The Night Watch, page 11
‘And a good morning to you, too, Ross-Boss,’ said Norma with a smile.
‘I bought you coffees, so don’t say I don’t look after my people,’ he said depositing a cup at Norma’s side.
‘No doughnuts?’
‘I’m watching my figure, and if I’m not eating sweet and tasty treats, neither are you two buggers.’ He placed his Tupperware box on his desk, and Max was almost certain he could detect a sneer.
‘What’s in there?’ said Janie.
‘My bastard lunch,’ said Ross, eyeing it with suspicion.
‘You made it yourself?’ said Norma, trying to hide a grin.
‘Fuck no, it’s a bastard couscous and mung bean fucking salad that Mrs F made for me last night. Now, I don’t want any sarky arsed comments from any of you buggers, either. My body is a temple, you know.’
‘More of a cathedral, I’d say,’ said Max.
‘Fuck off,’ muttered Ross, booting up his computer.
‘Or a broken-down church,’ added Janie.
‘How I long for the times when the DI was spoken to with respect. Now can we all stop blethering and get to work, please.’
Janie handed Max a cup.
‘Thanks, any news from anywhere?’ said Max.
‘Nope,’ said Janie. ‘Last update I had was the briefing for DCC McVeigh. MIT 6 are getting nowhere with the murder of Paterson. No intel steers, nothing from forensics, PM had nothing, nothing from the snitches. They’ve already released a load of bods back to their other teams.’
‘Fergus Grigor?’
‘No evidence to link, and we’ve not shared the ladybug find with them, for obvious reasons. But no witnesses, obviously no CCTV and the PM was inconclusive owing to the catastrophic injuries,’ said Ross, reading from his computer screen.
‘Is Barney coming in today?’ said Max.
‘Aye, he should be here soon. I also have a reply from the cockney taser expert, here. Looks like the greenfly number was from one of the first batches of cartridges issued to Police Scotland in 2015. They’d be well out of date now.’
‘What about internal records? We must know where they went,’ said Max.
‘Into the training pool, is all I have. Shite recording, as it was at the very early stages. I don’t think we’ll get too far with them.’
‘Shite. Inspectorate would go mad if they knew.’
‘Well, loads of the bloody things got shot off during all the early training courses. Firearms teams got them first and you know what those buggers are like with a new toy. They’d have been shooting them off all over the place.’
‘So, there’s no link to Lorimer?’ said Janie.
‘Nope,’ said Ross.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, guys,’ said Norma, looking at her screen.
Everyone turned to face her.
‘I have a potential link.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Lorimer was on the Paedophile Squad in 2015 at the time that Macallan went missing.’
‘We know this already.’
‘Aye, but did you know that John Lorimer’s wife, Iona Lorimer, was a firearms instructor at that exact time. She was also one of the first to be trained on taser and had access to all the kit.’
The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall.
‘Where’s she now?’
‘Passed away shortly after.’
‘How?’ said Max.
‘Car crash. Two cars in a head-on collision that ended up in a big fireball. No one walked away alive. Three dead, both occupants of the other car, and Iona, who was alone,’ said Norma, her voice quiet.
‘I remember this now,’ said Max. It had been big news, and the death of a serving police officer always sticks in the memory.
‘So, what are we saying? Does this change anything?’ said Janie.
‘It gives John Lorimer possible access to tasers and cartridges and it gives him something else, as well,’ said Ross, his voice flat.
‘What?’ said Norma, her face puzzled.
‘A motive. Put yourself in his shoes. You’ve just buried your wife and then you have to watch a scumbag drunk driver, like Chick Wilson, walk free from court, grinning like an idiot.’
‘So, what’s next?’ asked Janie.
‘Max?’ said Ross, eyebrows raised.
‘I’ve a plan. We’re going to have to work non-stop to get everything in place, and we’ll need some help.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘Norma, what do we know about Lorimer’s home?’
