A Deviant Breed (22 page)

The two detectives faced off, neither willing to give an inch. ‘Get Carswell’s car sorted an’ away.  I’ll deal with Doc and Rennie.’

‘Oh, aye, we’re gonna go after a wee poacher but no’ Edinburgh’s top predator.’

Dunbar seethed as he matched Falk’s angry glare. ‘That’s ‘cos we have evidence te put before the procurator in Carswell’s case, Detective Sergeant Faulkner.  Something you’re sadly lacking.  Now get
your finger
oot, and get busy.’

Falk cocked his head.  ‘Yes, sir!’ He gave a sharp but pointedly insubordinate salute, wheeled about and marched out.

‘Old habits, Falk – old habits!’

Falk slammed the door.  It was a good job it was made of shatter-proof glass.

***

Gavin Rennie QC greeted Dunbar with an oily half-smile, as he entered the interview room. 

‘Ah, Chief Inspector.’

‘Mr Rennie.’ Neither man offered their hand in greeting.

‘How’s Elspeth?  Still enjoying the fruits of
my
labours?’

‘Pressed, corked and maturing nicely thank you.  And reaping an annual bumper harvest of her own these days as well,’ Dunbar replied.

‘So I hear.  Dear Elspeth, a rare vintage indeed.  Speaking of the undeserving, my client is –’

‘Is being released without charge,’ Dunbar interrupted.  He had no sooner said it, when the door opened and an unshaven and unkempt looking Doc Monaghan was shown in, wearing a T-shirt, sweat-pants and flip-flops.  He locked eyes with Dunbar as he shook hands with Rennie.

‘The Chief Inspector has authorised your immediate release, Gordon,’ Rennie announced, as if having just conjured some sort of legal miracle.

‘But was it Chief Inspector Dumbo that ordered my arrest in the first place?’

‘No!  But I support the actions of Detective Sergeant Faulkner.  You gave him reasonable grounds to suspect your involvement in an offence of wounding with –’

‘Can he no’ take a joke, Dumbo!  Every fucker knows aboot Chick-Pea.’

‘
Gordon!
’ Rennie cut in. ‘It does you a disservice, insulting the –’

‘Only a sick fucker like you would find mutilation amusing.  You can go, but we’ll keep a cell warm for you.’

Doc sneered. ‘Hame frae hame, Dumbo, an’ these walls ne’er manage te hold me for long.’  He turned on Rennie. ‘An’ dinnae you lecture me aboot disservice.  I spent four months on remand before you fuckers finally managed te spring me. 
Four-fuckin’-months!
How much do I pay you pricks?’  Doc snarled back.  Alarmed, Rennie took a step back.  Doc swaggered out followed by a chastised Grant Rennie.

‘We’ll be lodging a formal com –’ Rennie began to say.

‘Yeah, yeah!  Put it on the pile,’ Dunbar cut in, slamming the door behind them.

14

Having to slap Falk down, and do it with the whole team looking on,
and
release Doc without charge, should have meant that the day could only get better.  The reality was that it had not, and try as he might he could not generate any momentum.  So as it things turned out, he could have met Elspeth for lunch but not Kitty Campbell.  Kitty did not so much speak as squeak, and did so at such a rate that it was like dining with a bat that is frantically echo-locating in very close proximity.

Dunbar pored over the evidence they did have, the witness statements and his copious notes, hoping something would leap off a page, a eureka moment that would turn the tide of the enquiry, but the motive remained stubbornly elusive.  His mobile buzzed, it was Elspeth,
shit!
  He had forgotten to tell her that Briony Tyler had declined her dinner invitation.  He picked it up and answered.

‘Hey you.’

‘Jock phoned while I was out.’

‘Aye?’

‘He wants to see you.’

‘When?’

‘That’s your call, darling.  I phoned him back and told him you were busy, but –’

‘Why didn’t he ring my mobile?’

‘That’s what I said.  He said, quote: “The call charges te mobiles are enough te make a rich mon weep”.’

‘He has a point.’

‘So?’

‘
Ach!
  I’ve nae been in ages, so I’d better –’

‘And Briony?’

‘Oh, yeah, she’s – busy tonight, I meant to –’

‘Yeah, yeah, sure you did.  Dinner’ll keep, go see your dad.’

‘Fancy coming?’

‘Err, pass! –
Later, mwa-mwa.
’

‘Yeah.’ He hung up.  ‘Mwa!’  Elspeth never fancied going to Jock’s, at least not since his marriage collapsed and spiralled into acrimony, and especially since he had taken sanctuary in cheap Scotch.  He could hardly blame her.  It was a journey of devotion not desire.  Better that he phone ahead, he thought, just in case the old bugger was out when he got there.

His dad had been a man he had always admired and aspired to emulate; a resolute, hardworking and honest provider for his family.  Jock was strict but never cruel, and the first Dunbar to become, not only a boss – a General Manager.  From the foundling Moses Dunbar to Grandpa John every other Dunbar male had been one o’ the workers, most of them on the land as farm labourers or gillies.

