Jack in the Box, page 12
‘Not ruling him out. He dumped Ross’s body. We’re taking his van apart as we speak.’
‘Maybe he was just a courier. They don’t really ask questions, do they?’
‘Or maybe that’s what he wants us to think.’
McGill drank up. ‘I’ll see if we can dig out his service record. Oh, one other thing. The paperwork you were looking for from Avalon King came through.’
‘I saw that,’ Lomond said. ‘Not had time to check it out yet.’
‘Strange thing . . . the title deeds on the Symes’ house . . . they weren’t the first people to buy it. Isn’t that what Nicole Kingsley said?’
Lomond frowned. ‘That’s right.’
‘The first name on the title deeds was the same as that comedian. The one who got punched on the American talk show the other month. Benny Kettles. Can’t be too many Benny Kettles out there.
‘Oh, and there’s some dodgy stuff he’s been saying online that you’ll definitely want to check out . . .’
*
Slater scratched his head. ‘This song, gaffer. Again?’
Lomond’s gaze had drifted out of the window as they drove along the Broomielaw. Another cold one. More frost was forecast tonight. He scratched his neck. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What’s right with it?’
‘I think you’re being a bit of a snob there, Malcolm.’
‘C’mon. You’re not that old.’
‘The song’s not that old.’
‘It kind of is. I was still at school when it came out.’
‘And it was a big hit. You still hear it on TV shows, adverts . . .’
‘The Lighthouse Family? Honestly?’
Lomond tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the chorus came in again. ‘Look, I like it. I’m sorry if it’s not cool enough for you. What are you into, like?’
‘Arctic Monkeys.’
‘Whoa, cutting edge.’
‘Well, you asked, I told you. I like them. And they’re cooler than the Lighthouse Family. That’s scientific fact.’
‘It bloody isn’t. I like it. Reminds me of when me and Maureen got married.’
‘Wasn’t your first dance, was it?’
‘Nah. That was Bryan Adams.’
‘The Robin Hood one? The one that was number one for ever?’
‘The very one.’
‘Bet everybody groaned when that came on.’
‘Ach, not really. I had a bow and arrow, shot an apple off her head. This was a few years after the Robin Hood one. But it still felt current, you know?’
‘Away you go.’ There was more weariness than mirth in Slater’s comment. For a moment, Lomond thought he was going to switch the MP3 player off. ‘Hell is it you’ve got here, anyway? This is a fairly new motor. Surely you’ve got a streaming service you can use?’
‘Nah, I like the old MP3. Got just about every album I’ve got loaded on it.’
‘And every single one is the Lighthouse Family, right? Cos this is the second time you’ve played that song while I’ve been in the car. Is it on repeat or something?’
‘Nah, it’s on random. Algorithms. Maybe it’s listening to us.’
‘Maybe your sound system is haunted.’
‘Maybe it is. Anyway, I’m not interested in your sniffy opinions – it’s my motor, and that’s all there is to it.’
Slater raised his hands. ‘So are we sure Kettles is going to be here?’
‘According to the message board, yes. He’s got some adoring fans in the department; they confirmed it. No answer at his house. Apparently, no mobile phone either.’
‘So Smythe and Tait said. Apparently he bust their chops a bit.’
‘That what he does to folk?’
‘Oh aye.’ Slater grinned. ‘One of those guys, you know his routine cos your mates send you the clips. Gets punched a lot.’
‘I’ve never seen him on the telly.’
‘Think he gets invited once, then never again.’
‘I’ll try to get a word in before he starts,’ Lomond said, indicating to pull in.
28
‘This going to turn into a hiding?’ Kettles seemed genuinely gleeful. Lomond and Slater couldn’t see them, of course, but his legs were swinging under the table, back and forth, like a kid on a swing. ‘Is it cameras off, “right, lads, into him”? Like The Sweeney?’
Lomond was utterly determined, set in stone, that he’d play a straight bat. ‘Of course it isn’t, Benny.’
‘There’s been a murrrder. I heard the Taggart theme, there. You can’t help it, can you?’ He began to rasp out Maggie Bell’s theme tune to the old TV show.