‘He lives alone, as far as we can tell, in an apartment in a converted school in a nice bit of Portobello. There’re ten apartments, and he’s number 7. Smallish mortgage on it and he seems financially well set. A significant insurance payout after his wife’s death set him up comfortably. Flat has an alarm registered with it, but no CCTV.’
‘Does the block have CCTV?’
‘No. I’ve managed to access the building profile here from the crime prevention officers’ database. They did a survey a few years ago, after a couple of break-ins. It was converted in the early 80s. It has voice intercoms only, but the doors are heavy and recently upgraded, one at the front and one at the back, accessible with magnetic fobs. There’s a fire brigade key slot, which is required by law.’
‘So, a technical attack on his house will be tricky, what with close neighbours, particularly in this timeframe. How about his car?’ said Max.
‘Flash Audi SQ5. Just a year old, on a PCP thing. Costs him four hundred a month.’
‘Registration?’
Norma told them.
‘Have we run it through ANPR?’
‘Aye, hits around the city, which I’ll map when I have a moment.’
‘How about the night of the murders?’
‘Only between Leith cop shop and his home. No activations on the obvious routes, around Ravelston or going north to Dunnet Head.’
Max paused for a moment, thinking. ‘You have the VIN number?’
Norma handed a sheet of paper across. ‘PNC printout, it’s all on there.’
‘Cool, thanks. Does he have much of an online presence?’ said Max, scribbling into his A4 notebook.
‘Not particularly active on social media, although he does have a Facebook profile. He’s clearly really into share trading. Lots of money moving around in share accounts.’
‘How about phones?’
‘Well, he has his work phone, which we have all the details for, and he pays for another phone with O2. I’ll forward you the info, but I’ve submitted all the data requests for itemised billing and cell sites.’
‘I’ll get them hurried up,’ said Ross, writing on his pad.
‘Anything else notable?’
‘He clearly likes a drink. Lots of purchases in bars in Leith and others close to his place in Portobello.’
Max nodded. ‘A very security-conscious detective, but he has weaknesses we can exploit. He likes his car. He likes a drink, maybe there’s an angle there.’
‘You’ve got that look on your face, Max,’ said Janie.
‘What?’
‘One that means bad shit’s about to happen and no one’s going home early today,’ she said.
‘What time are we seeing the chief?’
‘As soon as you stop talking. He wants to accelerate the timescales,’ said Ross.
‘Well, let’s go and see him, then.’
25
THE MIT 6 supervisors’ meeting had been a little terse right from the start. It always happened like this. A murder breaks, and it’s all hands to the pump during the golden hour, and onwards searching for and collating the evidence, particularly the type that tends to deteriorate with the passage of time. They’d been full-on, collecting the CCTV, smashing the house-to-house enquiries, working the scenes. The team was all tired and jaded.
DCI Donnie Watson looked over his spectacles at the other supervisors, Marnie Gray, Mark Fagerson, John Lorimer, Jimmy Duggan and a new face, DS Billy Bruce. They all stared back at him with tired eyes. His phone buzzed on the table, a message from his wife. Are you going to be home today, or will I be eating alone again? He didn’t touch his phone, deciding that he’d deal with that situation later. His wife was getting more and more fed up with the job and was putting on pressure for him to retire. He looked up and put her out of his mind.
‘Jimmy, anything from the forensic submissions? Give me something, please.’
‘Sorry, I can’t. Literally not a bloody thing. Not a fibre, not a hair, not a sausage. Couple of nicks in Paterson’s clothing, but scientists think it is likely from the bark of the tree.’
‘What about the minor injury to his backside?’
‘No idea. Maybe from the tree, as well. Pathologist won’t commit herself.’
‘Toxicology?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘Shit. So, no witnesses, no CCTV, no forensics. How about source intel, John?’
‘Well, an anonymous Crimestoppers message came in via the website saying, and I quote, Scott Paterson was killed by one of McLennan’s boys over drugs debts. He owed forty grand for some coke that was lost.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Aye.’
‘No name, number, email address?’
‘No. I tried to backtrace, but it looks like a VPN was used. Unless they come back to us, we’re knackered.’
