‘Not really. I mean, they weren’t interested in talking to me. Couldn’t get me off the phone quick enough.’
‘What about the airline?’
‘Same story as before. His name’s not on the list and there’s nothing more they can tell me.’
‘That’s not surprising.’
‘I don’t know what else to do.’
She sounded on the verge of tears.
‘We’ve called some people too,’ Cahill said.
‘What did you find out?’ She sounded more hopeful.
‘Nothing concrete.’
‘Oh…’
‘But, I mean, it’s what they didn’t say that’s interesting.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I called the airline helpline. You know, the one they’re showing on the TV? I pretended to be Tim’s brother and said that I thought he was on the plane. Then the airline guy put me on hold for five minutes and someone else came back on the line in his place.’
‘Who was it?’
‘He didn’t say, except that he was with a law enforcement agency. And it wasn’t the police.’
‘Then who?’
‘I figure it’s probably the FBI.’
‘What is Tim mixed up in?’
‘I don’t know. And I also called our old boss at the Service, Scott Boston. Do you know him?’
She was quiet for a moment.
‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘He’s the one who fired Tim.’
‘Well, I don’t know what’s going on over there, but he sounded shocked that Tim was supposed to be on a flight heading for Washington. Hung up on me real fast.’
Melanie sighed.
‘What the hell is going on?’ She was angry now. ‘Why won’t anyone tell me what happened to my husband?’
Her voice broke into a choked sob. Cahill’s mouth went tight, his lips forming a narrow line.
‘We haven’t exhausted our lines of inquiry yet,’ he told her. ‘Logan’s a lawyer and he knows someone in Homeland Security.’
‘Are you going to call?’
‘Yes,’ Logan said. ‘As soon as the office in New York opens.’
‘I want to go to Denver,’ Melanie said.
‘Best if you don’t,’ Hardy said. ‘You’ll end up stuck in a room for hours and they still won’t tell you anything.’
‘Stay by the phone,’ Logan said. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve spoken to my contact.’
A doorbell sounded behind Melanie.
‘I think that’s my son. Call me as soon as you can.’
‘We will,’ Cahill said, ending the call.
He turned to Hardy and Logan, telling them to reconvene in the War Room this afternoon to call Homeland Security.
‘Someone better start talking,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll be going over there myself to raise hell.’
7
Rebecca Irvine’s phone sounded as she got in the car outside Ellie’s school, waving to Ellie as she disappeared into a crowd of her friends. Her son was in his car seat in the back.
‘DC Irvine,’ she said when she answered the call — recognising the number as the Strathclyde Police HQ.
‘Becky, it’s me.’
Detective Superintendent Liam Moore — her boss.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Where are you?’
He sounded cranky. Not an encouraging start to the day.
‘I’m going to drop my son off at the childminder. Why, do you need me?’
‘Yes. What are you working on right now?’
‘The Johnson case. You know, the body in the Range Rover? Ewen Cameron’s the DS on it.’
‘It’s stalled, right?’
He was right. They had identified the victim as Andrew Johnson: soldier, turned private security mercenary, turned… something else. Shot twice in the head. ‘Execution style’ was how the newspapers described it. Beyond that, they had nothing to go on.
‘No need to be defensive about it,’ Moore said when she didn’t answer. ‘I know you guys are working it. Maybe you need something new. Freshen things up, you know.’
Irvine said maybe.
‘No one else is free right now anyway,’ he said. ‘We’re getting slammed.’
So what’s new?
‘What have you got?’ she asked.
‘It’s a floater. Fished out the Clyde this morning down on the Broomielaw.’
Irvine closed her eyes. Those were never good.
‘There’s a twist with this one,’ Moore said.
‘Okay. What is it?’
‘It’s a drug squad investigation. Those guys are at the locus already. They’ve asked for CID assistance.’
‘Am I volunteering?’
‘You already did.’
Irvine cradled the phone with her shoulder while Moore talked, reached inside her jacket and took out a notebook. She wrote the location of the body. Was about to write the name of the drug squad contact on site when she paused.
‘Did you say the Director General is there?’ she asked Moore.
‘Yes.’
‘Why is the head of the SCDEA at a crime scene?’
‘I didn’t ask. Must be big time, eh?’
‘I guess. Are we going to be in charge of the scene?’
‘Yes. I briefed Jim Murphy already.’
Murphy was a veteran detective sergeant who had turned the latter half of his time on the force into a career as a crime scene manager. It was a desk job that he was entirely happy with as he headed rapidly downhill towards retirement. That wasn’t to say that he was a bad detective. He just preferred a life behind a desk to a life stepping over bodies.
Who could blame him?
‘Leave it with me,’ Irvine told Moore. ‘I’ll head over there as soon as I can.’
‘Brief me when you get in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Irvine had very little experience of dealing with the SCDEA — the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency. But she knew enough about police hierarchies to realise that if the head man — the DG — was at a crime scene, then it was a very big deal.
