‘I know what your role will be, boss,’ he laughed. ‘That’s just been made clear. Where do we begin?’’
I took one of the two uncomfortable chairs in the room and motioned Haddock towards the other. ‘Bring me up to speed, please, from the time when you asked me to identify Dean Francey.’
I sat back and listened as they related every detail of their investigation in a shared presentation style that they seemed to have developed. It struck me that for a fairly junior DS, young Sauce wasn’t slow to offer a view, but it neither surprised nor annoyed me. He’s always been that way and he will be all the way up to the top of the tree, where he’s headed.
Some of it I knew from the media, but I didn’t know of Hector Mackail’s naval background. I did my best to stay impassive when Sammy dropped those pieces of information, but I made a mental note to chide Carrie McDaniels for not digging a little deeper into the man.
The fact that he was dead, and the circumstances of his demise, were hugely significant for me, but I sat on that initially. Instead I focused on the journalist Macy’s pillow talk gossip about a confrontation between Mackail and my client, Eden Higgins.
‘Knocked him down a flight of stairs, she said?’
Haddock nodded. ‘And smashed his ankle.’
‘That explains why Eden was limping when we met,’ I said.
‘We’ve been thinking it might also explain why Mackail wound up squashed against a wall.’
‘I wouldn’t spend too much time on that thought,’ I told the youngster. ‘I don’t believe for one second that Eden Higgins would countenance anything as foolish as that. There was a known connection between them and, besides, the man Mackail was already broken, financially.’
‘What about the minder Macy mentioned?’ Pye asked. ‘Could he have taken it into his own hands?’
‘Walter Hurrell is a volatile and potentially dangerous man,’ I conceded. ‘But he wouldn’t act on his own initiative. No, I believe we, sorry, you, should focus on the naval connection, Mackail and Zena’s dad, with a third man in the equation.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘His name was Jock Hodgson,’ I said. ‘He was the inside man on the theft of Eden Higgins’ boat and he’s just as dead as Mackail. He’s also ex-Navy. I want to know whether the two of them and Gates ever served together.’
‘We wondered the same about Mackail and Gates,’ Sauce volunteered, ‘but Gates seems to be a no-go area. The Ministry of Defence won’t say a word about him.’
‘You can leave that to me,’ I told him. ‘I’m not going to ask the MoD.’
Sammy Pye rocked slightly in my battered old chair. ‘What’s your thinking on this, boss?’ he ventured.
I didn’t bother to correct the ‘boss’, for at that time, effectively I was. ‘I won’t go there yet,’ I replied. ‘I need confirmation on a few things. What I’d like to do now is make a couple of phone calls; then I’m going to take you guys for lunch.’
Fifty-Four
‘I need some more information,’ I told Clyde Houseman. ‘Some of it I could get from the Ministry of Defence, but I don’t have time to wrestle with their bureaucracy.’
‘Will I have to clear it with my boss?’ he asked.
‘Part of it, no; but I don’t mind if you check with her. I’d phone her myself but I’m sure she’s busy enough already.’
‘Meaning I’m not.’ He chuckled softly.
‘Meaning you’re not the Director of MI5; one day, maybe, but not yet. I need information on three people, all of them Navy, like Walter Hurrell. The names are Jock Hodgson . . . although I’d guess that might be John in the records . . . Hector Mackail, and David Gates. The first two have left the service, but are recently deceased; the third is still operational. I know that Mackail and Gates connect professionally, but I’d like to know if and how Hodgson relates to either of them.’
‘That shouldn’t take long,’ Clyde remarked. ‘Do you want the MoD to know that you’re asking?’
‘I don’t care,’ I said, ‘not about that part. But the next bit’s a little more sensitive. Gates is an engineering officer on a Trident sub; that means he’s totally isolated.’ I told him about the attack on his wife and the abduction and death of his child. ‘Even then, the investigating officers are being denied access.’
‘That’s very tough,’ my young friend agreed, ‘but you can understand why, sir, can’t you?’
‘Sure I can,’ I replied. ‘And that’s why I need you to get involved.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘On your own authority, no, you can’t. But this is the part where you will need to involve Amanda Dennis. She does have the clout to ask certain questions, and insist on an answer.’
‘Okay,’ Clyde said. ‘What do you want to know?’
Fifty-Five
There wasn’t much conversation on the journey. Even Sauce Haddock stayed silent until we were well clear of Edinburgh, heading west, until his tongue just wouldn’t stay at rest any longer. Finally, from the back seat of my slightly damaged car, his voice raised above the Miles Davis playlist that I had on that morning, he asked the question that I’d been expecting for over an hour.
‘This man Hodgson, sir: you said he’s dead.’
‘That’s right,’ I agreed.
‘How did he get that way?’
‘Suddenly,’ I said. ‘Hopefully I’ll be able to expand on that over lunch.’
‘Where are we going?’ I sensed that his curiosity was giving way to impatience.
‘Mystery tour,’ I chuckled. ‘It won’t be long now.’
We passed the newish Heartland interchange, then the old, isolated Kirk O’Shotts on the left, heading on until I ended the game by leaving the motorway at junction six. I negotiated two more roundabouts, and we had reached our destination.
Pye looked up at the sign over the entrance. ‘The Newhouse,’ he murmured as he stepped out of the front passenger seat, reading the sign above the entrance.
‘Used to be the Newhouse Hotel,’ I told him, ‘a place of legend. Back in my father’s time,’ I explained, ‘the only way you could get a drink on a Sunday was in a hotel, and even then only if you were what the law called a bona fide traveller. That meant you had to be on a journey of at least three miles. You even had to sign a declaration in a book. In those days, this place was pretty much three miles from everywhere. They used to have bus parties coming here, every Sunday afternoon.’
‘That’s weird,’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘My grandad used to talk about that but I always thought he was taking the piss.’
‘No,’ I assured him, as I led the way inside and through to the dining room. ‘It’s a genuine relic of our colourful Presbyterian past. Where I live, in Gullane, it’s about a three-mile walk to and from Dirleton, the next village. The old-timers say that on Sundays the drinking populations of the villages used to pass each other on the road, there and back. The licensees changed the date on the book every week, to save time.’
‘Is this a nostalgia trip for you, boss?’ he asked.
‘Hell no,’ I replied. ‘The law changed not long after I was born. I chose this because it’s a midpoint. We’re being joined here.’
The head waiter recognised me . . . sometimes I hate my media profile . . . and showed us to a table for five, by the window. The quorum was completed a couple of minutes later, when Lottie Mann and Dan Provan came through the door. I stood, and waved them across to join us.
I allowed my former colleagues to size each other up for a few seconds; each of them looked as puzzled as the others but none of them was ready to break the silence.
Finally I did. ‘Each of you guys has been under my command at different times and in different places,’ I began. ‘Now I’m gone, and you’re all colleagues; it’s time you met.’ I made the introductions, and stayed on my feet as east and west shook hands.
Provan looked across at me as he took his seat, his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s nice of you tae invite us to lunch, big fella . . . I’ll be havin’ fillet steak, by the way . . . but . . .’