‘We were asking you about what you said online,’ Lomond said. His hands were perfectly still, laid flat on the table.
‘So dramatic.’ Kettles smirked.
‘You’re under suspicion of committing a crime, Benny,’ Lomond said, not blinking. ‘That means we lift you.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone. I’ve killed a couple of careers, maybe. Definitely died a few times, though that’s more a suicide.’
‘Your patter’s murder,’ Slater remarked.
Kettles’ face froze. Then he laughed uproariously. ‘That’s going into my show. You’re a comedian, mate.’
‘Benny,’ Lomond said, ‘you made reference online to a case you knew of. Would you like to repeat, for the record, what you said?’
‘I can’t remember exactly.’
Lomond checked his notes. ‘You made reference to someone who had been pulled out of the bath and smothered, and a potential second victim.’
‘Did I?’
Kettles’ lawyer was a woman of maybe thirty or so who looked terrified of both her client and the situation. ‘My client has no need to answer that,’ she said.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Kettles said. ‘Yeah, we’ll talk about it, if you like. I was writing about Kath. That’s what happened to Kath. Wasn’t it?’
‘How did you come to that understanding?’
‘Does it matter?’ Kettles cackled. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘You revealed certain details which we have kept back from the general public for operational reasons,’ Lomond said. ‘They could only be known by someone who had inside knowledge of the case.’
‘Sure. Or who was just passing on what they heard.’
‘So where did you hear it, Benny?’
‘I can’t name my source. But let’s say, in my career, I get to know people who work in journalism. The papers that still exist. Websites, news agencies, the telly . . . there’s a lot of talk. Especially if I ask them about it. Especially if it was my best friend who got killed.’
Benny began to shiver. It was alarming, the sudden tremor. Lomond fought several competing urges – to comfort him, to reach out, or to shiver in his own right, as if a draught had passed through the room, or a ghost.
‘So are you suggesting to us that you were told this specific information by a journalist?’
‘I’m not suggesting it,’ Benny said, ‘I’m telling you. It’s true. But I’m not telling you who it is. And, obviously, I can’t comment on how your special privileged information leaked out. How many people you got working on the case? Uniforms, crime-scene folk, hero cops?’
‘Thing about that is, Benny, even if we mention it off the record, we make sure it isn’t actually available to the public. Do you know why that is, Benny?’
Kettles shrugged. ‘This an interview, or a quiz show?’
‘The reason is to weed out troublemakers. Cranks. Delusional people, who think they have actually done it, or people who are so desperate to help that they phone in tips that are totally untrue, even though they believe them. So that’s one problem. The other one, and I know this one’s important to you . . . Kathryn has a daughter, Beatrice. And a husband.’
Kettles said nothing.
‘It’s something for you to bear in mind, next time you go mouthing off online about the killing of your best friend. It’s not great if you’re hearing for the first time exactly how your mum died on the internet.’
‘Fair point,’ Kettles said. ‘Thing is, I want the same thing you do.’
‘Another thing,’ Slater said. ‘About some business dealings you have.’
‘Business dealings,’ Kettles intoned. He was chewing his lower lip, digesting what Slater had said.
‘You’ve made an investment with Avalon King, on a new property outside Bellmhor. Former plastics factory, brownfield site.’
Kettles scratched his chin. ‘I’ve got a few irons in the fire here and there, sure.’
‘How well do you know Nicole Kingsley?’
‘I see her knocking around. I understand her dad’s a bit dodgy. Old-style gangster. Razor blades for fingers, that kind of thing. Why d’you ask?’
‘We’ll ask you whatever we like,’ Slater said.
‘I wouldn’t walk past Nicole in the street, or anything, and we might have sat round a table a couple of times. I’m an investor.’
‘That’s a hell of a look for a stand-up,’ Slater scoffed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Property baron. That’s the credentials up in smoke, is it not?’ Slater smirked. ‘“I’m all edgy, look at my portfolio. Here’s my business card.”’
