‘Log-like,’ I lied. ‘How goes it?’
‘No result, but we do have a witness, though. Mr Pringle’s team did a door-to-door; they knocked up everyone living in the area. The owner of a mews house in Jamaica Street Lane told them that he came home just after midnight and was just closing his garage after putting his car away, when a man came running past him, heading in the direction of India Street. He gave a decent description: twenties, tall, slim, clean-shaven, black hair, khaki-coloured cotton jacket.’
‘That’s a start.’
‘More than a start. Bob, this is the same man; I’m sure of it.’ Just what I did not want to hear. ‘He’s changed the hair, as you said he would, but the rest of the description matches Wyllie’s. And that’s not where it ends. When you called earlier we’d just left the home of the manager of the Giggling Goose, a man called Ferrier. We ran the description past him. He told us that it fitted someone who’d been involved in a dust-up in his pub, earlier on. What you have to understand is, his customers aren’t exclusively gay; there’s no sign over the door, and his clientele’s usually mixed.’
‘Bet on it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a pint in there myself before now.’
‘Okay, so you know what it’s like. Well, according to Ferrier, a wee bit before twelve, our man bought a pint.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes, as far as Ferrier could tell. Anyway, as he was backing away from the bar, he bumped into two guys and spilled his Guinness all over them. It was his fault, but he started to swear at the other two, and it got a bit heated. There were a couple of homophobic remarks, and Ferrier told them to shut up. Khaki jacket wouldn’t, though. He called them a couple of wankers, said they were hiding behind the barman’s apron, threw what was left of the Guinness in their faces and headed for the door.’
‘Did they go after him?’
‘Only one of them. The other one, his pal, tried to stop him, but he shook him off. He went charging out and he never came back.’
‘Did nobody go and look for him?’ I asked.
‘Ferrier said that about ten minutes later, his mate asked him to mind his drink and went looking for him. He came back though, and said he couldn’t see him. That’s not surprising. Just at the end of the lane, where it splits, there are a few steps leading down into the courtyard of the Jamaica Mews flats. The body was hidden down there in the shadows, out of sight of the lane. It was only found when a couple of girls tripped over it on the way home. It was a hell of a mess; multiple stab wounds, big ones, including one in each eye.’
‘So the khaki jacket would be pretty bloody,’ I suggested.
‘Not necessarily. He must have died very quickly, for there wasn’t as much spread of blood as the number of wounds would suggest.’
‘Have you got an ID for him?’
‘No, he had nothing on him. Ferrier didn’t know him by name and there was no wallet found. He had one when he was in the pub, so khaki jacket must have taken it.’
‘Fuck!’
‘I agree, but what’s it to you?’
I told her of my fear. There was a multiple murderer out there, or there would be when Weir’s life support was switched off. It was always possible that Alf Stein would take over the hunt himself, but that wasn’t his style, not when he had the Serious Crimes Unit up his sleeve to put a bit of PR gloss on it.
‘What should I do now?’ she asked.
‘You should tell Dan Pringle what you know, and then bring Alastair up to speed when he gets back from Perth. They’ll report to Alf, and next thing you know,’ I sighed, ‘I can see now, it’ll be pass the fucking parcel to yours truly.’
I left her to follow my suggestions, or not, as she chose, and went back to my own day. Once everyone had arrived I pulled my team together, and brought everyone up to speed on developments in the Marlon murder investigation, the van, the Newcastle connection, my Friday visit to Lennie Plenderleith, what he’d told me about the reason for Tony Manson’s absence, and the speed with which he’d been moved in to ‘babysit’… some baby!… Bella.
‘What do we read into that?’ Fred Leggat wondered.
‘It says to me that Marlon’s death was as big a surprise to Tony as it probably was to the boy himself. We can expect that the man will be taking it very seriously, now he’s back. I’m going to see him this morning to make sure that he knows he’s in our thoughts.’
‘But are we any closer to understanding why Marlon was killed?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know about any of you guys, but I’m not. Newcastle: that’s all we’ve got.’ I looked across at Jeff Adam; he was at his desk, seated, leaning forward, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to his ear, in his left hand, scribbling in his notebook with the other. I waited till he was finished.
He turned in his chair as he replaced the phone, with a small involuntary jump as he realised that every eye in the room was focused on him. ‘What?’ he exclaimed, provoking a round of laughter. It made me feel good. I was brought up to believe that a happy team was usually a successful team. (Too bad that my dad didn’t realise what was happening within his own small squad.)
‘A name,’ Adam announced. ‘I have a name. The Transit was bought by one Glenn Milburn, number seventeen Woodvale Avenue, Wallsend, Newcastle.’
‘Real name, or could it be a fake?’ I asked.
‘Not very likely, boss. The auction house insists on proof of identity from all buyers. Milburn produced his passport, so unless that was a phoney, it’s him. The manager even gave me a description. Big bloke, face like a front-row forward, he said. Whatever that means.’
‘Usually it means that only a short-sighted mother could love it,’ Martin chuckled.
‘Excellent, Jeff,’ I told the DS. ‘A good start to the day.’
‘How do we play it, boss?’
‘You talk to your Newcastle CID contacts; check with NCIS to see if this Milburn has a record, known associates, and so on. You’d better get down there.’ I looked around the team and settled on McGuire. ‘Take Mario with you. I want this guy lifted, I want a name for the second man, and ideally I want the pair of them in our custody by this evening. As a minimum, I want Milburn. Before you set off, though, you must see the fiscal’s office about getting a warrant from a sheriff to arrest Milburn, and his pal if you can put a name to him, and bring them here. The rights to legal access are different in England and I don’t want this investigation hindered by some fucking lawyer arguing about jurisdiction.’
He nodded. ‘Understood, sir. I’ll speak to Davie Pettigrew. He’s my tame fiscal.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘Mario, you make the call to Newcastle. I’ll give you a name.’
‘Good enough,’ I said, just as the phone rang in my room. I went back to my desk and picked it up.
‘Jesus, Bob, that was a bit embarrassing last night,’ Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant began. ‘I didn’t know about you and Alison Higgins.’
‘You still don’t, buddy,’ I warned him.
‘Sure, that’s a given. But still, it was a surprise, especially after she cut you like a knife on Saturday in the Sheraton. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘it does explain why she cut you like a knife. Who was that gorgeous brunette you had on your arm?’
‘A witness,’ I replied, abruptly.
‘She’s not a hostile witness, that’s for fucking certain.’
‘Listen, Alastair,’ I warned him, ‘if all you’ve got to do with your day is get yourself on my shit list, you want to find something else, sharpish.’
He laughed. ‘When the man of mystery gets caught out twice in two days, you can’t expect it to go unremarked.’
‘Fine,’ I retorted, ‘but if it doesn’t go unreported I’ll come looking for you.’
‘Don’t worry, my mouth will stay shut…’
‘And nothing will be said to Alison.’
‘Absolutely not, no.’
‘Good. Now,’ I asked, ‘is there another reason for this so far annoying phone call?’
