There wasn’t a lot on the back page either; Scottish football clubs were on their way out of Europe and Rangers had signed yet another striker. We were almost in Edinburgh when I saw the small story on page five about the discovery of David Capperauld’s body. Star’s cousin in sudden death tragedy, the headline read.
I glanced over the story.
The well-known parliamentary lobbyist and public relations guru David Capperauld (29) was found dead in his Edinburgh flat late on Sunday night.
The tragic discovery was made by Mr Capperauld’s fiancee and business partner Alison Goodchild, when she called to see why he had failed to turn up for meetings. Police and medical services were called to the scene but Mr Capperauld was found to be dead.
A police spokesman said that it appeared that the victim had succumbed to a brain haemorrhage. Ms Goodchild (30) was said to be distraught. She was being comforted by relatives and was not available for comment.
‘They should have phoned the office,’ I muttered as I read on.
Goodchild Capperauld has grown into one of the most prestigious lobbying and PR groups in Scotland in the two years since its foundation. It blue-chip clients include banks, insurance companies and leading Scottish businesses, including Torrent, the office equipment giant which is said to be heading for a flotation.
James Torrent, group chief executive, said yesterday; ‘I was shocked to hear of David’s death. I will have to talk to Alison and see how it will affect our association.’
‘Nice man indeed.’ I growled, loud enough for the passenger across the aisle to glance my way.
Mr Capperauld was the cousin of film star Ewan Capperauld (41), who last night issued a short statement expressing his sorrow at the death. The actor is expected in Edinburgh this week to begin work on the film version of Skinner’s Rules, to be directed by Miles Grayson, and featuring his wife, Auchterarder’s Dawn Phillips.
Among Mr Capperauld’s other co-stars is up-and-coming Fife actor Oz Blackstone (34), a former boyfriend of Ms Goodchild.
‘Fucking hell!’ I barked loudly enough to have attracted the attention of everyone in the carriage, but for the sound of brakes as the train slowed into Haymarket. I didn’t mind them getting my age wrong, but I did take exception to a gratuitous mention in a story like that.
As I stepped down onto the platform, I ran through the list of people who had known about Alison and me, and who might have spoken to the Scotsman about us. I came up with a few possibilities from the Edinburgh days, and decided that the likeliest was one of my Tuesday football crowd who’d been going out with a radio reporter when I’d seen him last. I took a quick glance at the story, but there was no by-line.
Ricky Ross was waiting at the top of the stairs that led up to the exit; he saw the paper in my hand, and he saw the page I had been reading.
‘All publicity’s good publicity, Blackstone,’ he began. ‘Is that the way it goes?’
I glared at him. ‘Not this. It’s pure fucking cheek.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mind you, it could have been worse.’
‘Aye, I bloody know.’ I looked at the ex-detective, in surprise.
‘Come on,’ he said, heading for a red Alfa Romeo parked in the station forecourt, ‘get in my car.’
I hadn’t time to wonder what it was all about; I simply followed him.
‘Young Ron Morrow,’ Ricky grunted. ‘He was a DC in my division when I resigned. He’s a detective sergeant at Gayfield now, and he keeps in touch. He asks me for advice every so often and he tells me things in return.’ I knew what was coming. ‘Like for example he told me that when the Goodchild girl found her boyfriend stiff and cold on Sunday night, you were with her.’
‘That’s right; and he said he’d keep my name out of it, too.’ I waved the paper.
‘He did. That in there had nothing to do with Ron. The quote in there came from the press office; he didn’t speak to any journalists.’
‘If you say so, fair enough.’
‘Aye, but he wants to speak to you now. I said I’d take you to see him; otherwise he was going to pay you a visit up at the flat, and that might have been a bit public. I take my job seriously, son. I’ve been hired by Mr Grayson as security consultant as well as technical adviser; that covers a lot of ground.’
I felt a bit uneasy. I’d been on Cloud Nine for the best part of a day; now when I looked down it looked like a hell of a fall. ‘Should I be worried about anything here?’ I asked.
‘You tell me,’ Ross answered. ‘Can you think of a reason why you should be worried?’
‘No,’ I said at once. ‘No, I can’t. So what the fuck’s this about?’
‘Young Ron asked me not to tell you, so I said I wouldn’t. He wants to tell you himself, and see your face when he does. The boy’s a good copper and he’s going to be even better; I’m training him well.’
He swung the car out of the station and headed east, through the lights, then left into Palmerston Place; the quickest way to Gayfield, I recognised.
We sat in silence for a while, till Ross broke it. ‘Is it true, what it says in the Scotsman? You and the Goodchild girl; were you and she. .?’
‘We went about for a while; it was four or five years ago though. It’s ancient history; it’s pure fucking mischief to bring it up now.’
‘No it’s not, son. It’s news. Get used to it.’ I thought about my pending divorce, and wondered if that would reach the press.
‘So what were you and she doing together on Sunday?’ Ricky asked.
I gave him a version of the story without going into the detail of Alison’s business problem, but when I got to the part about opening Capperauld’s door he stopped me.
‘There was nothing wrong with it,’ I protested. ‘She was his fiancee and she had a key, even if she was bloody slow in bringing it out.’
‘Fine. Just leave it at that for now.’
It took us over fifteen minutes, even taking the short route, to get to the Gayfield Square police office. The traffic’s murder in Edinburgh, and getting worse; every daft management scheme the people on the council introduce just adds to the chaos.
There was a female constable on duty at the enquiry desk. She was only a probationer. . as I was once, a long time ago. . but she recognised Ross straight away. She even called him sir, when he told her to fetch DS Morrow.
The sergeant and I had met briefly a few years before when I’d given him a witness statement. He had remembered it straight away when he’d turned up in Union Street.
He was still friendly enough when he appeared from his office, but there was an air of formality about him that was new; it was as if he was keeping me at a distance. He called me ‘Mr Blackstone’, and asked me to come with him to an interview room. Ricky started to follow, but Morrow shook his head. ‘Better not, sir,’ he said.
Ross frowned, but stopped. ‘You’re right, Ron. Better do this by the book.’ That got my attention. I won’t say I was nervous, but I had a keen interest in whatever was about to happen.
Another officer, a woman, was waiting for us in the inevitably grubby room; she deferred to Morrow, so I knew she was a DC before he introduced her. ‘This is Gemma Green; she works with me.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ I nodded to her then turned back to him as I sat in a hard steel-framed chair. ‘Now, sergeant, what’s this about?’
‘David Capperauld,’ Morrow replied. ‘When you found him on Sunday, did you touch the body?’
‘I told you at the time what I did; basic first aid stuff. I checked for a pulse, but he was as cold as the floor, stone ginger; I knew it right away.’