‘It’s in the Indian Ocean. Give me a minute.’
Provan looked on as he bent over his keyboard, typed a few words, clicked once, twice, a third time, then scribbled on a notepad. ‘There you are,’ he announced, as he ripped off the top sheet and handed it over. ‘That’s the number of the head office of the Civil Status Division, in the Emmanuel Anquetil Building, Port Louis, Mauritius.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘I make that fifteen seconds short of the minute.’
‘Since you’re that fuckin’ clever, can you access birth records through that thing?’
‘I doubt it, but I’ll have a look.’ He turned back to the screen and to his search engine, but soon shook his head. ‘No, sorry; not that I can see. You’ll have to call them.’
‘Will Ah be able to speak the language?’
‘Possibly not; it’s English.’
‘Cheeky bastard,’ the DS growled, but with a grin. He dialled the number Paterson had given him. The voice that answered was female, with a musical quality.
He introduced himself, speaking slowly, as if to a child. ‘I am trying to find the record of a birth that may have taken place in your country two years ago.’
‘Hold on please, sir. I will direct you to the correct department.’
He waited for two minutes and more, becoming more and more annoyed by the sound of a woman crooning in a tongue he did not understand, but which he recognised as having Bollywood overtones. Finally, she stopped in mid-chorus and was replaced by a man.
‘Yes, sir,’ he began. ‘I understand you are a police officer and are seeking information. Is this an official inquiry?’ His voice was clipped and his accent offered a hint that he might have understood the lyrics of the compulsory music.
‘Of course it is,’ Provan replied, his limited patience close to being exhausted, ‘as official as ye can get. It’s a murder investigation.’
‘In that case, sir, how can I be of help?’
‘Ah’m lookin’ for a birth record. Ah don’t know for certain that it’ll be there, but ma boss has asked me to check it out. All we have is the name of the mother, Antonia Field.’
‘What is the date?’
‘We don’t know that either, just that it was two years ago, in the period between January and June. The lady took six months off work tae have the child, so our guess is that it was probably born round about May or early June.’
‘Field, you said?’
‘Aye, but when she lived in Mauritius she was known as Day Champs.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Day Champs.’
‘Are you trying to say Deschamps, officer?’ He spelled it out, letter by letter.
‘Aye, that’s it.’
‘Very good. I will search for you. If you tell me your number, I will call you back. That way I will know that you really are a policeman.’
‘Fair enough.’ Provan gave the official the switchboard number, and his own extension, then hung up.
With time to kill, he wandered into Lottie Mann’s empty office, sat at her desk, picked up the phone and dialled her number.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Dan?’
‘Aye. How’re ye doin’, kid?’
‘Terrible. Wee Jakey isn’t buying the story about his dad any more. I’ve had to tell him the truth, and it’s breaking his wee heart.’
‘Maybe he’ll be home soon,’ the sergeant suggested, knowing as he spoke how unlikely that was.
‘Get real, Dan,’ she sighed. ‘There’s more. On Sunday I gave Scott thirty quid to take the wee man out for the day. They went to that theme park out near Hamilton. It occurred to me, that’s a hell of a lot more than thirty quid’s worth, so I had a rummage in his half of the wardrobe. I found an envelope in a jacket pocket, with four hundred and twenty quid in it. The envelope had a crest on the back: Brown Brothers Private Hire.’
Provan felt his stomach flip. ‘Lottie,’ he murmured. ‘What are ye telling me this for? Ah’ll have tae report it now.’
‘No you won’t. I’ve done that already, I called ACC Gorman and told her.’ She paused. ‘Here, did you think I was going to cover it up? For fuck’s sake, Danny!’ she protested. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’
‘Aye, right,’ he sighed. ‘Ah shouldae known better. Sorry, lass.’
‘Have they interviewed him yet?’ she asked. ‘The big bosses?’
‘They’ll just be startin’ about now. Ah’m no long back frae seein’ the chief. He was just gettin’ ready to go down there, him and Bridie.’
‘Then God help my idiot husband. There’s no prizes for guessing who’ll play “bad cop” out of that pair, and I would not like that bugger sitting across the table from me. Why were you seein’ him anyway?’ she asked. ‘Are you telling me there’s been a development?’
‘No, just something he asked me to handle for him.’ As he spoke he heard a phone ring outside, then saw Paterson pick up his own line. The DC spoke a few words, then beckoned to him. ‘I think that’s ma contact now,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll need tae go. Ah’ll call ye if I hear anything from the interview.’
Forty-Two
The chief constable paused outside the door of the interview room. ‘Who’s his solicitor?’ he asked his deputy.
‘Her name’s Viola Murphy,’ Bridie Gorman told him. ‘She’s a hotshot in Glasgow, a solicitor advocate. . that means. .’
‘I know what it means. She takes the case the whole way through, from first interview to appearing in the High Court. I know about her too. She was one of my daughter’s tutors when she did her law degree. Alex couldn’t stand her.’
‘Will she know you?’
‘Not personally. She might from the media, though.’
‘Of course, she’s bound to. How do you want to play this?’
‘Very simply. We’re going to walk in there and inside five minutes Mr Mann is going to be singing like a linty. He’ll tell us everything we want to know. And you know what? It might even be true.’
Gorman was sceptical. ‘Mmm. I know Scott. He used to be a cop, remember, a DC. He’s interviewed people in his time, so he’ll know what’s going on in here. He’ll know that he has a perfect right not to say a single word, and you can bet that’s how Viola bloody Murphy will have advised him to play it.’
‘We’ll see. You keep her in her box and let me have a go at him. Remember, the right to silence goes both ways.’ He opened the door and stepped into the interview room.
Scott Mann was seated at a rectangular table. His solicitor was by his side, but she shot to her feet. ‘I don’t appreciate being kept waiting like this,’ she protested.
Skinner ignored her. He and Gorman took their places and she reached across and switched on the twin-headed recorder, then glanced up and over her shoulder to check that the video camera was showing a red light.
‘I mean it,’ Viola Murphy insisted. ‘I am a busy woman, and you’ve kept me sitting here for an hour and a half. I promise you, as soon as this interview is over I’ll be complaining to your chief constable.’
Now there’s a real kick in the ego, Skinner thought. She doesn’t know who I am after all.
‘For the purposes of the tape,’ the deputy began, ‘I am ACC Bridget Gorman, accompanied by acting Chief Constable Bob Skinner, here to interview Mr Scott Mann, whose legal representative is also present.’
Murphy glared at Skinner, but could not hide her surprise at his presence. He could read her mind. If the top man is doing this interview himself, my client is in much deeper shit than I thought.
‘Well? Get on with it,’ she snapped.
‘Ms Murphy,’ Gorman said, ‘you’re here to advise Mr Mann of his legal rights and to ensure that these aren’t infringed. But you don’t speak for him, and you don’t direct us.’
As they spoke, Skinner fixed his gaze on Scott Mann, drawing his eyes to him and locking them to his as if by a beam. He held him captive, not blinking, not saying a word, keeping his head rock steady. The silent exchange went on for almost a minute, until the prisoner could stand the invisible pressure no longer and broke free, staring down at the desk.