‘What did the aunt have to do with it?’ Haddock asked.
‘She manages her business. Grete Regal couldn’t run a raffle; she’s a brilliant designer, but as a businesswoman she’s all over the place. Her work is excellent, her costs aren’t excessive and she never missed a deadline for Hector, but if she didn’t have the Rainey woman behind her she’d be lost. Grete’s a lovely girl; Ingrid Rainey is not. Have you met her?’
Pye nodded. ‘Yes, but I can’t comment on that.’
‘I suppose not. But I will tell you that the woman pursued Hector through the civil courts, on the advice of a lawyer who should be ashamed of himself. The bloody sheriff found in their favour of course, with costs. He found that Hector had acted irresponsibly in commissioning the design work when he should have known that the business wasn’t viable any longer. He even banned him from acting as a director. It wasn’t fair; he had this idea that rebranding would help him turn the corner. If his biggest customer had paid him, and the bloody bank had given him another few weeks, that would have seen him all right.’
She paused, to dab at her eyes with a tissue. ‘It would have meant our house going on the market,’ she continued, ‘not the one in Gilmerton, that was long gone; no, the house here, although we didn’t have nearly enough equity in it to meet the claim. Our car too; Ingrid Rainey would have taken that too. We’d have been beggared, out in the street.’
‘That’s too bad,’ Haddock said, feeling that a show of sympathy was in order.
‘Damn right it was!’ Mrs Mackail snapped. ‘Rainey didn’t even stop when Hector was killed. Her lawyer tried to arrest the insurance money, but fortunately, that was tied to the mortgage, so he couldn’t. Instead Rainey told him to get a court order against me, personally, for Hector’s debt.’ She glowered at Pye. ‘That’s the background. Now, what does it have to do with your visit?’
‘Have you seen much of the news this week?’ he asked.
‘Some, why?’
‘Did you see the sad story of a child being found dead in a car in Edinburgh?’
‘Yes, I did. Awful.’ She frowned. ‘And wasn’t . . .’
The DS cut across her. ‘The child was Grete Regal’s daughter. Grete herself is in a coma, in hospital in Edinburgh.’
Gloria Mackail gasped. ‘And they’re saying that the young man Francey did it?’
‘We’re saying it, Mrs Mackail. Dean Francey abducted the girl and attacked her mother. That’s a given, although he’s beyond being called to account for it.’ He glanced at Pye, who nodded for him to continue. ‘Thing is, Francey was paid to do it. I’m sorry to be blunt about this, but we’re looking at anyone who might have had a grudge against Grete. By your own admission you’ve been in serious dispute with her, and in addition to that, your daughter Hazel knows Dean Francey. So you see, we have to ask the question.’
Silence seemed to engulf the room as the nurse stared at the floor. The tension that was building in her was almost palpable and it communicated itself to the two officers.
‘You have to ask the question,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Pye said, ‘we do.’
‘Then here’s the answer. Suppose I was the sort of sadist who’d use an innocent child as a weapon to right a grievance, suppose I was that sort of animal, I’d have had to pay Francey with Monopoly money, because I don’t have any of the real stuff! I have just spent my daughter’s pitifully small university fund on burying her father, after your colleagues finally deigned to release his body, and I am down to my last seven hundred quid. Having seen one mortgage paid off I’ll have to take out another just to keep myself afloat. It’s either that,’ she shouted, ‘or bloody Wonga!’
The DCI reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, as if his touch would draw the anger from her.
‘We had to ask the question,’ he repeated, gently. ‘And now we have, and we believe you.’
She shuddered and then she was calm once more. ‘Is Grete going to die?’ she asked.
‘We hope not. I can’t say any more than that. But the word coming out of the Western General is a bit more optimistic today.’
‘Then pray God she makes it, poor girl. I say that selfishly for if she doesn’t, I’m probably back to square one. Grete and I, and Ingrid Rainey, and Harrison, their damn lawyer, all had a meeting last week. Rainey and the bloodsucker wanted my house, but when Grete realised what I’d been up against, she said no, that enough was enough.
‘She said that she would take fifteen per cent of the debt, the same amount that the official creditors got, and she and I agreed a repayment schedule. I’ll still have to mortgage to pay off bloody Harrison’s costs, but the rest is manageable. She’s a decent, generous girl, and to have such a horrible thing happen to her . . . it puts my situation into perspective. Now I’m terrified that if she doesn’t make it, her awful aunt will revert to type.’
‘If she does survive, Sister Mackail,’ Pye said, ‘she’ll need friends. Maybe you can be around for her. We won’t trouble you any longer.’
As he turned to leave, Haddock picked up a pad from the desk. He scribbled on it, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to her.
‘That’s the number of a very good lawyer, and I have a feeling she’d enjoy eating your Mr Harrison. You might like to call her. If you do, mention my name. Hers is Alex Skinner.’
He followed the chief inspector outside, into the street. ‘Should we check out her bank details, for the record?’ he asked, a dispassionate cop once more.
‘That needs to be done,’ Pye agreed, as he started the car. ‘But we’ll get Dickson to do it . . . or what’s left of him when I’m finished chewing him out.’
Haddock nodded. ‘I want a bite too,’ he growled. ‘That was bloody embarrassing. When you’re asked to check someone out, the fact that he’s dead ought to show up fairly early on.’
They were waiting for the lights to turn green when an incoming call sounded through the Bluetooth speakers. Pye touched a button on the steering wheel.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, it’s Jackie.’
‘I knew that as soon as you opened your mouth,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘What’s the new crisis?’
‘No crisis, sir,’ the detective constable said. ‘The opposite really. Ms Iqbal from the Western General’s been in touch. Grete Regal recovered consciousness just after ten this morning. She’s stable and you can talk to her.’
‘Call her back,’ the DCI ordered, ‘and tell her we’re on our way.’
They were approaching Dirleton Toll, listening to Pablo Milanes, a Cuban singer who was a favourite of Pye’s wife, when Haddock cut across his Spanish anthem.
‘I’m just thinking, gaffer. I know someone, a girl I was at school with; her name’s Macy Robertson and she’s a business journalist so she might be able to give us some more background on Hector Mackail.’
‘Do we need that?’ Pye asked. ‘Doesn’t being dead cross him off the list of suspects?’
‘It didn’t get Francey off the hook,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘He could have set it up before he walked in front of that car. Hazel knew Francey; he was handy for the job.’
‘Then it went wrong and he came back from the dead and shot Francey and Anna?’
‘Bugger!’ the DS moaned.
Pye laughed at his frustration. ‘Talk to your friend anyway, Sauce,’ he said. ‘There’s no such thing as too much information.’
Forty-Five
When the chief inspector pressed the intercom at the entrance to the intensive care unit, and was told that Grete Regal was no longer there, his instant reaction was one of panic.
Relief took its place as the tinny voice continued, ‘She’s been transferred to the general ward; she’s still on high dependency nursing, but she’s doing fine.’
The two detectives followed the directions they were given; they were uncertain of the layout until Pye spotted Ingrid Rainey, seated in the corridor. ‘That’s the aunt,’ he whispered to Haddock, stepping aside and into the ward office before she saw him.