‘I’m not hearing anything about Francis Vernal.’ Kaye was scrunching the greasy wrappings into a ball.
‘Early eighties was also a hotbed of nationalism,’ Fox informed him. ‘Isn’t that right, Joe?’
Naysmith nodded. ‘SNP weren’t doing well in the polls, and that led some nationalists to look towards Ireland for inspiration. They reckoned a few explosions might focus London’s attention.’
‘Explosions?’
‘Letter bombs were sent to Mrs Thatcher and the Queen. Plus Woolwich Arsenal, the Ministry of Defence and Glasgow City Chambers – that last one on a day Princess Di was visiting. All these splinter groups: Seed of the Gael, SNLA…’
‘Scottish National Liberation Army,’ Fox explained for Kaye’s benefit.
‘Scottish Citizen Army… Dark Harvest Commando. That last one, they took a wee trip to Gruinard.’ Naysmith paused again.
‘Enlighten me,’ Kaye muttered.
‘It’s an island off the west coast. Infected with anthrax in World War Two.’
‘Germans?’ Kaye speculated.
Naysmith shook his head. ‘We did it ourselves. Planned to drop anthrax over Germany but wanted to test it first.’
‘After which Gruinard was uninhabitable,’ Fox added. ‘They took it off the maps to stop people finding it.’
‘But the Dark Harvest Commando went there and lifted some of the soil, then started sending it to various government agencies.’
‘Francis Vernal was involved?’ Kaye speculated.
‘Few years after he died, one reporter filed a piece. He said Vernal had been paymaster for the Dark Harvest Commando.’
‘Did he have proof?’
‘Information was harder to come by back then. Remember that book Spycatcher? These days it would be on the net, no way a government could stop people reading it.’
Naysmith looked up at Fox, and Fox nodded to let him know he’d done well. Naysmith smiled and pushed a hand through his hair.
‘I really got into it,’ he said, sounding almost embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. ‘Even found some clips of a TV show – Edge of Darkness.’
‘I remember that,’ Kaye broke in. ‘Big American CIA guy with a golf bag full of guns…’
‘It was about the nuclear industry,’ Naysmith elucidated. ‘Catches the paranoia of the time.’ He shrugged. ‘Seems to me, anyway.’
‘How much did you find about Dark Harvest Commando?’ Fox asked him.
‘Virtually nothing.’
‘Same here.’
‘For one thing, almost nobody ended up in court. For another, it just seemed to fade away.’
Fox nodded slowly.
‘Polaris and acid rain,’ Kaye mused. ‘Seems like ancient history.’ He slid from the sea wall and held the ball of rubbish above a bin. ‘See what I’m doing here?’ He tossed it in. ‘That’s what we should be doing with all of this.’ He brushed his hands together.
‘You really think so?’ Fox asked.
‘I know so. We’re not CID, Malcolm. None of this adds up to anything we should be part of.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
Kaye rolled his eyes.
‘Did Alan Carter kill himself?’ Fox asked quietly.
‘Maybe,’ Kaye stated after a moment.
‘If he was murdered…’
‘His nephew’s looking good for it.’
‘Paul’s adamant it wasn’t him.’
‘And nor is he a sleazebag who tries coercing women into giving him blow jobs.’
‘Oh, he’s a sleazebag all right. Doesn’t mean we should let them hang him out to dry.’
‘Let who hang him out to dry?’
‘That’s what I want us to find out.’
Kaye had moved towards Fox until their faces were a couple of inches apart. ‘We’re the Complaints, Malcolm. We’re not Mission: Impossible.’
‘I know that.’
‘Loved that show when I was a kid,’ Naysmith commented. Both men turned to look at him, then Kaye smiled a wan smile and shook his head.
‘All right then,’ he said, knowing he was beaten. ‘What do we do?’
‘You keep the investigation going – second interviews with the main players. That gives us our reason for being here.’
‘While you go snooping?’
‘Just for a day or two.’
‘A day or two?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ Fox said, pressing two fingers together and holding them up.
17
The cordon had been moved further up the track. It comprised the usual length of crime-scene ribbon guarded by a bored-looking uniform. Fox and Naysmith showed their ID.
‘CID must have arrived,’ Fox explained to Naysmith as the uniform lifted the tape so their car could pass under it.
The gate to the field was open, the field itself emptied of livestock and now useful as a temporary car park. Two unmarked cars, one patrol car, and two white vans.
A suited, shaven-headed veteran was talking into his phone beside one of the unmarked cars. His eyes were on the new arrivals as they parked and got out. Fox offered him a nod and started walking towards the cottage. He could see figures moving around inside. At least two of them were Scene of Crime – dressed in regulation hooded white overalls, hands and feet covered so they wouldn’t contaminate the locus.
‘Bit late for that,’ Fox muttered, thinking of the number of people who had traipsed in and out since the body had been found.
‘Hey, you!’
The man with the phone was approaching from the field. He had a loping gait, which caused him to slip on some mud and nearly lose his footing. From the look on his face, Fox surmised this wasn’t the first time it had happened.
‘It’s treacherous,’ Fox commented.
The man ignored him, using his phone as a pointer. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Fox.’ Fox reached for his warrant card again. ‘Inspector, Lothian and Borders.’
‘So what brings you here?’
‘How about some ID first? Can’t be too careful.’
The man gave him a hard stare, but eventually relented. His name was Brendan Young. He was a detective sergeant.
‘Glenrothes?’ Fox guessed.
‘Dunfermline.’
‘You in charge?’
‘DI’s inside.’
‘Not now, he isn’t.’ The man who stepped from the cottage was six foot three and as broad as a rugby
