Dead And Buried

He reached for the phone once more. ‘Gerry, I want you to get me another chief executive: the Scottish Secondary Teachers’ Association.’

He returned to the Scotsman as he waited. He found only a few paragraphs on the Gareth Starr homicide, most of them quotes attributed to Detective Sergeant Wilding. ‘We are pleased with the response to the E-fit image,’ he had said. ‘The response from the public has been gratifying and has given us a number of leads to follow.

‘We are also appealing for anyone who knew the victim to come forward. We are trying to establish what he did in the last few hours of his life, and any information to this end will be helpful to us.’

‘In other words you’ve got nothing,’ he murmured. He found himself wondering why a DS was taking such a high profile in the investigation, but before he could consider the matter too deeply, the phone rang.

‘General secretary, sir,’ said Gerry Crossley, ‘not chief executive. Her name is Miss Cotter.’

‘Christian name?’

‘Not volunteered. I don’t think it’s used much around the office.’

‘I’ll be on my best behaviour then; put her through.’

He waited until the connection was made. ‘Miss Cotter,’ he began. ‘James Proud, police headquarters at Fettes.’

‘How can I help you?’

There was something about her tone that made the chief constable conclude that he would be wise to let her believe that his call was official. ‘I’m trying to trace someone, a member of yours, almost certainly a former member now. His name is Claude Bothwell. When he was last heard of, he was on the staff of Edinburgh Academy.’

‘And when was he last heard of?’

‘Forty-one years ago.’

Something close to a snort sounded in Proud’s ear. ‘Forty-one years ago! Why don’t you ask Russell Goddard, the rector back in those days? He’s still alive, and from what I hear as sharp as a tack.’

‘I’ve spoken to Mr Goddard. He gave me all the help he could, but he also suggested that since Mr Bothwell was an active member of your association, you might have a more recent record of his whereabouts than he had.’

‘Mr Proud, we have our hands full keeping track of our current members.’

‘This is quite important, Miss Cotter. How far back do your records go?’

‘They go back sixty years, to our foundation, but even if I found this man Bothwell, they wouldn’t tell me much about him, other than where he taught, and you know that already, you say.’

‘I know that he taught at the Academy, but that’s all. I have no other information about his career.’

‘And Mr Goddard said that he was an active member?’

‘Yes.’

‘That probably meant he was our representative there. However, in an independent school in those days, it’s quite likely that he was our only member.’

‘Is it possible that your predecessor might have heard of him?’

‘Officer,’ said Miss Cotter, heavily, ‘I have been general secretary of this association for twenty-eight years. My predecessor was a contemporary of Mr Goddard, but wasn’t nearly as long lived. If you give me some time, I may be able to find a record of his membership with details of other places he taught, but I’m not promising anything.’

Twenty-four

He was unaware of it, but Bob Skinner smiled as the train emerged into the daylight. He had never suffered from claustrophobia to his knowledge, but he never felt comfortable in railway tunnels. Whenever he was in London, and he had the option, he chose bus or taxi over Underground.

The deputy chief constable was casually dressed, in jeans, a heavy cotton shirt and a lined cow-hide jacket that he had bought in America on one of his visits there with Sarah. He had packed a medium-sized suitcase for the trip: it held, among other things, an overcoat, a suit, several shirts, a pair of black shoes and, still in their wrapping, two packs each of new socks and underwear from Marks & Spencer. On extended trips away from home he regarded such items as disposable. It was easier to replace them as necessary than to have them pile up in his room, or hand wash them and dry them on radiators.

Dottie Shannon sat opposite him, engrossed in a Sheila O’Flanagan novel that she had bought at the airport. She was dressed more formally than the DCC, in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt. It had concerned her at first, but he had put her at her ease. ‘You’re fine; it’s no problem. You’ll make a good impression. I’ve been there before, so I can dress like a slob, as most of the people who work there do.’

‘Where are we going?’ she had asked.

When he told her that they were bound for the headquarters of the Security Service, she had gone instantly pale.

‘Don’t worry, Dottie. It’s just another office, and the people we’ll be interviewing will be subjects, that’s all, just like any others.’

‘But why, sir?’ she had asked anxiously.

‘Because they need their problem signed off by someone from outside.’

‘Why us?’

‘Because my signature counts for something, and because I’m privy to the nature of the problem and its aftermath. It isn’t the sort of aftermath where you can stick a retired judge in a room for a month, let him hold public hearings and then write a whitewash report. But that’s enough for now: I’ll give you a full briefing when we’re there.’

He glanced down at his own reading choice, a golf autobiography . . . he had never been able to concentrate on fiction when he had things on his mind . . . and was about to reopen it when his mobile sounded, deep within his jacket. He took it out and glanced at the screen identification. ‘Hello, Jimmy, how’re you doing?’ he asked.

‘Where are you?’ the chief constable asked.

‘On the Heathrow Express, heading to Paddington.’

‘Can you speak?’

‘Within reason. Why?’

‘I’d like some advice, that’s all.’

‘Sure, if I can.’

‘If you were looking for a missing person, where would you start?’

‘At the place where he was seen last, or in the mortuary: one or the other. How long’s he been missing?’

‘Forty-one years.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Forget the morgue, then. Their fridges aren’t that good. In that case I’d be checking with the people at the General Records Office to see if his death’s been registered.’

‘I’m told it hasn’t.’

‘Do you have a birth certificate for him?’

‘No.’

‘Then get one. What age is this absconder?’

‘Mid-seventies.’

‘Then try the Department of Work and Pensions. Give them all the details from the birth certificate, and as much employment history as you can, and see where they’re paying his pension.’

‘What if I do that and find he isn’t claiming one?’

‘Then you’ll need to go back to his friends and family from forty years ago. You’ll need to go back to my starting-off point, the place where he was seen last. Jimmy, fill me in on this.’

He listened as Proud described his meeting with Trudi Friend, and about her search for her mother.

‘So what you’re telling me,’ he said, when the story was over, ‘is that this married man, with a cracking- looking wife, bewitched a naive, if not innocent, girl from up north, and told her he was going to marry her, then they both disappear from jobs, home and everything else on the same day. Question: did Annabelle know he was