envelope and a clipboard. He rings the doorbell. Stonax answers it. “Could you sign for this please?” says the courier. He hands over the clipboard, and then says, “Oh, I’m sorry, I seem to have mislaid my pen. Have you got one?” Stonax turns back into the flat to get one. As soon as he’s taken a step away from the door, courier says, “Oh, it’s OK, here it is,” and takes a step forward himself to hand it to Stonax. Stonax bends his head over the clipboard—’
‘Right!’ said Swilley. ‘That’s how you get him to put his head within reach! And when the courier whacks him he drops the pen and then falls on top of it.’
‘But why all the pen malarkey anyway?’ Hart said.
‘The courier needs to get him to step away from the door. If he fells him actually in the doorway, he won’t be able to get the door closed without moving him, and that will take time and make noise. The courier’s purpose is to get in and out as fast as possible without alerting anyone. It takes just seconds to empty his pockets and take the watch, and a few seconds more to find the right file. He stood still by the filing cabinet just long enough to leave his impression in the thick-pile carpet. The hall carpet outside the front door was far too thin and old, and the vestibule has a tiled floor, and he didn’t stand still anywhere else.’
‘Then he pops Stonax’s watch in an envelope and puts it under Borthwick’s door, shoves everything else in the Jiffy bag, and walks calmly out to his bike,’ said Hart.
‘To be seen by Mrs Koontz,’ said Mackay, ‘which is no bad thing, really, because Borthwick has leathers and a helmet with a dark visor, so it helps shove it on him.’
‘So you think the courier was Bates, then, boss?’ Swilley said.
‘There’s been a car and a motorbike all the way through,’ Slider said, ‘and it seems logical that if Thomas Mark was driving the car, Bates must have been on the bike. He was careful not to be seen by Borthwick, or to leave any fingerprints, because he’s on our files and Mark isn’t. But Jack Bushman instantly thought of Bates as being the likely manufacturer of the device that disabled the Valancy House door.’
‘
‘I know,’ said Slider. ‘That’s the problem. We need to know what was in that file. That’s probably where all our evidence is. If we knew
‘Unless we can get Mark to roll over,’ Hollis said. ‘And given that Bates has put him in the shite up to his oxters, he might well do that.’
‘But we’ve got to find him first,’ said Hart.
There was a gloomy moment of silence.
‘What about Bates’s escape?’ Mackay said.
‘What about it?’ Slider said.
‘Well, he had to have had someone on the inside. What if that someone was Tyler, and offing Stonax was the quid pro quo?’
‘You’re saying he got Bates out of jail to do it?’ said Hollis. ‘It’s an idea.’
‘Why wouldn’t Tyler do it himself?’ Swilley said. ‘We know he’s willing to kill,
‘But he wouldn’t do Stonax himself,’ Mackay said. ‘Too risky. He’s got too much to lose now, and he can’t hope to be let get away with it again.’
‘And he’s out of the country,’ Hart added.
‘No, he isn’t,’ Swilley said. ‘I came across it on a website when I was checking Bates’s contacts. He doesn’t take up his new appointment until October, but he came back in July. There was a photograph of him attending a performance at the Royal Opera House.’
‘He could have been just visiting,’ Hart said.
‘But his term in Brussels ended in July, and he’d want to get himself set up, find somewhere to live and everything,’ Norma said.
‘Find out,’ Slider said. ‘Find out if he’s here, when he came, and where he’s living. If he did come back in July, it makes a lot more sense.’
Atherton had gone through page after page of Waverley B references without gaining any insights, except that it confirmed what Sid Andrew had said, that it was an unlucky site. Industrial relations seemed to have been particularly bad, and there were stoppages and strikes as well as an unusually high absentee rate. He was staring at the screen in frustration when all the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his nostrils twitched as he caught Emily’s scent. She had come up behind him, and now leaned lightly on his shoulder to look at the notes he had made, which were lying on the desk beside him.
‘Are you working back chronologically?’ she asked.
‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘Just going through references as I find them. Why?’
‘Nothing here dates from before the fifties. But all these old shipyards on the Clyde go back to the nineteenth century at least. They were all terribly proud of their history.’
‘True. Well, there must be stuff. I just haven’t come across it yet.’
‘Or maybe it changed its name,’ she said, ‘and the history is under the old name.’
He made that an excuse to look at her. ‘Come to think of it, “Waverley” is a bit of an Edinburgh name for a shipyard on the Glasgow side.’
‘Yes, it does seem rather tactless. They should have called it St Enoch at least.’ She looked down his notes again. ‘I wonder if they’re calling the new leisure centre by the old name? That would be a smart move if you wanted to endear it to Glaswegians.’
‘Clydeview? But it’s a bit of a girl’s blouse of a name for a horny-palmed shipyard.’
‘Yes, it sounds more like a suburban bungalow.’
‘Wait a minute, though,’ Atherton said, sitting up straight so suddenly he almost knocked her out. ‘What about Clydebrae? The first word on Danny Masseter’s list.’
‘It was underlined,’ she said, ‘as though it was a heading.’
‘Wait here,’ he said, and dashed off to get it. When he got back Emily was sitting in his place at the keyboard, so he dragged up another chair, more than happy to work with her.
She had already put in ‘Clydebrae’ and had got a number of references to Clydebrae Street, Govan. There was a map, showing a road that ran up to a small promontory on the Clyde and stopped there. There seemed to be nothing on it, but it was named in very small letters, Clydebrae. Emily’s fingers flew, found a better map, scrolled across and found the Waverley B shipyard next door to the promontory, sticking out much further into the water.
‘Why would they build a road to nowhere?’ she said.
‘An estuary is like the seaside,’ Atherton said. ‘The water is an object in itself. It’s never nowhere.’
She was looking at the other Clydebrae Street references. There were photographs on one. ‘It’s terribly derelict. Looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for years. Derelict tenement blocks, a few breeze-blocked houses, and you can see there must have been houses here, where it’s all flat. They’ve been knocked down. I wonder when?’
‘There were big slum clearance projects in Glasgow in the fifties and sixties. People moved out to new estates.’
‘Or maybe it’s part of the leisure centre development? But now, look here.’ She had gone in to another reference. ‘You’re right. They wanted to redevelop it in 1962. Here’s a plan of a new council estate. I wonder why it never came off?’ She scrolled on. ‘The Scottish Ornithological Union notes that there are now no more red-throated divers or Forster’s terns at Clydebrae. I’m devastated. The Clydebrae ferry closed in 1959. It used to carry people across to Partick, where the thistles come from.’
Atherton looked up. ‘It doesn’t say that?’
‘Of course it doesn’t.’
He looked down again at the list. ‘It looks as if he was interested in history, anyway. Scottish War Museum. Clyde Maritime and Shipping Museum. Public records.’
‘Maybe he’d found what you’ve found – that he couldn’t get further back than the fifties.’
‘What’s this Meekie book?’
