‘It backs up the pub manager’s story, boss, doesn’t it?’ he declared, confidently. ‘I’d guess that Marlon was in the van. The first time the driver turned into Infirmary Street, it was busy, so he drove on. Then he did a loop up the High Street, left at the Mound, down Victoria Street and into the Grassmarket… even with only a wee bit of traffic that would have taken him ten minutes… and had another look. Second time it was all clear, so they hauled the lad out, forced him into the baths, and played with him.’
‘What about the pub manager guy? Did you get any more out of him?’
‘He’s with a photofit operator now, but I’m not sure how good he’ll be. I fear he’ll give us something just to get us off his back. He was right about the Transit, though.’
‘You and I know that, but to a prosecutor, it’s as you said, a guess. We need to find the van and prove Marlon was inside it. I didn’t notice any livery on the side. Have we got a number?’
McGuire winced. ‘I don’t think so. The turn it makes in the Cowgate is very tight to the camera; it doesn’t show the number plate. The South Bridge shots do, but the focus is pretty crap. I’ve frozen it, frame by frame, but I can’t get close to reading it.’
I looked at the still image on the screen. ‘I can see that. Tell you what, there’s a technical department upstairs, run by a whiz called Davidson. Take the tape to him, and ask him to do what he can to enhance it. Tell him I sent you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I left him to get on with it and looked into the far corner of the suite, where DCs Macken and Reid sat at facing desks. I hate to admit it, since they were on my team, if only briefly, but I never did get to know their first names. As I walked across to them, they were deep in conversation. When I heard Macken say, ‘Frankie Dettori,’ I knew that the subject wasn’t work-related.
I’ve always had a temper, I confess. For the first fourteen years of my life it was probably suppressed for fear of the consequences, but it’s always been there. The only plea I’ll offer in my defence is that normally, the fuse is quite long. No, I have one more piece of mitigation: it’s non-existent with my kids. With them, and Aileen, I’m a big pink bunny rabbit. With anyone else, though, when it’s lit, there’s no stamping it out.
Reid glanced at me as I approached; he was a couple of years older than me, had been buried in Special Branch for a few years, photographing harmless students at protest rallies, and probably thought he was fire- proof. My presence didn’t seem to register with the other fellow at all.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said.
Macken leaned back in his chair and looked at me as if he was appraising me. He was a couple of years older than Reid, and it was rumoured that his wife was the cousin of the wife of his retired patron, Jock Davey. ‘Yes?’ he replied, stifling a half yawn.
He was a goner then, but he didn’t know it. Fred Leggat did though; he’d been speaking with Mackie and Steele, and I heard him stop in mid-sentence.
‘You two with me, my office, now!’ I ground the words out but shouted the last, then turned on my heel and walked away. Behind me I heard the noise of chairs scraping back. I was relieved; I’d have hauled Macken to his feet if I’d had to, but that wouldn’t have been good boss form. I was sitting behind my desk when they joined me. Reid reached for a chair. ‘Don’t bother,’ I barked. ‘Standing.’ The door was still ajar, but that was their problem.
In the outer office, everyone else seemed to have found something to do, apart from McGuire, who seemed to speed up as he headed for the door. I suspected that he didn’t want anything to splash on his nice suit. I launched into them. ‘As far as I know,’ I bellowed, ‘in this job, DC stands for detective constable, and that’s four rungs down the ladder from detective superintendent. That means that when I give you a task, you report to me when it’s finished, not the other way round!’
As they gazed back at me, Reid was apprehensive, but his sidekick still had a truculent look about him, that of a man who’d had a couple of pints for lunch and maybe one for the road as well. ‘So? Tell me. What do you hear about Tony Manson? Is his business under threat? Does he have a new rival? Where the hell is he? Or have you just been in the pub all bloody day?’
‘No, sir,’ Reid protested. ‘We did what you told us, we asked around. We got nothing. Nobody’s heard anything about new feet on the ground, no new drug dealers, no new hookers on the streets.’
‘Who did you ask?’
‘Informants,’ Macken drawled.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Guys we know. Dealers we’ve lifted; users we’ve spotted. Hoors.’
‘Street level? Druggies and prostitutes?’
‘Aye.’
‘Aye?’ I shouted. ‘Would that be as in “Yes, sir”?’
‘Aw, fuck.’
I jumped out of my chair, walked round my desk and got right in his face. He was reeking of beer, and scraps of food clung to his teeth. ‘You are an idiot,’ I told him. ‘I told you to talk to known associates. Folk like that have never even seen Tony Manson,’ I shouted. ‘He hasn’t been on the fucking street for years. Your so-called informants… if they exist… don’t have a clue about his world or what happens in it. They only find out about it afterwards, once it has happened. You’re experienced officers, on a specialist unit; you’re required to know that.’ I kept my eyes on him, quelling his belligerence, leaning in ever closer until he took a couple of steps backwards.
‘Keep on going,’ I snapped, ‘out to your desk. Clear it, go home, and don’t come back here. I could suspend you for drinking on duty, Macken, but I can’t be arsed with the paperwork that would entail. It would distract me, and quite frankly you’re not worth it. You are finished in CID. On Monday morning, you’ll be told where you’ll be working. Wherever it is, you’ll be in uniform for the rest of your police career. Now go!’
As I spoke, I hoped that he’d take a swing at me, but he wasn’t quite that stupid. He turned, stumbling slightly, and left. I’d have to square his transfer with Alf, and he’d probably have to route it through the ACC. Placing him wouldn’t be easy; being booted off Serious Crimes and out of CID as well hung a sign round your neck as visible as a rotting albatross. Wherever he went, my bet was that he wouldn’t last a month before handing in his warrant card.
‘You’re out as well,’ I told Reid, ‘but I’ll get you a move within CID.’ I knew where he’d go too. Greg Jay was running short-handed at St Leonards. ‘You can go home now too.’
I hadn’t wanted to end my first day with an axe in my hand and blood on the floor, but some things have to be done. I could have handled it more gently, but I’d been provoked by that waste of a chair Macken. I waited until they’d both left before rejoining the rest of the team. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that,’ I told them, ‘but I believe in the job, and I can’t stand people who just don’t give a fuck.’
I glanced at the clock. It was ten to five. ‘It’s Friday night, but this is a murder investigation. Brian, Stevie, you’ve got your weekend mapped out for you. Fred, Jeff…’ as I spoke, the door opened and McGuire came back into the room, ‘… and you, Mario, I want you to be ready to follow up any responses from the press appeal for information. Go back to Marlon’s street. Don’t blow the guys’ cover but talk to Bella again and see if you can get anything out of her about her son, where he drank, who his pals were. Ask the neighbours as well. Jeff, see if you can find that boy Clyde; he and his team are the eyes and ears of the place. If you have to slip them a tenner for information, do it, but not where anyone can see you. Andy, I want you here tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, Saturday or not. You and I are going to talk to a couple of the people that Macken and Reid didn’t know.’
Eight
There was one of those, one of Manson’s ‘known associates’, that I had to see on my own. I knew that if I turned up as one half of the traditional CID twosome, he would give me the time of day, politely, as much as he ever gave anyone, unless he poured them a drink or his boss told him to be less than courteous.
When I left for home, I took a different route from usual, down Leith Walk. Near the foot, I parked in an empty space, and crossed the road. My destination was a pub; it was called the Milton Vaults and it was owned by a company whose sole shareholder was Tony Manson. Once upon a time, its clientele had been so wild that the