‘What credentials are these?’ Kettles said, puzzled. ‘I make a point of not believing anything or professing any admiration at all. For anything. Because everyone gets it, off me. Everyone. And everyone deserves it.’
‘Oh, a cynic. Tell me all about it.’
‘Hmm, that’s kind of condescending. Next you’ll tell me about all the bodies you’ve seen. Well, I’ve seen one myself. No one gives a fuck about your war stories.’
‘I think we’re done here,’ his lawyer interjected.
‘And what about you?’ Kettles turned to Slater. ‘What do you look like? Your voice is all strained and a wee bit try-hard. I’d say you’re not that rough, really. Graduate, decent house with stairs in it. Not like your boss here; he’s as rough as arseholes, I’ll give you that. He’s the polar opposite, in fact. Trying to sound refined. But you, you’re a wind-up merchant, aren’t you? You’d have been better suited as a teacher or a minister.’
It was a jibe Slater had heard many times, and he bit back at it. ‘Well, at least I don’t look like a big baby. Or sound like one.’
Kettles clapped his hands, delighted. ‘Hey, I’ll sign a DVD for you. You look like a guy that still has DVDs.’
Lomond interjected. ‘We’ll want to know your movements, late October. Do you have a tour diary, receipts, that kind of thing?’
‘Sure. I can prove that, probably. Right, I think we’re done. I’ll leave you geniuses to find someone else to fit up for it. Or some women to harass.’
‘Don’t overstep the mark, son.’ Slater said.
‘Thing is, you polis have a horrendous problem with battering your wives, don’t you? Bit like the old racism and the funny handshakes: it’s bloody rife in the polis. Something like ten per cent of you, maybe even more. That’s before you get to the real psychos, and there’s plenty of them in the force. I mean, some people actively want to be polis. It isn’t just a job. Got something missing, those boys. I wonder what side of the psycho percentage you fall on, big man? You’ve got the eyes, that’s for sure. Like to swing for me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Get that a lot, do you?’
‘Now and again. Sometimes it even hurts. Last time I saw Ed Symes . . .’
‘Wrap it up here,’ Lomond said. ‘You’re free to go, Benny, but we will be calling on you later to check where you’ve been.’
‘I’m already out the door, Inspector. I know my rights. Toodle-oo!’
Kettles leaned over to Slater and waved, inches from his nose. Lomond tensed, wondering first if the pudgy man was going to tweak Slater’s nose, and second if Slater really was going to punch him for it. On camera, in the interview room. Instead, Slater smiled, his grin matching the comedian’s, and said, ‘That concludes our interview.’
29
Lomond had seen the expression on Slater’s face before, and on his daughter, certain wee dogs, and people he’d lifted when he was in uniform.
‘Want to talk me through it, Malcolm?’
‘Nothing to talk through, gaffer.’
‘You sure? I could have sworn you were going to actually swing for him. If it turns out he did it, that’s probably the end of the case, right there. Not to mention your job.’
‘Just as well I didn’t, then, eh? Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to hit him. I mean, I wanted to. You wanted to. But I’m not daft. Sir.’ The last word was as good as a jab.
‘What’s going on, Malcolm? Your dials are off, son.’
‘You’re not the first person to ask me that. Been sending out your wee spies, eh?’
‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on. We’re trying to catch a lunatic. And I don’t know if you’ve spotted it, but Kettles’ leak has been noticed. It’ll be out and about on the websites and in the bloody papers.’
Lomond sighed. ‘Maybe we should take a breather.’ He checked his phone.
‘Let me guess. Super’s been on?’
Lomond nodded. He wondered if he now had that expression on his face. ‘Sullivan. One slice of carpet coming up.’ He dialled a number.
‘Save some for me, gaffer. I’ll check out Laybourn’s movements.’
Annette Sullivan didn’t bother with any acknowledgement. The Chief Super had both bite and bark, often vying for supremacy in the same breath. Lomond could almost feel that breath, artfully blended with spittle meteors, on his cheek. ‘Mind telling me why the press office is fielding calls from every twat on every news desk?’
‘I suspect it’s something to do with Benny Kettles.’
‘You suspect right. What’s going on with that?’
