thought it would make sense to have an official record of events.’
‘As I understand it, Detective Inspector,’ Traquair drawled, ‘there
‘Is that correct, Mr Gilmour?’ Clarke asked. Gilmour glanced towards the solicitor before answering.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘You had William Saunders’s number?’
‘Hard to make the call otherwise.’
‘How did you happen to have it? I was under the impression the two of you had lost touch. .’
Another glance towards the lawyer, who merely indicated with a twitch of the mouth that Gilmour could answer if he wished.
‘It wasn’t hard,’ Gilmour conceded. ‘There’s a company I use.’ He leaned forward in his seat, as if to take them into his confidence. ‘In business, sometimes it helps to have an edge over whoever you happen to be dealing with.’
‘And this company helps with that?’
Gilmour nodded. ‘They’re private investigators. Give them a name, a car licence plate or a business address and it’s quite gobsmacking what they can dig up.’
‘What did they “dig up” on William Saunders?’
‘All I wanted was a phone number.’
‘Did they know why?’
Gilmour shook his head. ‘Look, it’s all pretty straightforward.’ He rested his elbows on the table, so that the lawyer had to move the notebook a little. ‘I’d heard that the Solicitor General was hoping to reopen an old case, one that involved both Billy Saunders and the CID unit I happened to run at the time. The mishandling of that investigation had led me to resign from the force. Stands to reason the Yes campaign would want to tar me — don’t think they’ve not got people of their own trying to dig up dirt on me.’ Another glance in Fox’s direction, accompanied by the licking of dry lips. ‘We all know the Solicitor General’s leanings, and her camp know they’re way behind in the polls. .’
‘You’re saying this is all politically motivated?’
‘Why else would it be coming up now?’
‘Because the double jeopardy law has changed.’
‘And you don’t think the timing of
‘Did you bring any of this up with William Saunders?’ Clarke asked.
Gilmour ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. ‘I just asked him what he was going to say to Macari’s inquiry.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing — he ended the call right there.’
‘You didn’t threaten him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Or offer an inducement of any kind?’
‘Don’t answer that,’ the lawyer drawled. Traquair stopped writing and beamed a professional smile across the table. ‘My client has told you the extent of his conversation with William Saunders. He has cooperated fully with you. I don’t see that this dialogue need continue any further.’
‘Did you meet him, Mr Gilmour?’ Clarke was asking.
‘Really, DI Clarke, I must insist. .’ Traquair had placed a hand on his client’s forearm, as if to warn him against answering.
‘I want the name of that firm of investigators,’ Clarke went on. ‘I want to hear from them that all you got was a phone number.’
‘Any objection?’ Traquair asked Gilmour.
‘No,’ Gilmour said, staring hard at Clarke. Then: ‘Will John Rebus merit the same treatment? Dragged here in a squad car, with the media primed and ready? How about Blantyre and Paterson? Or am I the only one that’ll help you get your face on TV, DI Clarke?’
‘We’ll need contact details for those snoopers,’ Clarke said to the lawyer, as she rose to her feet. ‘And they’ll need to be told they can speak to us — no “client privilege” smokescreen.’
‘Understood,’ Traquair said, closing his notebook and beginning to screw the top back on his fat black pen.
‘This firm of investigators,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Ever used them to dig dirt on the Yes campaign?’
Gilmour just glowered, as did his lawyer.
Before leaving, Gilmour slapped his fist against the interview room door. It was only afterwards that Clarke realised what he’d done. She pointed out the sticker to Fox. BETTER TOGETHER, it read. VOTE NO.
‘The man has a sense of humour,’ Fox said, peeling it off with a fingernail. ‘I wonder how big a bill he’s just run up with that lawyer of his.’
‘Whatever it is, it won’t be funny. And by the way, that parting shot of yours?’
‘Yes?’
‘Worthy of Rebus himself.’
‘Is that a good thing, do you think?’
They returned to the office and watched as a taxi drew up, lawyer and client fighting their way through the melee and the questions before clambering into the back. One particularly stubborn photographer ran down the road after the cab, firing off a few more shots through its rear window.
‘Those private investigators will only give us whatever story Gilmour tells them to,’ Fox cautioned.
Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Do you think we let him off too lightly?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Fox reassured her. ‘But is he right about the others — will they merit the same attention?’
‘None of them spoke to Billy Saunders,’ Clarke stated.
‘Not on his phone, at any rate,’ Fox added by way of qualification. ‘But whoever met him on the canal path that night, they didn’t just stumble upon him. It was an arrangement.’
‘Arranged how?’
‘I suppose a few of the public phone boxes in the city still work.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Clarke said.
‘Needle in a haystack,’ Fox agreed.
An hour later, the team crammed into the office so Clarke could inform them of the initial findings regarding the firearm found in the canal. She was reading from a printed e-mail, sent from the ballistics unit in Glasgow. A rush job had been ordered, so the report was not comprehensive. But it did include the crucial information that the bullet removed from Billy Saunders’s spine had been fired from the gun.
‘The gun itself,’ Clarke intoned, ‘is a Browning L9A1 nine-millimetre pistol, probably dating back to the early 1980s. Standard British Army issue from the 1950s until just recently. Apparently a lot of them went walkies after the Falklands War. The serial number has been filed off, and no usable prints have been found on the grip or barrel. Three bullets remain in the clip and again these seem to date back a few decades. The gun hasn’t been kept in the best condition, and probably hadn’t been used in quite some time. Accurate only at short range.’ Clarke looked up from the sheet and realised Fox had ducked out of the room at some point. The other members of the team were jotting notes to themselves or frowning in a show of concentration.
‘Thoughts, please,’ she said, scanning the faces in front of her.
‘We need to trace the gun back. .’
‘Someone must know where it came from. .’
‘Worth contacting army bases in the city. .?’
‘Do we know who the underworld would go to if they needed firearms. .?’
‘Are we treating the shooting as an assassination? If it was a pro, they could be ex-army themselves. .’
‘Except a pro wouldn’t just chuck the weapon, would they? They’d break it up, dispose of it in bits and pieces. .’
‘Could the gun have belonged to the victim. .?’
