The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Bob’s words brought back a memory suppressed by the rush of recent events
Grumpy Bob was reading his newspaper, feet up on the table amongst the evidence bags when McLean finally stumbled back into their tiny incident room. “You all right, sir?” he asked. “You look like you just found half a maggot in your apple.” “What? Oh, no. I’m fine, Bob. Just a little shocked is all.” He told the sergeant his news.
“Jings. Your boat’s certainly come in. Don’t suppose you could lend me a few quid?”
“It’s not funny, Bob. He left me everything except his business assets. Why the hell would he do that?”
“I dunno. Maybe he didn’t have anyone else to leave it to. Maybe he always had a thing for your gran and decided he’d rather leave it to you than the animal shelter.”
A thing for your gran. Bob’s words brought back a memory suppressed by the rush of recent events.
A series of photographs in an empty bedroom. A man not his grandfather who nevertheless looked just like his father. Just like him.
Could that have been a young Carstairs? Could he have? No. His grandmother would never have. Would she?
“But he changed it just last week.”
Friendly
McLean answered his own question and Bob’s both.
He tried to remember the few conversations he’d had with the old lawyer since that first telephone call the day after his grandmother had died.
He’d been friendly enough, almost avuncular at first. But at the funeral he’d seemed distracted, expecting someone else.
And then the strange conversation the afternoon before the lawyer had been killed. What was that all about?
What messages had his grandmother left for Carstairs to deliver after her death?
Or was it something Carstairs himself wanted to say? Something had rattled the old man.
Now he’d never know what.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, sir. It’s not often a lawyer gives you money.”
McLean tried to smile at the joke, but found it hard. “Where’s DC MacBride?”
“He went off to the Scotsman. Something about searching their archives.”
“Finding out about Albert Farquhar. Good. How are we getting on with McReadie?”
Grumpy Bob put down his paper, moved his feet off the table and sat up straight.
“We’ve found items from the five burglaries we were looking into.
“Not everything reported missing’s here, but certainly enough to put McReadie away for a good stretch.
“The IT boys have pretty much sorted out his computer, too.
“I don’t think he’s going to weasel out of it, even if he has got himself a fancy lawyer.”
“Good. What about the cufflink? Did IT come up with an address for that piece yet?”
Grumpy Bob shuffled through the pile of bags on his desk, retrieving a slim sheaf of papers and leafing through them until he found exactly what he was looking for.
“That was taken from an address in Penicuik about seven years ago. A Miss Louisa Emmerson.”
“Do we know if the theft was ever reported?” “I’ll check, sir.” Grumpy Bob shuffled over to the laptop, tapped at a few keys.
“There’s nothing against that address or that name on the database.”
“I didn’t think there would be. Grab us a car, Bob. I fancy a trip out to the countryside.”
Historic
Penicuik nestled in a valley 10 miles south of the city and was cut in two by the meandering River Esk.
McLean had faded half-memories of weekend road trips to the Borders with his parents, stopping off at Giapetti’s for ice cream on their way to visit historic sites.
He’d been bored to tears by cold ancient buildings, but he’d loved sitting in the back seat of his father’s car.
He’d watched the bleak and wild countryside go by, falling asleep to the rhythm of tyres on tarmac and the thrum of the engine.
And he’d loved the ice cream too. The town had spread since then, sprawling up the hillsides and north towards the army barracks.
The main street was pedestrianised now, Giapetti’s long since disappeared under the bulk of a faceless supermarket.
The house they were looking for was a little way out of the town, heading along the old church road towards the Pentland Hills.
Set back from the road in a large garden, surrounded by mature trees, it was built of dark red sandstone.
It had tall, narrow windows and a high-pitched roof; most likely a manse from the days when ministers were expected to have dozens of children.
As the car drove up the long gravel drive and pulled to a halt in front of the heavy stone porch, a flurry of small dogs came flying out of the doorway, all highpitched barks and excitement.
“You sure it’s safe?” Grumpy Bob asked as McLean started to open the door.
A sea of wet noses and excited yelps greeted him. “It’s when they make no noise at all you need to worry, Bob.”
He bent down and offered his hand as a sacrifice to be sniffed and licked.
The sergeant stayed where he was, seat belt firmly on, door tightly closed.
“Don’t mind the dogs, they only bite when they’re hungry.”
Surprised
McLean looked up from the throng to see a portly lady in wellingtons and a tweed skirt.
She was perhaps in her late fifties and held a pair of secateurs in one hand, a wooden trug draped over her arm.
“Dandie Dinmonts, aren’t they?” He patted one of the beasts on the head.
“Indeed they are. It’s nice to see someone with a bit of education. How can I help you?”
“Detective Inspector McLean. Lothian and Borders Police.”
He produced his warrant card, then waited whilst the woman retrieved a pair of spectacles from a chain around her neck and placed them on her nose, peering first at the tiny photograph, then rather disconcertingly at him.
“Have you lived here long, Mrs... ?” “Johnson, Emily Johnson. I’m not surprised you don’t recognise me, inspector. It’s been, what, over 30 years since I last saw you?”
Not quite 33 years, and he’d been not yet five. Putting his mother and father to rest in a corner of Mortonhall Cemetery.
Christ, but the world could be small sometimes. “I thought you moved to London after the plane crash.”