Lomond felt his cheeks burning. ‘Benny Kettles knew details about Kathryn Symes. Ones we kept back.’
‘Well, every bugger knows now. What in God’s name has happened here?’
Lomond braced, held fast, while Sullivan vented. It went on for some time. There was someone else in the room, Lomond was sure. The Super liked an audience. She would have been good in the army, he thought.
Finally Lomond said, ‘He mentioned another body, ma’am. That information is going to be out there now. We might have to break cover. Minchin and Khavari reckon it’s the same man. We’ll have to confirm it.’
‘Excellent. Another true crime podcast for us all to enjoy.’ Sullivan sighed. ‘Right. We’ll do the press this time. Don’t go near it. I’ll ask the obvious question – anyone in the frame for it?’
Lomond hesitated. ‘Not yet. There’s nothing from forensics, nothing from the security camera. But there’ll be something. I’m going to go over the Symes’ house again.’
‘Suspects?’
‘Laybourn’s a possibility but there’s nothing to pin it on him with. The word is there’s nothing in the van.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Kettles knew a bit too much for my liking. That’s why I lifted him.’
‘But nothing.’
‘Nothing we can charge him with. He’s keeping his mouth shut about sources.’
‘Christ. OK. Keep on it, Lomie.’ Sullivan hung up.
Lomond tightened his jaw. Slater had disappeared down the corridor towards the office space. For a moment, Lomond was alone in the corridor, reflected in the glass fronts of the offices on both sides, where venetian blinds twitched occasionally. He tutted, checked his watch, then dialled Smythe’s number.
‘Sir?’
‘How’d it go with Symes?’
‘Well.’
Lomond liked the tone. He smiled.
30
There had been a time when Smythe had wondered, with the semi-detached focus of a scientist in the field trying to keep still while something small and rare creeps past, if Myles Tait found her attractive.
He certainly fancied himself. He had come pre-packaged with a certain reputation among the women on the force, and there was no doubt he was a good-looking man. His attempts at humour between them had been simultaneously brash and clumsy, which had tripped Smythe’s early warning system, but gradually this had given way to an easier relationship. Witness: the fact that Tait was singing in the car, in a comically rich baritone, as unselfconscious as if he was in the shower.
Finally he noticed Smythe’s lopsided grin. ‘What?’
‘That’s the song he’s into, apparently. The gaffer.’
Tait shrugged. ‘Lighthouse Family? It must have got into his head.’ He considered this a moment. ‘Jeez. It got into my head.’
‘It’s a good song,’ Smythe said.
Tait sniffed.
‘I’m serious!’ Smythe spluttered. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Inspiring montages at the Olympics, that kind of thing.’ Tait smiled. ‘I need to clear the earworm.’
‘“Baker Street”?’
‘Eh?’
‘I heard that if you start to sing the sax part of “Baker Street”, it automatically clears any earworm.’
‘OK, but how do you deal with “Baker Street”, after that?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Smythe said, after a pause. ‘Well. Instead we could talk about how we’re going to approach this.’
‘He’s not a suspect,’ Tait observed.
‘That makes it harder. Us turning up will make him think he is.’
‘What’s the thinking? That it’s Kettles? That’s what the gaffer wants us to probe here, isn’t it? Benny Kettles? He a suspect?’
‘Got to be. Knows way too much.’
‘Shouldn’t have lifted him though,’ Tait said. ‘Big mistake. Tipped our hand, a bit.’
‘I don’t think it’s him,’ Smythe said.
‘What, cos he was crying?’ Tait sniffed. ‘That could be guilt. It gets to them. Even the reptiles. Something breaks inside. Some part of them knows they’re wrong ’uns. They freak out. It’s like a chemical reaction, instead of an emotion.’
‘Maybe.’
Tait parked outside a detached house in the tree-lined hinterlands of the Southside. Handsome was the word – and not a new-build in sight. Red brick houses, whitewashed bungalows, and no bangers parked out on the streets to give the place a showing-up. It was chilly, the January nights seemingly never-ending. They walked on old footprints up the drive, facing a red sandstone villa that wouldn’t have got you much change out of a couple of million, Smythe guessed.
