Quintin Jardine - Hour Of Darkness

‘If you insist, sir.’ To Paula, it was as if the temperature in the car was growing icier by the second.

‘I do, Detective Superintendent, I do. And one other thing, I want you to call Arthur Dorward in Forensic Services and ask him, as a favour to me, to put the DNA analysis of the blood from Caledonian Crescent right to the top of his priority list. I’d like a yes or no on whether it matches that body within twenty-four hours. I trust Karen’s instincts, though. I’m damn sure it’s her.’

‘I prefer evidence to instinct.’ As Mackenzie spoke, Paula saw, in the mirror, her husband’s eyes flare. She mouthed the word ‘No!’ to ward off any explosion. ‘But,’ the superintendent continued, ‘I’ll call Dorward right away and pass on your instruction.’

McGuire exhaled. ‘Fuck me! My request, David, my request. You don’t instruct Arthur, you humour him. He’s a prickly sod, and when he was one of us, a police officer rather than a central service person, he was often on the wrong side of insubordinate. He’s got away with it, though, for twenty years because he’s bloody brilliant at his job. This too: the chief constable has a high regard for him. When Stevie Steele, her husband, was killed on duty, Arthur’s work led to us catching the guy who did it.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, you do now, so ask him gently for a hurry up on the blood from. .’ He paused. ‘What’s the woman’s name? The missing occupant? We do know for sure she’s missing, yes? It wouldn’t do if she turned out to be up the shops, liked dead flowers and had an accident with a juice carton.’

‘She’s missing all right. The downstairs neighbour said she hadn’t seen her for at least three weeks, and Neville’s view is that she doesn’t miss anything.’

The ACC laughed. ‘She sounds like my Granny McGuire. She knew everything that happened in the whole damn street. What’s her name, the vanished householder?’

‘Spreckley, Isobella Spreckley.’

‘Is there a husband to go to the top of our suspect list?’

‘No. She’s Miss Spreckley, according to the NHS, and the woman downstairs.’

‘Let’s hope she’s not the late Miss Spreckley, but I fear she is. Let me know the outcome of this, David. Also. . for fuck’s sake, man, lighten up on your subordinates. And lay off Karen. If you put the chief and me in a position where we had to transfer one of you out of the city, don’t assume it would be her. So long.’

He hit a button on the steering wheel to kill the call.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Paula exclaimed. ‘What’s that man’s problem? What’s with the attitude?’

‘I wish I could be sure,’ Mario replied. ‘He may just be insecure, coming back into CID after having a breakdown last time he was there. Neil McIlhenney thinks he’s jealous of me. I suspect he’s jealous of every officer senior to him, and most of his subordinates as well. The bloke thought he was a whizz-kid in Strathclyde, and that us lot through in Edinburgh were just hicks beside him. He’s found out that neither of those things are true and he may be having a hard time accepting it.’

‘So why’s he in that job?’

‘Because he is a good detective: when I put him there I didn’t appreciate what a bloody awful man-manager he is, that’s the trouble. But it’s only been a few weeks; there’s hope for him yet if Mary Chambers and I point him in the right direction.’

‘Let’s hope so, but. .’ She was interrupted by a rising wail from the baby chair. ‘Damn it! I’d planned it so wee Eamon’s next feed wouldn’t be due until we got to our Viola’s; thanks to Mr bloody Mackenzie he’s needing it now. Mario, do you. .’

‘Of course not,’ he laughed. ‘Eamon comes first. Plug him into the mains and I’ll wait till you’re done. Your Viola knows the score; she’ll understand.’

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, smiling as he watched her unbutton her shirt then flip up her bra, to grant the baby access to the milk supply, and knowing that he had never been happier in his life.

His mind had been in neutral, but without warning it slipped back into gear. ‘Spreckley,’ he murmured. ‘That’s a name I’ve heard before.’

He switched off the car’s electrics to kill the Bluetooth, and dug his mobile from his pocket. The number of every CID officer from detective sergeant upwards was registered in his contacts. He scrolled through them until he found Neville, K, and called her.

He heard street noise as she answered. ‘Karen,’ he began, ‘Mario McGuire here. Are you still at Caledonian Crescent?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m just on my way to re-interview the downstairs neighbour. Am I in the shit?’

‘Eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course not. Why should you be? No, I’m just wondering about something. Other than her name, do you know anything about this missing woman?’

‘No. That’s why I want to talk to Mrs McConnachie again. I don’t want to start searching through the flat until Mr Dorward says it’s clear, and his people have only just got here.’

‘That’s understood, but based on what you’ve seen so far, were there any hints about her?’

Phone to ear, Karen thought through the scene upstairs. ‘Not really. I could see only one personal item, that was all: a framed photograph of a woman and two boys, kids, primary school age. It wasn’t taken recently. The colour was quite faded.’

‘Two boys,’ McGuire repeated. ‘Do something for me, please. Go back up to the flat, take the photo out of the frame and photograph it with your phone, best resolution possible, then email it to me. Use my force address, “accmmcguire at”. Can you do that?’

‘Right away, sir. Give me two minutes.’

He ended the call then reached behind him for the bag that Paula had filled with Eamon’s daily needs, and found his iPad. He switched it on and waited for it to acquire a signal, then checked his email inbox. There were two new messages, one from his opposite number in Aberdeen, the second a forwarded message from the chief constable. While he waited he read both of them, and was in the act of replying to the first, when a musical tone told him that a new message had arrived. As he expected, it was from Karen Neville.

There was an image attachment and a note: ‘Sir, I’ve checked with the nosy neighbour and she says she’s certain this is Isabella Spreckley, the missing woman. Younger but definitely her. KN.’

He opened it and found himself looking at the photograph she had described, a woman with two boys. His eyes narrowed; he peered even closer, then swiped the screen to make the copied photograph larger, isolating the female face.

‘Well I never,’ he whispered.

‘Do you know her?’ Paula asked, from the back.

‘I rather think I do. I can’t swear to it, but if I’m right. .’ He pulled the image back to its normal size and held the tablet up. ‘See those boys? If I’m right, Bob Skinner and I helped her bury one of them, going on for twenty years ago.’

He turned his attention back to the iPad, and keyed in a line, and a command. When it had been executed his went back to his phone and found another mobile number, from the personal section of his directory. The connection took longer than usual, but eventually he heard it ring, a single beeping sound rather than the British two-tone signal.

When it was answered, the first thing he heard was the sound of a seabird. The second was a familiar voice. ‘Mario, forgive me, but what the fuck is it?’

‘I’m sorry to break into your weekend, Bob,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d want in on this.’

‘Time will tell,’ Skinner replied. ‘You’re breaking into my holiday, not just my weekend. I’ve got to talk on the move, though. Sarah and I are heading for Barcelona soon. Here, love,’ McGuire heard him say, ‘you drive.’