‘What about the medical examiner who attended?’
‘From what the lads told me, the paramedics had everything in hand by that time. The ME took a quick look but he didn’t do anything. He waved the ambulance off, more or less, and went back to being on call.’
‘At what point did . . . the lads . . . identify the victim?’
‘He wasn’t identified until the ambulance reached the hospital. By that time he was dead. His driving licence was in his wallet.’
‘Did they return to the scene once they realised what had happened?’
‘No. I ordered other officers to do a house-to-house first thing next morning.’
‘Next morning?’ Pye exclaimed, his voice rising. ‘Why didn’t Brown and Raymond go straight back there?’
‘They were called out to another road traffic accident on the A1, from the infirmary,’ Laird protested. ‘They were tied up with that for hours. That’s the resources we’ve got; that’s the real world.’
‘Okay, leave that to one side. You canvassed householders at the scene the next morning. Any response?’
‘A woman in a house in Old Abbey Road said she thought she heard a squeal of tyres, around eleven forty-five, but that was all.’
‘Did you order a forensic examination of the scene?’
‘No, I decided that too much time had passed.’
‘No you didn’t; you decided to keep the whole thing under the carpet. Your guys arrived, saw a man on the ground and assumed he was a heart attack victim or a drunk.’ The DCI paused for a second, then flew a kite. ‘On Monday morning, when Grete Regal was found in Garvald, who attended that scene?’
Laird reddened. ‘Brown and Raymond.’
‘No bloody wonder they were so quick to decide that one was a hit-and-run.’ Pye sighed. ‘So, now we have no way of knowing whether Mackail staggered off the pavement after a few pints and into the path of a vehicle, or whether it mounted the pavement and hit him.’
Inspector Laird sat, silently staring ahead.
‘Who told Mrs Mackail?’ the DCI murmured.
‘I did. Brown called me; although I was off duty, I went to the address he gave me, and informed the widow.’
‘What was her reaction?’
‘What do you think?’ Laird retorted. ‘Shock.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Yes, she did. She said, “Finally they’ve taken everything.” Then she went into hysterics; her daughter appeared from upstairs, and the whole thing went into meltdown. I sent for a doctor, and waited till he arrived. He sedated both women; I left a WPC from the North Berwick office to stay with them overnight.’
‘Who took Mrs Mackail’s statement?’
‘Nobody. I’d established from her that her husband had been for his usual Friday session in the Nether Abbey. I didn’t deem it necessary to trouble her further.’
‘Okay,’ the DCI said. ‘I get the picture. I see why you kept this in-house. This whole thing reeks of sloppiness and even negligence. You were protecting your officers, and as their manager, protecting yourself.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ she retorted.
‘Possibly. But I wouldn’t have sat on my hands. I’m taking this situation over, and I’m going to see what I can rescue.’
‘Feel free, but please, keep Brown and Raymond out of it.’
‘They were hardly ever in it from what I can see.’ He turned to Haddock. ‘Sauce, get a forensic team out to Station Road. You never know, even at this very late stage we might scrape something up.’
‘But suppose you do,’ Laird said, ‘you won’t be able to tie it conclusively to this incident.’
‘That depends what we find. And by the way,’ he added, ‘until we know for sure to the contrary, we’re treating this “incident” as a homicide.’
Forty-Nine
‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Arthur,’ Sammy Pye said.
‘I fancied a trip to the seaside,’ the senior scene of crime technician replied, gruffly. Arthur Dorward was renowned for being no respecter of persons, a reputation he had earned even before he transferred from the police force to the new civilian central service operated by the Scottish Police Authority.
‘On your own?’
The former inspector frowned at the serving DCI. ‘You call me out to look at a piece of pavement weeks after an incident occurred, and you expect me to come mob handed? Why should I waste another specialist’s time as well as my own?’
Pye nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He recognised the near impossibility of the mission.
‘Where’s your sidekick? He called me, so I thought he’d be here.’
‘Sauce has gone up to Edinburgh. I sent him in search of a post-mortem report.’
‘Tell me what happened. Young Haddock didn’t go into detail; he just said it was a fatal RTA, driver left the scene.’
‘That sums it up.’
‘So why am I a couple of months late in getting here?’ Dorward asked, casually.
‘SFU,’ the DCI replied, tersely. ‘Somebody fucked up. I’m not looking for miracles, Arthur.’
‘That makes a change for you guys. But suppose you were, then as always you’ve come to the right man. What am I looking for?’
Pye turned to a uniformed officer who was standing a few yards away, leaning against a patrol car. ‘Sergeant Brown,’ he called out, ‘draw an outline of where Mr Mackail was lying when you arrived at the scene.’
‘Sir.’ Solemnly he stepped forward and did as he was told, chalking a crude outline of a human form, tight against the high stone wall that ran along the inside of the pavement, with its midsection against a grey pole that held a yellow ‘No waiting’ sign.
‘What were the weather conditions?’ Dorward asked.
‘Dry. It was a clear night,’ Brown replied.
‘Was the victim bleeding?’
‘He’d a cut on the side of his head and there was blood coming from the corner of his mouth. There was a strong smell of booze and he’d been sick.’
‘Conscious?’
‘No’ really. He was moaning, but he didn’t respond to questions. My neighbour and I thought he was a drunk, and that he’d fell over and banged his head. I said as much to the paramedics and the doctor and nobody argued with us.’
‘It wasn’t their place to argue with you, Sergeant,’ Pye pointed out, ‘any more than it was yours to jump to conclusions.’
‘What was the victim wearing?’ Dorward asked.
‘A dark coat, it could have been black or navy; we couldn’t tell in the light, and they’d taken it off him when we saw him in the hospital. By that time he was dead.’
‘Was it a raincoat?’
‘No, it was heavier than that. Woollen, I’d say; it looked expensive.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘I’ve got no idea. They’d give it to the widow, I guess.’
‘Okay,’ the crime scene investigator said. ‘You’ve got a supposed drunk who turns out to be a hit-and-run victim. With that knowledge, if you think back to the scene, can you recall anything that might be of interest to me?’
‘Nothing,’ Brown replied, instantly.
‘That took a lot of consideration,’ Dorward growled. He turned to Pye. ‘This guy’s in the wrong business, Sammy; he should be a chocolate fireguard salesman. They’re bloody useless as well.’
‘Hey,’ the sergeant exclaimed, ‘you hold on a minute!’
‘No,’ Dorward barked. ‘You hold on. You were at the scene of a fatal hit-and-run accident, but you never even considered that possibility. If you had, we’d have had something to work with, because it’s pretty much impossible to kill somebody with a motor car without leaving some sort of a trace. Now we’re several weeks down the road and everything is compromised.’
He picked up his equipment case. ‘Sammy, you might as well leave me to it. There’s nothing you can do here other than get in the way, and listen to me swear. I won’t be long here, and if I find anything that might be relevant, I’ll let you know soonest. If I don’t, well, it’s a no-hoper, so you’re not going to be disappointed, are you?’
Leaving the investigator to his nearly impossible task, Pye had Sergeant Brown drive him to Edinburgh. He sat in the back of the car and the journey was spent in silence.