‘Maybe he was just a courier. They don’t really ask questions, do they?’
‘Or maybe that’s what he wants us to think.’
McGill drank up. ‘I’ll see if we can dig out his service record. Oh, one other thing. The paperwork you were looking for from Avalon King came through.’
‘I saw that,’ Lomond said. ‘Not had time to check it out yet.’
‘Strange thing . . . the title deeds on the Symes’ house . . . they weren’t the first people to buy it. Isn’t that what Nicole Kingsley said?’
Lomond frowned. ‘That’s right.’
‘The first name on the title deeds was the same as that comedian. The one who got punched on the American talk show the other month. Benny Kettles. Can’t be too many Benny Kettles out there.
‘Oh, and there’s some dodgy stuff he’s been saying online that you’ll definitely want to check out . . .’
*
Slater scratched his head. ‘This song, gaffer. Again?’
Lomond’s gaze had drifted out of the window as they drove along the Broomielaw. Another cold one. More frost was forecast tonight. He scratched his neck. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What’s right with it?’
‘I think you’re being a bit of a snob there, Malcolm.’
‘C’mon. You’re not that old.’
‘The song’s not that old.’
‘It kind of is. I was still at school when it came out.’
‘And it was a big hit. You still hear it on TV shows, adverts . . .’
‘The Lighthouse Family? Honestly?’
Lomond tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the chorus came in again. ‘Look, I like it. I’m sorry if it’s not cool enough for you. What are you into, like?’
‘Arctic Monkeys.’
‘Whoa, cutting edge.’
‘Well, you asked, I told you. I like them. And they’re cooler than the Lighthouse Family. That’s scientific fact.’
‘It bloody isn’t. I like it. Reminds me of when me and Maureen got married.’
‘Wasn’t your first dance, was it?’
‘Nah. That was Bryan Adams.’
‘The Robin Hood one? The one that was number one for ever?’
‘The very one.’
‘Bet everybody groaned when that came on.’
‘Ach, not really. I had a bow and arrow, shot an apple off her head. This was a few years after the Robin Hood one. But it still felt current, you know?’
‘Away you go.’ There was more weariness than mirth in Slater’s comment. For a moment, Lomond thought he was going to switch the MP3 player off. ‘Hell is it you’ve got here, anyway? This is a fairly new motor. Surely you’ve got a streaming service you can use?’
‘Nah, I like the old MP3. Got just about every album I’ve got loaded on it.’
‘And every single one is the Lighthouse Family, right? Cos this is the second time you’ve played that song while I’ve been in the car. Is it on repeat or something?’
‘Nah, it’s on random. Algorithms. Maybe it’s listening to us.’
‘Maybe your sound system is haunted.’
‘Maybe it is. Anyway, I’m not interested in your sniffy opinions – it’s my motor, and that’s all there is to it.’
Slater raised his hands. ‘So are we sure Kettles is going to be here?’
‘According to the message board, yes. He’s got some adoring fans in the department; they confirmed it. No answer at his house. Apparently, no mobile phone either.’
‘So Smythe and Tait said. Apparently he bust their chops a bit.’
‘That what he does to folk?’
‘Oh aye.’ Slater grinned. ‘One of those guys, you know his routine cos your mates send you the clips. Gets punched a lot.’
‘I’ve never seen him on the telly.’
‘Think he gets invited once, then never again.’
‘I’ll try to get a word in before he starts,’ Lomond said, indicating to pull in.
28
‘This going to turn into a hiding?’ Kettles seemed genuinely gleeful. Lomond and Slater couldn’t see them, of course, but his legs were swinging under the table, back and forth, like a kid on a swing. ‘Is it cameras off, “right, lads, into him”? Like The Sweeney?’
Lomond was utterly determined, set in stone, that he’d play a straight bat. ‘Of course it isn’t, Benny.’
‘There’s been a murrrder. I heard the Taggart theme, there. You can’t help it, can you?’ He began to rasp out Maggie Bell’s theme tune to the old TV show.
