So, Kai’s former employer was Campbell’s sister. Murdo Campbell – was he a bent copper? Certainly attendance at a swingers’ party where class A drugs were being freely consumed would be gross misconduct. Bringing the force into disrepute. And any friend of Big Jim’s was an enemy of Hanlon’s.
She thought of Wemyss, his keen nose for a scent. Kindred spirits, she thought. And I can smell something that stinks to high heaven. Come on, she thought, drumming her fingers on the counter top.
She had drunk two cups of coffee and read her e-mails twice over before she saw what she was looking for. Daniel McCullough, the sous chef. He emerged from the main door of the restaurant and looked around. Fortunately, there had been several good photos of him on the website.
Like Ishbel Campbell, McCullough was small, efficient-looking and handsome. She put her coffee down and hurried after him.
13
She followed McCullough along Sauchiehall Street in the centre of Glasgow, the monumental dark red sandstone buildings as powerfully confident as his strutting walk. Hanlon hurried after him. She caught up with him as he waited to cross the road.
‘Excuse me, Daniel McCullough?’
He turned and looked at her.
‘Yes?’ He was good-looking, neat, regular features, intelligent, calm eyes. He was the personification of efficiency, she thought.
‘DCI Hanlon, police. Can I have a quick word? It’s nothing serious,’ she added, reassuring him.
‘Sure.’ He was puzzled but not alarmed, a man whose conscience was clear.
The lights changed and they crossed the road together. There was a pedestrianised area with several benches. Hanlon pointed to an empty one.
‘This will do fine.’
They sat down; he looked at her with curiosity. Passers-by eddied and flowed around them. It was a hot sunny day and the mood in the centre of the city was relaxed and genial.
‘How can I help?’ he asked.
‘I just wanted to ask a few questions about one of your former colleagues, Kai McPherson.’
McCullough shook his head at the mention of the name. He looked at the sunny street area with its shirt-sleeved businessmen and women in summer dresses. Like most chefs, rarely seeing the light of day, he was very pale.
‘So what’s Kai been up to?’ he said.
‘Nothing, really.’ Hanlon shook her head. ‘His name came up in the course of an investigation. I was wondering what you could tell me about him.’
McCullough rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Not a great deal, he was only with us for a couple of months. He was competent enough, but… well…’
‘But?’
McCullough sighed. ‘He wasn’t really, I don’t know what the right word would be, suitable, I suppose. Posh isn’t the right word.’ He looked Hanlon in the eyes. ‘If you’re shelling out sixty to a hundred quid for lunch, you want to be served by someone with a bit of class. I don’t mean upper class, I’m not a snob, I mean “class”. Davey, who’s a waiter, he’s from some shit-hole part of Glasgow but he’s “simpatico”, like the Italians say.’
‘And Kai wasn’t,’ said Hanlon. She knew exactly what the chef meant; it mirrored her own thoughts.
‘No, don’t get me wrong,’ said McCullough, ‘he was polite, never caused trouble, but his face didn’t fit.’
Hanlon came to the question that she really wanted answering. ‘So why was he given the job?’
McCullough smiled. ‘That’s actually more or less what I asked Ish.’ He paused. ‘That’s Ishbel Campbell, she’s in charge. Why the fuck would she want to employ Kai? If we advertise for staff, we’re inundated.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘She didn’t really answer my question. I kind of got the impression that she gave him the job to do someone else a favour. But it would have been her decision. I mean, she part owns the place after all.’
‘Wow,’ Hanlon said, thinking of the lavish expense on fixtures and fittings, ‘she must have some money.’
‘I’ll say,’ said McCullough with feeling. ‘She bought one of the partners out a year ago. Half a million. Wish I could get my hands on that kind of money.’
He fell silent, maybe thinking of what he would do if he had got such wealth.
‘Any more questions?’ he asked.
‘No, that should do.’
‘Tell you what,’ said McCullough suddenly, ‘Kai was from Paisley. He used to work at a pub called the Rob Roy. You could always ask there, his home turf.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hanlon. ‘The Rob Roy…’ She made a note of it on her phone, checking the address with McCullough. ‘I think I will.’
‘That’s OK,’ said McCullough. He looked at her. ‘Now, if that’s everything, I’ll be off. I’m on a split.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m back on at five.’
‘What are you going to do for two hours?’ she asked, suddenly curious.
‘Couple of pints…’ McCullough yawned ‘… then a couple of lines. Shouldn’t really say that to you, should I?’
‘I’m a discreet person, Mr McCullough,’ Hanlon said. She thought it was a measure of how widespread drug use had become in society that McCullough was cheerfully admitting this to the police, but then again, maybe it was just him. You don’t get to be sous-chef in a rosette restaurant without a certain amount of ego. She recalled her own coke experience a few nights before; the stuff seemed to be everywhere these days. It seemed at times she was fighting a losing battle. People like McCullough didn’t seem to realise that the cost of coke wasn’t just fifty pounds a gram or whatever the street price happened to be, its cost was measured in violence and corruption.
He said, ‘Well, I don’t particularly miss Kai as a person or a colleague, but he always had a shit-load of coke on him.’
I can well believe that, she thought.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr McCullough.’
‘Dan, please.’
She stood up. ‘If ever you eat at the Mouse again, ask if I’m working,’ McCullough said. ‘I’ll upgrade your meal.’
‘Thank you, Dan,’ she said. ‘I will.’
She left him on the bench and walked thoughtfully back to the bus station. Time to go to Paisley and
