‘Well, he’s early forties, as you know. Tallish, but not a giant. Medium build, clean shaven, dark hair. Not the sort of man who’d stand out in a crowd.’
‘In that case, answer me this. If you didn’t know either of them very well, or even at all, could you mistake Norman King for Grimley from around thirty yards away?’
Martin started at him, understanding. ‘Yes, you bloody well could!’
The big DCC slammed his left fist into his right palm. ‘Let’s have him, then and let’s stick both King and him up in a line-up before our gallery-owner friend.’
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘but first, we should find out where he works. Maybe Mitch Laidlaw will know that. As soon as we pick him up, we should find out whether there’s a discrepancy in the firm’s cyanide stock!’
‘You do that. Try to lift him tomorrow morning, Andy. Do it yourself, very quietly, early doors. Why don’t you take Kwame Ankrah for back-up; give him a taste of action. Then have Neville and Pye make that check at his firm as soon as you’ve got him in custody.
‘Meanwhile, I’m going to phone Lord Archibald, to let him know that he, and the Home Advocate Depute, may be off the hook.’
83
‘Bob Skinner, you are like a cat on hot bricks tonight. Look, it was your idea to get a baby-sitter and go out for supper, so come on . . . talk to me.’
Reproved, the big policeman looked sheepishly at his wife as they sat in the window seat of the Mallard Hotel bar. At the far end of the room, the inevitable golf party discussed the triumphs and disasters of their day on the links, as they settled in for a long night.
‘Sorry love. My mind was way ahead of me. I was thinking of Andy, going along to Humbie tomorrow to lift this man Bernard Grimley.’
Sarah grinned. ‘You’re really pleased with yourself over that, aren’t you. Normally I have to coax stuff like that out of you. Not tonight though; you were hardly over the doorstep before it all came pouring out.’
He picked up his beer, glancing at her wickedly over the top of the glass as he drank. ‘I think I have a right to be chuffed with myself,’ he agreed contentedly, wiping foam from his top lip with the back of his hand as he spoke. ‘That was a classic piece of detection. And who pulled it off? The Boss, the backroom boy, the desk jockey, while all the whiz kids were scratching their heads.’
He gave a sudden, short, explosive laugh, causing the lady behind the bar to start and look across at their table. ‘My love, you should have seen the look on Andy’s face when I told him who Beattie Gates’ son is. Moments like that come but rarely in a career, and they are to be savoured.’
‘You are sure he’s the one?’ she ventured.
‘As sure as God made wee green apples. It’s Grimley; I know it. We’ve put the whole jigsaw together.’ His smile grew nostalgic. ‘I had a second autopsy done on Lord Orlach by the prof. from Glasgow, for corroboration at the trial. They’re re-burying him tonight; the old boy can rest easy now.’
A young waiter arrived to clear away their dessert plates. As he left, Sarah moved round in her seat, closer to her husband. ‘What about the other jigsaw puzzle, though?’ she whispered. ‘Not so triumphal there, are we?’
‘One at a time, please,’ he answered. ‘Let me have a moment longer up on my cloud.
‘You’re right though. We’re still scratching around on the other one. I fear that our mystery man’s nickname, Hamburger, can only refer to his eating habits. The only alternative theory turned out to be a spoof by Mitch Laidlaw.’
She dug him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Go on, then, desk jockey. Do it again. Let’s see you stretch that big brain of yours.What’s before you that you’ve overlooked?’
He took another swallow of William McEwan’s Seventy Shilling Ale. ‘Nothing that I can think of. Adam Arrow’s checking out the military end for me . . . He sends his best wishes, by the way . . . but so far, that hasn’t taken us any further.
‘Apart from Barry Herr, the TA Club manager, who doesn’t know his real name, the last people who could identify Hamburger were Tory Clark and Bakey Newton, and they did a runner as soon as they heard, courtesy of a certain detective . . . soon to be uniformed . . . chief inspector, that Curly Collins had been bumped off.’
‘What, they just upped and off?’
‘That’s how it was reported to me. According to Dan Pringle, Bakey Newton was listening to Radio Forth at his work when the news story was broadcast. He stopped what he was doing, made a couple of calls, and disappeared . . . never to return.’
‘A couple of calls?’
In an instant, Bob’s brow became furrowed. ‘As far as I know, that’s what the witness said. If she meant it literally, one call was certainly to Tory Clark. I wonder if we know who else he phoned?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, love, for helping me pick that up. I’ll have Big Neil check it out tomorrow. He could have been calling his bookie, his mistress, the organiser of his lottery syndicate. On the other hand, he could have been calling . . .’ His voice tailed off for a few seconds.
‘But if that’s right,’ he whispered. ‘Why the hell would he . . .’
84
‘I envy you this beautiful country, Andy,’ said the Ghanaian policeman. ‘I have never seen anything like this, not at this time of a summer day . . . so cool, so moist, so pleasant.’
‘Summer’s almost over, Kwame. Soon the wind will be lashing the rain across the fields; after that the snow could come.’
‘I’ve heard about snow. I’ve never seen it, though.’
Martin laughed. ‘You might get the chance. If this man winds up going to trial, it’ll come up in late December, or early January. You’ll be a witness to the arrest, so the Crown Office may well fly you back to Scotland to give evidence.’
Ankrah stopped, mock-horror on his face. ‘In that case, I think I’ll go now. I didn’t actually say I
‘Too late to back out now, friend,’ said the DCS. ‘You volunteered for this caper, remember.’ He locked the door of his Mondeo, which was parked on the verge by the side of the A 6137 as it ran through the hamlet of Humbie. To their right a side road led away from its few cottages.
‘I’ve checked this out. Grimley lives up there, in a farm cottage up a lane a couple of hundred yards back off the road.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s six-fifty-five just now, and he works in Wallyford, so even if he starts at eight, he should still be in.
‘Let’s go and interrupt his breakfast.’
He led the way down the curving side road. As he had predicted, they soon came to the opening of a rough, grassy lane, with thick scrubby woodland on either side. A silver Toyota was parked close by. A little further along, close to the first of a row of two-storey houses, stood a green Mercedes, the first in a line of half a dozen other vehicles. Martin looked down the lane. A hundred yards distant on the right he saw a single-storey, stone-built cottage. ‘That’s the place. Come on.’
The Scot and the African walked together down the pathway. As they approached the little house, they saw that it stood on its own, isolated behind a low privet hedge. It was freshly painted, roses grew in its small front garden, and honeysuckle hung around and over the door.
‘I read The Railway Children when I was young,’ said Ankrah. ‘Afterwards I dreamed of living in a place like this.’ He laughed. ‘There are not too many stone cottages like this in Ghana, though.’
They stopped for a moment at the little wooden gate, then Martin raised its latch, walked into the garden and up to the single low step at Bernard Grimley’s front door. He looked around for a bell push, but found none, only a heavy brass knocker. He seized it and rapped it hard, once, twice, three times, against its keeper.
There was no answer, no sound from within the cottage. The Head of CID knocked again, three times. Still there was no sign of Grimley. ‘Fuck this,’ he said. He tried the handle, but the door was locked.