‘We were asking you about what you said online,’ Lomond said. His hands were perfectly still, laid flat on the table.
‘So dramatic.’ Kettles smirked.
‘You’re under suspicion of committing a crime, Benny,’ Lomond said, not blinking. ‘That means we lift you.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone. I’ve killed a couple of careers, maybe. Definitely died a few times, though that’s more a suicide.’
‘Your patter’s murder,’ Slater remarked.
Kettles’ face froze. Then he laughed uproariously. ‘That’s going into my show. You’re a comedian, mate.’
‘Benny,’ Lomond said, ‘you made reference online to a case you knew of. Would you like to repeat, for the record, what you said?’
‘I can’t remember exactly.’
Lomond checked his notes. ‘You made reference to someone who had been pulled out of the bath and smothered, and a potential second victim.’
‘Did I?’
Kettles’ lawyer was a woman of maybe thirty or so who looked terrified of both her client and the situation. ‘My client has no need to answer that,’ she said.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Kettles said. ‘Yeah, we’ll talk about it, if you like. I was writing about Kath. That’s what happened to Kath. Wasn’t it?’
‘How did you come to that understanding?’
‘Does it matter?’ Kettles cackled. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘You revealed certain details which we have kept back from the general public for operational reasons,’ Lomond said. ‘They could only be known by someone who had inside knowledge of the case.’
‘Sure. Or who was just passing on what they heard.’
‘So where did you hear it, Benny?’
‘I can’t name my source. But let’s say, in my career, I get to know people who work in journalism. The papers that still exist. Websites, news agencies, the telly . . . there’s a lot of talk. Especially if I ask them about it. Especially if it was my best friend who got killed.’
Benny began to shiver. It was alarming, the sudden tremor. Lomond fought several competing urges – to comfort him, to reach out, or to shiver in his own right, as if a draught had passed through the room, or a ghost.
‘So are you suggesting to us that you were told this specific information by a journalist?’
‘I’m not suggesting it,’ Benny said, ‘I’m telling you. It’s true. But I’m not telling you who it is. And, obviously, I can’t comment on how your special privileged information leaked out. How many people you got working on the case? Uniforms, crime-scene folk, hero cops?’
‘Thing about that is, Benny, even if we mention it off the record, we make sure it isn’t actually available to the public. Do you know why that is, Benny?’
Kettles shrugged. ‘This an interview, or a quiz show?’
‘The reason is to weed out troublemakers. Cranks. Delusional people, who think they have actually done it, or people who are so desperate to help that they phone in tips that are totally untrue, even though they believe them. So that’s one problem. The other one, and I know this one’s important to you . . . Kathryn has a daughter, Beatrice. And a husband.’
Kettles said nothing.
‘It’s something for you to bear in mind, next time you go mouthing off online about the killing of your best friend. It’s not great if you’re hearing for the first time exactly how your mum died on the internet.’
‘Fair point,’ Kettles said. ‘Thing is, I want the same thing you do.’
‘Another thing,’ Slater said. ‘About some business dealings you have.’
‘Business dealings,’ Kettles intoned. He was chewing his lower lip, digesting what Slater had said.
‘You’ve made an investment with Avalon King, on a new property outside Bellmhor. Former plastics factory, brownfield site.’
Kettles scratched his chin. ‘I’ve got a few irons in the fire here and there, sure.’
‘How well do you know Nicole Kingsley?’
‘I see her knocking around. I understand her dad’s a bit dodgy. Old-style gangster. Razor blades for fingers, that kind of thing. Why d’you ask?’
‘We’ll ask you whatever we like,’ Slater said.
‘I wouldn’t walk past Nicole in the street, or anything, and we might have sat round a table a couple of times. I’m an investor.’
‘That’s a hell of a look for a stand-up,’ Slater scoffed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Property baron. That’s the credentials up in smoke, is it not?’ Slater smirked. ‘“I’m all edgy, look at my portfolio. Here’s my business card.”’
‘What credentials are these?’ Kettles said, puzzled. ‘I make a point of not believing anything or professing any admiration at all. For anything. Because everyone gets it, off me. Everyone. And everyone deserves it.’
