‘What about them?’
‘Did they leave their jobs soon after? Or maybe start buying flash watches and Italian suits?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve just heard that there was thirty or forty grand in that car.’
‘You think they stole it?’
Fox shrugged. ‘It’s a theory, and that means I may have to write it up.’
‘Look, write whatever the hell you want. I’ve told you what I found in the vaults.’
‘You’ve not told me their names.’
‘And I’m not going to.’
‘Are they still active?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Over by the bomb crater, the woman cleared her throat. Jackson took the hint. ‘You need to go,’ he told Fox.
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s the Chief Constable of Central Scotland, and right now I’m keeping her waiting.’
‘Didn’t recognise her without her uniform,’ Fox said. ‘I’ll let you get back to it, then.’
Jackson didn’t need a second invitation. He strode towards the circle of investigators and mumbled some sort of apology.
Fox took his time returning along the path. Another forensics team passed him, lugging heavy boxes of equipment. The TV vans had got their satellite dishes properly positioned. One reporter was doing a piece to camera. Fox recognised the face – he worked on the same show as John Elliot. Somehow Elliot himself, one-time dabbler in terrorism, was stuck doing pieces about restaurant menus.
‘No word from the authorities as yet,’ the reporter was telling the audience at home, ‘but a press conference will take place in an hour or so’s time…’
The sound recordist wasn’t happy. A dog was barking in the back of a nearby car. The dog’s owner was remonstrating that he was boxed in by the reporter’s own van.
‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ the cameraman complained, ‘and there’s still always something…’
A few cars had arrived after Fox, and had parked behind him. Locals, it looked like, curious to see what was going on. Fox manoeuvred past them and headed in the direction of the M90. His phone let him know he’d missed a call. He checked voicemail. It was Fiona McFadzean, asking him to ring her. But the signal was dropping, so Fox decided on a detour north and east along the A91 into Fife, heading for Glenrothes. Tulliallan Police College wasn’t far away at one point, and that got him thinking about Evelyn Mills again. There was a week-long course coming up – Bob McEwan had mentioned it in passing. Nobody in the office had shown interest, but Fox wondered if Mills might know about it. Three days and nights… back at the scene of the crime…
‘She’s married,’ he reminded himself out loud, then he switched the radio on, turning the music up, trying to drown out his own thoughts.
‘You shouldn’t have come all this way,’ McFadzean said when she opened the door to him. Paul was seated at his computer and offered a wave by way of greeting. Fox nodded back.
‘I was actually in the vicinity,’ he lied.
‘I’ve been hearing about Kippen – just gets grimmer and grimmer, doesn’t it?’
Fox made a non-committal sound. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
McFadzean gestured towards Paul, who twitched his head, meaning he wanted Fox to approach the computer.
‘Remember you asked about those revolvers? Specifically: provenance?’
‘Yes.’ Fox bent at the waist, the better to study the monitor. It was a paper trail. Paul had managed to split the screen in half, so one side showed information on the gun that had killed Alan Carter and the other the revolver found near Francis Vernal’s body.
‘There’s a connection,’ Paul stated. ‘Both weapons were reported “lost or mislaid” in June 1982.’
‘Stolen from an army base?’
‘Good guess, but not quite right. I’m amazed they were still using revolvers in the eighties, but apparently some officers liked them.’ Paul clicked the mouse again, and Fox read the details.
‘The Falklands?’
‘The Falklands,’ the young man confirmed. ‘Conflict kicked off that month. Lot of equipment was handed out but not handed back.’ There was list after list to confirm this. He kept clicking on the mouse, so fast Fox couldn’t keep up – but then that was the whole point.
‘So how did the guns end up here?’ Fox asked.
‘Servicemen probably smuggled them back,’ McFadzean joined in. ‘Either as keepsakes, or so they could sell them on.’
‘Definitely the latter in this case,’ Paul added. ‘A few other firearms from the conflict – pistols rather than revolvers – turned up on the streets of Britain in the mid-eighties.’ The police reports appeared on the screen. ‘London, Manchester, Nottingham…’
‘Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow,’ McFadzean added.
‘And Belfast,’ Paul stressed. ‘Mustn’t forget Belfast…’
‘We even caught one of them,’ McFadzean told Fox. The police photograph duly appeared on the screen.
‘Name was William Benchley,’ Paul said. ‘Operated out of Essex. Left the army after the campaign – even picked up his medal. But stolen weaponry became his business.’
‘Did he sell the revolvers?’
Paul shrugged and looked to his boss.
‘No idea,’ she confessed.
‘Where is he now?’ Fox was studying the photo of the shaven-headed, scowling Benchley.
‘Died in Barbados a few years back. Drowned in his swimming pool.’
‘Moved there after serving his sentence,’ Paul explained. ‘Bearing in mind his lifestyle, I’d say some of the arms money was waiting for him when he got out.’
‘Much good it did him,’ Fox said quietly, reading the news report of Benchley’s death.
‘Anyway,’ Paul cautioned, ‘we’ve no reason to suppose he sold those particular guns.’
‘But someone did.’
‘Someone did,’ the young man agreed. ‘The one found at the scene of the Vernal car smash – I’ve got nothing else for you on that.’
Fox took the hint. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Took a bit of tracking down…’ Paul paused. ‘The internet was no use – a lot of stuff in the Fife Constabulary vaults hasn’t been digitised.’
‘Paul had to actually spend time poring over something other than a screen.’
Paul stuck his tongue out in response to McFadzean’s sarcasm. Then he handed Fox a set of stapled photocopied sheets. ‘The revolver found next to Alan Carter had been handed in to police in October 1984. It was found in a hedge in Tayport.’
‘Near Dundee?’ Fox asked.
‘The Fife side of the Tay Bridge. Police at the time wondered if it might have been used in a robbery. There’d been a bookmaker in Dundee relieved of the week’s takings by a masked man toting a handgun. This was three days before the revolver was discovered.’
‘So the gun had gone from the Falklands to Dundee?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Could have ended up there after being passed along a chain of owners.’
‘Was the gunman ever caught?’
But Fox could see well enough from the printout that the case had never been solved. The profit from a week’s betting – just shy of nine hundred pounds. Would that have been enough to tempt the likes of the Dark Harvest Commando? It was hardly a bank heist…
‘Any of this useful?’ McFadzean asked as Fox continued reading.
‘I’m not sure,’ he confessed. Then he patted Paul on the shoulder. ‘But it’s bloody good work, all the same…’
Once home, Fox called Tony Kaye.
‘How’s the report going?’
‘We’re managing to make it look like it was put together by a pair of Einsteins.’
‘No change there, then. What are you up to tonight?’
‘Dinner with my good lady. Want to join us?’
‘Can’t spare the time, Tony.’
‘I keep forgetting about your busy social calendar.’ Kaye paused. ‘Well, the offer’s always there…’
‘Thanks, but I’m sorted. Any news from the kid?’
‘He’s headed back over to Fife. Been to the barber and everything.’
‘Cheryl Forrester again?’
‘He’s smitten.’
‘Warn him off, will you? We don’t know what titbits she might be collecting for Scholes and the others.’