‘There is no chance, I suppose, that he could just have stolen Cosie from Fort Kinnaird, after someone else had left it?’ The DS stared back at him, both eyebrows raised theatrically. ‘No, there isn’t,’ the DCI chuckled. ‘Forget I said that.’
‘Remember the Makka Pakka doll that was found on the wee girl?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Control had a message from Lucy Tweedie in North Berwick; it’s just been passed to me. She went along to Poundstretcher herself. The boy on the till remembered selling one to Dino yesterday. He remembered because he knows him, and he laughed when he bought it. He even asked him who it was for. Francey claimed it was for his niece. The lad asked him when Donna had a kid, and Dino changed his story. It became his girlfriend’s niece.’
‘Has anyone come up with an address for this Anna Harmony yet?’
‘Not a sniff; she’s a mystery. There’s nobody of that name holding a National Insurance number anywhere in Britain, or a passport, or a driving licence.’
‘The story was, she lived in a student flat,’ Pye reminded his sergeant. ‘Have the team checked the universities and colleges?’
‘Yes. No trace of a student with that name.’ He paused, to drink from a large mug of tea. ‘However, we asked Donna Rattray about her and she said she has an east European accent. I’m wondering whether Harmony might not be her real name.’
‘We may find out at Lacey’s. Let’s go.’
The two detectives finished their snacks and left the mobile command unit, heading for Pye’s car, which was parked close by. The shopping mall was still busy; most of the units were closed, but the newly opened multiscreen cinema was doing good business.
‘How long will we keep the HQ van here?’ Haddock asked.
‘Another twenty-four hours, max,’ his boss replied. ‘The BMW’s gone to the lab for examination, and I doubt if any more witnesses are going to turn up. We might not need any more, truth be told.’ He paused to press his unlock key.
‘There have been developments that you don’t know about,’ he continued as he slid in behind the steering wheel.
‘I thought you were looking pleased with yourself,’ the DS chuckled, fastening his seat belt.
‘On two fronts; I had a report from the forensic team at the scene of the attack and the abduction at Garvald. They’ve recovered the rock that Grete was hit with. It had been tossed into some bushes, but there was plenty of blood and hair still on it.’
‘Do they think they’ll find the attacker’s DNA on it?’
‘Unless he was wearing gloves, they’re hopeful. Dean Francey wasn’t, on the CCTV we’ve seen, and none were found inside the car.’
‘That’s assuming Francey was the attacker,’ Haddock pointed out.
‘Granted, but my money’s on him because there’s another link. We have the three friends, Maxwell, Hazel and Dean. Maxwell’s the link to the car. Dean’s the driver, found with the child’s body in the boot. And then there’s Hazel.’
‘What about her?’
‘Grete Regal had a legal problem in her design business. A client defaulted on her, leaving her stuck with supplier costs that she’d met herself in the expectation of payment. She won a court judgement against that client, on a personal basis, a short time ago. Her aunt said that she’s been pressing Grete to execute it to recover the debt. That would involve seizing his assets, and the only thing he has of sufficient value is his equity in his mortgaged home. The client’s name is Hector Mackaiclass="underline" Hazel’s dad.’
‘Wow!’ Haddock murmured, reading the DCI’s thoughts as he started his engine and moved off. ‘Are you thinking that Hazel put friend Dino up to kidnapping Grete’s child as a means of making her lay off her dad, using friend Maxwell’s uncle’s car to do it?’
‘It’s a line of inquiry. A kid that age, I doubt it, but could it be her father did? Still, we have a way to go before we get there,’ Pye added. ‘We need to catch Dino and have him point the finger.’
The journey into the city centre passed mostly in silence. They were passing Meadowbank Stadium before the detective sergeant spoke.
‘How are you doing?’ he murmured.
‘Okay,’ Pye replied.
‘I don’t think so. Sammy, you’re not long back from witnessing the post-mortem examination of a five-year-old child. If I was in your shoes, if I was the DCI and you were the DS, you’d still have been there, because I’d have fucking delegated it, as sure as God made wee green apples. That’s what makes you a better gaffer than I’ll ever be, by the way. But you don’t go through something like that and come out of it feeling okay.’
‘Maybe not. I’ll concede that. But it’s not something you share with anyone.’
‘Did you see the mother too?’
Pye shook his head. ‘No, I bottled that. Anyway there was no need, and no point. Grete’s unconscious and will be for some time; it’s possible she’ll never wake up. If she does, she won’t have a crowd of relatives at her bedside, just her formidable aunt. Mother’s dead, and father’s estranged. We need to find him, if we can; whereabouts unknown at the moment. That’ll be another job for our Jackie tomorrow.’
As he spoke, he swung his car round into Royal Terrace, then pulled into a parking space he had spotted. ‘We’ll walk from here,’ he said. ‘It’s just round the corner, in Elm Row.’
‘Do you know the place?’ Haddock asked.
‘I’ve been to Lacey’s once,’ he admitted, ‘at a stag night.’
‘Rough?’
‘Not that bad.’
‘I’d never heard of it until it came up today. I thought all the pole-dancing activity went on up at the pubic triangle, in the West Port.’
‘No, not all; just most of it. You used to live there, didn’t you?’
‘Yup.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Interesting.’
There was a burly doorman on duty outside their destination. ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You look like newcomers to Lacey’s. The house rules are very simple: look all you like, but touching is not allowed. You want a private dance, in a booth, you negotiate with the ladies.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Haddock growled, showing his warrant card. ‘We’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Ahh,’ the bouncer murmured as he opened the door for them. ‘See the boss about a discount.’
Lacey’s was dimly lit apart from four poles arranged around an oval-shaped bar. Two were in use, by dark-haired, pale-skinned, long-legged women, each wearing a G-string and black platform shoes with six-inch heels, but very little else, and gyrating vigorously to disco music with a heavy, thumping bass.
They were being watched by no more than half a dozen men, three at the bar, the others in a group at a table. Along the walls were a series of booths; two of those had curtains drawn across them with light showing behind.
Pye whistled the opening bars of Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’ as he walked up to the bar. ‘Who’s the manager here?’ he asked a fully clothed blond woman, who was in the act of pouring a pint of golden Peroni that the DCI recalled from his earlier visit as being horrendously expensive.
‘That would be me, officer,’ she said. ‘Mary O’Herlihy.’
‘Word gets around pretty fast in this place,’ Haddock observed.
‘There’s an intercom at the door,’ she replied, as she handed the pint to its purchaser and took the money. ‘Big Shane tells me whenever he lets somebody in he thinks might be a wee bit dodgy.’
‘I think we’ll take that as a compliment, Mary,’ Pye said. ‘We need a word, about one of your girls.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Anna Harmony. We were told she’s working tonight.’
‘That’s what I thought too,’ the manager replied, checking her watch. ‘Want a drink? On the house,’ she added.
‘Thanks, but we’ll pass on that. When was she due here?’
‘Fifteen minutes ago. But it’s a quiet night. If she’s just late, like she’s missed her bus, no problem. If she’s stood me up, though, that’ll be a different story.’
‘What’s her nationality?’ the DS asked. ‘We’ve been told she might be east European.’