‘So could you, Malcolm,’ he said to himself. Pay a home help to do a lunchtime meal and a bit of cleaning. It would be manageable. Just about manageable. Not really, though. No, Fox couldn’t imagine it. He was too set in his ways, liked things just so. It wouldn’t work…
It was almost a relief when his phone rang. He answered: it was Mills.
‘Why a text rather than calling me yourself?’ she immediately asked. ‘Are you cheap or what?’
‘I just thought…’ He paused for a second. ‘Doesn’t it look suspicious, me phoning you of an evening?’
She snorted. ‘I get calls all the time – Freddie’s used to it.’ Freddie: her husband, presumably. ‘A mysterious text, on the other hand…’
‘I should have thought of that.’
‘Anyway, I’m here now, so what can I do for you?’
‘Wondered how the surveillance is going.’
‘Nothing to report.’ She paused. ‘Who do I report to anyway?’
‘You’ve heard, then?’
‘DI Cash can be like that.’
‘You know him?’
‘By reputation.’
‘Tell me he’s on your radar.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘He’s never crossed the line, Malcolm – not yet, at any rate.’
‘Pity.’ Fox rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘To answer your question, I suppose Tony Kaye is your contact now. Let me give you his number.’ He did so, then asked if it was okay to give Kaye her name and number.
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘How’s the Alan Carter inquiry shaping up?’
‘Slow going. Kirkcaldy hasn’t exactly thrown a welcome party.’
‘Evelyn… I need to ask you another favour.’
‘You want me to put in a word? See if they’ll let you back?’
‘Not that, no. But I’m interested in the gun.’
‘Oh?’
‘So I’m wondering if I can talk to someone about it.’
‘And you want me to arrange it? You don’t ask much, do you, Malcolm?’
‘I’m sorry. A name and maybe a contact number – that’s all.’
‘And what do I get in return?’ She sounded almost coquettish. Fox stared at the paperwork in front of him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just my little joke.’ She laughed again. ‘You needn’t sound so scared.’
‘It’s not that, Evelyn.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you really have that bad a time at Tulliallan?’
‘I had a great time at Tulliallan.’
‘Mmm, I wish I could remember more of it.’ She paused, as if waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she said she would text him if she got anywhere with the gun.
‘Thanks again.’
‘Can you tell me why you’re so interested in it, though?’
‘Not really, no.’ He paused. ‘It might be nothing.’
‘Need to let that brain of yours ease off. I can hear it working from here. Take the weekend off, Inspector. Let your hair down.’
‘You’re probably right.’ He managed a smile. ‘Good night, Evelyn.’
‘Sweet dreams, Malcolm. Do you still snore…?’
His mouth was hanging open, wondering how to answer, but she had already ended the call.
Six
20
‘It’s not the same gun, I promise you that.’
Her name was Fiona McFadzean and she was, as Mills’s text had put it, ‘Fife’s ballistics person’. She was based at the Constabulary HQ in Glenrothes. It had taken Fox a while to find the place: too many roundabouts and a shortage of signposts. McFadzean didn’t work in the main building. Fox had been directed to a squat brick structure behind the petrol pumps. A uniformed officer was filling the tank of his squad car.
‘Aye, that’s Fiona’s lair,’ he assured Fox.
McFadzean had to come and unlock the door for him. She wasn’t wearing a white coat and seemed quite happy in her windowless space. Against one wall stood an array of building materials, from brick to wood, pockmarked with bullet holes. A glass-fronted cubicle contained a white-painted wall, speckled pink. McFadzean had explained to Fox that they used it to confirm blood spray from a gunshot.
‘And what exactly is it that you shoot?’ Fox asked.
‘Anything from watermelons to pigs’ heads. My uncle’s a butcher, which is handy.’
She was a young, vibrant woman, and she took him on a quick tour of her domain. An assistant sat at a computer. She introduced him as Paul, and he waved a greeting without looking up from the screen.
‘Much gun crime in Fife?’ Fox asked.
‘Not really. We were set up as a kind of experiment. Carpet’s always about to be pulled from under us – budgets getting squeezed, et cetera.’
McFadzean had no desk as such. She seemed content to perch on a stool at a narrow counter which ran the length of one wall. There was a coffee pot, and she poured for both of them, while Fox tried to make himself comfortable on the spare stool, before deciding to stand instead.
‘Thanks again for seeing me,’ he said.
She nodded her head once and lifted the mug to her lips, cupping it in both hands.
‘How can you be so sure about the guns?’ Fox then asked. The coffee was too bitter, but he took another sip anyway, so as not to give offence.
‘Serial numbers for a start,’ she said. ‘Paul had some free time last year, so he computerised all the old records.’ She showed Fox the printout. ‘This is the gun Francis Vernal used. Four-inch barrel rather than six-inch. Same-calibre bullet, but six chambers rather than five.’ A second printed sheet was passed to Fox. ‘The revolver used to kill Mr Carter…’
Fox studied the details. ‘Different gun,’ he agreed. ‘It says here the gun from the Vernal shooting was destroyed.’
She nodded. ‘Happens to all the weapons we confiscate.’ She handed him a third sheet. It was a detailed list of weapons from Fife and Tayside Constabularies sent to be melted down. There weren’t many. The revolver found on Alan Carter’s table should have been destroyed in October 1984. The one found near Vernal’s car had suffered the same fate a year later.
‘Have you got a history for both guns?’ Fox asked.
‘We can do only so much,’ McFadzean apologised, blowing across the surface of her coffee.
‘Be in a file somewhere,’ Paul called out. ‘Probably at the National Ballistics Lab in Glasgow. Buried deep in the archives.’
‘So you don’t know where they came from in the first place?’
McFadzean shook her head.
‘The revolver found in Alan Carter’s cottage… how do you think it got there?’
‘Somewhere between the lock-up and the furnace, it took a walk.’
Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Has that happened before?’
‘Guidelines are pretty strict – lots of checks and balances.’
‘Not a regular occurrence, then?’ Fox studied the sheets again. ‘Someone pocketed it,’ he guessed.
‘Seems likely. I mean, it could have been dropped or mislaid…’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Okay, that’s not so likely,’ she admitted.
‘Do we know who was on the detail? Whose job it was to dispose of the weapons?’
‘Over the page,’ she said, motioning for him to flip to the final sheet.
‘Ah,’ he said, because there was a name there he recognised.
Detective Inspector Gavin Willis.
‘Yes?’ McFadzean prompted.
Fox tapped a finger against the paper. ‘DI Willis,’ he explained. ‘Alan Carter worked under him. Bought his house when Willis died.’
‘Might explain it,’ Paul said, swivelling round in his chair to face them. ‘Gun was in the house. Carter found it and kept it…’
‘Making it more likely that he took his own life,’ McFadzean added.
‘Or at least that the revolver was lying around for someone else to use,’ Fox argued. ‘Wasn’t it you who noticed the fingerprints weren’t right?’
She nodded. ‘First thing we do,’ she explained, ‘is check any firearm for trace evidence. After that we match the gun to the bullet, just to be sure. And then we search for provenance.’
‘It hadn’t been fired in a while,’ Paul continued. ‘Hadn’t been looked after.’
‘Rust,’ McFadzean explained. ‘And a lack of oil.’