‘I suppose so. She was living in a student flat in town at that point, so Doreen and I weren’t really up to speed with her, er, romantic life. She did bring him to the house once, though.’
‘You met him?’
‘Yes, it was at the weekend. They arrived out of the blue, she introduced him as her friend Dominic, then whisked him up to her studio in the attic.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Roughly, I suppose. As I recall, he was a bit older than Stacey; yes, I recall mentioning that to Doreen at the time. I said that he was getting on a bit to be a student . . . although to be fair to the chap she didn’t introduce him as such.’
‘How much older?’
‘He’d be about thirty.’
‘Did he look like a student? Was he dressed like one?’
‘A bit smarter than that, I suppose. He wore denims and a check shirt.’ There was a sound in the background. ‘What’s that, dear? You sure? Okay. Doreen says that the shirt was Paul Smith. She noticed the label; she says they’re pricey.’
‘I’m an M & S man myself, sir,’ Singh volunteered. ‘Can you give me a physical description?’
‘He was around the same height as me, I’d say, five ten, well built, but not fat, strong-looking, well groomed . . . By that I mean he was clean-shaven and his hair was longish, but properly cut. Now that I think about it, he didn’t really look like a student. He had a more affluent air than that.’
‘She never mentioned a surname? You’re sure?’
‘Certain. She only ever called him Dominic, or Dom.’
‘How long did they see each other?’
‘A few months.’
‘Might it have carried on up to the time of her death?’
‘No,’ Gavin replied firmly. ‘When Stacey graduated and moved back in with us to save money while she built up her reputation, and established regular sales, I asked her about him, “How’s Dom?” just casually. She just smiled and said, “He’s off down the road,” her way of saying that it was all over. She wasn’t upset, though,’
‘Mmm.’ Singh paused. ‘I don’t suppose you found a photo of him, sir, among your daughter’s personal stuff? Maybe something taken
The father chuckled. ‘No, but I can do better than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His portrait’s upstairs. Stacey painted him. That’s what they were doing up in the attic: he was sitting for her. That’s how I know he’s well built: it’s a nude.’
‘She kept it?’
‘Yes. I was up in the studio one day and she showed me it. She said that she’d have given it to him, but that he didn’t stick around long enough.’
‘Is it . . . how do I put this, sir? Is it a good likeness of him?’
‘I can only speak for the part above the neck, Mr Singh, but if the rest of him is as near lifelike as that, he’s an impressive bloke.’
In other circumstances Singh might have laughed, but his mind was focused. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed it, sir? If it’s that good I’d like to copy it. We may need to find this man.’
Gavin’s tone became serious once more. ‘Sure. Come on out; I’ll look it out and bubble-wrap it for you. Handle it carefully, though.’
‘Be sure of that, sir. It’ll be as precious to me as it is to you and Mrs Gavin.’
Thirty-four
‘You know, Andy,’ said Mario McGuire, ‘if I ever aspire to chief officer rank, which I won’t, by the way, I’d like it to be in a place like this.’
‘There’s worse,’ Deputy Chief Constable Andrew Martin conceded, as the two men stared along the length of Loch Tay. ‘But you have scenery as nice as this in the patch you’re in just now. There are some lovely spots in East Lothian and down in the borders.’
‘True, but the incidence of crime in those spots is remarkably low, and crime is what I do, remember.’
‘And out here . . . In fact, the incidence of anything is bloody rare out here. Why do you think I grabbed the chance to chum you on this interview?’
‘Do I detect that you’ve had enough of the silvery Tay?’ McGuire quizzed.
‘Let’s just say that I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life here.’
‘And Proud Jimmy goes next year.’
‘And Bob’s in line to succeed him,’ said Martin, quickly. ‘There are other jobs; there’s Aberdeen, for example, then there’s Glasgow. They’ll be looking for a deputy in the Strathclyde force next year. But who says I’m stuck in Scotland? The chief in Northumbria has only two years to go, and there’s the Thames Valley area.’
‘You’re a jock copper, Andy; you wouldn’t go south. Plus, I seem to remember that you never sold Karen’s flat in Edinburgh after the two of you got married, so you’re still on the property ladder there.’
Martin laughed. ‘Stop being a bloody detective, man. Let’s get serious and go and see these people.’
They climbed back into the deputy chief’s car. They had met up at the tourist office at Aberfeldy, but the Paul family lived not in the town itself but a short distance away. The stop-off in the tiny village of Kenmore, where the River Tay flows into the loch that bears its name, had been made simply to allow them to catch up with each other’s news.
‘Do you know anything about the couple?’ McGuire asked, as they drove off.
‘Why should I?’ the DCC replied. ‘This is your interview; I’m just the legal necessity here.’
‘Because old detectives never die, and they never talk to people on a business basis without knowing as much as they can in advance.’
‘Okay, I admit it, I ran a check. Colonel Travers Paul is fifty-six, and he’s retired. He was educated at Strathallan School, went to Sandhurst and served in the army for twelve years, until he was invalided out post- Falklands. From there, he joined a big tobacco company, and was a senior executive, working in Africa and latterly in the US, until he chucked it four years ago. He still has a consultancy role with the firm, but he spends most of his time in voluntary work. He’s chair of the community council, and he and his wife have owned their present home for seventeen years. His interests include fishing . . . he’s a supporter of the Atlantic Salmon Trust . . . and he’s a regular at Pitlochry Festival Theatre. He and his wife Marietta have been married for twenty-eight years and Harry was their only son. I got all that from his official biog on the council website. They’re members of the Church of Scotland, and regular attenders at the parish church in Aberfeldy. She’s active in the care group, and in the guild. I got that from the minister. Harry, on the other hand, hasn’t been seen in the place since he chucked the local youth group when he was seventeen, after what was described as an “incident” at a dance where his band was playing. According to the long-serving local constable, it involved his being caught by one of the supervising adults, horizontal jogging behind the kirk during a break, with a girl from Pitlochry. There was a row, the bloke said something crude about the lass, young Harry chinned him, and his band never finished the gig.’
‘Pitlochry’s beyond the pale around here, is it?’ McGuire chuckled. Then he frowned. ‘Poor lad. Shagging never did him a lot of good, did it? First it got him kicked out of the church and then it got him shot in the head.’
‘Let’s not put that thought to the parents,’ Martin murmured. He drew to a halt as he saw a police vehicle parked by the roadside, then got out and walked towards the uniformed officers who were standing beside it. They saluted as he approached. ‘Any press turned up?’ he asked the older of the two, a sergeant.
‘Quite a few, sir,’ the heavily built man replied. ‘We’ve had a couple of television crews, some photographers, and a freelance scribbler who covers the area around here, all more or less at the same time. We told them that the Pauls aren’t seeing anybody, and most of them understood that. The local guy knows the colonel; he told me he’d spoken to him on the phone already, but he wasn’t letting on to the rest. One of the television reporters got a bit stroppy, but she realised it wasn’t getting her anywhere so she shut up. They all took some shots of the house and the loch, hung about for a while, then pissed off.’
‘Fine. That’s probably all you’ll have, but stay here for another two hours, just in case. We’ll go on up to the