Dunbar did not blame his mum for leaving Jock.  Always fond of a bet and a tipple, after resigning his job at the mill, his dad had grown increasingly dependent on Scotch.  Within a couple of years he had drunk and gambled his way through the bulk of their savings and pension pot.  That had been the last straw for his wife.  The sale of the family home saw his mum move to Carlisle to live with ‘her baby girl and the wee ones’, Dunbar’s younger sister Caitlin and her family. 

Dunbar’s parents had not divorced but were well-and-truly estranged, and for his mum’s part, resolutely incommunicado. His mum would have nothing to do with his older sister Liz, whom she blamed for her husband’s downfall, but she missed her other grandchildren.  Caitlin and Liz had also stopped speaking and Caitlin refused to speak to her father because he had left their mum with only her share of the house to show for almost fifty years of marriage.  And thus, a marital split became a family schism.  Oddly enough, Liz, the catalyst for their father’s downfall remained Jock’s favourite, just as she had always been.  Yet, even though, of the three siblings, she lived nearest to Jock, visits were few and far between.  Consequently, she and Alec were not on the best of terms either.

Jock had remained in Jedburgh, with no intention of moving anywhere or, ‘
puttin’ on his bairns’,
a none-too-subtle dig at his wife.  His home now was, by local authority designation, a rented apartment, but little better or bigger than a bedsit in reality.  It formed part of a grim 70s-conceived, sheltered housing complex with a warden to hand 24/7 and a team of non-resident carers and boasted a day-room for dining and other communal activities but little else.

***

Dunbar hated the place.  Underfunding was writ large, from the ill-kept borders and chipped paintwork on the wrought-iron hand rails, to the shabby decor and threadbare floor coverings. Then there was that bloody awful cocktail of odours – industrial cleaning fluid, stale urine and occasionally crap, if one of the staff had neglected the routine checks of the ground floor toilets.

On arrival he was greeted by Beth, the warden, a stout, hardy Borderer with a big heart, bad hair, even worse breath and the patience of Job.

‘Wearin’ his specs,’ she said quietly, nodding towards the day-room.  It was code.  Always a vain man, Jock rarely wore them.  He thought they made him look bookish and old.  When he did, it meant he was in a foul mood.  He needed them so as to recognise the people he had offended and to whom he owed an apology once his mood lifted,
if
an apology was called for.

Jock sat staring at the TV.  A repeat of course and a repeat of a cooking programme to make matters worse.  He caught sight of his son out of the corner of his eye but remained fixed on the TV set.  He waved a bony, arthritic hand of bent and gnarled fingers at it.

‘
Celebrity!
’ Celebrity what?  Who the hell is that?  What use are they when there’s nae coal in the hole?’  It was an expression Dunbar was all too familiar with.  Passed down through generations in his family, it harked back to a time when food on the table and fuel for the fire was about as much as a poor tenant family could hope for.
‘What good’s that when there’s nae coal in the hole?’
  What use celebrity, or that programme, when folk are going hungry and cannot afford to heat their homes?

‘How are you, Pop?’

He didn’t look at his son but scowled, ‘Zoe came te’see me the other day.’

‘Aye, she told me.’

‘What’s she done to her heid?  What the hell did ye let her do that for, boy?’

‘I didn’t.  She’s a grown woman now.  It’s her hair to do with as she pleases.’

‘
Ach!
  I’d have dragged yer’ sisters into the hoose and shaved their damned heids if they’d ever come home looking like that.  And wee Zoe, such a bonny lass. 
Or was!
  Stick a red nose on her the noo an’ she’d look like a circus clown.’  He shook his head and stared at the TV.  His accent had reverted to its bucolic roots since he no longer had to deal with overseas clients and bespoke tailors from Bond Street in London to Fifth Avenue, New York, all of whom once coveted quality Borders Tweed.

‘Ellie said you wanted to see me.’

‘Aye, an’ I’m gay sorry to drag ye away from –’

‘You didn’t,’ Dunbar cut in. ‘I’d have come sooner but, I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Always are, son.  But, did I no’ drag my arse all the way to Aberdeen more than once, when ye was in that hospital?’

‘Aye, Pop – that you did.’ Dunbar agreed, with a pang of guilt.

Jock nodded and rummaged in his cardigan pocket.  He took out his gold Omega wristwatch, presented to him in 1999 after 40 years of loyal company service; only to force him out just shy of his pensionable age and a dignified retirement.  Jock pressed it into his son’s hand.

‘I don’t want your watch.’

‘Well that bloody Eyetie isn’t gettin’ his mitts on it.’ Jock loved his daughter Liz but had never approved of her husband Eddie.  ‘And I dinnae want the bookie takin’ off ye either, son.  So take it!  A mon offered me three hundred pounds for it doon the pub the other day an’ I was sorely tempted; so take it, son.  God knows there’s precious little else left to leave ye come the day.’

Not one to ever argue with his dad, Dunbar took it with a heavy heart and strapped it on.  That drew a sad but approving smile from his father.  Three hundred pounds was way short of its worth.  So highly was Jock valued at the time that the company had spent over five or six times that amount as mark of their gratitude.  It still looked good – well, with a new crystal and bit of a polish it would. 

