‘Fast work,’ Fox said, toasting her with his mug.
Then he got to work himself, finding as much of her curriculum vitae as he could, while failing to locate any historical photos of her. Nevertheless, he was fairly sure.
Very fairly sure.
In 1985 she’d been a recent graduate of the Scottish Police College at Tulliallan. Not Pears back then – she was yet to meet her husband and take his name.
Alison Watson, born in Fraserburgh in 1962. Not such a jump, really, from Alison Watson to Alice Watts. He reached for the photo in Professor Martin’s book, and the two matriculation snaps. There was the slightly jutting chin. It was evident in some of the online photos, too – at a film premiere, an awards dinner, a graduation ceremony, hand in hand with her husband. Stephen Pears glowed. Did the tan come from skiing or a salon? The hair was immaculately clipped, the teeth shiny, a chunky watch on one wrist. He was stocky, his face fattened by success. Twelve years since they’d first met, married for ten of those.
‘Quite the pair, Mr and Mrs Pears,’ Fox muttered to himself. But she was even better connected than that, because her brother Andrew was a Member of the Scottish Parliament. He was part of the SNP government: Andrew Watson, Minister for Justice.
Minister for Justice…
Fox pushed the computer aside and slumped back against the sofa, head arched towards the ceiling.
What the hell do I do with this? he asked himself.
And what exactly did it mean?
Eleven
34
‘Bloody hell, Foxy, did you get any sleep at all last night?’
‘Not much,’ Fox admitted, as Kaye dragged out a chair and sat down across from him. It was just after nine in the morning, and the Police HQ cafeteria was doing a roaring trade in breakfast rolls and frothy cappuccinos. Fox had a half-drunk cup of tea in front of him, alongside an apple he had yet to start. Kaye’s tray held a mug of coffee and a Tunnock’s caramel wafer.
‘Good dinner last night?’ Fox asked.
‘Cost enough,’ Kaye grumbled. ‘Did you go out like I told you to?’
Fox nodded slowly.
‘Whatever film you saw,’ Kaye commented, ‘looks like it was downer enough for both of us.’ He took a slurp of coffee, leaving a white milky mark on his top lip, and peeled the wrapper from the biscuit.
Fox started at the beginning – more or less. First sighting of Alison Pears in the flesh, then on TV. And then the connection and his findings and theories.
‘Her photo’s on page one of Metro today,’ Kaye said, picking bits of caramel from between his teeth. ‘Three home-grown terror suspects in custody.’
‘Her brother was on the box this morning too,’ Fox added. He had watched from his sofa, having spent much of the night there, some of it busy at the laptop. Andrew Watson: four years younger than his sister; short red hair, steel-framed glasses, a pudgy face with some traces of acne. Peely-wally, Mitch Fox would have said.
‘He’s only Justice Minister because everyone before him either screwed up or fell out with the “Great Chieftain”.’ By which, Fox knew, Tony Kaye meant the First Minister.
‘Handy to have him on your side, though, if you’re a Chief Constable…’
Kaye managed a rueful smile. ‘You’re really going to stand up and accuse her of being a terrorist?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘A spy.’
Kaye stared at him. ‘A spy?’ he repeated.
‘Infiltrating Dark Harvest Commando and God knows who else.’
‘And shagging Francis Vernal into the bargain?’ Kaye took a deep breath. ‘If that ever got out…’
‘Wouldn’t do her reputation any good,’ Fox confirmed.
‘So you’ll be having a quiet word with her?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Rather you than me. She’s suddenly the face of equality in the police – glass ceiling shattered; nobody’s going to want that to change.’
‘No,’ Fox agreed.
‘Bloody hell – look what the cat dragged in!’ Kaye smiled as Joe Naysmith trudged his way towards the table, nothing in his hand but a can of some super-caffeinated energy drink. Naysmith’s eyes were bleary, and he had skipped a shave.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he commented, sitting down next to Kaye.
‘She’s too much woman for you, young Joseph,’ Kaye persisted. ‘Maybe I should take her in hand.’
Naysmith gulped at his drink, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them, he looked from Kaye to Fox and then back again. ‘Something I should know?’ he asked.
Fox gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head in Tony Kaye’s direction.
‘Man talk, Joe,’ Kaye went on to explain. ‘Nothing for you to worry your little head about.’
‘How’s DC Forrester?’ Fox asked.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Any word on Paul Carter?’
Naysmith thought for a second, then nodded. ‘Another witness,’ he decided to confide. ‘Saw a man walking along the high street some time after midnight. A man with shoes that squelched.’
Fox frowned. ‘Not Carter?’
‘This guy was bald. Shaved head, anyway. But he’d definitely been in some water, according to the witness. Worried look on his face. Might have had a tattoo on his neck.’ Naysmith paused, eyes on Kaye. ‘The side of his neck.’
‘Who is it?’ Fox asked.
Kaye rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Sounds like someone I know,’ he conceded.
‘Who, though?’
‘Tosh Garioch,’ Kaye answered. ‘Billie’s boyfriend.’
Naysmith was nodding. ‘Might not be, of course – but it fits the description you gave me after you interviewed him.’
‘Garioch’s the doorman?’ Fox checked. ‘The one who worked for Alan Carter’s firm?’
‘That’s him,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘Big tattoo of a thistle creeping up his neck. Shaved head. Criminal record.’ He turned his attention back to Naysmith. ‘Did you let on to Forrester?’
Naysmith shook his head. Kaye and Fox shared a look.
‘Decisions, decisions,’ Kaye commented. ‘But I like our choices better than yours, Foxy…’
Stirling.
There were armed officers and security checks outside Central Scotland Police Force HQ, keeping the media at bay and on the lookout for terrorist sympathisers and demonstrators.
Inside the main building, the Alert Status had been raised to CRITICAL. In all his years as an officer, Fox had never seen that before. After CRITICAL, there was nowhere else to go.
Fox had been seated in reception for over half an hour. Around him there was a real buzz of anticipation. He got the distinct feeling this wasn’t normally the case. Somewhere in the vicinity, the three suspects were being questioned. Outside, the TV broadcast vans had set up camp on the main road. Print journalists clustered in each other’s cars. Foragers had been sent out, returning with pies and bridies, hot drinks and crisps. On his way in, Fox had spotted the news reporter from the previous day. He looked exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure and was rubbing his hands together to keep warm, an as-yet-unneeded earpiece draped over one shoulder. A couple of uniformed officers in visored riot helmets, body armour strapped across their chests, had been placed at the entrance to the car park and were being filmed by cameramen who lacked anything more interesting to fill the time.
Fox’s request to the woman behind the reception desk had been clear and succinct. ‘Need a word with the Chief Constable. My name’s Fox. Professional Standards Unit, Lothian and Borders Police.’ The woman had studied his warrant card.