Quintin Jardine - Aftershock

‘It’s what I wanted to hear.’

‘I don’t scare you?’

She showed him a mock frown. ‘I don’t scare; when I have to I scare other people. And that’s just one of the many qualities that you and I have in common. You do know we could take over the world if we wanted, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. Just as well we’re happy with what we’ve got. You are happy, aren’t you?’ he asked her earnestly. ‘This isn’t just an interlude, is it?’

‘No, my big awkward love, it’s for keeps, I promise. You may think you’re hard to handle, but you’re in the process of learning otherwise.’

‘In that case,’ he murmured, ‘let’s ask John for la cuenta and get out of here. It may be time for my next lesson. Going back to something I said earlier, suddenly I’m feeling tremendously courageous.’

‘What have we got?’ asked Becky Stallings, as she draped her light jacket over the back of a chair in the mobile police station. The clock showed twenty-five minutes after eight a.m., but even that early in the day the confined space was stuffy, with the promise of more to come as the temperature neared the forecast high seventies. ‘Has the team finished calling the members?’

‘They’ve gone as far as they can go,’ McGurk told her. ‘Just under twenty per cent of them were no-response, as you would expect at this time of year. In a couple of weeks it would have been nearer fifty per cent.’

‘I thought this was the Edinburgh holiday fortnight.’

‘Yes, it’s the Trades, but that’s mostly manual workers; builders and the like. The professionals tend to take theirs later; as you’ll have noticed, this isn’t exactly an artisan golf club.’

‘If Lord Archibald’s typical, I see what you mean.’

‘Hey,’ McGurk exclaimed, ‘don’t let his title fool you. He doesn’t come from one of the legal families; he came up the hard way. My old boss, Dan Pringle, told me that in his first year as an advocate, when he was making his name and had little or no money coming in, he wasn’t too proud to do the odd shift behind the other sort of bar.’

‘They should make that compulsory for judges. . at least for some of the English ones I’ve appeared before. They have no idea about the lives of ordinary people.’ She drew a breath. ‘I don’t suppose the call-round turned up anything?’

‘Surprise, it did. There’s a group of four retired members who play a couple of times a week, in the afternoon, when it tends to be quiet. Three of them said that they’d seen a dark-haired woman using that path.’

‘Regularly?’

‘More than once, anyway. One of them told the officer who interviewed him that she annoyed them by not standing still while they were playing.’

‘Do you reckon that’s grounds for murder?’

‘I’ve known flimsier,’ Haddock muttered, in the corner.

‘When they saw her, in what direction was she heading?’

‘Always south; that’s from the green to the tee,’ said McGurk.

‘The green’s where the flag is?’

‘I see you’re learning the game, ma’am.’

Stallings laughed lightly. ‘I’ll leave it to you boys.’

‘Don’t count me among them,’ the sergeant advised her. ‘I’m too tall. They don’t make clubs for people who are six feet eight.’

She turned to Haddock. ‘How about you, Sauce?’

The young DC nodded. ‘I play at Newbattle.’

‘Are you any good?’

‘Mmm,’ he mumbled.

‘What does that mean?’ said McGurk. ‘What’s your handicap? Twenty-eight?’

‘Actually, it’s two, Sarge. By the way, it wouldn’t be difficult to get clubs to suit your size. I’m sure if you asked the pro here he’d fix you up.’

‘But before then. .’ Stallings interrupted.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Haddock seemed to come to attention in his chair. ‘I spent all yesterday evening working through my list of artists and art teachers, checking them all out. I’ve eliminated most of them, but there are four I still haven’t been able to contact by phone. Their names are Maeve O’Farrell, Ghita Patel, Josie Smout and Sugar Dean.’

‘Sugar?’

‘That’s the name I was given by the secretary of the Merchant Company. She’s on the art staff at the Mary Erskine school.’

‘I reckon you can take Ghita Patel off the list,’ McGurk told him. ‘The dead woman wasn’t Asian.’

‘Do we have addresses for the other three?’ Stallings asked.

‘Yes. O’Farrell stays in North Berwick, Smout’s in Pennywell Medway, and Sugar Dean lives in Meriadoc Crescent.’

‘Where?’ The sergeant’s voice was suddenly sharp.

‘Meriadoc Crescent, number eight.’

‘That’s just on the other side of the hill.’

Haddock was out of his chair in a flash. ‘I’ll get round there.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Stallings. She led the way out of the office. ‘My car.’

‘You know the way there, ma’am?’ The inspector stared at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘It’s just that, you being new to the city. .’

‘Ever heard of satellite navigation, Sauce?’

She programmed the address into her TomTom, and let its voice guide her out of the car park, and down towards Queensferry Road, then left on to Clermiston Road. Less than five minutes later she drew up outside number eight Meriadoc Crescent, a semi-detached bungalow that stood on a steep incline. As the two detectives stepped out into the quiet street, they saw, between two houses on the crest of the hill, a lane that seemed to lead straight into the woods.

Stallings was frowning as she walked up the path to the front door of number eight, and pressed the buzzer. She waited for thirty seconds, then pressed it again. ‘Bugger,’ she swore quietly.

‘Excuse me.’

The voice came from the doorway of number six, the other half of the semi. It belonged to a lady of mature years, and fixed habits; even at ten to nine she was dressed for the day, in tweed skirt and cardigan. Her grey hair showed all the signs of being regularly permed. She gazed at them severely. ‘Are you looking for the Deans?’ She barked on without waiting for a reply: ‘You won’t find them in, you know. They’re on holiday, up at their cottage in Appin.’

‘Actually,’ said the inspector, firmly, to break her flow, ‘we’re looking for Miss Dean.’

‘Sugar?’ Her forehead seemed to acquire an extra ridge. ‘And you are?’

‘We’re police officers, Mrs. .’

‘Holmes.’ No forename was offered. ‘Police officers, indeed.’ She stopped short of a sniff of disapproval, but favoured them with a look of distaste. ‘We’re not used to having police at the doors in this street. What’s Sugar been up to?’

‘Nothing at all. We simply want to establish her whereabouts.’

‘Well, she’s not here,’ Mrs Holmes snapped, as if she was anxious to move them on before other residents observed the encounter.

‘Could she be with her parents?’

‘She might be. More likely off with that boyfriend of hers.’ The woman’s lips pursed. ‘She’s asking for trouble, that lass: the lad’s barely out of short trousers, and her a teacher too. I thought there were laws against that sort of thing.’

‘There might be,’ said Haddock. ‘What age is he?’

‘He can’t be any more than eighteen. He’s only left school last month.’

‘It’s all legal and above board in that case,’ the DC told her cheerfully. She replied with a glare that reminded him of the Sunday when his Free Presbyterian grandmother caught him listening to Radio Forth.

‘But she does live with her parents?’ asked Stallings, distracting her from her prey.

‘Yes, she does. She moved back in with them last year when she got the job at Mary Erskine. I must say, it surprised me that she was taken on there. My granddaughter’s at George Watson’s; they don’t have types like her there.’