Craig Russell - Dead men and broken hearts

Dunlop kicked off by mumbling through my caution that my answers could be used as evidence in court. Then they went through the questions. Had I killed Andrew Ellis in my Gordon Street offices? How did I get the bloody nose and the marks on my face? Could I identify the two men I claimed to see running away from my office?

‘And while Ellis was being murdered in your place of business,’ asked Dunlop, ‘you were meeting a Hungarian woman you say called herself Magda, attached to some refugee group?’

‘That’s right. You can ask at the station coffee bar.’

‘We have. You were there, all right, the girl at the cash counter recognized your photograph right away, but she didn’t see you with anyone else — mysterious foreign woman or otherwise.’

‘We sat over at the back. You couldn’t see us from the counter and Magda kept her back to everyone. At least it proves I was there, doesn’t it?’

‘It proves you were in the coffee bar, but not when. I get the feeling that the girl behind the counter took a shine to you, which is why she remembered you. But she’s hazy about the times. In fact, she guessed you were in a half hour before you said you were. And that doesn’t put you in the clear at all.’

‘She’s just muddled about the timing. Come on… if I went to the coffee bar deliberately to rig up an alibi, I’d have asked her the time, or if the station clock was right or some crap like that.’

‘Maybe you did,’ said Dunlop, his smug smile straining under the weight of his fleshy cheeks. ‘Maybe she just forgot that you asked…’

I didn’t answer but made a face to suggest the question was just too dumb to warrant a reply. Jock Ferguson gave him a similar look and Dunlop’s fat neck and cheeks reddened.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Ferguson. ‘I came into your office a couple of days ago and asked about the deaths of Thomas and Sylvia Dewar in their home in Drumchapel. Do you remember that?’

‘Of course…’

‘And you told me, when I specifically asked, that you had never met either of the Dewars before that date.’

‘That’s right. What’s this got to do with Ellis?’

Ferguson ignored me. ‘So you just went to the Dewars’ home in response to his telephone call earlier that day?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I know that’s what you said…’ Ferguson held me in a hooded gaze. He rested his hand on a thick buff folder that sat on the desk. I had deja-vu of Hopkins doing exactly the same thing during his interrogation. ‘Tell me, Lennox, has business been good? Of late, I mean?’

I shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess.’

‘I thought things might be a bit tight for you. You know, making you feel like you need to drum up a bit of business.’ Ferguson was trying to be sarcastic and he did so with the grace of a rhinoceros on ice-skates.

‘Your point?’

‘The Dewars’ door was open, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just like you found the door to your office open?’

‘Just like I find a door open when a door is open anywhere.’

‘You found Mrs Dewar dead on the floor of the kitchen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And found Thomas Dewar hanging dead upstairs?’

‘That’s right. What are — ’

‘You touched nothing in the Dewar home?’

‘Other than the ’phone to call the police, no.’

‘Okay.’ Ferguson paused, looking down at the desk and pursing his lips for a moment. ‘Do you know Mrs Maisie McCardle?’

‘Who?

‘Maisie McCardle. Do you know her?’

‘No. I’ve never heard the name before.’

‘No reason that you should have. She lives along the street from the Dewar home. A widow. Her husband died eight years ago and she has no family, so she devotes herself to her dog. She walks it regularly, three times a day, rain or shine.’

I hadn’t heard the name before, but an ugly, scowling woman and her ugly dog came immediately to mind. I was in trouble.

‘Listen, Jock — ’

‘Mrs McCardle doesn’t have a lot in her life, so she tends to remember people. She remembers you, for example. She remembers seeing you drive away the night the Dewars’ bodies were discovered, but — and here’s the odd thing — she also remembers having seen you outside the Dewar home a week before, during the day. She’s very clear on that. The funny thing is you had a different car the first time. Now that would make me believe you’ve not been entirely straight with me. Of course, there’s always the possibility that old Maisie is mistaken, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Back to my question about your techniques for canvassing for business. You have just confirmed that you didn’t touch anything at the Dewar house…’

He paused to reach into the folder. He laid a small white rectangle of card on the desk for me to see. I recognized it, of course: my business card. He repeated the process and placed a second next to it.

‘I have this very strange image of you entering the Dewar house, finding both spouses dead, then taking the time to take the wallet out of a dead man’s hip pocket while he’s dangling from the lightshade, slipping your business card in and putting the wallet back. Then, on your way out, you tuck a second business card into Sylvia Dewar’s address book next to the hall telephone. You see, that must be what happened…’ Ferguson leaned forward, dropping his tone a bar or two. ‘Because if it isn’t, then you have been telling me lies. You lied to me in your office when I asked you if you had previous contact with Dewar and you just repeated that lie to me just now.’

‘Okay, Jock, I can explain…’

‘I’m not finished.’

I waited for him to say his piece. Maybe that would give me enough time to put together how I was going to tell him the truth without it sounding like a cobbled together collection of hastily improvised lies.

‘We’ve been talking to a lot of people and tracing a lot of your steps,’ continued Ferguson. ‘I must say, I wish I had whatever it is that you’ve got going for you as far as the ladies are concerned. They all seem to remember you, even the more unlikely candidates. For example, a waitress in a tearoom in Blythswood Street. She recognized your picture too. She would swear in court that it was you who came into her tearoom and ordered coffees for you and your friend — your friend who looked more than a little shaken up. More than a little roughed up too. She remembers his face wasn’t so much swollen, but in the process of swelling up, as if he was fresh from a fight or a beating.’

I stayed silent.

‘Do you know the really odd thing?’ he continued. ‘We showed her a photograph of Thomas Dewar and guess what? She positively identified him as your chum with the face like a slapped arse.’

‘Like I said, I can explain all of that.’

‘I’ll look forward to your explanation… but first, I’d like to explain something myself. A couple of the finer points about evidence. We talked about a circumstantial case; well, for a circumstantial case to have any value, it has to comprise a number of mutually supportive, court-admissible proofs. One of the main proofs is flight or intended flight. If a prosecutor can demonstrate that the accused was in the process of running away, or preparing to run away, then it is an admissible possible indicator of guilt. For example, if — immediately prior to the commission of a crime or crimes — the accused empties his bank account, quits his lodgings and cancels all of his charge accounts.’

I sighed. ‘I know you’re not going to believe this, Jock, but I decided to go back to Canada. I was going to tell you, but I’ve only just made up my mind to go.’

‘And you intend to go back when?’

‘Three, four weeks…’