‘Willis, is that the name?’
‘Was the name,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Willis and the researcher were friends… colleagues…’
‘I still don’t see why any of this would concern you.’
‘Or you, come to that,’ Jackson countered. ‘Who was Alan Carter working for?’
‘What makes you think he was working for anyone?’
‘The lawyer died a quarter of a century back – I’m guessing something, or more likely someone, piqued his interest.’
‘What if they did?’
Jackson took another sip of tea and shifted his gaze to the world outside the windows. ‘Those outer limits I was talking about… plenty of conspiracy theorists seem to think the security services might have had a hand in Francis Vernal’s demise.’
‘You’re here to tell me they’re wrong?’
‘The game’s changed these days, Inspector. Lots of new ways to spread gossip and disinformation. A good number of people out there have a vested interest in seeing the security services tripped up and tarred.’ He glanced back towards Fox. ‘It would reassure me if I knew who had ordered the investigation into Vernal’s death.’
‘Nobody with a grudge against your sort,’ Fox stated.
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘A friend of the widow. He wants her to have a sense of closure before she dies.’
‘No other motive?’
Fox visualised the red-faced, rotund lawyer. ‘No other motive,’ he said.
Jackson gave a thoughtful pout. ‘Thank you for that, Inspector.’ He seemed to be considering what to say next.
‘You went digging?’ Fox prompted him.
Jackson nodded slowly.
‘And you found something?’
‘Something and nothing. Friend Vernal had been on our radar for some time.’
‘Special Branch?’
‘Sort of.’
‘MI5?’
Jackson offered a twitch of the mouth. ‘He’d been under surveillance.’
‘The night he died?’
‘Yes.’
‘He had a tail on him? Could that be why he was speeding?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But there were…’ Fox sought the right word. ‘There were agents? Tracking his car?’
Jackson nodded, but said nothing.
‘But that means when he crashed…’ Fox’s eyes were boring into Jackson’s, ‘there were people there… within seconds…’
‘Nobody shot him, though. They checked he was breathing, then got the hell out of there.’
‘To phone for an ambulance?’
Jackson shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’
‘Why?’
‘Couldn’t risk it. Any involvement, the operation would have been jeopardised.’
‘They just left him there?’
‘Breathing. Not looking too bad at all.’
‘This is all in the files?’
‘Reading between the lines.’
Fox thought for a moment. ‘Reading between the lines, was he also assassinated?’
‘No.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘They were watchers – not an armed detail.’
‘And no orders to kill him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘But they did break into his house, his office…?’
Jackson looked ready to concede as much. ‘There were rogue elements on both sides back then, Inspector. Let’s remember that Vernal’s friends were nothing short of terrorists. Bombs, guns and bank raids – those were his creed.’ He paused. ‘I’m telling you this because we’re on the same side, you and me…’
Fox stared at him. ‘A car crash, an injured victim – and they just walked away?’ Jackson didn’t respond to this. ‘What?’ Fox persisted.
‘They took a quick look first.’
‘Rifled the car, you mean?’ Fox saw he was right. ‘Bloody hell… There was stuff missing: his cigarettes, a lucky fifty-pound note…’
‘They were questioned about that. They didn’t take anything.’
‘Did they turn up a revolver?’ Fox asked eventually.
‘No. That was only found later.’
‘Yes, at some distance from the car.’ Fox thought for a moment ‘And you got all this from the files?’
Jackson nodded.
Fox was wondering about the DHC funds, secreted somewhere in Vernal’s car… The agents hadn’t found the cash, had they?
There was silence at the table for a few moments. ‘Vernal and his friends wanted to bring us to our knees,’ Jackson stated quietly.
‘Who killed him?’ Fox asked.
‘We don’t know.’
‘Can I talk to the men who tailed him?’
‘No.’
‘So much for being on the same side.’
‘What do you think they could add?’
‘Hard to say without speaking to them.’
Jackson leaned back in his chair. ‘Do I get the name of the man who employed Alan Carter?’
‘Not from me you don’t.’
‘Many of these men went unpunished, Inspector. I dare say they’re still out there, warmed by their past antics.’ He paused. ‘They had plenty of help at the time, too…’
Fox wondered if Gavin Willis, supplier of guns, had been on the security service’s ‘radar’. There was no way to ask Jackson without giving quite a lot away, so Fox concentrated on the beverage in front of him.
Jackson’s phone was switched to silent mode. It was vibrating as he lifted it from his pocket and studied the screen.
‘I have to take this,’ he said, rising from the table. He walked towards the entrance to the cafeteria, his back to Fox. Fox watched the man’s head dip as he listened to whatever the caller was telling him. His face looked grim as he ended the call and turned back towards Fox.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
‘Peebles?’ Fox guessed.
Jackson shook his head. ‘How long will it take me to drive to Stirling?’
‘This time of day… maybe an hour, a bit less if you’re lucky.’
‘Another explosion,’ Jackson explained. His phone was vibrating again. ‘I really have to go.’
He started walking away, answering the call.
‘Mad buggers with bombs,’ Fox muttered to himself. Why did there seem no end to them? His own phone started to ring. When he answered and the caller identified herself, he knew he had a journey of his own to make.
32
Organising this visit had taken several days and more than a few phone calls, but now Fox was driving through the gates of Carstairs State Hospital. Carstairs to many was a stop on the night train between London and Edinburgh. There wasn’t much of anything there – the railway station; a village with a shop; and not far away, the home to many of Scotland’s most violent and least predictable prisoners. He parked in a ring-fenced area, was buzzed through a gate, and entered the main building. A few other visitors had arrived at the same time as him. They looked inured to the security procedures. Palms were checked by a machine. It would show if the visitor had been in contact with drugs in the recent past. A positive reading meant no visit that day. Bags were checked, and there seemed to be a random sampling of mobile phones, a swab identifying traces of illicit substances. The queue shuffled forward. The faces were docile, if strained. One woman had brought her young daughter. The kid clung to her mother and sucked on a dummy she was probably a year or two too old for.
‘Inspector?’ A woman was pushing past the queue. She shook Fox’s hand and introduced herself as Gretchen Hughes. ‘It’s Dutch,’ she explained, as if to intercept a question she was always being asked.
‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ Fox said.
‘No problem.’ She went to a window and retrieved an ID badge for him. Fox reckoned the drill would be the same as at any prison, so handed over his phone at the same time.
‘Donald doesn’t get many visitors,’ Hughes was telling him.
‘He gets some, though?’
‘Not in the past year.’
‘And before that?’
She studied him. She had short blonde hair and pale-blue eyes. There was a plain gold band on her wedding finger, indicating the existence of a Mr Hughes.
‘That sort of information probably requires a formal request.’
‘Probably,’ Fox agreed as she led him past the queue. All he had asked for was a meeting with Donald MacIver. ‘But would Donald tell me?’