‘Oh, a cynic. Tell me all about it.’
‘Hmm, that’s kind of condescending. Next you’ll tell me about all the bodies you’ve seen. Well, I’ve seen one myself. No one gives a fuck about your war stories.’
‘I think we’re done here,’ his lawyer interjected.
‘And what about you?’ Kettles turned to Slater. ‘What do you look like? Your voice is all strained and a wee bit try-hard. I’d say you’re not that rough, really. Graduate, decent house with stairs in it. Not like your boss here; he’s as rough as arseholes, I’ll give you that. He’s the polar opposite, in fact. Trying to sound refined. But you, you’re a wind-up merchant, aren’t you? You’d have been better suited as a teacher or a minister.’
It was a jibe Slater had heard many times, and he bit back at it. ‘Well, at least I don’t look like a big baby. Or sound like one.’
Kettles clapped his hands, delighted. ‘Hey, I’ll sign a DVD for you. You look like a guy that still has DVDs.’
Lomond interjected. ‘We’ll want to know your movements, late October. Do you have a tour diary, receipts, that kind of thing?’
‘Sure. I can prove that, probably. Right, I think we’re done. I’ll leave you geniuses to find someone else to fit up for it. Or some women to harass.’
‘Don’t overstep the mark, son.’ Slater said.
‘Thing is, you polis have a horrendous problem with battering your wives, don’t you? Bit like the old racism and the funny handshakes: it’s bloody rife in the polis. Something like ten per cent of you, maybe even more. That’s before you get to the real psychos, and there’s plenty of them in the force. I mean, some people actively want to be polis. It isn’t just a job. Got something missing, those boys. I wonder what side of the psycho percentage you fall on, big man? You’ve got the eyes, that’s for sure. Like to swing for me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Get that a lot, do you?’
‘Now and again. Sometimes it even hurts. Last time I saw Ed Symes . . .’
‘Wrap it up here,’ Lomond said. ‘You’re free to go, Benny, but we will be calling on you later to check where you’ve been.’
‘I’m already out the door, Inspector. I know my rights. Toodle-oo!’
Kettles leaned over to Slater and waved, inches from his nose. Lomond tensed, wondering first if the pudgy man was going to tweak Slater’s nose, and second if Slater really was going to punch him for it. On camera, in the interview room. Instead, Slater smiled, his grin matching the comedian’s, and said, ‘That concludes our interview.’
29
Lomond had seen the expression on Slater’s face before, and on his daughter, certain wee dogs, and people he’d lifted when he was in uniform.
‘Want to talk me through it, Malcolm?’
‘Nothing to talk through, gaffer.’
‘You sure? I could have sworn you were going to actually swing for him. If it turns out he did it, that’s probably the end of the case, right there. Not to mention your job.’
‘Just as well I didn’t, then, eh? Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to hit him. I mean, I wanted to. You wanted to. But I’m not daft. Sir.’ The last word was as good as a jab.
‘What’s going on, Malcolm? Your dials are off, son.’
‘You’re not the first person to ask me that. Been sending out your wee spies, eh?’
‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on. We’re trying to catch a lunatic. And I don’t know if you’ve spotted it, but Kettles’ leak has been noticed. It’ll be out and about on the websites and in the bloody papers.’
Lomond sighed. ‘Maybe we should take a breather.’ He checked his phone.
‘Let me guess. Super’s been on?’
Lomond nodded. He wondered if he now had that expression on his face. ‘Sullivan. One slice of carpet coming up.’ He dialled a number.
‘Save some for me, gaffer. I’ll check out Laybourn’s movements.’
Annette Sullivan didn’t bother with any acknowledgement. The Chief Super had both bite and bark, often vying for supremacy in the same breath. Lomond could almost feel that breath, artfully blended with spittle meteors, on his cheek. ‘Mind telling me why the press office is fielding calls from every twat on every news desk?’
‘I suspect it’s something to do with Benny Kettles.’
‘You suspect right. What’s going on with that?’
Lomond felt his cheeks burning. ‘Benny Kettles knew details about Kathryn Symes. Ones we kept back.’
