‘Everything that goes to make a bloody good copper; because that’s what Sergeant Karen is, behind the flashing eyes and the splendid tits.’
McGuire nodded. ‘That’s what DCI Rose says too.’
‘What? That she’s a good copper or that she’s got splendid tits?’
‘Both, in fact. They found a witness, a gay bloke who’d seen Barnfather with a man last Sunday. Apparently Karen handled him like a natural. Later on, when they were lying on the beach in their bikinis, the other two things came into play. Like fucking magnets they were, Maggie said. She just lay there propped up on her elbows and smiling and the punters came up to them in their droves.’
‘Were there a lot of gays out there, right enough?’
‘A few; even they seemed to be drawn by Neville’s orbs. They were all very co-operative. A couple of young chancers did try to pick them up at one point, but Maggie saw them off with only a single flash . . . of her warrant card.’
‘So what sort of a result did they get overall?’
‘Not bad. Four people thought they had seen the old boy with someone, but couldn’t describe him. David, the gay bloke, though; he’s another story. He’s coming into Fettes today, so that Brian Mackie can show him some mug shots, including one of King.’
‘Ah, I saw the Thin Man coming in. That’s why he’s here, is it, and not with the new bidey-in.’ McIlhenney grinned. Mackie’s new domestic arrangements were still the subject of much internal discussion within CID. ‘How about the guys in the car park?’ he went on. ‘Any result there?’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Nothing. I said to Maggie that maybe
‘Somehow,’ McIlhenney muttered, ‘I don’t think our Sammy would impress too many people in that way.’
He smiled. ‘We do have another lead, though.’
‘Oh?’ McGuire looked at him, curious.
‘Aye. The Boss called me this morning. He was at some local piss-up last night, when out of the blue, one of his neighbours said that he’d seen Norman King in the Reserve last Sunday afternoon. The Big Man said that he managed not to bat an eyelid at the time, but he’s going round today to talk to the guy again.’
‘Christ,’ exclaimed McGuire, ‘that makes what we’re doing all the more important.’ He looked across his desk in the Special Branch suite, then down at a sheet of paper which lay before him. ‘That place this morning in Wallyford was the last of the metal finishers on our list, and not a lead out of any of them.
‘The only two other registered keepers of cyanide, that we know about anyway, are these two farms. One’s down near Peebles, and the other’s out by Linlithgow. Which do you fancy visiting first?’
McIlhenny twisted his massive trunk around in his seat and looked out of the window. ‘Looks like a nice day for a trip to Peebles,’ he said.
‘Fine, sergeant,’ McGuire agreed. ‘In that case, you can drive, and I’ll enjoy the scenery.’
Fortunately, most of Edinburgh’s Sunday drivers head for the coast. By the time they had escaped the city and slipped under the by-pass heading for Penicuik and the A703 to Peebles, the traffic was relatively light. McIlhenney drove dead on the limit, forcing his companion to view the scenic woodlands and fields as they zipped past them.
The Borders countryside south of Edinburgh is lush and very accessible. Barely any time seemed to have passed before they were bearing down on the attractive county town of Peebles. With McGuire navigating, they drove through and found the B-road leading to Traquair.
‘The place is a mile or so along here,’ said the Inspector. ‘As far as I can see there’s a right turn off this road. Look for a sign saying Craigmark Mains.’
‘Okay. What’s the farmer’s name?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s listed as Maclean Farms Limited.’
‘What do farmers need cyanide for anyway?’
‘Some of them use it to poison vermin.’
‘Maybe that’s what the guy who spiked Archergait’s carafe thought he was doing,’ the big sergeant mused.
Less than a minute later, McGuire pointed ahead, at a sign which hung out on the far side of the road, beside an opening. ‘That’s it, look. Slow down now, don’t overshoot.’
‘Teach your granny.’ McIlhenney braked smoothly, indicating a right turn, and pulled up short of the Craigmark Mains sign, to allow an oncoming car to pass. Yet as they watched it, the vehicle, a silver Volvo S40, slowed down and swung ahead of them, without indicating, into the farm entrance.
Something made the big sergeant look across at his colleague. McGuire’s face was a picture of astonishment. ‘Did you see who that was?’ he gasped.
McIlhenney shook his head. ‘No, I was watching the car, not the driver. Who was it, then?’
‘Clarissa Maclean, that’s who. Norman King’s lady-friend. ’
51
Brian Mackie was a conscientious officer, and the police service had always been the most important thing in his life. Therefore it was a novelty for him to feel irritated, as he parked his car in the staff spaces beneath Police Headquarters.
Having spent the previous day in conference with Dan Pringle, comparing notes on the murders of Archergait and Barnfather, and beginning the preparation of a report to the Lord Advocate, he had been looking forward to spending Sunday with Sheila, much of it horizontally.
Instead, Maggie Rose’s telephone call had plucked him from their bed and sent him into Headquarters, to meet her star witness, and show him a range of photographs. He had thought of delegating the task, until he had realised that there was no one to whom he could pass it on.
So, grumbling for almost the first time in his adult life, he had answered the call of duty. Using the duty CID man he had combed the police library for a series of photographs of present and former customers, not the classic numbered full face and profile of dour, bewildered, and occasionally savage faces taken on arrest, but a collection of half a dozen other shots from the Serious Crimes section, some formal, some snatched by surveillance units.
He had taken his rogues’ album up to Andy Martin’s office suite, where he had added a glossy black and white photograph of Norman King, given secretly to Skinner by the Lord Advocate himself.
Happily, David Beaton prided himself on promptness. Mackie glanced up at the clock as the call came from reception to announce his arrival. It showed twelve noon, exactly.
‘Bring him up,’ he said.
‘There’s only me on the desk, sir,’ said the duty officer.
‘The bloody door’s locked. Bring him up,’ he ordered again, testily, grinding out the words.
‘Sir.’ The duty officer decided to stop chancing his arm.
‘Mr Beaton,’ said the Detective Superintendent, as the visitor was shown in, immaculate in cream trousers, a pink shirt and a lightly checked sports jacket, ‘I’m Brian Mackie. DCI Rose told me about your encounter in the Nature Reserve yesterday.
‘It was very helpful to us. Let’s hope this meeting will be even more so.’
He showed him through to Martin’s private office, where a folder containing the seven photographs lay on the briefing table.
‘Have a seat, please,’ said the detective, ‘and, when you’re ready, open the folder and look at the photographs inside, one by one.’
Beaton sat down, glanced at the slim green cardboard covering, then looked up at him. ‘I’d rather expected to be looking at some sort of book with hundreds of photographs in it. This suggests to me that you have a firm suspect, and that his face is in here.’
‘I can’t comment on that,’ said the Superintendent, impassively. ‘Just look, please, and tell me if the man you saw is there.’
The witness nodded, opened the folder, and looked down intently at the first photograph. He gazed at it for
