Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bandit’ Mackenzie loved his family. He enjoyed all the free time he spent with Cheryl and the kids, but this weekend, well, it was something special: it was one that might never have been. A few days before, he had been involved in a shoot-out: he had escaped with his life, but still he felt as if he had left something behind him.
He hugged his beer to his chest as he looked out of the window of his new home. It was not his first of the day. Three Miller Draft empties were sitting in a line in the kitchen, waiting for their friend to join them. He was unaware of his wife’s presence behind him, until she slipped her arms round his waist.
‘Hey, big boy,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘are you all right?’
He jumped involuntarily at her touch. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, tipping his head back with the bottle. ‘Why do you ask that?’ He tried to sound casual, but it came out as defensive.
‘Because it’s not even five o’clock yet, and you’re halfway through a six-pack. Because the football results are on telly and you’re not paying the slightest attention.’
‘I’m fine,’ he repeated. ‘It’s been a hard week, that’s all.’
‘It finished all right, though: a nice transfer to a CID section, away from all the druggies and the pushers. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Sure, you’re right, it is.’ He turned in her arms to face her, switching on the old Bandit smile as he did so. ‘Okay, how do you want to spend this promising Saturday night? Will we get a baby-sitter and go paint the town? Or will we get a takeaway and settle for a night of passion?’
‘One more beer and that’s off the agenda for sure. As it happens, the baby-sitter’s booked, and we’ve got a table for two at the Spanish restaurant near the parliament building.’
‘
‘I don’t imagine so.’ Cheryl Mackenzie laughed. She plucked the unfinished bottle from her husband’s hand, and headed towards the kitchen. She was passing the phone when it rang. She answered the call, listened, then turned, her hand cupping the mouthpiece. ‘It’s someone called DS Wilding. He says he needs to speak to you.’
Bandit scowled. ‘He’s one of the people at Leith,’ he explained. ‘We met very briefly yesterday. Sorry, love; if this is his way of impressing the new boss he’s got it badly wrong.’ He took the handset from her. ‘Ray, what’s the panic?’
‘No panic, sir,’ Wilding replied calmly, ‘but something you need to know. I’m at a crime scene.’
‘Where?’
‘A house in Trinity: twenty-two Swansea Street.’
‘Where’s that? I’m new to this patch, remember.’
‘Up from the waterfront, near the Starbank pub.’
‘What is it? A break-in?’ asked Mackenzie, irritably.
‘Do me a favour, sir. I wouldn’t have called you on your day off about a simple house-breaking. This is a homicide.’
‘Shit. Who’s the victim?’
‘His name’s Gareth Starr: he has to be the unluckiest man in town. Yesterday someone tried to rob him, but failed. Today somebody’s tried to bump him off, and succeeded.’
‘Definitely a homicide? Not just a suspicious death?’
The chief inspector thought he heard his sergeant chuckle. ‘Oh, no, sir; all the suspicions are confirmed on this one.’
‘I suppose I’d better turn out. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ As he spoke, he saw Cheryl, standing in the kitchen, waving the beer bottle. ‘Tell you what, Ray,’ he added quickly, ‘have a car pick me up, so I don’t waste any time finding the place.’
Thirteen
Lady Proud smiled as she gazed at her husband, settled in his armchair, his face slightly flushed. Normally such a coloration would have worried her, but he had come back from his mysterious meeting in the Balmoral Hotel looking like his grandson always did after a trip to Toys R Us. She never asked him about his business, and normally he did not volunteer information, but on this occasion he had blurted out the whole story as soon as he had hidden his Jenners bags in the cupboard under the stair. ‘She must be quite a woman, this Trudi,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time since I put a look like that in your eye.’
Sir James blinked. ‘Really, Chrissie, I don’t know what you mean by that. She’s attractive, certainly, with her Mauritian blood, but she’s not, well, she’s not like you at all.’
‘Keep digging, Jimmy, keep digging.’
‘What? Och! It’s got nothing to do with her. It’s her story that’s got me interested: her missing mother, the involvement with Adolf Bothwell. It’s a proper mystery when you think about it. This young woman, she has her illegitimate child with the help and advice of her sister and her husband, who also oversee its transfer into the care of Barnardo’s. After it’s all behind her, she goes off to make a new life for herself, but she still comes back to them for her holidays, the last time all excited about this man she’s met, and is going to marry. And then she disappears, from their lives, from the school, from everything, without leaving any trace. Yes, a real puzzle.’
‘And you’re going to solve it, are you, Sherlock?’
‘I’m damn well going to try.’
‘It’s what you’ve always wanted, Jimmy, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘To be a detective, like Bob Skinner, that man McGuire and all the rest.’
‘I’m quite happy with the way my career’s turned out,’ he said defensively.
‘Of course you are, but still, don’t tell me you’ve never envied Bob his skills.’
He frowned. ‘Some of them, I admit; others, no. For example, I think I’ve proved myself rather better at marriage than him.’
Chrissie Proud laughed. ‘You’ve had expert help.’
He almost asked, ‘From whom?’ but realised, just in time.
‘So now you’re going to prove that you can find things out too.’
‘I think I can help the woman, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But you have a couple of thousand people at your disposal who could help as well.’
‘No, no, that would never do. This situation doesn’t warrant police time being spent on it. This is something I have to handle myself. Who better than me anyway? I was there at the time all this happened. So were quite a few other people: I know who they are, and where they are today, as you’ll find out if you sit down and listen. Just wait for a moment until I get my book.’ He rose from his chair and left the room, returning a minute later, empty-handed. ‘Do you know where it is?’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s not where it should be. Have you been tidying up again?’
Lady Proud rose, walked over to the television cabinet, opened it and took from its shelves a loose-leaf notebook, bound in heavy brown leather. ‘You used it on Tuesday,’ she reminded him pointedly. ‘When you were finished, you put it in there.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered sheepishly, avoiding her gaze as he took it from her and resumed his seat. He unclipped it, opened it, and flicked through the thick directory section until he found the number he sought, and dialled it. ‘Bertie,’ he said, as his call was answered. ‘Glad I caught you; I thought you might be at Muirfield. It’s Jimmy Proud here.’ He laughed. ‘I’m doing fine, and you’re not in trouble, if a Court of Session judge can ever get into trouble, that is. I want to pick what’s left of your brain about our schooldays.’ Pause. ‘Of course you can go that far back, it’s only forty-five years or so. Remember Adolf Bothwell?’ Pause. ‘That’s right: taught French and German. More than a bit full of himself, we all thought. Do you remember any whispers about him being involved with a junior school teacher called Annabelle Gentle?’ A longer pause. ‘No? Do you remember her?’ Pause. ‘No? Pity. Do you remember anything about his leaving the school?’ Pause. ‘Yes, that was my recollection too. There was no warning, his timetable was fixed, and he just didn’t turn up for the new term. Your brother, the Solicitor General: would he have been in the junior school then?’ Pause. ‘Upper primary, you reckon? Maybe I’ll have a word with him. There’s just one other thing. Remember when we were in our fourth year and we won the relay trophy at the school sports? Who presented it?’ Longer pause. ‘Yes, that matches my recollection. I was sure it was Adolf’s wife.’
