‘Never heard of him,’ the DS admitted. ‘I don’t read the business press.’
Pye shifted in his chair. ‘Ever heard of Alison Higgins?’
‘Yeah. She was a detective super, wasn’t she? Killed on the job?’
‘That’s right; she was also Eden Higgins’ sister. And Bob Skinner’s . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘What?’ his colleague asked.
‘Never mind. It was fifteen years ago, and more. Ancient history now.’
‘Okay, so back to the present,’ Haddock declared. ‘If we’re all agreed that Callum Sullivan’s a paragon, now can we have a look at Hector Mackail?’
‘Okay,’ Pye laughed. ‘You win.’
Forty-Four
‘You do realise we might as well have interviewed Sullivan at home,’ Sauce Haddock grumbled as he stared into his cup. ‘Two hours later and here we are in bloody North Berwick . . . again. They should change the name to fucking Punxsutawney.’
‘Puncture-what?’ Pye laughed.
‘Punxsutawney. Have you never seen Groundhog Day? It’s about a town where the same thing happens over and over again. That’s us, Sammy. We’re trapped in a fucking time loop.’
‘There are worse places to be trapped, mate. This Sea Bird Centre coffee’s quite acceptable, and so are the scones. I’ll tell you what; there are a couple of holiday parks here, why don’t you and Cheeky buy a wee cabin? Then you can nip down for the weekend.’
‘Why don’t you . . . ’ He threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Sir.’
Pye reached down and picked up a document case from the side of his chair, then produced an iPad. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at Dickson’s report on Mackail.’ He opened a Pages document and read through it. ‘The business was called Mackail Extrusions,’ he began.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Haddock asked, puzzled.
‘It made window frames for the double-glazing industry,’ Pye explained. ‘It seems to have been a victim of the slump. It suffered three consecutive years of trading losses, until finally its bank pulled the plug. Quite a few suppliers caught a cold in the collapse, Grete Regal Graphics among them, but she was the only one who pursued the directors personally. Actually there was only one director, Hector Mackail. His address is given in the final court decree as Seventy-five Adelaide Avenue, North Berwick, and he’s described as unemployed. Dickson checked the electoral register; also listed as voters there are his wife, Gloria, and daughter Hazel.’
‘Did William come up with anything else?’
‘No. That’s it.’
‘Does he know we’re coming?’ Haddock asked.
The DCI shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want him forearmed.’ He drained his coffee and finished the last of his scone. ‘Come on, let’s give him a pleasant surprise.’
Adelaide Avenue was not the prettiest street in the coastal town, but it looked respectable and its houses were well maintained. The street had begun life as part of a council estate, but most of its homes had been purchased by their tenants in the right-to-buy surge of the nineteen eighties, and so their appearance was less uniform than once it had been, with a variety of window designs and decorative colours and one or two substantial extensions.
‘I grew up in a street like this,’ Haddock observed.
‘Me too, funnily enough,’ his colleague said. ‘It’s ironic, that the Mackail family should wind up here. It’s a monument to the double-glazing industry, where he made and lost his money. I’m older than you, so I remember when the C. R. Smith and Everest vans were everywhere.’
Number seventy-five was a semi-detached villa, painted in off-white Snowcem. A privet hedge enclosed the garden, and the drive to the side was laid in brick.
The detectives walked up the path to the front door, and Haddock rang the bell. They had been waiting for no more than a few seconds when a gruff male voice called to them from the pavement. ‘They’ll be naebody in.’
‘Do you know where we could find them?’ the DS asked the grey-haired septuagenarian shuffling along with a Co-op bag in each hand.
‘Ye’ll look far for him, but she’ll be doon at the Eddington. She’s a nurse.’
‘Thanks. What’s the Eddington?’ the sergeant murmured.
‘It’s the health centre cum cottage hospital,’ Pye replied. ‘I know where it is; it’s not far from here.’
In fact it was less than half a mile away, along a wide road and beside a church. The car park was full, and Pye was forced to find a space in the street, uncomfortably close to a set of traffic lights.
The reception area was busy as they stepped inside, filled with people with heavy eyes and puffy noses. ‘Whatever they’ve got, I don’t want it,’ Pye whispered, as they approached the counter.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Mackail,’ he told the receptionist, quietly.
‘Sister Mackail,’ she corrected him, primly. ‘I’ll see if she’s free. Who will I say is calling?’
In reply, the two officers displayed their warrant cards. ‘Oh,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘You’ve got somewhere at last, have you? Just wait here.’
She left her post and turned into a corridor behind her. Within a minute she returned. ‘Gloria’s available,’ she said, pointing behind her. ‘Along there, second door on the right.’
They followed her finger, to find the door ajar; they stepped into a square surgery, with a frosted-glass window behind a desk and an examination bench against the wall on the left. Gloria Mackail stood beside it, in uniform, eyeing them with a frown on her face.
‘Gentlemen,’ she began, ‘this is a surprise. I honestly thought the police had given up on me.’
‘Oh no, Sister Mackail,’ Pye replied. ‘We never give up.’
‘Does that mean you’ve caught him?’
The DCI felt his eyebrows rise. ‘Pardon?’ he exclaimed. ‘Caught who?’
‘Caught the man who knocked down Hector, of course!’ she snapped, then paused. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know that my husband was the victim of a hit-and-run? That you don’t know he’s dead?’
I’ll fucking kill Dickson, Pye thought.
I’ll fucking kill Dickson, Haddock thought.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the senior detective replied, deadpan. ‘We’re involved in another investigation altogether. I’m the senior CID officer in Edinburgh, not East Lothian, but of course, if you wish, I’ll make it my business to find out about the inquiry into your husband’s death.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ she said stiffly. ‘Nonetheless, I’d have expected you to know about it before you turned up here.’
‘I can only apologise.’
‘No matter. What is this other investigation?’
‘In the circumstances,’ Pye said, waiting for the ground to open beneath him, and half hoping that it would, ‘we’ll be quite happy to postpone this.’
Gloria Mackail shook her head. ‘That won’t make it go away. You’re here, so out with it.’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure whether you can help us. It relates to your husband’s former business, and to a claim against it by a woman named Grete Regal, a graphic designer who did some work for the company, then missed out on payment when it went into liquidation. You may not even be aware of it.’
‘Oh yes,’ the woman declared, bristling in her blue uniform, ‘I’m only too well aware of it. Ms Regal was late with her invoice, or rather her bloody aunt was. By the time it was received by the liquidator of the business, he had already closed his list of creditors and they had all agreed a payment schedule, to be met from the sale of the company’s assets. They were all going to get around fifteen pence in the pound, that’s all.’
She fell silent, sniffed, and for a few moments the detectives thought she might break down. ‘It wasn’t Hector’s fault,’ she murmured. ‘He was let down too, as badly as everyone else was. Those bloody bankers,’ she hissed, bitterly. ‘That bloody company. That bloody man.’
Composing herself, she carried on. ‘Anyway, Grete Regal didn’t take it lying down . . . or rather, her harridan of an aunt didn’t.’