The DCC pushed a button on his steering wheel to end the call, fading the music as it cut back in, then slowed, pulling into the lay-by where the traffic car was parked, its blue light flashing, and coming to a halt behind a white Range Rover. Its driver was being questioned by a uniformed constable; as he watched, he saw him hand a breath test machine back to the officer who studied it, smiled and nodded.
A second constable approached his own car, a youngster, one of the new breed, the DCC could tell, so full of zeal and enthusiasm that he barely reacted as McGuire lowered his window to reveal his uniform and the silver badges of rank on his shoulder.
‘Routine document check, sir,’ he announced.
‘Bollocks,’ the DCC replied, amiably. ‘The number recognition system will tell you that this vehicle is taxed and insured. There’s no such thing as a routine check of a private vehicle any more. It’s a cover for something else.’
The young cop stiffened. ‘Can I see your driving licence, sir?’
‘No.’
‘I require you to show it, to prove that you’re licensed to drive this vehicle.’
McGuire maintained a steady smile, but his eyes were flashing danger signs that a wiser man would have read.
‘And I choose not to,’ he said, ‘because my private address is on it. That’s not something I’m prepared to share. However,’ he paused, ‘I will show you this. Read it carefully.’ He handed over his warrant card.
The second constable, a woman, joined her younger partner. ‘Is there a problem here?’ she began, then saw the DCC and realised that there was. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began.
‘Too late for that,’ McGuire snapped. ‘Were you instructed to do this by a senior officer or are you just filling in time? Don’t even think about bullshitting me,’ he warned, as he took his ID back from the other cop, ‘for I will check.’
‘It’s our own initiative,’ the female PC admitted.
‘How many arrests have you made?’
She reddened. ‘None.’
‘Then it’s about time for you to resume more productive duties, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She nudged her colleague. ‘Come on, Chris.’
‘No,’ the DCC said, ‘we’re not quite done here. Gimme your breathalyser.’
He took the machine from the constable named Chris, blew into it, looked at the reading and handed it back. ‘Another innocent motorist hassled,’ he growled, his eyes never leaving the young officer. ‘You’ve got a decision to make, son. Either you make a radical attitude adjustment in dealing with members of the public, or you look for another line of work. My memory’s long and so’s my reach; I’ll be watching you.’
McGuire turned on his engine and pulled out into the traffic, cruising slowly through Selkirk, heading north towards Edinburgh, and wondering whether he would have been less hard on that young cop if their paths had crossed on another day.
He had travelled for a few miles and was back in open country before he remembered his unfinished conversation with Sammy Pye. He opened his mouth to issue a voice command, but in that same instant his phone announced an incoming call.
He frowned, but pressed the receive button, answering with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘Is that Deputy Chief Constable McGuire?’ The voice was smooth, English and ever so slightly annoying.
‘It is,’ he confirmed. ‘And who are you, sir?’
‘My name is Rafe Blackett, Captain, Royal Navy, currently on assignment to the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall.’
‘Then please tell me, Captain Blackett,’ the DCC asked, ‘how did you get this number?’
‘It was given me by your chief constable’s office.’
Cheers, Andy, he thought. ‘I see. So tell me, Captain, how can the Scottish Police Service help the Ministry of Defence?’
‘You can give me an update,’ Blackett replied, ‘on a situation that may affect one of our serving officers; his name is Lieutenant David Gates.’
‘Never heard of . . .’ McGuire began, stopping as the surname flipped a switch in his memory. Simultaneously, he guessed correctly what Sammy Pye’s problem had been. ‘Wait a minute, Gates, you said?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Do you have a home address for Lieutenant Gates?’
‘I see from his file that he lives in a place called Garvald, in East Lothian, Scotland, when he’s not on service.’
‘What else does that file tell you?’
‘That his next of kin is his partner, a Ms Regal, and that they have one child, aged five.’ The man gave a short impatient snort. ‘Thing is, Mr McGuire, earlier today a young lady from your outfit, Detective Constable Wright, managed to get herself put through to me, not once but twice. On each occasion she more or less demanded that she be put in contact with Gates. She even hinted that she would go to one of our ministers, a Scots MP, if necessary.’
‘Are you calling me to complain that she was rude?’ the DCC exclaimed.
‘No, no. The young lady was perfectly civil, but she was insistent that she had to speak to him at once. I’m afraid that I was equally insistent that she couldn’t, as he’s operational. I asked her what it was about, but she declined to tell me. We left it that Gates would be asked to contact her as soon as that is practically possible.’
‘I see.’ McGuire saw that he was approaching a lay-by on the single carriageway; he pulled into it, off the highway. ‘I can understand DC Wright’s reticence, Captain,’ he continued. ‘She was following protocol, that was all. Equally, I can understand that you have your operating procedures too.’
‘I thought you might,’ Blackett murmured. ‘Thing is,’ he went on, ‘this has been preying on me. I feel I need to know anything that affects Gates.’
‘Which led you to jump the command chain and go straight to the chief, and through him to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me why?’
‘I don’t believe I’m allowed to, sir.’
‘In that case, I’ll do some guessing. I’ll speculate that you can’t let us speak to Gates because you can’t speak to him yourself. That suggests to me that he’s either an intelligence officer, in the field, or that he’s in an operational situation that prevents communications. Force me to choose between those and I’ll guess that he’s on a nuclear sub, since their locations are just about the biggest military secret we have.’ He chuckled. ‘If you like you can cough once for yes, twice for no.’
The car was silent for a few seconds. Then the sound of a single forced cough came through the speakers.
‘In that case,’ McGuire said, ‘I’ll share something with you. The news we have for Lieutenant Gates is very bad. This morning his partner and daughter were attacked on a lonely road on their way to the local primary school. When our people arrived they found only Ms Regal; their assumption was that it was a hit-and-run. Not long afterwards the child’s body was found in the boot of a stolen car that was involved in an accident, twenty miles away.’
‘My God,’ the captain gasped. ‘What are you saying to me?’
‘Nothing definite, only an assumption: that the abduction of the child was the purpose of the attack. I’ve just heard the autopsy findings: she died from an acute asthmatic attack. She wasn’t harmed in any other way.’
‘Have you arrested anyone?’
‘Not yet, but my officers tell me they have a prime suspect.’
‘What was the motive for the attack?’ Blackett asked. ‘Ransom?’
‘We’re not there yet,’ McGuire told him. ‘We have to catch our suspect first and see what he can tell us. You’ll understand that I’m not connected with the investigation at ground level. I don’t have all the detail.’
‘I appreciate that. Sir . . .’ The captain stopped, as if he was taking time to choose his words. ‘Might I suggest that you consider another motive, that this awful crime might be aimed at Lieutenant Gates because of what he does?’