A few days later, the Higgins family and Hurrell attended Callum Sullivan’s celebration in North Berwick, where they crossed paths with Dean Francey.
Five days after that, Jock Hodgson was tortured and murdered in his home.
Two weeks and three days later, Hector Mackail was knocked down and killed by Dean Francey, driving his father’s van.
Six weeks on, Grete Regal was attacked and her daughter Zena abducted, by Dean Francey, only for the idiot to screw up by colliding with me in the Fort Kinnaird car park.
Hours later he was silenced, along with the unfortunate Anna Harmony, who should have stuck to pole-dancing.
Two days later, Hodgson’s body was discovered.
Finally the trail led to Walter Hurrell; but not before he shot himself. The gunshot residue test had proved conclusively that he had fired the pistol found on the bed.
‘Let’s not kid ourselves here,’ I said, after Sammy had finished. ‘Despite Eden Higgins’ protests, we’re all asking ourselves, me included, whether Hurrell was acting alone, or on his orders.’
I paused; five people were looking at me. ‘The answer?’ I continued. ‘Truthfully, I don’t know. He might have; he did start the ball rolling by bankrupting Mackail, because he refused to be bought out.
‘But it doesn’t matter a damn, as all of you must realise. Suppose Eden was behind it all, you will never prove it. This gathering is about finalising a report to the Crown Office, end of story.’
‘What’s this jewel theft doing in the timeline, Bob?’ Mario asked.
‘Maybe nothing,’ I replied. ‘But . . . Francey was paid five grand, probably to kill Mackail, and he’d have been getting more for snatching the child. That wasn’t going to be done by bank transfer. It’s possible that Hurrell opened that hotel safe during the night and took the jewels . . . pretty easy since he’d seen the combination . . . then flogged them to raise some black cash, knowing that the loss to Rachel would actually be a hit on the Edinburgh Co-operative insurance company.’
‘Makes sense,’ he admitted. ‘But here’s another question. Why would Higgins hire you to find his boat if he knew that Hurrell was in the process of killing off the people who stole it?’
‘He didn’t hire me to do that, not really,’ I told him. ‘He hired me to review the police investigation and to cover any bases that Inspector McGarry hadn’t, so that he could compel his marine insurer to settle for the full amount of the loss. And suppose he did know, when he and I met he had no idea that Zena Gates had been found dead or that you were on to Dean Francey and his girlfriend.’
I looked beyond Mario, at Provan. ‘What do you think, Dan?’ I asked.
The sage frowned. ‘Ask me again when they’ve compared that bullet wi’ the others.’
I nodded. ‘It’ll match,’ I said.
Lottie Mann spoke up. ‘Come on, Mr Skinner, what do you really believe? I can’t take “It doesn’t matter”, not from you. Did Higgins order everything, or was Hurrell acting on his own, without any instruction?’
‘How often do I have to say it?’ I retorted. ‘There’s no evidence to implicate anyone but Hurrell. That’s what I believe: it’s what I know.’
‘Then it’s done,’ she murmured, ‘because we can tie him to everything, but nobody else. In his flat, we found Hodgson’s laptop, and a couple of silver cups that were on the stolen property list from the Wemyss Bay break-in. We also found seventy grand in cash, old notes. DCI Pye says they’re similar to the money he found in Francey’s place.’
Haddock leaned forward. ‘Now that we know what we’re looking for,’ he volunteered, ‘we’ve been able to match a couple of partial prints on Dino’s stash to Hurrell.’
‘There’s something else,’ I confessed. ‘It’s not in the folder because my source can’t be named, but it’s a fact, nonetheless. Hurrell was kicked out of the Special Boat Service for being trigger-happy.’
‘That cracks it,’ Mario declared. ‘He planned it, he funded it and he paid for it. I’m calling it a result.’ He turned in his chair and looked me in the eye. ‘Are we agreed on that?’
I sighed as I picked up my folder and opened it. In fact that outcome was deeply unsatisfactory to me: Walter Hurrell had been other ranks, not an officer. He obeyed orders; he didn’t give them.
I flipped through the pages, letting each one fall on the one before, until notes gave way to photographs and they began to turn over less smoothly. Finally, they stopped, at a print I hadn’t seen before, and yet one that was strangely familiar.
‘Fuck!’ I whispered.
Then I slammed the folder back on the conference table.
‘No, Mario,’ I said, ‘we’re not.’ I pointed at the four detectives. ‘You lot,’ I ordered forgetting my civilian status, ‘get back to Hurrell’s place, get down on your hands and knees and start looking.’
‘Looking for what?’ Haddock exclaimed.
‘Another bullet hole,’ I told him. ‘I’d join you,’ I added, ‘but I’m taking my other half to dinner.’
Sixty-Three
No, I hadn’t said anything about Gates being back from his mission. At that moment it wasn’t relevant, and there was a further possibility holding me back; if I’d told Mario that the Ministry of Defence had banned ScotServe from its premises, it might have triggered a pissing contest that would have got in the way of progress.
Sarah and I made it to La Potiniere. The Hurrell post-mortem had been uncomplicated, so routine that she even had time to write up her report. She’d printed a copy for me, but absolutely forbade me from reading it over the dinner table.
Next morning, I had Saturday breakfast with the family, light, to preserve the glow of a superb meal the night before, read the online papers, and then headed west. For company I chose an album by John Legend, because it matched my mood; contemplative.
I had switched off my phone the night before, and I left it that way. I didn’t want to be disturbed by feedback from the search of Hurrell’s flat . . . not least because I knew what they’d have found there. I didn’t want to be interrupted by a call from Sir Andrew Martin, who had left a testy message with Trish while Sarah and I were at the restaurant, asking, nay, demanding, that I phone him. I had a serious day ahead of me and I didn’t want to be diverted by anything, friend or foe.
As I drove, I found myself thinking about fatherhood. I’d left home feeling guilty about missing any part of a termtime weekend with my children, but what I was going to do could not be put off. I was going to see a father, and I was going to give him the worst news he’d ever had. I couldn’t imagine myself in his shoes.
Being a parent is maybe the only thing in my life that I believe I’ve done well. When I turned fifty, Alex gave me a ‘World’s best Dad’ mug, among my presents. Inside it was a handwritten note that said simply, ‘I really mean that, Love A.’
I’ve never raised my voice to any of my children, far less raised a hand, because I’ve never had to. Since I’ve never had to, logic suggests someone must have been doing something right. With Alex, there was only me for most of the time.
Looking back on my life, the years I spent bringing her up, as a single parent, were huge. Sometimes it wasn’t easy . . . the first task I ever gave Mario McGuire as a young PC was looking after her, when I’d had no choice but to take her to a crime scene . . . but I believe that giving her a solid platform on which to build her success has been my greatest achievement, so far. I’m determined to match it with all the others, even Ignacio, although I’m coming very late to the game with him. As for Sarah’s bombshell . . . a name she will carry until she puts in an appearance . . . I will be over seventy by the time she’s ready for her maiden solo flight.
David Gates and Grete Regal weren’t going to have the pleasure of those years, with their little Zena. They were going to have to live with her death, if they could.
John Legend had become Mary Coughlan by the time I cleared the village named Rhu and started heading up the Gareloch. I was close to Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, a lumpy title universally changed to ‘Faslane’ in popular usage, but there was one call I wanted to make on the way.