The sergeant looked down at his notebook. ‘Sergeant Rory Newton, sir, still serving. Nickname Bakey, because that’s his trade. Works in a supermarket as an in-store baker in Piershill. Address, 27 Feather Street, Danderhall.
‘Corporal Alan Clark, still serving. Nickname Tory, though I can’t think why. Works in a gents’ outfitters in George Street. Address, 43a Derbyshire Street.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Martin looked along the table at the young sergeant. ‘And these six were all big mates, you say.’
‘Thick as thieves, sir, according to Mr Herr.’
‘Literally. We’ve found them, Stevie. Some, maybe all of these, are our bank gang. Those robberies were carried out with military precision, we reckoned. No bloody wonder, because the team are soldiers!’
‘So who’s knocking them off?’ Skinner pondered. ‘It looks as if someone involved in this wants all the money for himself.’
‘That leaves us with Newton or Clark, Boss,’ Martin answered. ‘Of them, it could turn out to be the one who’s still alive.’
Stevie Steele raised a hand, as if he was in a classroom. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he ventured, tentatively, ‘but there was another man. Barry Herr mentioned him. The others called him Hamburger, nothing else. He was only there occasionally, but Arlene was keen on him.
‘He wasn’t a member of the Mess, though, and the nickname meant nothing to the TA people.’
‘No one knows his real name?’
‘No, sir.’
‘We’ll have to find him, nonetheless,’ said Martin. ‘But first, let’s pick up Newton and Clark . . . pronto. Superintendent Pringle is on his way up here. Stevie, you and he can go to the place in Piershill for your baker man. Sammy, you and I will head for George Street, to pick up this Tory chap.
‘That’s unless one or the other of them isn’t face-down in another wood somewhere.’
63
‘This is the place, sir,’ said DC Pye. ‘The most exclusive men’s shop on George Street.’
‘Do you shop here then, Sammy?’ Martin grinned.
‘When I’m in your job, Boss, I’ll be able to afford it.’ They looked at the glass-fronted edifice, behind which skeletal structures modelled the latest in designer suits. A police patrol car stood at the kerb behind them, its uniformed driver behind the wheel.
‘Eh, Boss,’ said the young detective, tentatively.
‘Yes.’
‘I think Sergeant Neville was a wee bit upset that you left her in the office.’
‘Yes, I could see that. I’ll have a word with her when we get back. The thing is, we don’t know anything about this guy, other than that he’s an ex-Para. He may not want to get into the motor and come quietly. Should that happen, I’d rather have you alongside me than Karen, for my sake, and hers.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her, sir. Karen can handle herself in a bundle. She has a black belt in Tae Kwan Do.’
‘Fair enough.’ Martin grunted. ‘But how would that help if someone grabbed her by the bra-straps and nutted her? No, Sammy; I’m all for the advancement of women in the force, but horses for courses, okay.’
He led the way into the shop, through the double doors, which swung lightly on his touch. At once, a middle- aged man approached them. The Head of CID thought that he looked a little self-conscious in his Armani jacket.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen? I’m Lorimer Davidson, the manager. I saw you get out of your car.’
‘And you guessed we haven’t come to shop,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘You’re right. We’d like to speak with a member of your staff, a Mr Clark.’
The manager sniffed, a slightly comic gesture. ‘Alan? I’d like to speak to him too.’
‘You mean he isn’t here?’
‘No, he bloody well isn’t,’ Davidson exclaimed. ‘He had a phone call, around forty-five minutes ago . . . notwithstanding that personal calls are strictly against the rules. He took it, then, without a “please” or a “by-your- leave”, just rushed out.
‘I haven’t seen him since. I hope he has a bloody good excuse, but with you turning up and wanting to see him, somehow, I rather doubt that he will have.’
‘So do we, sir,’ said Martin. ‘So do we. I think you should start advertising for a new sales assistant.’
64
‘Rory Newton?’ the woman exclaimed. ‘My bakery foreman? Of course you can see him. Come on, and I’ll take you along.’
Jennifer Tate, the general manager of the Piershill superstore, was a bustling, blue-suited woman in her mid forties, who radiated charm and efficiency. Her mezzanine office, in which the two policemen sat, had a panoramic view of the shopping alleyways and the checkout counters.
Dan Pringle shopped there often with his wife, and had always been impressed by its cleanliness, its product range and its efficiency. Now he knew that it was literally under the eagle eye of such an impressive supervisor, he understood why it stood out.
She led them past the fresh fish counter, a unit which prepared pizzas with the customer’s choice of topping, and a cold storage area for dairy products, up to twin doors at the back of the store, close to the bakery shelves.
‘Rory,’ she called out, as she pushed them open and held them for Pringle and Stevie Steele. They stepped into a spotlessly clean kitchen area, where white-uniformed staff were preparing dough for the ovens, and film- wrapping newly baked loaves, bread rolls, scones and buns.
‘Mr Newton?’
A tiny woman, in a white coat and trilby hat, turned towards her, diffidently. ‘Rory’s no’ here, Mrs Tate.’
‘Is he on his break, Molly? Should we try the canteen?’
She shook her head. ‘No, a dinna’ think so. He’s been awa’ for about an hour, like.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘Naw. It was funny, like. The radio was on like ayeways, an’ the news came on. Bakey was listenin’ tae something I think, and his face went a’ funny. He went ower tae the phone, made a couple of calls, then he jist took aff his coat and hat and walked oot the door.’
Jennifer Tate turned and looked, astonished, at Pringle. He turned and looked, knowingly, at Steele, then reached into his pocket, took out a mobile phone and called the Fettes number.
‘Alan Royston, please,’ the sergeant and the general manager heard him bark, his face like thunder.
‘Alan, Dan Pringle here. Did your office release the name of the Colinton murder victim?’
He waited.
‘On DCI Gibson’s authority, you say?’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Okay. Do you know whether it’s been broadcast on radio yet?’
There was another pause.
‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ The superintendent’s grin had a savage look to it. ‘Do me a favour, Alan, will you. Call Gibson back, tell him to find the longest grass he can and hide in it, before Bob Skinner catches him.
‘No. On second thoughts, tell him to take sanctuary in the nearest church. Big Bob would just set the bloody grass on fire!’
65
