Martin rose and put two strong hands on the man's shoulders, holding him down in his chair. 'Fuckn' bastards. Fuckn' bastards,' he mumbled.
'Gus, that is pure fantasy,' said the Head of CID. 'It never happened; none of it. Wendy wasn't abused in prison; she became depressed. She saw counsellors there; she told them that what you had got her into, all that Free Scotland nonsense, had ruined her life. She was put on medication, but she didn't take it; they found it afterwards, after she hanged herself with her sheets, leaving a letter to you blaming you for everything.'
Morrison writhed in his grip; trying to stand, but Martin held him down. 'Balls,' he snarled. 'Fuckn' bastards bent her mind.' The voice, rising again, grating. 'Wendy was a good wee soldier, a good wee Scottish soldier. She and I, we did it; others talked, others marched up and fuckn' down but we did it. And those fuckn' traitorous bastards watchin' us all the time, watchin' us, watchin' us! Chief fuckn' bastard Chief fuckn' Inspector Alec fuckn' Smith…'
Martin slapped him across the face, hard, to stop the flow of spit-flecked vitriol. 'How did you know that Smith?' he snapped. 'He was never named in court. He never interviewed you after your arrest. How did you know that man called Smith among the hundred?'
As the man's hysteria subsided, he released his grip and sat down, facing his subject across the table once more, watching the eyes as they cleared. 'He wasn't as clever as he thought,' Morrison said, evenly, lucid once more. 'They followed us, sure, him and Gavigan; only Gavigan wasn't too hot at it.' He smiled, boastfully. 'So we turned the tables, Wendy and I. We followed him; and he led us to his boss, and we followed him too. Found out where he lived, who he was, what schools his kids went to, everything.'
'You couldn't have been that smart. Smith caught you trying to blow up that pylon.'
This time the laugh was a pure animal snarl. 'Caught us? Caught us? Framed us! Framed us! We told the papers about Smith and Gavigan; sent an anonymous letter to the Sunday Post telling them what they were. Never published it. Next thing Smith and Gavigan picked us up, with a gun. Took us up Sutra, with the gun. Made us handle gelignite, with the gun. Made us stand beside this pylon and took photos as if they had been watching us. Then they took us to the police station and charged us.
'We never blew up any pylon, Wendy and me. We were crucified. Chief fuckn' Inspector bastard Smith hammered home the nails.'
Martin stared at the man, unblinking, in the long silence which followed. 'When did you see him again?' he asked at last. 'After you got out, I mean.'
Morrison's mood was fragile once more. 'In the Ford garage next to the depot,' he said, quietly. 'Saw him looking at a car. I was going off shift so I followed him again; out to North Berwick. Wee house there, on the beach.'
'And did you crucify him?'
'Crucify? Crucify?'
'DCI Smith was killed, Gus,' said Martin, quietly. 'He was murdered in his home last Friday evening. It's been all over the papers.'
'Don't read the papers. Hate the papers. The papers betrayed Wendy and me. Sold us to Chief fuckn' Inspector bastard Smith.'
'Did you kill him, Gus?'
The eyes flashed again; the creature back, swimming inside.
'No.' A mumble. 'But I wish I had. Fuckn' bastard. Fuckn' bastards you all.'
Martin gazed at him as he sat there, big shoulders hunched round. Then he stood and patted him on the arm, gently.
'Why didn't you tell the story in your defence at your trial?' he asked.
'Lawyer wouldn't believe me.'
'No,' the detective sighed. 'I don't suppose he would. I do, though. Wait here for a bit, Gus. We'll look after you.'
Signalling Pye to follow, he left the room. A uniformed constable stood outside. 'Get in there,' he ordered, 'and sit with him.'As the door closed, he led the way along the corridor to Brian Mackie's empty office.
'What are you going to do, sir?' his young assistant asked.
As Martin looked at him, Pye saw the anger burning in him. 'I'm going to get that poor bastard a solicitor, and then I'm going to have Kevin O'Malley talk to him.'
Who's Kevin O'Malley?'
'He's the best head doctor I know. Morrison needs his help.' 'D'you think he did kill DCI Smith, sir?' 'I don't know. If he did, Kevin will find out for us.' His eyes locked on to Pye. 'While he's doing that, I want you to find
Tommy Gavigan and bring him to me. Morrison might have been fantasising all that stuff about the gun and the frame-up; but it rang true to me.
'If it was, then there will be some crucifying done… and I've got the hammer and nails ready.'
29
'Yes, my name is still Bridget Smith, Sergeant. Alec and I were never divorced.' The widow was not dressed for the part; she wore light blue cotton slacks and a diaphanous, flowery top which showed more than a suggestion of a white Broderie Anglais bra. She was tall, with only a slight thickening at the waist, only a slight hint of a pot below, a strong firm chin and blonde hair, cut short; well cut too.
Edging thirty himself, Steele always found it difficult to assess the age of an older woman, but he guessed, from Alec Smith's age and from her reported twenty-something offspring, that she could not be far short of the fifty mark. Well-preserved fifty, though. Working at it; proud of it. Looking at her, he wondered what the late DCI Smith could have done to drive her away.
He glanced around the living room of the little house, a Wimpey semi-detached, 1970s vintage. It felt comfortable, lived-in, and looked as if she had made only a token effort to tidy up for his visit.
Mrs Smith laid a mug of coffee on a small table, one of a set, beside his chair. It was well used but looked like solid teak; she did not use a coaster, he noticed.
'I'm glad you could see me so quickly,' he began, as an icebreaker.
'Not a problem,' she replied, in a light, cultured Edinburgh accent, not a cut-glass Morningside job. 'I work from home. I run a little market-research business, working for advertising agencies mainly, but retail groups too, and sometimes public bodies; I have a project for LEEL at the moment. Occasionally we do face-to-face interviews, but mostly it's telephone work.
'Have you heard of LEEL?' she asked suddenly.
'Vaguely'
She laughed. 'That's what most respondents say. Maybe I can interview you after you've interviewed me. Ahh, but you're not a small businessman, are you?'
'No,' Steele grinned, put at ease by her style, 'I'm a large policeman.'
'And you're here to talk to me about another one. I thought the Chief Constable's visit was purely of the condolence variety; so I've been half-expecting someone else. What do you want to ask me? Whether I killed him or not?'
'I was assuming that you didn't; according to the Chief you and your partner were out with friends last Friday evening. We've checked that already.'
Bridget Smith raised her eyebrows. 'Did he indeed? His interview technique must be better than I thought. I don't even remember him asking me that, far less telling him.'
'That's how he got to be Chief Constable.' Steele took a sip from his mug. 'There are a few things about your husband, Mrs Smith, that we're still trying to get a grip of. Although he was a police officer for over thirty years, there's still a lot about him that we don't know. He was a very private man in the office — an asset, maybe, given the job he did…'
'He was a very private man at home too, Sergeant. What job did he do?'
'You mean he never talked to you about it?'