afraid that it doesn’t.’
‘How about Claude Bothwell?’
‘Where are you calling from, Mrs Friend?’ he asked.
‘I’m in Peebles.’
‘Can you get to Edinburgh easily?’
‘Yes. I can come up tomorrow, if necessary. Why?’
‘Because I think we should meet. I’d like to hear your story in person.’
Three
Inspector Dorothy Shannon enjoyed being based in Leith, for all its exotic reputation. Most of that came from times past: the eighteen years of her police service had seen considerable change, with bonded warehouses being turned into designer apartments, and new homes going up on demolished factory and warehouse sites, and in the dockland areas.
She had experienced a few misgivings when she was posted there, on promotion, but she had found it a pleasant place to work after years in those parts of Edinburgh that do not figure on the tour-bus routes.
She liked her job, too, most of the time. That morning was one of the exceptions. She was standing in a bookmaker’s office, in Evesham Street, not far from Great Junction Street: the proprietor, whose name was Gareth Starr, was facing her across the counter. She had answered a call-out to an attempted robbery. It had not gone well for the thief; indeed, he had suffered a net loss in the transaction.
Dottie Shannon glared at the little, grinning man. ‘Do you find this funny?’ she asked.
Starr’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as he looked at the object on the counter. ‘Fuckin’ hilarious, doll,’ he replied.
‘That may change soon,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye, from the doorway. ‘Tell me what happened here.’
The man pointed to the uniformed inspector. ‘I just told her.’
‘Fine, now tell me again.’
‘If you insist. I’d just opened up when this bloke comes in.’
‘You were alone?’
‘Aye. I’m not usually, but Big Ming, ma board man, was down at the corner shop getting coffee and bacon rolls for us. Anyway, this idiot comes crashin’ through the door, youngish fella, but no’ that young, late twenties, maybe. He looks around and then he pulls out a gun and waves it at me. “Ah’m armed,” he shouts. I told him that I could see that, then I asked what he wanted. I took a look at his eyes: they were all over the place. He was drugged up, for sure.’
‘Did he offer any other violence?’
‘Nah, he just pointed the gun at me and told me to hand over all the cash I had in the place. I told him that I don’t have a lot of cash at the start of business, just my float. I expect the punters to give me theirs as the day goes on. He told me to shut the fuck up and gi’e him what I had. I took another look at his eyes, then at the gun . . . he was waving it all over the place . . . and I opened the safe. He couldn’t see in, so I only took some of what was in there, about a grand, and put it on the counter.’
‘So far so good,’ said Pye. ‘And then what?’
‘Then the stupid bastard,’ Starr beamed at the memory, ‘tucks the gun under his left oxter, and goes to pick it up with his right hand. And that’s when . . .’
‘That’s when he whacked him with the bayonet.’ Dottie Shannon’s lip seemed to curl with distaste.
‘Where did it come from?’ asked the detective sergeant.
‘It was in the safe,’ Starr told him. ‘I palmed it when I took the cash out.’
Pye leaned over and looked at the great blade. It was embedded in the wooden counter, nailing down a pile of cash, on top of which lay a severed finger. There was blood all around, and in a trail to the door. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.
‘It was ma father’s. He brought it back from Korea: he said it had seen the insides of a right few Chinese.’
‘You keep it sharp, don’t you?’
‘It’s no use if it’s blunt, is it?’
‘Do you have any other weapons here?’
‘What do you mean, weapons? I’m entitled to defend maself, am I no’?’
‘I’m going to leave that for the procurator fiscal to decide,’ Pye told him. He crouched, took out a handkerchief, and very carefully picked up a Luger pistol, which lay on the floor. ‘Have you touched this since the intruder dropped it?’
‘No, I left it for you people.’ The bookie’s ebullience seemed to be fading away.
‘Come on, Mr Starr, did you really think this was a firearm?’
‘How can you say it’s not?’
‘By the weight, for a start: this is plastic. And by the size: a real Luger would be bigger than this.’ He glanced at it. ‘Finally by the fact that it’s got “Made in China” stamped on the butt.’
‘How was I to know that?’ Starr protested.
‘I’m not sure you cared.’
‘The bastard was trying to rob me. Why should Ah care?’
‘Like I said, that’s not a question I’m going to deal with at the moment. The man you mentioned, Big Ming? Where is he?’
‘He’s in the back shop.’
‘Is that Ming as in Menzies?’ asked Shannon.
‘Nah, his name’s Jim Smith. We call him that because he smells a bit.’
‘Did he see any of this?’
‘The boy bumped into him when he ran for it, but that was all.’ Starr scowled. ‘Knocked the coffees and the bacon rolls all over the fuckin’ place.’
‘Had you ever seen the thief before?’
‘Not that I remember; he’s not one of my regulars, that’s for sure.’
‘Description?’
‘Maybe six feet, skinny, needed a shave. He wore a green jacket and a grey woolly hat: at least I think it was grey. The thing was filthy.’
Pye turned to Shannon. ‘We’d better find this bloke quick, Dottie. Could you arrange for uniformed officers to check with the Western General and the Royal for anyone who’s wandered in minus a right index finger?’ He took an evidence bag from his pocket, picked up the detached digit and, very carefully, placed it inside. ‘I’ll take care of the forensic side. At least we won’t have any trouble getting a print. Mr Starr, I want you to come with me: we’ll need a formal statement from you. Meantime, you’d better hope that this man hasn’t bled to death. In fact, I’ll let you call your lawyer right now. You might want him to meet you at my office.’
The bookmaker’s smiles were long gone as he walked over to a phone in the far corner of the betting office. Shannon felt a glow of satisfaction as she reached for her radio, but before she could hit the transmit switch, her mobile sounded.
She fished it from the right-hand pocket of her uniform trousers and hit the OK button. ‘Shannon,’ she replied, tersely.
‘Dottie.’ She knew the voice, but at that moment was unable to put a face or a name to it. ‘Neil McIlhenney.’ Mentally, she kicked herself: she had been with the Special Branch head only a few days before. ‘Are you able to talk to me?’ he asked.
She glanced around: Starr was dialling a number and Pye was bagging the toy Luger. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be brief. You’re wanted up at headquarters this afternoon: DCC Skinner’s office, three thirty.’
‘What’s it about?’