Donnie stroked his chin and stared at the ceiling, as he tried to quell the frustration that was threatening him. His face began to flush, so he breathed, deeply. ‘Keep looking into this, John. If there’s a chance this is McLennan, we need to be all over it. Last thing we need is retribution and one of Jackie’s boys getting topped.’
Lorimer nodded.
‘Still nothing on phones?’
‘Nope. The number we had for him was switched off around the time we suspect he died, and it’s never been on since. No calls or texts that are of interest. Only calls into him are from family or friends, all of whom have been TIE’d,’ said Lorimer, using the acronym for ‘trace, interview, eliminate’.
‘Any data usage?’
‘Nothing relevant.’
‘I’ll bloody decide on relevance, John. Just fucking tell me.’ Donnie’s face began to darken to an even deeper shade of red and he felt the skin on his neck prickle as he always did when anger or frustration began to bite.
‘Plenty, but without the handset, it’s meaningless. Cell site puts the phones in or around the golf course, but that’s not a lot of help. We can’t find any obvious social media accounts in his name either.’
‘For fuck’s sake, this is shite, guys. Probably my last case, and it’s almost unsolvable. What the fuck is going on and what the hell are you lot doing? You’re supposed to add something to this fucking investigation and all I’m hearing is, “Nothing, boss.” It’s not fucking good enough!’ Donnie bellowed at the officers in front of him, his face contorted.
A tense silence filled the room for a full thirty seconds, before Donnie exhaled, forcefully, then rubbed his face with his hands. A vein pulsed at his temple.
‘Boss, we’re doing everything we can, but we can’t make leads that aren’t there,’ said Marnie.
Donnie slumped back in his chair. He said nothing, just stared at a point a few inches above all their heads, feeling his insides churning.
‘Boss?’ said Marnie.
Donnie just shook his head again, before sitting upright, ‘Fergus Grigor?’ he asked, looking at Marnie Gray with tired-looking eyes.
‘Literally not a shred of evidence to be had.’
‘PM findings?’
‘Died of multiple injuries. Nothing from tox, nothing in injuries to suggest that anything happened before he went over the cliff.’
‘So, we can’t link them beyond the fact that Grigor was Paterson’s advocate?’
‘Nope,’ said Marnie.
‘How’re the team?’
‘As knackered and pissed-off as we are, boss,’ said Fagerson.
‘Aye well, it’s 4 p.m, now. Let’s go and have a beer together, you know, bonding and that. I’ll give them a lie-in tomorrow. No one in before midday, okay?’
There were nods and smiles all round.
‘Also, I know some of you have met him already today, but just in case, can I introduce DS Billy Bruce, who’s just transferred in from MITs in West Midlands Police. He’s plenty of homicide investigation experience. As he’s been in England for bloody years, he’s off the streets until he’s done his conversion course, to bring him up to speed on our wonderful Scottish way of doing things. I’ve given him the bonnie job of CCTV coordinator, which he’s delighted with.’
Billy nodded and smiled showing even, white teeth. ‘Aye, thanks, boss, love a bit of CCTV, me.’ His accent was a soft central belt, not harsh, presumably blunted by years away from Scotland.
‘When’s your course, Billy?’ asked Lorimer.
‘Next month, three weeks at Tulliallan,’ he said with a grimace.
‘Okay, let’s go for a pint and piss off home, okay?’
‘You buying, boss?’ asked Marnie.
‘Am I shite. DSs who earn the overtime can put their hands in their bloody pockets.’
‘New boy rules, Billy, first pint’s on you,’ said Lorimer, chuckling.
‘I would, but I’ve gone and left my wallet at home,’ said Billy, returning the laugh.
‘Okay, okay, let’s get everyone to the boozer, but we’ve plenty of work still to do, so I want everyone back here fresh tomorrow and ready to graft. I want to do an appeal, and I want an anniversary press conference at the scene. We also have the DCS visiting tomorrow, and I’m going to have to convince him we’re on top of this. So, a few beers only, and then home. And yes, I’m looking at you, John.’