***

When he got home, Elspeth’s bits and bobs that always accompanied her on her travels were neatly stacked in the hall in readiness for a quick getaway.  It meant one of only two things: her days off had been cut short again, or she had had second thoughts about what she had interrupted the night before.  Whatever, she hadn’t waited up.

He looked at his dad’s watch, on his wrist, the wrong wrist, then compared the time against his pocket watch.  Spot on.  It was 9.55pm.  It was still a handsome timepiece and as he hung up his coat he quietly chided himself for accepting it so readily.  Jock had been justifiably proud of his Omega, and had liked to show it off once over but it had become a painful reminder of how far he had fallen.  Maybe that was the real reason he had given it to his son.  Jock had stopped wearing it a while ago, favouring instead an ugly and very cheap-looking, black plastic digital creation, with extra large numbers that almost filled the face.

“Dinnae need my specs wi’ this bugger te see if it’s openin’ time,” was his rationale.  So why did he have his Omega with him at the pub?  Would he really have sold it if the offer was repeated or the bid raised?  His behaviour had become increasingly unpredictable since the booze had taken hold and his wife of forty-six years had walked out on him.  Three hundred quid amounts to almost as many Yankies or enough cheap whiskey to bring on organ failure, so yes, he probably would have parted with it before long.

Dunbar sauntered through to their pristine kitchen.  It was plain to see that Elspeth was home.  Every surface positively gleamed.  There was a note on the breakfast bar; instructions for reheating his dinner in the microwave.  He should have been hungry, but two hours of breathing in the fetid air at his father’s place had robbed him of his appetite. 

“Go te bed hungered – wake up eager,” his grandpa used to say.  Such pithy pearls of wisdom got them through the night when hunger was the norm and, he supposed, it gave the illusion of choice.  “Hunger’s the natural state of the hunter, keeps him lean, keeps him keen,”
was another gem the old gillie deployed to justify the dearth of groceries in their pantry.  With him being a gillie, at least his young family ate more meat than most, but the old duke wasn’t exactly known for his largesse and came down hard on employees he suspected of taking liberties. 

He opened the microwave door and closed it again without switching it on.  Instead he took a bottle of Pinot Noir from the rack.  He had just begun to pour when Elspeth appeared in her pyjamas.

‘Not hungry?’  she asked.  He shook his head and waved the bottle towards her. ‘No thanks, early flight – very early.  Sorry, a wee problem, meeting Bobbie in Geneva at ten.  I’ve booked a cab for 5.30.’

‘I’d have taken you.’

‘Don’t be silly.  Can’t have you falling asleep at your post in the middle of a triple homicide,’ she answered, taking his dinner out of the microwave and wrapping it in cling-film.

‘Two unexplained and one suspicious death –
so far
,’ he corrected.  It wasn’t ‘officially’ a triple homicide yet and he didn’t want it to be, especially if the killer continued to elude him.

She put his dinner in the fridge. ‘It’ll keep.  You can have it tomorrow.’

‘So what’s got Bobbie’s knickers in a twist this time?’

‘Usual EU eco-regulatory BS by the sound of it.  Give me Americans any day, better still Russians or Chinese.  They just sink a well wherever the hell they like.’

‘Not necessarily a good thing, Ellie.’

‘Bobbie was fizzing when she phoned.  She’s really sorry about –’

‘Yeah, me too!’ He cut in. ‘Geneva? EU?’

‘An excuse for an all expenses-paid MEP junket I imagine.  Whatever, that’s where we’re meeting.  She wanted me there for eight.  She caught a redeye a few hours ago.  I told her mine were red enough and mercifully there wasn’t a direct flight I could get on that would get me there that early, short of a private charter.’ Elspeth smiled knowingly. ‘She vetoed that.  Seems I’m indispensable, but not at any price.’

‘You are to me.’  This strangers-in-the-night routine had become par for the course; twenty-four hour turnarounds, forty-eight when things were going smoothly, interspersed by the jet-lagged sleep of the dead.  Fleeting spells of cosy domesticity, the occasional quiet dinner and sex if he got lucky.  That was the price their marriage paid for the lifestyle Elspeth coveted.

About the same age as his wife, Roberta ‘Bobbie’ Henning was born into the business, being the daughter of a Texan Roughneck who arrived in the Granite City in the early 70’s to reap the North Sea harvest.  He met her mum, an Aberdonian secretary at BP’s offices, got her pregnant, divorced his Texan wife and swapped the Lone Star for the Saltire.  Bobbie’s life revolved around the company she and her deceased Norwegian husband had built up from a small oil exploration business into a major player in the field.  Lars worked twice as hard as any of his workforce, lived fast and died young – an object lesson, Bobbie had clearly not learned from.  She was just the same as Lars to her very core; an incredible businesswoman and generous employer, but a demanding, workaholic boss.  It was good job for her that Elspeth shared Bobbie’s manic work ethic and love of the jet-set life.