It was when I got to ‘H’ that I sparked. I’d expected to see Anna Harmony, listed under her adopted name, but the entire Higgins family were there as well, Eden, Rachel and Rory. And so was Walter Hurrell.
Obsession edged towards paranoia: that name was coming up far too often. I was very keen to see him on video with Sammy Pye and Lottie Mann facing him across an interrogation room table. If I was a betting man, he would have been carrying my money in the ‘Who shot Dino?’ stakes, but the odds would have been miserably short.
I was still contemplating an imaginary call to Ladbrokes . . . other bookmakers are available . . . when the FaceTime icon started bouncing at the foot of my screen. I hit ‘Accept’ and waited for a few seconds, until my own onscreen face was replaced by that of Amanda Dennis. She had her back to her office window, and behind her I could see the grey pillars on the terrace outside.
‘Quick one, Bob,’ she said. ‘Your man gets back tomorrow, six a.m. What do you want done with him?’
‘I want him detained within the base,’ I replied. ‘They should say nothing about what’s happened to his family. That’ll be for the interrogating officers.’
‘No.’ Her face set in a frown. ‘It’ll be for you; only you can go in there.’
‘Christ, Amanda,’ I exclaimed, ‘that’ll cause a riot in ScotServe HQ. I’m breaking enough protocols as it is.’
‘I don’t give a stuff about ScotServe, or its increasingly unpopular chief constable. That base is the most secure place in the United Kingdom and they won’t have plods running all over it. You have standing within my service and it’s on that basis that they’ll let you in.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if that’s the deal. In which case, I’ll be keeping my visit strictly to myself, in the short term. Thanks for this, Amanda. Please tell them to expect me at midday.’
Sixty
‘When I was a laddie,’ Dan Provan said, ‘I used to go fishin’ with my grandpa, on the Clyde, where it runs through Cambuslang. There were hardly any fish there, and those that were wis only a few inches long, but every now and then we’d catch one . . . or he would. I can still remember them lying on the path, flappin’ and gaspin’ till he chucked them back in.’ He smiled. ‘That’s how I feel now, like one o’ them.’
‘A fish out of water?’
‘Exactly, Lottie. See where we were wi’ Skinner yesterday, Newhouse? As far as I’m concerned that’s the boundary of civilisation. Through here? Cannae get my breath.’
‘I’ll throw you back in the river when we’re done here,’ the DI promised, ‘but first we’ve got Mr Hurrell to deal with.’
‘Do Glasgow warrants count in Edinburgh?’
‘Don’t be daft. You know they do.’ She looked at him, as they stood on the pavement. ‘How do you think we should play this?’ she asked, her higher rank deferring to his greater experience.
The sergeant glanced at the four large uniformed officers who stood behind her. ‘Knock politely,’ he replied. ‘If that does nothin’, one of these lads can knock a bit harder. The search warrant gives us right of entry.’
Research had established that the main home of Eden Higgins and his family was an entire house in Moray Place, restored by the businessman to its original eighteenth-century splendour. Its garden flat, which would have been part of the original servants’ quarters, was occupied by Rory Higgins. Because access to the rear of the building was limited, all but one of the family cars were kept in a nearby lane. What had once been stables had become trendy mews conversions; Walter Hurrell lived in one, above a garage big enough to hold four vehicles.
The plan was to arrest him at home, when he returned from work in the evening, but the building had been kept under observation overnight and he had not been seen to leave. Because of the assessed risk, the cobbled lane had been sealed off at either end.
‘You do the honours,’ Mann said.
Provan stepped up to the green-painted door and rapped on the handle. They waited for a full minute then tried again, with the same lack or response.
‘Enough?’ Provan asked.
‘Yes,’ Mann replied. ‘Let’s go in.’ She stood aside as one of the uniforms stepped forward with a red ram. One swing was all that was needed to open the door. The quartet, led by a sergeant, stepped inside and ran up the stairs, weapons drawn, with warning cries of, ‘Armed police.’
Mann made to follow, but the DS held her back. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘This is their job. We wait till it’s clear. I once saw a young DC get shot by going in too early.’
As he spoke, the leader of the armed squad reappeared, at the top of the stairway. ‘You can come up now,’ he called to them. ‘He’s in . . . but then again, he’s not.’
Provan led the way. ‘In there,’ the other sergeant said, pointing towards an open door.
Walter Hurrell was sitting up in bed, naked, leaning back against the headboard, with a duvet bunched at his waist, and a gun lying in his lap. He was staring at the doorway, with the same expression that had registered in his eyes in the instant before he was shot, neatly, just above his right eye.
Sixty-One
‘Don’t take this personally, Detective Inspector,’ DCC Mario McGuire murmured, solemnly, as they stood on the wide stone steps. ‘This isn’t me elbowing my way into your investigation; it’s me supporting you.’
‘I know that, sir,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘If you hadn’t said you were coming I’d have asked for you, or someone else senior who knows Edinburgh. I’m a Weegie cop; people like this are well above my pay grade.’
She looked up at the towering grey terraced mansion. ‘In Glasgow we wouldn’t call this a house; we’d call it a hotel.’
The black-painted front door swung open. A man stood, holding its handle, surveying them as if he was deciding whether to send them to the tradesman’s entrance. He was slim, age mid-fifties, Mann guessed, and perfectly groomed. He wore what McGuire recognised as the unofficial uniform of Her Majesty’s Counsel, black jacket, pinstripe trousers and a blue and white striped shirt.
‘Officers,’ he said. ‘Mr Higgins is ready for you. He is in the ballroom; if you’ll come this way.’
‘Are you Mr Higgins’ lawyer?’ McGuire asked as they climbed a wide flight of stairs, lit from a cupola above.
‘No, sir,’ the man replied without a flicker of a smile. ‘I am Robotham, the housekeeper.’ From his right, the deputy chief heard a snorting sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. ‘This residence,’ he continued, ‘takes considerable management, as you can imagine. Mr Higgins regards it as a national monument, because of its considerable history. In the nineteenth century it was the residence of two lords president of the Court of Session. Later, like many houses in Moray Place, it was put to commercial use, finally as the offices of an accountancy firm, before Mr Higgins rescued it and restored it to its original state.’
The DCC wondered whether that had included the small security camera that had observed their arrival, but decided not to ask.
The ballroom was on the first floor; it was huge, accessed by eight-foot-high double doors. Mr Robotham opened the one on the right and held it for them. ‘The police officers,’ he announced.
The space was huge; the room covered almost the full width of the house. The far wall was mostly windows, and there was a wide fireplace at either end with marble mantelpieces and mirrors above. There was a Persian rug on the floor; looking at it the DI suspected that its floor space was the equivalent of her entire house, and more.
For a brief moment, she thought they were alone, that a trick had been played, until she realised that McGuire was looking to his right, where two high-backed chairs were set in front of the hearth, in which a log fire burned. A small middle-aged man stood beside one of them, looking at them. Beyond him, with an elbow crooked against a corner of the mantelshelf, there was a taller figure, someone both officers knew well.