about it often enough from my granny, but I’ve never seen it. She used to say that when she was a girl you could go for a sail on a paddle steamer that left the Broomielaw and came all the way here.’
‘Where did it go after that?’
‘Nowhere. It just went back to Glasgow.’
The little sergeant frowned, bewildered. ‘What was the point of that?’
‘They called it a pleasure cruise, Dan.’
‘Was there a bar?’
‘I have no idea. If there was, my granny wouldn’t have been interested. She was a ginger wine woman.’
‘Let’s hope there was. It would have been no pleasure without one.’
‘My God,’ the DI muttered. ‘No wonder your wife left. Come on, Dan. Let’s go and see if the Father’s in. What’s the number?’
‘Ah’ve no idea; Diocesan Cottages was all that I was told.’
They walked up a driveway, past an embankment until they reached an area in front of the quartet of cottages. Three small cars were parked, side by side, although there was room for more, and the red gravel was roughed up.
‘Four houses, three cars,’ Provan said. ‘Maybe he is out.’
But as he spoke a door opened and a tall white-haired man stepped out, into the autumn sunshine. He was wearing blue denims and a short-sleeved shirt, with a red check pattern, and carried a rucksack, slung over one shoulder. He was tanned and although his skin had the striations of age, his arms were still muscular. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Possibly,’ Mann replied. ‘We’re looking for Father Donnelly.’
He smiled, and both detectives felt its force. Even Provan, who prided himself on being the ultimate cynic, understood why Max Allan had described the priest as charismatic. ‘That’s me,’ he chuckled, ‘but I’m retired now, so I’m not really anyone’s father. Benevolent uncle is as close as it gets these days. How do I address you?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann, and this is Detective Sergeant Daniel Provan. We’re CID officers from Glasgow.’
‘My, my,’ the emeritus priest exclaimed, ‘and you’re here looking for me? Did I need a licence to take the village lads out fishing in the boat?’ His expression changed; the smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of sadness.
‘Nobody’s been making allegations, have they?’ he asked. ‘There’s never been a reason why anyone might, but it’s become fashionable these days. A tiny minority of my colleagues betray their calling and it’s assumed that the virus infects us all.’
‘It’s nothing at all like that,’ the DI assured him, looking up and into his eyes, trying to judge whether there was anything hidden behind them, but seeing nothing. ‘As far as your boat’s concerned, I wish I had someone to take my wee boy out fishing, but there aren’t too many opportunities where we live.’
‘If you’re ever posted out this way,’ Father Donnelly told her, ‘give me a call and I’ll find a space for him. Look, I was just on my way there, to the boat, that is. Would you like to follow me down, and we can talk there?’
‘Aye,’ Provan grunted, ‘as long as we don’t wind up being sold as slaves in the Carolinas.’