‘Unused bullets in the other chambers,’ Paul added. ‘They had to be a couple of decades old.’
‘From the fibres we found, it had probably been stored in a piece of cloth, just plain white cotton.’
‘So they should be searching the cottage for that cloth,’ Fox said.
‘They have done – at our request.’
‘Nothing so far,’ Paul interrupted.
‘Nothing so far,’ McFadzean confirmed.
Fox blew air from his cheeks. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ she confided. ‘Paul’s theory is that the gun had been taken to the cottage, used to kill the victim and then his prints pressed to it in a half-baked attempt to make it look like suicide.’ She paused.
‘But?’ Fox prompted.
‘But… you’ve just given us reason to believe the gun may have been in the cottage all along.’
‘Alan Carter might have had cause to be fearful,’ Fox stated. ‘Maybe he kept the revolver close by.’
‘That doesn’t work,’ Paul said, rising from his chair and pouring himself more coffee. ‘Victim was seated at the table. From the spray pattern, we know that’s where he was when he was shot. If someone’s taken your gun from you and is pointing it at you…’
‘You’re not likely to stay seated with your back to them,’ Fox agreed. He thought for a moment. ‘What if someone has the gun pointed at you and tells you to sit down? They want something from you, something that’s already on the table?’
Paul considered this and nodded slowly. ‘You find it for them, and they then shoot you?’
‘Or you refuse, and they shoot you anyway,’ McFadzean added. The room was silent for a moment.
‘So,’ Fox asked, ‘was the revolver there all along, or did someone bring it with them?’
‘I know CID are looking at the victim’s nephew,’ McFadzean commented. ‘He would have known the cottage, and might have known where the revolver was kept.’
‘The two men weren’t exactly close,’ Fox argued. ‘If there was a gun on the premises, Carter kept it secret even from his oldest and closest friend. And what about the missing cloth?’
‘Killer took it with him,’ Paul suggested.
‘If there was a killer,’ McFadzean cautioned.
‘If there was a killer,’ her assistant agreed. Then he turned towards Fox. ‘One other thing… Fiona’s quite right when she says not many guns go astray – these days, I’d say none at all.’
‘But back then?’ Fox prompted.
‘A few of the guns that turned up in police custody began life with the army. Back in the seventies, a lot of stuff – explosives included – went AWOL from barracks up and down the land, most of it destined for the Troubles.’
‘Northern Ireland?’
‘The paramilitaries needed weapons. They were being stolen to order.’
‘What’s your point?’
Paul shrugged. ‘That revolver could have been destined for Belfast.’
‘Ulster wasn’t the only place with terrorists,’ Fox informed him. ‘We had our fair share on the mainland, too.’ He was thinking of the Scottish National Liberation Army and letter bombs in Downing Street, the Dark Harvest Commando with their anthrax spores…
And their possible paymaster, Francis Vernal.
‘You’ve got a point,’ Paul said. He went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and started searching. McFadzean gave Fox an indulgent smile. He nodded his agreement: Paul was good at his job. A minute later, he’d found the relevant file and was handing a photograph to Fox. It showed a desk in a police station. Laid out for the media’s attention was an array of firearms. The dozen or so rifles were tagged; the pistols, revolvers and ammunition were in sealed evidence bags. Fox read the label on the back – ‘1980, Scottish Republican Socialist League trial’. He nodded at Paul.
‘Another splinter group to add to the list,’ he commented. ‘Some of these would have come from the army?’
‘From “break-ins” at barracks.’
Fox looked at him. ‘Inside jobs?’
‘All it takes is a few sympathisers, a blind eye turned, a key handed over…’
‘I’m seeing shotgun cartridges but no shotguns,’ Fox said, handing the photograph to McFadzean.
‘Par for the course,’ she explained. ‘No one’s saying these groups had high IQs.’
‘Not even the leadership?’
‘We caught them, didn’t we?’ She brandished the photo as proof.
While Paul placed the photograph back in its file, Fox rubbed at his jaw with the palm of his hand.
‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Fire away, if you’ll pardon the expression.’
He gave her a smile. ‘Do you have a theory about these explosions?’
McFadzean gestured towards Paul’s computer. ‘Paul’s been doing a bit of work on that. Plastic containers filled with bits of metal – screws, washers, stuff you can find in any DIY store. Detonation sent the whole lot flying a distance of thirty metres.’
‘Probably not kids, then?’
‘Not unless they’ve been reading The Anarchist Cookbook,’ Paul said.
‘They’ve not perfected it yet, though,’ McFadzean added, folding her arms.
‘But they’re getting better,’ her colleague cautioned.
McFadzean nodded her agreement, looking pensive.
‘They’re getting better,’ she said.
‘And once they’re satisfied?’ Fox asked.
‘Then it won’t be trees they’ll be targeting,’ McFadzean said.
Fox thought long and hard about a detour to Kirkcaldy, maybe a snack at the Pancake Place with Kaye and Naysmith, but weighed up the risks and decided against it. Instead he drove back to Edinburgh, stopping for petrol and a burger. He had called ahead, but Charles Mangold was busy until two. At half past one, Fox was parked outside the New Town headquarters of Mangold Bain. The offices were on the ground floor of a steep-sloping Georgian terrace, looking directly on to Queen Street Gardens. The receptionist smiled and asked him to take a seat. There was a copy of the Financial Times on the coffee table, along with the latest property guides and a golfing magazine.
When a taxi drew up outside, Fox got to his feet and watched Mangold get out. His face was reddened by alcohol. As he came inside, he spotted Fox immediately and offered his hand.
‘Good weekend, Inspector?’
‘I did a lot of reading.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Actually, a bit of a page-turner.’
Mangold seemed satisfied by this answer. ‘Coffee, please, Marianne – good and strong,’ he barked to the receptionist. Fox shook his head to let her know he wouldn’t be needing any. Mangold was already leading the way through the door to the right of reception. They entered what would have been the hallway of a private house at one time. There was an unused fireplace, and a grand staircase leading up. Another door at the foot of the stairs took them into what Fox guessed would have been a sitting room. Fireplace with antique mirror above it; intricate cornicing and ceiling rose. Mangold switched on some lights.
‘Marianne said it was urgent,’ he began, resting his hand against an electric radiator, then stooping to turn it on. ‘Should warm the place up,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘Good lunch?’ Fox inquired. ‘New Club, was it?’
‘Ondine,’ Mangold corrected him.
‘The other night… you were waiting for guests…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Colin Cardonald happen to be one of them?’
Mangold shook his head. ‘Though I did spot him in the club that evening – dozing in his chair with the crossword half-finished.’ He checked his watch. ‘Did Marianne say?’
‘She told me I could only have fifteen minutes.’ Fox followed Mangold’s lead and seated himself at the polished oval table. ‘But that only holds if I’m working for you – which I’m not. I’m a police officer and this is a police matter, which means I take as long as I need.’
There was a knock and the coffee arrived, along with a bottle of water and two glasses. The receptionist asked Mangold if he wanted her to pour.
‘Yes please, Marianne.’
They waited until she’d gone, closing the door behind her. Mangold was gulping at the coffee, eyes closed.