Ian Rankin - A Cool Head

‘Didn’t take anything. Her bag, purse, phone, toothbrush, they’re all still here. This is even her vodka I’m drinking.’ As she reached down for her glass, the little collection of cigarette ash fell from her hand.

‘Cheers,’ she said. Then she lost her balance, rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor, laughing. Don ignored her and opened the shoulder bag on the coffee table. Celine Watts’ purse was inside, along with aspirin and paper hankies and a phone. Why hadn’t she taken anything? Because she’d been scared. And besides, she had everything she needed in the car… a driver, and a small mountain of cash.

The cousin was still chuckling quietly to herself, eyes closed. He knew that if he beat her up, it would send a message to Celine Watts. The sort of message Gorgeous George would thank him for.

All the same, Don didn’t have the heart for it. He pocketed Celine’s purse and phone and walked back to the waiting car.

Jane Harris had been a detective inspector for all of three weeks, and here she was standing in a garage with pools of blood at her feet.

Pools plural.

The cold, dead victim was called Raymond Masters. It was his garage. He cleaned cars for a living, or had done until about four hours ago. That was how long it had taken them to locate the source of the gunshots. A gun had been found in the dead man’s hand, and it had been fired. It wasn’t suicide, though. Two shots had been fired by Masters. One bullet had already been located, stuck in the wall to the left-hand side of the doors. One had done some damage to another human, if the bloodstains were to be believed. There were big dollops of the stuff. Masters had suffered a shot to the head. There should have been a spray of blood and brain matter, but cars had been parked here. Probably two of them, judging by the tyre marks.

Jane Harris had asked one of her team to look in Masters’ office. He would have bookings. She wanted to know which car or cars he had been working on. Maybe someone had wanted them. Cars got stolen all the time, didn’t they? But carjackers didn’t normally resort to guns. And why had the garage owner carried a gun of his own?

Her colleague Bob Sanders had a different theory. Bob had been on the force for almost as long as Jane had been alive. She trusted him when he mentioned the name George Renshaw.

‘Explain,’ was all she said, folding her arms.

‘Raymond might look clean these days, but in the past he was a bit of a lad. Ran with Albert Renshaw’s crew. Albert was George’s dad. Raymond’s done time inside. Word is that he’s still friends with Gorgeous George, and I can see why he’d be useful… George might sometimes have a car that needs cleaning.’

‘I thought he got rid of them at his scrapyard. ’

‘Maybe.’

Bob left her to think about it. He knew she would think about it. The guy who’d been wounded… someone would know. A doctor or hospital. An all-night supermarket where he could buy compresses and bandages. Someone would know. Or he could be nearby, hiding, biding his time. Maybe in a garden or a flat. He could have burst his way in. Jane knew that the first few hours were crucial, knew that the trail started to go cold after that. She needed people to go knocking on doors. She needed at least a couple of sniffer dogs.

One member of the forensic team was taking a photo of a footprint. The footprint was bloody. It got fainter as it neared the garage doors. The wounded man? No, because he’d been twelve feet further away. But the pool of blood vanished too. There were no signs that it led outside. So, one man heading outside, one man taking a car. Had they been partners? Or was one a bystander?

‘Might be a car theft after all,’ another detective said, emerging from the office. ‘Full valet this afternoon on a big Bentley. They cost a hundred grand plus. Owner’s number’s in the diary. I’ve just talked to him. He was picking the car up in the morning.’

‘Put out a call,’ Jane said. ‘Let everyone know the registration. Box of chocolates for the first one who spots it.’

‘And a hug and a kiss from yourself, Jane?’ Bob joked.

‘Unless you’re the winner,’ she told him. Another officer had appeared from the forecourt.

‘Parked car, recently damaged. Maybe by the getaway vehicle.’

‘Get forensics on to it,’ Jane said.

An hour later, she was heading back to HQ. Her boss had been woken up and was on his way there from his home. He would want a report. She would ask him for more officers. He would start doing the sums. Everything cost money, and even murder came with a budget attached. Jane parked in an empty bay, just as a police van was drawing up. People were singing inside. Drunks, probably, on their way to a night in the cells. She pushed open the door to the police station and went in. The desk sergeant nodded and waved.

‘Busy night?’ he guessed.

‘You heard about the shooting?’

He nodded. ‘Thought it was funny, actually…’

She stared at him. ‘Funny?’

‘Odd, I mean. You know that Ray Masters has links to George Renshaw?’

‘Bob told me.’

The desk sergeant smiled. ‘Well, Bob knows everything, doesn’t he?’

‘Meaning I don’t?’

‘You’re a quick learner, though, ma’am. So tell me this, who’s Don Empson?’

She walked towards him. ‘No idea,’ she confessed.

‘Only, we had him in here a few hours back. Patrol car picked him up in a graveyard. He spun them a story and we had to let him go.’

‘So who is he then?’ Jane asked.

‘He’s George Renshaw’s right-hand man, that’s who…’

Jane at the graveyard

As soon as it was daylight, Jane drove to the graveyard. The gates had been broken open. A chain and padlock lay on the ground next to them. The car was parked over towards a workman’s hut. Empson had said it wasn’t his. Fair enough. If he was telling the truth, his fingerprints wouldn’t be all over the inside. She’d got the licence plate number from the officers who’d found Empson. The computer had come up with an owner’s name and address, but the car had been sold by this man for spare parts.

Sold to George Renshaw. Now wasn’t that a coincidence?

It wasn’t much of a car. The paintwork was the only thing holding it together. She pushed a finger against an area of rust and the finger went straight through. She wiped the finger clean and took a walk around the graveyard. The grass was damp with dew. Birds were singing. She could count the number of clouds in the sky. She checked her watch. She had woken up someone from the council and asked them who would be in charge of the graveyard. He would meet her here. By now, he should have been here.

She kept walking. Behind a hedge she found a compost heap. There was a digger, too, and a wheelbarrow with a rake in it. The wheelbarrow had stains on it, not rust this time but something more like blood. Jane made a note to herself: get forensics down here. They could check the car at the same time. Maybe there’d be blood there too. As she continued her walk, she saw that back towards the gates the grass was stained. She crouched down. Again, it looked like blood. Someone had dripped blood along here. Someone wounded.

She retraced her steps, taking more care this time. She was looking for evidence. She was looking for something like a fresh grave. A sniffer dog might help…

Then she saw the man standing at the gates. He was examining them and shaking his head. He saw her and started walking towards her, hands in pockets. There was a bag on his shoulder. Maybe it contained his work clothes and packed lunch. Jane introduced herself.

‘Paul Mason,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘A carjacking, was it? Boy racers?’