When they arrived at the City Council headquarters in Market Street, they had a second argument, with the car park supervisor, but once again the warrant cards won the day. The office was on the point of closing as they made their way inside, but the receptionist had been briefed to expect them. ‘Second floor, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It’s the door facing the lift.’
The second instruction proved to be unnecessary. As they stepped out of the elevator, a man was waiting for them; a very fat man, in shirtsleeves, with the council logo on his tie. ‘Johnny Halliday,’ he announced, extending a podgy hand to Pye. ‘I’m the team leader here. The front desk let me know you were on your way up.’
‘You’ve got something for us, our boss told us,’ the DI said.
‘Indeed we have,’ Halliday replied, with evident pride. ‘Come and see.’
He led the way into an open-plan work area with more video monitors than either detective could count. Each one was live, with a different view of the city’s streets, displayed four to a screen. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them to the far corner, which was partitioned off from the rest. ‘This is my domain,’ he announced, grandly. ‘Sit yourselves down.’
Three seats were arranged at a table, in front of a flat-screen monitor, on which an image was frozen.
‘What we have here,’ the team leader explained, ‘is the view from the camera that looks up Orwell Terrace. As you probably know, that leads up to Caledonian Crescent. The time is five minutes past midnight on the day after your review window. Now look here.’ He pressed a control on a black box on the table and the screen became active.
As Pye and Haddock looked on, they saw a dark-coloured saloon drive towards the camera, and then pass out of sight as it took a left turn into Dalry Road.
‘Okay?’ Halliday murmured, eagerly. ‘Now.’
As he spoke another vehicle appeared on screen, travelling in the opposite direction, making the same turn, but right, into Orwell Terrace, much more awkwardly than the car had done. It was a light-coloured van, without markings.
‘That’s a Renault Master, long wheelbase,’ their host advised them. ‘Now look.’ He touched another control and the screen froze. ‘I think you’ll find that the registration number is quite legible.’
Haddock leaned forward and read aloud. ‘Eight, zero nine five H N J.’
‘Exactly,’ Halliday agreed. ‘And I think you’ll find that that is a Spanish plate. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ Pye told him, feeling his day take a turn for the better. ‘Not just that, it’s when we wanted it, and where. Thanks, Johnny.’
‘I’m not done yet. Hold on.’ He pressed some more buttons and a second view appeared on screen. ‘We don’t have a camera in the crescent itself, I’m afraid, but there is one at the exit of Caledonian Road, and this is what it shows looking up towards Haymarket. This is what it showed fifty-seven minutes later.’
He activated the player; within a minute the same van swung into view once again, heading away from the camera.
‘Outstanding,’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘We’re pushing our luck, I know, but do you have a shot that lets us see the driver?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ The man was slightly crestfallen, but only for a few seconds. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I can tell you where it went. We have footage of it heading along Queensferry Road and then later in Granton. We lose it in Marine Drive, but I’m confident that it didn’t come back into the city after that.’
He leaned back. ‘I read the newspapers, chaps,’ he said, familiarly, ‘so I know what this is all about. If you in turn know that area, you’ll be aware that there’s a walkway along the foreshore that runs off Marine Drive. In theory it’s pedestrian and cyclists only, but the gate is a bit loose and it can be accessed by a vehicle, even one as large as a long wheelbase Renault Master van. If you’re trying to work out where that poor woman’s body was dumped, my guess is that you’ve found the very spot.’
Fifty-Three
There were times when Karen Neville reckoned that she had been too generous to her ex-husband during the negotiations over their split. She had no complaints with the generosity of his child support payments to Danielle and Robert, and he had agreed to her taking all of the substantial profit from the sale of their house in Perth. Yet as she settled into a work routine that involved constant weekend shifts, she had moments when she thought how pleasant it would be to be a full-time mother, at least until both children were at school. When these moments came she wondered whether if she had been a little more aggressive, a little less reasonable when they agreed that their marriage was terminal, she might have secured personal alimony that would have made it possible.
But those feelings never lasted for long. The truth was that she liked her job. The truth was that she had been a full-time mother and had found it trying and frustrating. The truth was that she had come to believe that she had as much right to a career as Andy and had become resentful that he had assumed without discussion that she should be the one to make the sacrifice. The truth was that their relationship had begun in the workplace and had thrived there. Domestically, whenever they were vertical rather than horizontal, they had bored each other witless.
And so, when he came to collect the children on a Friday evening, the only topics in their brief conversation, beyond the deeds and needs of their daughter and son, were usually professional.
As he stood in her kitchen watching Danielle putting on her jacket, unassisted, Andy asked the inevitable question. ‘So, what sort of a week have you had?’
‘I’m in the middle of it, remember,’ she replied. ‘So far it’s been relatively unproductive. I’ve only caught one bad guy, and I didn’t really catch him, I just did the interview with Jack.’
‘What was that about?’
‘It was a man called Booth. You must have heard about it, even in your network. He walked into his flat and found Sammy Pye and Sauce Haddock there talking to his girlfriend. He pulled a gun and she was shot. He denied meaning to shoot her; his main line of defence seems to be that he was trying to shoot Sauce, and I don’t think that’s going to get him very far.’
Andy laughed. ‘It bloody well will; probably as far as Peterhead Prison. You’re right, I have heard of Mr Booth, but not through your investigation. Sammy and the lad went to interview him about the Bella Watson murder and accidentally came across a chain of crystal meth that neither we in the SCDEA nor the Edinburgh drugs team had known anything about.’
‘So you’re involved now?’
‘Only in trying to trace the source, which, thanks to the forensic scientists, we know is in Spain, and probably in a specific region. My people are helping the Guardia Civil to track it down. As you’d expect, Booth’s singing his head off, but he doesn’t actually know that much. It’s a well put together operation, and the late and unlamented Bella was a part of it. She handled the money, Booth collected the gear from someone else and sold it in and around Edinburgh.’
‘I know all that,’ Karen told him. ‘I’m involved in the investigation. It was me that identified Watson, remember, when Tarvil and I were sent to her flat by our esteemed coordinator.’
He grinned. ‘You don’t like Mr Mackenzie, then.’
She frowned back. ‘You could say that. Don’t tell me you do.’
‘I can’t tell you anything, Karen. The fact is I don’t care about the man. I’m told he has a down on me for some reason. If so, he’s welcome. Been making waves in the city, has he?’
‘Not this week. He’s on leave. Actually it’s a bit odd; you’d expect that the divisions would have known about it in advance, but none of us did. “Sorting out some personal issues” is what we’ve been told, but there’s a whisper that he’s had his arse kicked by the ACC and been sent to cool off.’
‘Rather him than me; Mario’s a formidable arse-kicker.’ He glanced at his daughter, then back at his ex-wife. ‘You said you’re involved in the Bella investigation?’