‘Well, every bugger knows now. What in God’s name has happened here?’
Lomond braced, held fast, while Sullivan vented. It went on for some time. There was someone else in the room, Lomond was sure. The Super liked an audience. She would have been good in the army, he thought.
Finally Lomond said, ‘He mentioned another body, ma’am. That information is going to be out there now. We might have to break cover. Minchin and Khavari reckon it’s the same man. We’ll have to confirm it.’
‘Excellent. Another true crime podcast for us all to enjoy.’ Sullivan sighed. ‘Right. We’ll do the press this time. Don’t go near it. I’ll ask the obvious question – anyone in the frame for it?’
Lomond hesitated. ‘Not yet. There’s nothing from forensics, nothing from the security camera. But there’ll be something. I’m going to go over the Symes’ house again.’
‘Suspects?’
‘Laybourn’s a possibility but there’s nothing to pin it on him with. The word is there’s nothing in the van.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Kettles knew a bit too much for my liking. That’s why I lifted him.’
‘But nothing.’
‘Nothing we can charge him with. He’s keeping his mouth shut about sources.’
‘Christ. OK. Keep on it, Lomie.’ Sullivan hung up.
Lomond tightened his jaw. Slater had disappeared down the corridor towards the office space. For a moment, Lomond was alone in the corridor, reflected in the glass fronts of the offices on both sides, where venetian blinds twitched occasionally. He tutted, checked his watch, then dialled Smythe’s number.
‘Sir?’
‘How’d it go with Symes?’
‘Well.’
Lomond liked the tone. He smiled.
30
There had been a time when Smythe had wondered, with the semi-detached focus of a scientist in the field trying to keep still while something small and rare creeps past, if Myles Tait found her attractive.
He certainly fancied himself. He had come pre-packaged with a certain reputation among the women on the force, and there was no doubt he was a good-looking man. His attempts at humour between them had been simultaneously brash and clumsy, which had tripped Smythe’s early warning system, but gradually this had given way to an easier relationship. Witness: the fact that Tait was singing in the car, in a comically rich baritone, as unselfconscious as if he was in the shower.
Finally he noticed Smythe’s lopsided grin. ‘What?’
‘That’s the song he’s into, apparently. The gaffer.’
Tait shrugged. ‘Lighthouse Family? It must have got into his head.’ He considered this a moment. ‘Jeez. It got into my head.’
‘It’s a good song,’ Smythe said.
Tait sniffed.
‘I’m serious!’ Smythe spluttered. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Inspiring montages at the Olympics, that kind of thing.’ Tait smiled. ‘I need to clear the earworm.’
‘“Baker Street”?’
‘Eh?’
‘I heard that if you start to sing the sax part of “Baker Street”, it automatically clears any earworm.’
‘OK, but how do you deal with “Baker Street”, after that?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Smythe said, after a pause. ‘Well. Instead we could talk about how we’re going to approach this.’
‘He’s not a suspect,’ Tait observed.
‘That makes it harder. Us turning up will make him think he is.’
‘What’s the thinking? That it’s Kettles? That’s what the gaffer wants us to probe here, isn’t it? Benny Kettles? He a suspect?’
‘Got to be. Knows way too much.’
‘Shouldn’t have lifted him though,’ Tait said. ‘Big mistake. Tipped our hand, a bit.’
‘I don’t think it’s him,’ Smythe said.
‘What, cos he was crying?’ Tait sniffed. ‘That could be guilt. It gets to them. Even the reptiles. Something breaks inside. Some part of them knows they’re wrong ’uns. They freak out. It’s like a chemical reaction, instead of an emotion.’
‘Maybe.’
Tait parked outside a detached house in the tree-lined hinterlands of the Southside. Handsome was the word – and not a new-build in sight. Red brick houses, whitewashed bungalows, and no bangers parked out on the streets to give the place a showing-up. It was chilly, the January nights seemingly never-ending. They walked on old footprints up the drive, facing a red sandstone villa that wouldn’t have got you much change out of a couple of million, Smythe guessed.
