A parting gift, p.17
A Parting Gift, page 17
She paused and looked around her for moment before heading back to her car. Jedburgh looked like so many of the Border towns, a place seemingly preserved from an older, more serene age. The buildings were picturesque and well-maintained. There were quaint little independent shops and cafés, and little sign of the boarded-up shopfronts and ubiquitous charity shops that dominated so many high streets. It was a prosperous area, and she could imagine the Dawsons would have fitted in well here.
So what was it that had led Paul Dawson from here to that dreadful massacre in the Highlands? What had been going on in his head to make him do that? How did that link to what had happened to the Gillans?
She still had no answers that made any kind of sense. Grieves had perhaps given her one or two clues that could be followed up as they began to talk to the Dawsons’ neighbours and tried to identify some of their friends. But it still felt as if they were a long way from any breakthrough.
And in the meantime all she had to look forward to was the prospect of a long drive back with a very hungover Brian Nightingale.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
McKay spent the rest of the morning working through the material they’d gathered so far. It was still painfully thin. The interviews with the other chalet guests had yielded little of value. Most had barely noticed the Dawsons, except as yet another family staying on the site. One or two had exchanged greetings or had a brief conversation with Paul or Marie Dawson, but could add nothing to what was already known.
The visit to the Dawsons’ house had yielded little beyond some insights into Paul Dawson’s occupation and the mysterious image received in the post. Ginny’s interview with the accountant might reveal more, but McKay wasn’t getting his hopes up. After that, they’d be more dependent on the local team interviewing the Dawsons’ neighbours or anything they could glean from the family’s phones or computers. That work was all underway, but McKay’s frustration was growing.
They’d gathered little from the CCTV or traffic cameras. They had one sighting of the BMW heading south on to the Kessock Bridge which confirmed the approximate timings they’d gleaned from the Fannings and the CCTV on the holiday site, but so far found no further sightings to confirm its subsequent direction. Similarly, they had a sighting of the van leaving the Gillans’ neighbourhood which confirmed the timing provided by Fionnuala Erskine, but no further sightings in Inverness or beyond. They were still gathering and analysing further footage, so some breakthrough might emerge, but McKay wasn’t feeling unduly optimistic.
He knew his mood was coloured by Brian Nightingale’s behaviour. He’d tried to contact Nightingale several times that morning but succeeded only in reaching his voicemail. McKay had left a message on the first occasion, but hadn’t subsequently bothered. There was no response from Ginny Horton’s number either, so he assumed she’d already begun her interview with Dawson’s accountant.
The priority was to find out what had happened to the Gillans since Fionnuala Erskine had seen the BMW leaving their home on the Friday. Their working assumption had been that Andrea Gillan had borrowed the BMW to drive home and then the car had been driven up the A9 to the chalet site and the Dawsons. After that, the vehicle had travelled south down to Loch Morlich, presumably still driven by one or other of the Gillans.
They had only limited information about what had happened at the loch – nothing more than the testimony of a couple some distance from what had happened who had not witnessed the crash and had supposedly failed to see or hear any signs of the car being torched. According to Ginny’s interview notes, the latter claim wasn’t entirely implausible – and the couple might have simply wanted to minimise their role as potential witnesses rather than risk further disrupting their holiday – but it did limit the value of their evidence.
The thought of the young couple – Jake Albert and Chloe Frost, according to Ginny’s notes – reminded McKay he’d done nothing with what Ginny had told him the previous day. She’d thought she’d spotted Albert in the background during the news report from the chalet site. In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity McKay had said he’d check it out. It was only now, when actually faced with the task, that it occurred to McKay to wonder how exactly he was supposed to do that.
Ginny had at least told him the channel she’d been watching. Sighing, he looked up the relevant number and, after being transferred several times, eventually found himself talking to a reporter called Iain Pershore based at a news desk in Inverness. ‘Aye, I know the story, of course,’ Pershore said. ‘It was Cassie who did that report. Cassie Sinclair. She’s out on a job at the moment, but I can get her to call you when she gets back. What is it you want to know?’
McKay knew he had to choose his words carefully. Any hint of a story, particularly one involving their own reporter, and he’d never get these people off his back. ‘It’s probably something and nothing. When these kinds of reports are shown on TV they always generate calls from the public.’
‘Tell me about it. We get them too. We pass on anything that’s potentially useful but most of them are time-wasters.’
McKay was cursing himself for not thinking through his story before calling. Now, he had no option but to wing it. ‘This one’s unusual. One of the criminal justice social workers locally, reckons that in the background to the report she spotted one of her clients – a guy who’s out on licence. One of the conditions of his licence is that he’s excluded from the Black Isle area. If he was there rubber-necking he’d have been in breach.’
The story sounded barely half-baked to McKay, but Pershore seemed to buy it. ‘I can pass it on to Cassie, but I don’t know how much she’ll be able to help you. We try not to take much notice of anyone standing in the background, unless they started causing trouble. She probably won’t even remember.’
‘I assumed so. I was just wondering if there was a way for me to view the report itself.’
