I did, on the phone in the garden room, as soon as I’d finished my chilli. And that was the start of my weekend from hell.
Jim answered so quickly that I suspected he’d been beside the phone waiting for me to ring.
‘Have you got something already?’ I asked. ‘On a Friday night?’
‘The impossible I do at once,’ he replied, then spared me the punchline. ‘It took me no time at all. Julie Austin. Mrs Allan; she does indeed have a brother called Magnus. He’s married to a woman named Julie Smith, which must make family dinner parties a little confusing, and they have issue, two of them, Richard Edward and Cheryl Mary. Does that give you all you need?’
‘Oh hell yes,’ I said. ‘I’m in your debt. And you must send me a bill; to my office in Glasgow. This is now a police matter.’
‘In that case,’ he replied, as cheerfully as ever, ‘I’ll do so as quickly as I’ve answered all your questions.’
As I’d told Jim, I did have all I needed. Through his wife, Max Allan was Cheryl Mackenzie’s uncle. Cheryl’s relationship with David went back to their teens.
They were all bloody family, and beyond any reasonable doubt. . in my mind at least. . Uncle Max had smoothed the way for young David’s entry into the police force, by concealing a history that might well have ruled him out, even with Tom Donnelly’s name on his application.
I could have let it lie there undisturbed, and forgotten about the whole business. Indeed I might have, if Mackenzie had been a stable, reliable officer doing a job that was of value to his force. But he was none of those things, and to cap it all off, he was missing.
I thought about calling Maggie straight away. Mackenzie was on the Edinburgh payroll, not mine, and she had a right to know. But I put it off, and took out my mobile to look up a number. I was about to call it, when Sarah came into the room, and read the look on my face.
‘Trouble?’
I nodded.
‘As in weekend-screwing-up trouble?’
‘I fear it might be.’
She smiled. ‘And I said not so long ago that it had been a quiet night. I should a known.’
I made the call, and Father Donnelly answered; there was background noise, of the pub variety. ‘Bob,’ he said his voice raised, ‘hang on. I’ll have to go outside.’ I waited, then heard a sound that might have been a door closing, and the babble disappeared. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You could begin by telling me how you know that David Mackenzie hasn’t harmed his wife,’ I suggested.
‘No I can’t,’ he replied, ‘I really cannot; not even after a couple of pints of Coors.’
His insistence was enough stop me pressing any harder. ‘Fair enough,’ I conceded. ‘But can you tell me how long you’ve known that Max Allan and Mackenzie are related, through his wife being Cheryl’s aunt, her father’s sister?’
‘I’ve never known that, I promise you. Mrs Allan was godmother to their older child, but at no point was I told that she was family.’
‘What about their wedding? Weren’t the Allans there?’
‘No one was there, other than Mr and Mrs Austin and myself. They wanted it private because David didn’t have any family, none that he’d acknowledge anyway.’
‘I see.’
‘Bob, what’s this about?’ the priest asked.
‘This is one where I really can’t tell you,’ I assured him. ‘We all have our ethics and our duty.’
‘I understand.’
‘I need to ask you about the application form, Father,’ I continued. ‘You told me that you helped David compile it. I’d like you to think back, and tell me if you can recall whether the box relating to declaration of court appearances and police involvement was left blank.’
‘No it wasn’t,’ he declared. ‘I do recall that very well. I insisted that he put “See separate document” in there, because I didn’t want it rejected on a technicality.’
‘Right, now finally, I ask again: Max Allan was not involved in its completion and there was no way he could have seen or handled the form before you posted it. Can you confirm that?’
Part of me was hoping that he’d say ‘No’, so that the old guy would at least have some wiggle room, but he didn’t.
‘Absolutely,’ he replied.
‘Okay, Father,’ I sighed. ‘Thanks. Go back in there and have one on me.’
‘But don’t call Max, that’s what you’re saying, Bob, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
I let the priest return to his Friday pals, and then made the call I’d postponed earlier. Maggie Steele listened to what I had to tell her without interrupting. But got to the point as soon as I’d finished.
‘What you’re telling me,’ she said, ‘is that I’ve got a detective superintendent who’s a police officer because of a dishonest application.’
‘Exactly. And I have evidence that a recently retired ACC played an active part in that fraud.’
‘Nightmare,’ she sighed. ‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘Not we, Maggie, me. A criminal act was committed in Strathclyde. It’s my jurisdiction and it’s for me to pursue it.’
‘Not personally, surely.’
‘Absolutely. I kicked this game off, so I’ll play it to the whistle. Who knows? I might even find Mackenzie in the process.’
Fifty-Five
Karen Neville had only just begun to ponder the anomaly of Bella Watson’s daughter as she walked into the Leith police office. She had set that consideration aside not long after Andy had left, to concentrate on her first serious date since their divorce.
She had met a widowed single father, a self-employed architect, a few weeks before, on the nursery school run. They had started to talk while waiting for their children, and had met for coffee the next day, then lunch the following week, and the week after that, and. .
When Nigel had invited her to dinner at his house, at first she had been a little uncertain, but he seemed like a nice guy, so she had accepted. She had even put an overnight bag in her car, just in case.
The evening had been a disaster.
He’d turned out to be a lousy cook, but she had made allowances for that, since he had over-reached himself, clearly, with the menu. It was Karen’s firm opinion that no man, other than possibly Albert Roux, could make a proper soufflé, but she gave Nigel credit for trying.
The small talk that had come easily in public places had been stilted over his dinner table, but she had made allowances for that, given their unspoken agenda. There had been some kissing, and brief, schoolboyish fumbling on the sofa afterwards, until she had taken him gently by the hand and said, ‘Nigel, show me where your bedroom is.’
The only saving grace, she told herself later, was that she had not been completely naked when he had started to cry.
He had, though. When she had stepped out of his en-suite shower room, in the Anne Summers bra and thong she had chosen for the evening, he had been sitting on the edge of his bed, his clothes neatly folded and laid on a chair. He had been gazing up at her, and it had occurred to her that the last person who had looked at her in such a desolate way had been Danielle, when her kitten had been run over in Perth.
‘Karen, I can’t do this,’ he had moaned. ‘It still hurts too much.’
And then the tears had come, a few at first and then the flood. The sobs had followed, not quiet, full-blown, heart-rending.
She might still have made it through, and helped the poor guy through his crisis, and then recover his sexual confidence, if the bedroom door had not opened, and his three-year-old daughter had not come stumbling in, awake enough to stare at her in fright and shout, ‘What are you doing to my daddy?’ before starting to scream, loudly enough to trigger a fresh paroxysm from the hapless, no, make that hopeless, she decided, Nigel.
She had grabbed her discarded clothes, dressed in the hall downstairs, then vacated the premises before the damn kid’s yelling woke the neighbourhood.