‘Why me?’ said Lorimer, a sparkle in his eyes.
‘Because I’ve worked with you for bloody years, and I know what you’re like. No getting on the pish and showing up here in a shite state tomorrow.’
‘Understood,’ said Lorimer, innocently.
‘Right, come on, let’s get this over with.’
26
‘HERE THEY GO,’ said Max into his covert mic. He was sitting in the small café opposite Leith Police Station on Queen Charlotte Street.
Leith, once a working-class port, was undergoing the evolution of gentrification, possibly since the film Trainspotting had hit the screens, which was ironic, bearing in mind the subject matter of the film. Old traditional pubs were being torn down and replaced with gastropubs and Michelin-starred dining. Even the fish and chip shop on the harbour felt posh.
The group of about fifteen or so cops, dressed in suits with slack-knotted ties, left the large Georgian building and headed away. The big figure of John Lorimer was at the front, his smart suit struggling to contain his powerful bulk.
‘Why not go to the Compass across the road?’ said Janie in his ear.
‘Because it’s more of a restaurant. They’ll go to the Port O’ Leith, that’s the cop pub around here,’ said Max, under his breath.
‘You sure?’
‘Cops always go to cop pubs.’
‘Received. You want me to come and get you?’
‘Not yet. I’ll shout when I do. Is Barney with you?’
‘Aye, sat next to me and eager to crack on.’
‘I hope he’s prepared for all eventualities.’
‘He says piss off.’
‘Charming. Anyway, I’m going mobile. I’ll shout if I need you.’
Max finished his coffee and left the small café. He remained about fifty metres behind the crowd of ambling detectives as he followed them for the three-minute walk to the Port O’ Leith.
As expected, as soon as they crossed Constitution Street and into Maritime Lane, they all filed into the small, nautical-themed pub, presumably to be met with a delighted smile from the publican, seeing a load of overtime-rich detectives hitting his pub at the quiet time of mid-afternoon.
‘They’re inside. I suspect they’ll be a while, the first few pints after a bit of hard graft can get a bit ugly. Hopefully he’ll get pished.’
‘You know the type. First in last out, CID’s full of them.’
‘Is his car still where it was earlier?’
‘Yep, tracker’s still on. He must have a relationship with one of the business owners on Mitchell Street, just behind the nick. Parking’s shite round here, and he’d have been clamped if he just left it there.’
Max smiled. The last twenty-four hours had been a blur of activity, authority applications, technical liaisons, and planning, just to get to this stage.
None of them had slept, but they were ready. They had no way of getting eyes and ears in his home, but they could get onto his car. A simple tracker had already been planted, but they had bigger plans. If Barney the tech guy was on his game, they may get their break tonight.
But right now, all they could do was wait.
27
IT ALWAYS HAPPENED this way.
One pint led to another. Then another, and then a little more. A round of shots were necked, followed by a few others, until the less hardcore team members began to drift away.
Detectives had changed, thought John Lorimer, and he wasn’t sure why. It used to be that drinking together was as much a part of being a detective as working together.
He’d always been a fair drinker, even before Iona passed away, but since then, he’d got worse and worse, or better and better, depending on your point of view.
‘Another beer, John?’ the face of Billy, the new DS, swam into view through the alcoholic haze, the result of several hours of hard drinking.
‘Fucking damn right, mate. I’m glad to have someone who values the team-bonding affairs of a good evening on the pish. Is it just us, now?’
‘Aye, Donnie was giving us daggers when he left.’
‘Ach, fuck him,’ he said, accepting his pint of lager from Billy, and taking a deep draught of the cold, crisp beer.
‘So, what brought you back to Scotland, then?’
‘Usual shite. Women. I got cleaned out in a divorce, pal. My parents had left me their old place in Craigentinny which I’d had rented out, but once the bitch took everything, I came back. Applied to Police Scotland, and I was in. Wish I didn’t have to do this shite course, though.’
