65
'Big Bob,' muttered McGuire, fervently, to the empty room, 'you may be constitutionally incapable of keeping your hands off your officers' investigations, but every so often you do come up with a beauty.'
He cradled the phone, stood, and walked out of his office into the Special Branch room outside. Alec Smith's squat, grey, ugly safe stood in the middle of the floor. Maggie sat on the edge of a desk, making conversation with a middle-aged man in a brown suit, who had not been there when McGuire had left to make his telephone call.
'Mario,' she said. 'This is Mr Evans from Guardian Security; he's their top locksmith, so the company told me.'
The little man smiled in what was meant to be a self-deprecating way, but the Inspector knew that he was not about to disagree with the description. 'I do my best,' he said, lamely.
'Nothing else will do, Mr Evans,' McGuire boomed. 'Nothing else.' He looked at his wife and smiled. 'The Scottish Co-operative Wholesale Society came up trumps; the late Mrs Mary Eglinton Smith, of Morocco Lane, Lochgelly, was indeed a member, to the day she died… you might even say to the day the Co-op undertaker put her in the ground. Her membership number was five… three… six… four.' Maggie noted the four digits down as he spoke.
'There's nothing else for it, sir,' he said to the locksmith.
'We'll have to go with that as the combination. Can you open it for us?'
Mr Evans frowned. 'It's not just the numbers,' he said. 'This is a classic circular combination lock, not one of these shoddy keyboard jobs — you have to know the direction as well. Four digits, possibly in random order, either right or left, not necessarily alternately. Yes, that cuts the odds against guessing right down to around one hundred thousand to one.
'Forget all that stuff you've seen in films, too, where the safecracker uses a stethoscope to listen for clicks as the mechanism works. This lock is silent; when you key the first digit you have to hold it in position for five seconds before it engages, with the next it's six seconds, then seven, and finally eight.
'Yes,' Mr Evans said, proudly. 'It's a clever little bugger.' McGuire's face fell. 'So we're no further forward,' he muttered.
'In theory.' The little man beamed. 'But in practice… I built this thing and although I didn't tell my colleagues, I did include one little fail-safe, against the outside possibility of a situation such as this arising.'
'Like what?'
'I programme my own signature into the locking mechanism of every safe I build. It over-rides the owner's combination. Naturally, I have never breathed a word of this to a soul, not even within the group. If my small secret leaked out, I'd be a prime target for kidnap, wouldn't I?'
'So as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, when you gave me Mr Smith's combination, we just got lucky.'
He turned, bent over the safe and twirled the dial of the lock for a little over a minute, then straightened up. With a soft hiss, sounding almost like a sigh, the door swung open.
'There.' His voice rang with pride. 'Behold! A ton and a half of useless metal; using the override knackers the lock completely.'
Maggie looked at him, eyes narrowed just a shade. 'Thank you, Mr Evans. You do realise that if anyone ever does succeed in cracking a Guardian safe, you're going to need a hell of a strong alibi?'
'No-one ever will, Chief Inspector. I believe I can promise you that.'
'We'll hold you to that,' said McGuire, with a grin, as he escorted the little locksmith to the door. DC Cowan was waiting outside. 'Show Mr Evans out, Alice, if you would, then come back and man, or woman, the phones. The DCI and I have some reading to do in my office, and we're not to be disturbed.'
As the general office door closed on the Constable and the visitor, he turned back to the safe; Maggie had already swung the door open fully. It was massive, but moved easily and noiselessly on well-lubricated hinges.
'Bingo!' she whispered. Given its bulk, it was surprisingly small on the inside; all that it contained was an Apple lap-top computer, complete with manuals, transformer, cable and plug, and a green metal strongbox. 'That spare key,' she said. 'Betcha that's what it's for.'
'Let's take these into my room and find out.'
He picked up the computer and the box, one in each hand and carried them into his office, laying them on his table. Maggie plugged in the transformer and attached it to the laptop, then pulled up a chair and sat down. She released the catch and swung the screen into position, then pushed the start-up button.
As they waited for the Apple to boot up, Mario took out Alec Smith's key ring and slid the third key into the lock of the strongbox. It clicked open and he lifted the lid. 'Envelopes,' he muttered, as he stared at the contents. 'It's full of numbered envelopes.' He picked one up and looked inside. 'Photographs,' he told her, 'and negative strips. There are some computer disks here too.'
'Software, maybe; or copies of files.' Maggie smiled as the computer desktop appeared; the background pattern was an array of blue cats. 'Animal lover, eh,' she said. 'Let's see what's in here.' She double-clicked the hard-disk icon to reveal the machine's contents. 'Three folders; System, Applications and one that's called 'John'. John?' she wondered.
'Alec's son,' Mario whispered. 'The boy who died of AIDS.'
She opened the folder, to find a list of twenty-eight documents, twenty-seven of them titled with a number and one word. She looked at the first: 'Barnfather,' she read.
Her husband looked over her shoulder. 'I've only ever heard of one person of that name,' he said.
'Yes,' she agreed, 'and I've made his acquaintance. Not that he was aware of it at the time. He'd been dead for a couple of days.' She paused.
'Mario, I've got a feeling about this.' She opened the 'document and began to read.
'The subject is a senior Supreme Court judge whose proclivities have been rumoured around Edinburgh for many years.
'Barnfather was observed on several occasions cruising in Leith, striking up conversations with young men. (See photographic evidence) On more than one occasion the contacts accompanied him to his flat in Tevendale Street and remained there for several hours. 'Barnfather was also observed (See photographic evidence) frequenting an address in Cockburn Street, immediately above retail premises which operated as a homosexual gathering place. I attempted to have Drugs and Vice raid the premises, but was told that there were no grounds, since the premises were private and there was no evidence of soliciting nor of prostitution.'
She stopped and looked up at Mario, as he shuffled through the photographs. 'I make it seven shots,' he told her finally, 'each with the number one on the back, in accordance with the file number, of an old geezer chatting up what looks like the rough trade in Leith, or taking boys into a New Town flat. There are a couple of shots of him going into an entryway in what could be Cockburn Street and a blow-up of him shot through a window, presumably in the same place. 'What's the second document?'
Maggie turned back to the screen. 'Number two. Raeside. Jesus,' she hissed, 'this one's a Deputy Procurator Fiscal.'
Her husband picked up the envelope numbered two, and slid out the photographs inside. 'Is that right?' he exclaimed. 'He should be prosecuting himself in that case. Getting a blow-job off a bloke in a beach car park is definitely lewd and libidinous conduct in my book.'
He took another envelope at random and looked at its contents; then another; and another. 'They're all the same; Alec's been gathering information on gay men.'
'But not just a random selection. A judge, a Fiscal.' She scanned the files, picked one and clicked it open. 'Yes,' she murmured. 'Thought I recognised that name; this one's a Minister in the Scottish Parliament.
'And that one,' she said, opening another document. 'Oh my! This one's a woman. The Chair of the Police Committee.
'Mario, what are we going to do with this?'
In answer he picked up the phone and dialled Ruth McConnell's extension. 'Ruthie,' he asked, 'is the Boss in today?'
