‘No it’s not. It’s an unusual circumstance, and they’re the first things you look for in a criminal investigation. Things, even tiny things, that don’t fit a normal behaviour pattern. And even if it is a long shot on its own, taken with the Jameson situation it adds up.’
‘What about her?’
‘Her case wasn’t there! The report of her death listed everything she had on her, yet there was no mention of a case. And I didn’t pick that up. I’m so dumb I should be a Transport copper. The woman had just finished a major criminal trial, away from Edinburgh. Of course she would have had a document case with her, and probably a big one at that.’
‘But what does it all mean?’
‘Christ alone knows, but I’m going to find out.’
‘Isn’t it all closed. Official Secret and all that?’
‘That’s not going to stop me. I’ll just have to play it a bit quiet, that’s all. Poor old Andy! What’s her name’ll give him hell when he tells her he’s working on New Year’s Day!’
42
It was 11.53 a.m. on 1 January, when the telephone rang two feet from Martin’s left ear. He opened his eyes blearily, and reached for the telephone on the bedside table.
‘Hello; 747 3781. And a Happy New Year, whoever you are,’ he mumbled into the phone.
‘And the same to you, lad.’
Martin was suddenly wide awake. ‘Bob, I didn’t expect you to call. How’s Sarah?’
‘Great. We’re getting married.’
There was a pause while the news sank in. ‘Bob, that’s great. Congratulations, you lucky sod.’
‘Thanks, Andy; now you’re going to hate me. Hope you’re up to driving, ’cause I’ve got a couple of jobs for you. I want you to find Mike Mortimer’s briefcase, wherever it is. I know our property people, and the time they take to process goods. So chances are it’ll still be in police hands. Then I want you to find the property report on Rachel Jameson, and check for any mention of a briefcase. If there isn’t one, and I don’t think there is, get Willie Haggerty in Strathclyde - quietly, mind you - to check whether there’s a case stashed in the office that dealt with her death.
‘If there’s still no sign, get on to the next-of-kin, her mother I think it was, and ask if she’s got it, or knows where it is.’
‘What if she didn’t have a briefcase?’
‘Don’t be bloody dense, Andy. Where else would she carry her papers?’
Martin grimaced. His head was throbbing, and his concentration was not helped by Joanne’s successor, Lucy, sliding down the bed to grasp him, as he spoke, in both of her long-fingered hands. Oh Lord, he thought, if You are just, I’ll die now.
With masterful control he said, ‘When I’ve done all this, boss, what then?’
‘Nothing. Lock everything away and wait for me to get back. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just do it very quietly, and say nothing, not even to the Chief.’
A soft moan escaped Martin’s lips.
‘What was that?’
‘Sorry, boss, just yawning. OK, that’s understood. See you on Thursday, then.’
‘Fine. Need to go now, the change is running out. Remember: quietly.
The line went dead. Martin replaced the receiver. And screamed. Quietly. From beneath the humped duvet, Lucy grinned up at him.
43
The Fettes Avenue Headquarters were on skeleton staff when Martin arrived. The Yobatu papers were kept under lock and key in a restricted access area on the ground floor of the four-storey building. As Head of Special Branch, Andy Martin had access.
Quickly he found the files which covered the death of Rachel Jameson. He noted the telephone number of Rachel’s mother. Then he scanned the list of effects for any mention of a briefcase. There was none.
He replaced the brown file, and walked quickly down to the Productions Store, in the basement of the building. The civilian clerks who normally staffed it were among the New Year’s Day absentees, and the heavy door was locked. Martin opened it with a master key.
The big room was crammed with an incredible range of objects, arranged in an order which was logical only to the permanent clerks.
‘Like bloody Alladin’s cave, this,’ Martin muttered to himself.
Video recorders, television sets and tape recorders were stacked alongside a wheel-chair and an artificial limb. Cash, in plastic bags, sat on a shelf, beside packages of hard drugs. Each item was labelled with details of the time of its lodgement, and of the case in which it was a production in evidence.
Martin went from shelf to shelf, from rack to rack. His eye lighted on a number of suitcases piled one on top of the other. He checked the labels. They were dated six months before the Mortimer murder. There was no sign of a briefcase anywhere near. His eye scanned along the row, to where a pile of documents lay clumsily stacked. Again he checked the label. They had been there for a week. In the rack behind, polythene wrappers reflected the light into his eyes. He stepped round for a closer look. It was a haul of three dozen tracksuits, recovered from a man arrested for breaking into a sports shop.
The back of the room was filled with cases of beer, lager and liquor of all descriptions. December was boom time for pub and off-licence break-ins, Martin recalled. As he glanced towards the store of drink, his eye was caught by a dark object, on a shelf near the floor. Crested, silver buttons gleamed. He looked closer. It was a policeman’s uniform jacket. The breast was marked by a rusty stain that could only be one thing. Martin knew that it was MacVicar’s uniform.
He knelt down, and, with a sort of reverence, withdrew the garment from the deep shelf. He looked into the dark space behind. There, leaning against the wall, was a hand-stitched brown leather briefcase. He reached in, and retrieved it.
It was wrapped in clear polythene; another dark stain, similar to that on the uniform coat, showed clearly on the lid, on which the letters ‘MM’ were embossed in gold leaf.
Martin looked at the briefcase, and as he did so his mind flashed back to that awful morning in Advocates’ Close. A wave of revulsion swept over him at the recollection of the savaged corpse, its dead eyes staring pitifully at him from the severed head. As he locked the store and left with the briefcase, he was still white-faced. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
He went to his office, located Willie Haggerty’s home number in his personal organiser, and dialled.
‘Mr Haggerty? Remember me, Andy Martin, Special Branch in Edinburgh. Look, I hate to bother you on New Year’s Day, but a question’s come up on Yobatu. Just something we’ve got to tidy up. I wonder if you could have it checked, with maximum discretion.’
He explained that he was trying to locate Rachel Jameson’s briefcase. ‘It’s a family request. They can’t find it, and they asked us if we had it. I wondered if it was still in Strathclyde.’
Haggerty grunted. ‘A family request! On New Year’s bloody Day! That’ll be right. You’re up to something, son. But don’t tell me, if Bob told you not to.’
At the other end of the line, Martin grinned. Crafty old bastard, he thought, almost aloud.
‘Okay, Andy, I’ll check it out. Since you’re asking if rather than where, I’ll assume that it’s no’ on the property list that’s on your files. Gie’s a phone number. Ah’ll call you back.’
