‘Now look . . .’ Donaldson began, but before he could go further he was interrupted by Neil McIlhenney, who reached into a pocket of his overcoat and slapped half-a-dozen large photographs on to the desk, under Terry’s nose.
‘I thought we’d give you a laugh for a change, Dougie,’ he said, with a friendly smile. ‘Take a look at those. See that big black thing? That’s Carole Charles. Remember her? Middle-aged, very attractive woman? Jackie’s wife?
‘Some of these were taken in what was left of Jackie’s showroom, after the fire on Wednesday night; the rest at the post mortem, when they had to cut her open to find out whether she was a man, a woman or just leavings from a barbecue. See there? That’s a good close-up of her jawbone. You can see her teeth.
‘I was at the PM yesterday. It was like watching someone dissect a lump of charcoal. I’m sure you’d have sung your way through it, though.’
Dougie Terry stared wide-eyed at the photographs. Beside McIlhenney, Donaldson heaved and turned away. For a second, the Sergeant thought he was going to be sick.
The ghost of Chic Murray had vanished. Terry turned the awful photographs over and pushed them, face- down, away from him. A sudden pallor had fallen across his broad, chiselled features, and his bright eyes had a shaken look, their confidence gone, for the first time that McIlhenney could recall.
‘All right,’ he said in a quiet flat tone. ‘You’ve made your point. Get on with it.’
‘Who did it?’ asked McIlhenney, directly.
The Comedian stared back at him across the desk, and answered, for the first time in the Sergeant’s career. A question with a question. ‘Do you think that if I knew that I’d be sitting here talking to you bastards?’
‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then, will I? Let me try another. Who’s taken the hump at Jackie Charles lately?’
‘How would I know? And why are you asking me, anyway?’
McIlhenney shook his head. ‘Dougie, you’re new to this game. The idea is that
‘Let’s try again. You are Jackie Charles’ Vicar on Earth. While he ponces about as a fashionable merchant of fashionable motors, you are the general manager of all his downmarket businesses, the five John Jackson Bookmaker betting shops and the taxi businesses. Now, to your knowledge has Jackie upset anyone in those businesses, to the point that they would try to kill him? Straight answer, yes or no, and look me in the eye when you give it, please.’
Terry straightened up in his chair, tugging briefly at the lapels of his Hugo Boss suit. He looked McIlhenney hard in the eye. ‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘Is everything in order in those businesses?’
‘Yes, as far as I know.’
‘You don’t have a betting-shop manager who’s been into the till and is about to be rumbled? Or a taxi controller who’s been creaming off the takings?’
‘No.’
McIlhenney looked sideways at Dave Donaldson. The Superintendent, still white-faced, nodded to him to carry on. ‘This is all very new for us too, Dougie,’ he said, ‘your answering questions like this. We’re not used to believing you. So just to be on the safe side, we’d like to have our experts look at the books and records of the businesses you manage for Jackie Charles.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Terry. ‘If Mr Charles agrees.’
‘He will, though. I mean, we’re investigating his wife’s murder.’ McIlhenney paused. ‘When we do that, Dougie, we’re not going to find that you’ve been at it, are we? It wasn’t you that tried to kill Jackie, was it?’
The man’s jaw clenched. He seemed about to explode. ‘Listen you . . .’
McIlhenney held up a hand. ‘I know. I know. You’re going to say that Jackie Charles is like a brother to you, and anyway, you’re an honest businessman with a professional reputation and all that stuff.
‘In that case, we won’t bother to ask you about all the other things that we know you do for Jackie. There’d be no point in asking if somebody was after a share of the big money to be made out of the minicab business, or if somebody else wanted to take a percentage for funding armed robberies.
‘If we did that, you’d just start telling jokes again, wouldn’t you.’
Dougie Terry, his composure recovered, smiled at McIlhenney and sang the first four lines of ‘My Way’.
The Sergeant applauded, silently. ‘Pitch perfect, Dougie. The voice is as good as ever. Sorry we can’t stay for more. We’re off now, but do us a favour, will you? Make sure that all the books and records of Jackie’s businesses are ready for our people by close of play today.
‘Oh aye, and that includes the details of his property investment company, the one that holds those flats he lets out. Rent books and everything, so we can see what’s occupied and what isn’t. You never know. Damp housing can drive tenants to extreme measures!’
The policemen stood and made to leave. Donaldson was at the door when he turned. ‘I wonder if you’ve considered this, Mr Terry. Hypothetically, of course. If Mr Charles did have criminal connections, and some of them were upset with him, you don’t suppose, do you, that if they found they couldn’t get to the organ-grinder, they’d come after the monkey instead?’ He smiled, but in a way that was more threatening than anything else.
‘Do you know the words to “Mack the Knife”?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you should add that to your repertoire.’
With McIlhenney at his heels, he stepped out of the office, leaving the Comedian at a loss for a punchline.
17
‘Have you ever gone in for weights and the like, Sammy?’ asked Detective Chief Inspector Rose.
‘Me, ma’am? No, I’ve never fancied it. Running’s my game; that and a bit of squash. I did karate when I was younger though.’
‘You should start again. Join the club at headquarters; Mr Skinner helped start it years back. He still keeps it up; says it’s the best combined physical and mental exercise there is.’
Detective Constable Pye nodded down the line of weight-training apparatus. ‘That’s right, ma’am. I reckon that the guys who go in for this sort of stuff are only trying to make up for other shortcomings.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Maggie Rose. She paused. ‘My husband lifts weights. Have you met him? DI McGuire in Special Branch. Big bloke. I must tell him about your theory.’ Sammy Pye fell suddenly silent.
Smiling still, the Detective Chief Inspector looked around the Royal Commonwealth Pool fitness suite. Although it was late morning, six men and two women were exercising on the machines, making their way through arduous circuits, working on a different group of muscles each time. The heavy smells of sweat and analgesic sprays mingled in the air.
‘Hello.’ The voice came from behind them. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Simon Horner, the manager. What can I do for you?’
Maggie Rose shook the outstretched hand, introducing herself and Pye. ‘We’re looking for someone who used to train here,’ she said. ‘We don’t have a name, but we do have a good description. A man with a big moustache, and a distinctive tattoo of a vulture on his shoulder. Does that ring any bells?’
Horner pondered for few seconds, clutching his chin as if it were an aid to concentration. ‘A vulture, eh? We get a lot of tattoos in here. We had a burst of Pocahontases a year or two back, and a few Lion Kings before that. There’s loads of snakes wound round daggers, eagles and other stuff. I’ve even seen a unicorn. But I don’t remember a vulture.
‘When was your man here last?’
‘Around three years ago, we think,’ said Rose.
‘Mmm,’ said the manager. ‘I was only appointed two years ago. Maybe you should ask my predecessor, Calum Berwick. He’s down at Meadowbank Stadium now.’
‘We’ll do that.’ The Inspector paused. ‘If he can’t help us find this man, how many other weight-training places are there in Edinburgh for us to cover?’
Horner shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m guessing, but if you count the other sports centres, private clubs, colleges, office and factory facilities, there must be upwards of a hundred.’
Maggie Rose sniffed the pungent air. ‘Thanks,’ she said, wryly. ‘You’ve made our day.’
