Stephen Leather: Take Two

‘The Scottish cops say his wallet and his watch were taken,’ said Marriott. ‘But what sort of mugger shoots a guy for a wallet and a watch? That’s the sort of thing that happens in the States, not here. I don’t know, maybe he had something on him we don’t know about? Drugs? Or a lot of cash?’

Biddulph nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. He nodded at the house. ‘But it doesn’t look as if he was living beyond his means, does it?’

‘We could check his bank accounts?’

‘If it’s drugs money, it’ll likely be cash. What do you think, Kim? Think he was moving drugs around the country?’

‘It’d be a good cover.’

‘Except he works for a company that decides where he goes, usually at short notice. I don’t see how that would help with drug distribution.’

‘Unless the trucking company is behind it.’

Biddulph laughed. ‘You’re working up a whole conspiracy here, aren’t you?’

‘What’s the alternative?’ she asked. ‘A totally random killing? Because if it was, without any forensic evidence we’ll never solve it.’

‘We don’t have to solve it,’ said Biddulph. ‘It’s not our case. We’re just doing a favour for the Jocks, save them the hassle of coming down here themselves. All we need to do is ask her the usual questions and send the notes up to Glasgow.’

They got out of the car. ‘We’re not going to play good cop, bad cop, are we?’ asked Marriott.

‘Best not,’ said Biddulph. ‘Let’s go for good cop, stupid cop.’

‘Which one am I?’

Biddulph grinned. ‘If you have to ask, sergeant…’ He locked the car and headed towards the house. ‘I want you to do the talking,’ said Biddulph.

‘Because I’m a woman?’

‘Because you’re better at empathising with people than I am and because she’s a sixty-three-year old woman who’s just lost her husband.’

Marriott pressed the doorbell and stood back. They heard shuffling steps coming down the hallway, then the front door opened on a security chain. Marriott already had her warrant card out and she held it up so the woman could see it. ‘I’m Sergeant Kimberley Marriott,’ she said. ‘This is my colleague Inspector Biddulph. We’re so sorry about your loss, Mrs McKenzie. Could we have a wee chat with you about your husband.’

Mrs McKenzie was grey haired and overweight with flabby forearms and rolls of fat around her waist that strained at a flowered dress that ended above a pair of chunky knees. Her eyes were red and bleary and there were dark patches under them. She had no make-up on and her face had a washed-out look as if all the life had been drained from it. She frowned as if she’d been asked to solve a complicated equation. ‘My husband?’ she said.

‘Just a wee chat,’ said Marriott. ‘We won’t take up too much of your time.’

Mrs McKenzie nodded and walked back down the hall.

The two detectives looked at each other. ‘A wee chat?’ mouthed Biddulph.

Marriott shrugged. ‘I was empathizing.’

‘You’re not Scottish,’ whispered Biddulph. ‘And by the sound of it, she isn’t either.’

‘Next time I’ll tell her we want a quick word, would that be better?’

Biddulph waved for Marriott to follow Mrs McKenzie, then closed the door behind them. They found her sitting on a sofa, another flower pattern but this one made up of roses, pink and red. Mrs McKenzie was staring into the middle distance, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

Marriott realised that Mrs McKenzie was playing with her wedding ring, twisting it around and around.

‘Mrs McKenzie, we are so very sorry about what happened to your husband. Do you mind if I sit down?’

Mrs McKenzie looked up in surprise as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘We’re the police, Mrs McKenzie. ‘I’m Sergeant Kimberley Marriott and this is my colleague Inspector Biddulph. Can we sit down?’

The woman nodded. Marriott sat down on the sofa next to Mrs McKenzie while Biddulph dropped down into an armchair. It was a small room with a gas fire that flickered and hissed and, above it, was a framed portrait of Jesus with eyes that seemed to be looking into Biddulph’s soul. There was a large wooden clock on the mantelpiece that ticked loudly, counting off the seconds. Either side of it were framed photographs. One of them was a much younger Mrs McKenzie on her wedding day, standing next to her proud husband. Biddulph realised with a jolt what a stunningly pretty woman she had been in her twenties — bright eyes, sensuous lips, high cheekbones and long curly blonde hair. She had the legs of a catwalk model and the breasts of a lingerie model and it was clear from the look in her husband’s eyes how much he adored her. It was hard to reconcile the beautiful girl in the picture with the grey-haired, plump lady with the tear-stained face and gnarled hands sitting on the sofa next to Marriott.

‘Mrs McKenzie, do you know if Reg was worried about anything?’ asked Marriott. ‘Was he having problems with anyone?’

Mrs McKenzie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?’

Her frown deepened. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt Reg?’

Marriott looked across at Biddulph and he could see from the helpless look in her eyes that she was struggling.

‘We think your husband was killed during a robbery,’ said Biddulph. ‘We’re fairly sure it was a random thing, that your husband was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But just in case, we have to check to see if there were any reasons why someone might want to kill him.’

‘He was shot,’ said Mrs McKenzie. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Why would anyone shoot my Reg?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Biddulph. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’

‘Just the bank. For the mortgage.’

‘And no one threatened him? Or was arguing with him?’

Mrs McKenzie shook her head and sniffed. ‘Everyone loved Reg,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have a bad bone in his body.’ She began to cry.

Marriott reached over and held the woman’s hand. ‘Mrs McKenzie, do you have any relatives who can come and sit with you?’

‘My daughter was here this morning.’ She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘She’ll be back in half an hour.’

Marriott looked over at the mantelpiece and pointed at one of the photographs. ‘That’s Carolyn Castle, isn’t it?’ she asked.

Mrs McKenzie looked across at the photograph. It was in a garish red frame. ‘Yes, Reg got it for me.’

‘What, he bought it, you mean?’

Mrs McKenzie shook her head. ‘No, he got her to sign it for me.’ She pushed herself out of her armchair and waddled over to the framed photograph. She smiled at it. ‘To Debs, with love,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that nice, calling me Debs like that. It’s like she’s a real friend.’ She handed the framed photograph to Marriott.

‘We met her, last week,’ said Marriott, looking at the signature. ‘I never thought of it but I should have asked her for her autograph then.’

‘Are you a fan?’ asked Mrs McKenzie, waddling back to her chair and sitting down.

‘Very much so,’ said Marriott. ‘I watch Rags To Riches whenever I can, but I’m on shifts so it’s not easy.’ She held up the picture. ‘So how did Reg get this for you? Was he at the studio?’

‘No, she posted it a couple of days after he met her. She said she’d send me a signed picture and she was as good as her word.’

‘And how did he meet her?’ asked Marriott. She looked over at Biddulph. The inspector gave her an almost imperceptible nod, letting her know he was happy with her questioning.