‘Her name back then was Alice Watts…’
Elliot tried to place it but failed. ‘Back then?’ he prompted.
Fox didn’t say anything, but when he went to close the book, Elliot took it from, him, still open at the photograph. ‘Seventh of April 1985…’
‘Were you there that day?’
‘In a manner of speaking: I was one of the ones they arrested. But we were out again by late evening.’
‘But you don’t recall seeing Alice Watts?’
Elliot shook his head again. ‘Nice to see Hawkeye again, though.’ He turned the book towards Fox. ‘That’s him there, arm in arm with the young lady.’ Fox took the book back and studied the photo again. The man Professor Martin hadn’t known, the one with long hair, beard and sunglasses.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Fairly sure.’ One of the production runners was standing in front of them, hugging her clipboard to her chest and tapping at an imaginary watch on her wrist.
‘I really have to go,’ Elliot apologised to Fox.
‘Can you give me anything else on Hawkeye?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘A first name? His accent?’ Fox was trying not to sound desperate.
‘Scottish,’ was all Elliot said, rising to his feet. And there was that smile again, the one that told the world John Elliot had moved on, that he lived for the present and not the past.
‘Can we talk again?’ Fox proposed.
‘I really don’t have anything more to say.’
‘I might have more questions.’
Elliot stretched out his arms, underlining that he’d told Fox as much as he could.
‘You’re the first terrorist I’ve ever met,’ Fox told him.
‘I hope I’ve lived up to expectations.’ Elliot’s voice had hardened.
‘We’re out hunting bombers right now – wonder if they’ll be hosting TV shows in a few years.’
‘You’ll excuse me.’ He turned away and started to follow the assistant. Fox was only a step or two behind him.
‘Did your side win?’ he asked.
Elliot paused and seemed to give the question some consideration. The assistant started to say something, but he silenced her with a gesture.
‘We’re closer than ever to an independent Scotland,’ he told Fox. ‘Maybe that process started when the government in London had to acknowledge our existence.’
‘Sounds to me like you’ve still got a few political bones left in your body, Mr Elliot.’
‘I’m not allowed to take sides, Inspector.’
‘Bad for the public image?’
The assistant was actually tugging at Elliot’s arm. With a slight bow of the head in Fox’s direction, he allowed himself to be led away to the waiting van.
Fox’s phone rang. He was staring at the photograph as he answered.
‘Paul Carter’s dead,’ Tony Kaye’s voice informed him.
‘What?’
‘Happened some time last night. They pulled him from the harbour early this morning.’
‘Drowned?’
‘Body’s gone for autopsy.’
‘Christ on a bike, Tony…’
‘Quite so.’
‘Do we know anything else?’
‘Not much.’
Fox was remembering his last meeting with Carter. Remembering, too, that Joe Naysmith had seen him even more recently.
‘The Wheatsheaf,’ Fox commented.
‘Suppose I better let someone know we were there.’
‘When I saw him at the cottage, he seemed pretty wrung out.’
‘Suicidal, though? I wouldn’t have said he was the type.’
‘Me neither.’
‘You know, Malcolm, just for once I’d like a nice clear-cut death.’
‘Are you in Kirkcaldy?’
‘Station’s a bit subdued.’
‘Does the incident room know?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about Scholes?’
‘Haven’t seen any of that lot yet.’
‘You better talk to DI Cash. Let him know about last night.’
‘Okay.’
‘Will the autopsy be at the hospital?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘Then I’ll see you there.’
‘Cash might not like it.’
‘Mood I’m in, that’ll suit me fine.’
‘Just so long as I can have a seat ringside,’ Tony Kaye said.
‘Bring a pair of white gloves and I’ll make you referee.’ Fox ended the call and headed out to his car.
29
‘Always in the basement,’ Joe Naysmith commented as they walked along the windowless corridor. All three were rubbing antibacterial foam into their hands. ‘Path labs, autopsy suites…’
‘You want them in the car park?’ Tony Kaye shot back. ‘So everyone can see the cadavers?’
‘Time was,’ Fox stated, ‘the public liked a post-mortem exam.’
‘That’s because the public, as we all know, are sick and twisted.’ Kaye pushed open another set of doors and almost wished he hadn’t.
‘Well, well,’ DI Cash drawled. ‘The gang’s all here. Come to check out your handiwork?’ He turned towards DS Brendan Young. ‘Nothing the rubber heels like better than hounding a man to his death.’
‘While all you were doing was accusing him of murder,’ Fox countered. ‘How long did the questioning go on – nine, ten hours at a stretch?’
Cash stabbed a finger towards Fox. ‘I seem to remember sending you to the wilderness.’
‘And I was quite happy there, but we’ve got a bit of news we need to share.’
Cash slid his hands into his pockets and went up on his toes. ‘This’ll be good,’ he told Young.
‘First we need to hear what the autopsy says.’
‘Join the queue,’ Young muttered, checking the time on his phone.
On cue, the door marked ‘Examination Suite’ swung open. The pathologist was suited and booted and looked impatient.
‘How many of you want to watch? We only have three sets of scrubs.’
Naysmith looked relieved to hear it. Kaye stared dolefully at Fox, knowing rank was about to be pulled on him. Five minutes later, Fox, Cash and Young were inside, listening to the hum of the extractor fan and the pathologist chivvying his assistant.
‘We’re a man down, but it can’t be helped,’ he told Cash. Fox knew that Scots law required corroboration – meaning two pathologists should have been present. ‘We can always put him in the fridge until tomorrow…?’