‘If that’s all you need, I’m pretty sure that report’s still up on our news app. If you go into the local section, you’ll find recent reports. This is a pretty big story so it should still be there. If you just want to check out whether it’s your guy in the background, that’ll be the quickest way to do it.’
‘Easier than I expected then. Thanks.’
‘No worries. I’ll pass it on to Cassie as well, just in case.’
Feeling mildly guilty, McKay ended the call and turned back to his computer to track down the news app. As he did so, a voice from behind him said, ‘Not like you to be spending time in the office during a major inquiry. Has Brian Nightingale chained you down?’
He didn’t turn, not least because he didn’t want her to know how pleased he was to hear her voice. ‘In a manner of speaking. He basically seems to have left me to run the show.’
‘It’s called delegation.’ Helena Grant threw herself down on to the chair by McKay’s desk. ‘I should try it.’
‘It’s called going bloody AWOL.’ He finally looked up from his screen. ‘Good of you to make a brief return to the hoi polloi.’
‘I didn’t want to tread on Brian’s toes, so I thought I’d better keep my distance for a day or two. I only came in just now because he didn’t seem to be around. Where is he, anyway?’
‘Your guess is probably as good as mine. Although, for what it’s worth, my bet is that he’s still in bed somewhere in the Borders recovering from the mother of all hangovers.’
She gazed at him for a moment. ‘You might have to rewind that. In bed? In the Borders? With a hangover? In the middle of a major investigation?’
‘Like I say, just a guess. But an educated one.’ He recounted to her the events of the previous day, ending with his phone conversation with Nightingale.
‘He was drunk?’
‘Well and truly stoshied, I’d have said. He was doing his best to conceal it. You know, talking in that overprecise way drunks do, which just makes them sound even more drunk.’
‘I take it Ginny wasn’t in the same state.’
‘More pissed off than pissed, I think.’
‘What are they doing down in the Borders anyway?’
‘Christ knows. Brian has his own sense of priorities. Just like his phone has its own distinctive form of signal problems. No response for most of yesterday afternoon till I managed to contact him via Ginny. No response again this morning.’
‘Not ideal.’
‘You always were the mistress of the understatement, Hel. Thing is, I’ve made a few discreet calls this morning. It looks as if Nightingale comes with a bit more of a reputation than we’d realised.’
‘In what way?’
‘A couple of things about our pal Brian. First, he has a reputation as a serious drinker. I don’t know if he’d count as a full-blown alcoholic. If he is, he’s clearly a relatively functioning one. Seems to hold his job down satisfactorily most of the time. But there’ve been a few incidents when he’s been out of control. Just started drinking and not stopped until he was more or less comatose. Once or twice when he’s caused severe embarrassment by doing it in highly inappropriate circumstances.’
‘He’s got away with this?’
‘That’s the second thing. He’s seen down south as something of a teacher’s pet. Very close to some of the senior team.’
‘Why would they get close to someone who’s a potential embarrassment?’
‘To go back to the school analogy, it’s because he’s a snitch. He’s useful to them.’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know. I just know he’s not to be trusted, and that if he’s been sent up here, even on a temporary basis, that’s not likely to be good news.’
‘He’s not exactly burnishing his reputation at the moment.’
‘As long as Ginny doesn’t somehow end up carrying the can for it.’
‘Ginny’s too smart for that.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘On the subject of hobnobbing with the top brass, I’ve got a bit of news too.’ Grant told him about Mike Everly’s offer and her decision to accept it.
‘Congratulations. Sounds like you’ve a real chance to impress.’
‘Or a real chance to make a complete arse of myself. It all feels like very new territory for me.’
‘You’ll be fine on that front. Whether you’ll be able to bite your tongue sufficiently is another question.’
‘I’m more capable of doing that than you are.’
‘Aye, but you don’t want to be setting the bar that low. Seriously, it sounds like a really good opportunity. Apart from anything else, you’ll be in a position to prevent these consultants from doing anything really stupid.’
‘That was one of the things that persuaded me, to be honest. I’ve seen too many of these projects go belly-up because no one bothers to ask the people who actually have to do the job. We all whinge about that, so it would seem a bit feeble not to take up the opportunity when it’s offered.’
‘Fair point. And what do you reckon to Mr Michael Everly?’
‘To be honest, I like him more than I expected to. He gets a bit caught up in the management jargon at times, but I think his heart’s broadly in the right place. He seems more supportive than some senior ranks we’ve had up here.’
‘When does all this start?’
‘Kick-off meeting in the next week or two. Then we’ll see. Mike reckons I should be able to do it alongside my day job.’
‘The question is whether you can also do it alongside Brian Nightingale’s day job. If he doesn’t surface soon, you may need to.’
‘Let’s hope he gets his act together. Sounds like you’ve a lot on your plate.’
‘More than enough.’
‘In which case, I’d better leave you to it.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t be a stranger, though. I know what it’s like when people start mixing with the rich and famous.’
‘Piss off, Alec. You don’t get rid of me that easily.’
