‘He was after my time, more or less.’
‘So you went to Hendryson. He brought in the local Complaints team. They didn’t get very far. But then these other two women came forward, and that’s when Teresa Collins decided she’d cooperate?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Fox sat for a few moments longer. Alan Carter seemed in no rush to see him go, but he had nothing keeping him there, nothing but the warmth of the fire and companionable silence.
‘A long way from Edinburgh, isn’t it, Inspector?’ Carter said quietly. ‘These are the backlands, where things tend to get fixed on the quiet.’
‘You regret what’s happened to your nephew? All that media exposure?’
‘I doubt anything’s “happened” to him.’ Carter tapped the side of his head. ‘Not in here.’
‘He’s in jail, though. That’s tough on the family.’
‘I’m the family – all that’s left of it.’ Carter paused. ‘Are your folks still with us?’
‘My dad is,’ Fox conceded.
‘Sisters and brothers?’
‘Just the one sister.’
‘Close, are you?’ Fox chose not to answer. ‘Luckier than most if you are. Sometimes you have to draw a line between yourself and the ones you’re supposed to love.’ Carter ran a finger horizontally through the air. ‘It might sting for a while, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.’
Fox sat for a further moment or two, then rose to his feet, his host copying him. The man was almost wedged into the chair, but Fox doubted he’d accept any offer of help.
‘Macaroni cheese, that’s my downfall, eh, Jimmy?’
The dog’s ears pricked up at mention of its name. Fox had paused next to the dining table.
‘If I was to describe you,’ Fox began, ‘I’d say you were orderly – coats on the rack; boots laid out in a row. Biscuits need to go on a plate, not served straight from the packet. And that makes me wonder about this…’ He waved his hand across the table. ‘It’s not just hoarding, is it? There’s some sort of pattern to it.’
‘A bit of historical research.’
‘Nineteen eighty-five?’
‘There or thereabouts.’
‘Late April maybe?’
‘Go on then – tell me what happened.’
‘In April ’85?’ Fox tried to think. In the end, he gave up.
‘Dennis Taylor beat Steve Davis at the snooker,’ Alan Carter said, leading the way to the door.
6
Detective Constable Cheryl Forrester liked to ask questions. Questions like: How long have you been in the Complaints? Is there a selection process? How many of you work there? Is it for life, or some kind of fixed term? Why is it you’re detective grade but not called detectives? What’s been your most shocking case? What’s the nightlife like in Edinburgh?
‘It’s only a train ride away, you know,’ Joe Naysmith told her.
‘Oh, I’ve been there plenty times.’
‘Then you probably know the nightlife better than we do,’ Tony Kaye said.
‘But I mean the places locals go…’
‘DC Forrester, we’re not really here to pass along tourist tips.’
‘I like the Voodoo Rooms,’ Naysmith interrupted. He saw the look on his colleague’s face and swallowed back a further comment.
The problem was, Forrester’s enthusiasm was almost infectious. The description ‘bubbly’ might have been coined for her. She had curly brown hair, tanned skin, and a rounded face with freckles and large brown eyes. She had been in the force for six years, the last two in CID. Right at the start, she’d told them she was too busy for a boyfriend.
‘I’m sure plenty have tried,’ Kaye had stated, intending to bring Paul Carter’s name into play, but she had steered the conversation in another direction by asking Naysmith if the Complaints worked nine-to-five, to which he’d responded by telling her about their surveillance van and how an operation could last anything up to a year.
‘A year of your life? Better be a result at the end of it!’
And so it went, until Kaye finally rapped his knuckles against the table. They were in the interview room again, but without the recording equipment. Forrester, sensing she was somehow worthy of censure, set her mouth tight and clasped her hands together in front of her.
‘As you know,’ Tony Kaye began, ‘certain allegations have been levelled at several of your colleagues. Would you care to tell us what you think of them?’
‘The allegations or the colleagues?’
‘Why not both?’
Forrester puffed out her cheeks. ‘I was shocked when I heard. I think everyone was. I’d worked with DC Carter for almost eighteen months and he’d never… well, never struck me as being like that.’
‘You’ve been out on calls with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the car with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s never said anything? Never asked you to wait while he popped into a house or a flat?’
‘Not like that, no.’
‘Police stations are terrible places for gossip…’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything.’ She stared at Kaye with her wide, innocent-seeming eyes.
‘Your colleagues in CID – Scholes, Haldane, Michaelson…’
‘What about them?’
‘When the Carter investigation started, they must’ve talked about it.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Did anything strike you? Maybe they went into a huddle?’
She gave a look of concentration, then shook her head slowly but with certainty.
‘Did you ever feel left out? Maybe they headed off to the pub together…’
‘We have nights at the pub, yes.’
‘You must have discussed the case.’
‘Yes, but not how to tamper with evidence.’
‘The time Michaelson spilled coffee on his notebook – did you see that?’
‘No.’
‘And you never saw Teresa Collins, never heard Carter on the phone to her?’
‘No.’
‘How come you weren’t called as a witness at the trial? Sounds to me like you could have done Carter a power of good.’
‘I don’t really know. I mean, all I could have said is what I’ve just told you.’
‘Carter never came on to you?’
There was silence in the room. Forrester looked down at her hands and then up again. ‘Never,’ she stated.
‘And that’s the truth, not just something you’ve been told to say?’
‘It’s the truth. Bring me a bible and I’ll swear on it.’
‘If we can’t find a bible,’ Naysmith interrupted, ‘would a cocktail list suffice?’
Cheryl Forrester laughed, showing perfect pearly teeth.
At the end of the interview, Naysmith said he’d walk her back to CID.