He watched her flounce jokily off across the office and turned his attention back to the computer. It took him only a couple of minutes to track down the news app, and then a few moments longer to find the report he was looking for.
He clicked play and found himself watching a female reporter he vaguely recognised – presumably Cassie Sinclair – speaking in front of the familiar backdrop of the chalet site. The report itself was relatively anodyne, little more than a rephrasing of the police’s media statement backed up by some predictable accounts of the shock of the other guests and staff. She gestured to the location around her to give an impression of the setting in which the tragedy had occurred.
A few people were milling around in the background. McKay guessed the majority of those watching were either other guests or staff. The site was comparatively remote and he couldn’t imagine even the most curious of the local residents making the trip up there just to witness a TV news reporter.
It was only in the last few seconds, as the cameraman panned around the site, that McKay spotted the couple Ginny had been referring to. He rewound slightly to get the best possible view.
The image wasn’t particularly clear. He had the impression the couple had positioned themselves to avoid being caught on camera and had been taken by surprise. They were trying to skip back out of sight, and the woman turned her head away.
But just for a brief moment they were caught facing the camera. The bearded man was unfamiliar to McKay, so he couldn’t immediately confirm or deny Ginny’s hunch. She’d have to look at that on her return.
But the woman seemed much more familiar, even though it took him a few seconds to place her. But even as he identified her, he was struck by another idea, even more unexpected. He told himself it couldn’t be true, that a low-resolution image on a computer screen couldn’t expose more than real life. But somehow, the more he looked, the more convinced he became.
‘Shit,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty
The journey back was awkward, but less grisly than Ginny Horton had expected. Brian Nightingale had been waiting for her in the hotel lounge. He looked sallow and unwell, and he’d glowered at her as she’d entered, but said nothing either about what had happened the night before or her decision to leave him sleeping that morning.
He offered little beyond grunts of acknowledgement until they were in the car heading north. He’d clearly been happy for her to drive, which at least freed her from the dilemma of deciding whether he was in a fit state to take the wheel. He barely looked in a fit state to be a passenger.
It was only when they were well on the way that he finally spoke a coherent sentence. ‘How was the accountant? Anything useful?’
‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘He confirmed that Dawson’s business was doing okay, so it doesn’t look as if he had money worries. The only negative was whether he might have failed to grow the business the way he’d originally hoped.’
‘That hardly sounds like a motive for doing what he did,’ Nightingale grunted. He fell silent and, after a few more minutes, dropped back into a doze. His lolling head wasn’t the most prepossessing sight, but at least Horton was relieved of the need to make further conversation. He remained asleep for most of the rest of the journey, stirring only when she stopped briefly for fuel just outside Perth.
‘Do you want a sandwich or anything?’ she’d asked. She assumed he’d risen too late to get breakfast at the hotel.
‘Oh God, no. Maybe just a bottle of water?’
It was a fine day for the last stretch of the drive up through the Cairngorms, the autumn sky an unblemished blue, the sun still high. The road was relatively quiet in the middle of the day, and she was able to keep up a good speed even on the stretches of single carriageway.
As she drove, she mulled over the dilemma that had disturbed her sleep earlier that morning. Nightingale’s relative quiet and his failure to mention the events of the night before had, if anything, increased her uncertainty. Maybe his behaviour the previous evening had been nothing more than an aberration, the unfortunate outcome of meeting up with some old acquaintances. Though that didn’t lessen the inappropriateness of his words and behaviour.
She arrived back at divisional HQ slightly behind schedule, having navigated a lengthy tailback on the A9 caused by a broken-down vehicle by the Inshes junction. Nightingale stirred as she pulled into the car park. He took a large swig from the bottle of water, his condition seemingly improved by several hours’ sleep. ‘Have I slept all the way? I can’t believe it.’
‘Pretty much,’ she said. ‘At least you didn’t snore.’
‘Sorry about that. I was going to offer to take over part of the way.’
‘No worries. I like driving. It’s like my running. Gives me time to think.’
‘I’d heard you go running. I was told you take it pretty seriously.’
‘I try to. The job gets in the way sometimes. It’s easy at this time of the year. Harder when winter comes.’
‘I can imagine.’ He was silent as she manoeuvred the car into a narrow space. As she turned off the engine he said, ‘Look, Ginny, about last night…’
She almost laughed at the cliché. ‘I’m not going to spare your feelings, Brian. It wasn’t good.’
‘No. I don’t know how it happened.’
‘You drank too much, that’s how it happened. It’s not complicated.’
‘Anyway, I know I owe you an apology.’
‘Me and those two waiters.’ She was tempted just to smooth the waters, to say ‘yes, apology accepted’ and move on. If nothing else, she was finding the conversation almost as awkward as he must be. But a few words of muttered apology, even if sincerely intended – and she wasn’t entirely convinced about that – weren’t really enough. ‘Look, Brian. I don’t want to make a meal of this, but in my view what happened last night wasn’t acceptable. We were down there on force business, and at the very least what you did had the potential to bring the force into disrepute. On top of that, you did and said some things I felt were inappropriate.’
