On A Dark Sea (The DCI Dani Bevan Detective Novels Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

D
ani could see her answering machine twinkling as soon as she stepped through the front door into the hallway. The Detective Chief Inspector decided to have something to eat before she listened to the messages.

              About an hour later, in her dressing gown and slippers and with a mug of hot chocolate in her hand she sat on the stool by the phone and pressed the button. The first voice she heard was her father’s. He was ringing from their home on the Isle of Colonsay, just making sure that she was well. The second message was from Bill, as she suspected it would be. A smile crept across her face as she listened to his exploits constructing an ancient train-set for his grandsons. As the message continued, her smile turned to a grimace and she reached for the receiver in frustration.

              It was Joy who answered.

              ‘Good evening, Joy. It’s Dani Bevan here. How are you?’

              ‘Oh, very well Detective Chief Inspector. I’m amazed to hear from you. I would have thought you’d be extremely busy right now.’

              ‘I am,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘I wondered if I might have a quick word with Bill?’

              Joy sounded surprised. ‘Of course, I’ll fetch him for you. He’s just putting the finishing touches to a rather complicated diverging junction.’

              ‘Inspector,’ Bill said in a clipped tone. ‘You got my message then?’

              ‘Yes, I did.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, you can’t go interfering in a live murder inquiry. You could get into really serious trouble, Bill.’

              ‘I’ve only been doing a little harmless digging. I know you are too wrapped up in this missing schoolgirl case to be able to devote any time to the investigation.’

              ‘Even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be permitted to get involved in the Terence Sinclair murder inquiry. It’s being handled by another division, with a different SIO. I have passed on the details of the Mackie Shaw case to DI Lyons. We can’t do any more.’

              ‘But I’ve come up with an interesting line of enquiry. It seems that Sinclair frequented a bar in Aberdeen. When I did some online checks into the place, I discovered that it had been raided on several occasions. It appeared that a number of the clientele had been involved in smuggling of various types. I really think it’s worth looking into more deeply.’

              ‘I’m sure that DI Lyons is already doing that, Bill. If you’ve discovered this piece of information, then they must have too.’

              Bill let out a grunt that suggested he didn’t share his friend’s faith that this would necessarily be the case.

              ‘Just be careful. Whoever murdered Terence Sinclair is clearly very dangerous. If there is smuggling involved then we’re talking about organised crime. Terry might have been executed by a rival organisation. Isn’t Louise bringing the boys down this weekend?’

              ‘Yes,’ Bill was forced to admit.

              ‘Then forget all about it for the time being, okay?’

              ‘Alright, DCI Bevan. I shall.’

              ‘Good, and for heaven’s sake just call me Dani, will you?’

*

Bevan settled into the chair opposite her Detective Sergeant, recalling the time when they shared a desk together and feeling the pang of nostalgia.

              Phil fished a pile of photocopies out of his briefcase and handed them to her. ‘Jane said she knows Alex Ritchie and his parents well. He’s attended the school since Year 7. His mum has been trying hard to get him a statement of special needs since that time.’

              ‘What exactly is his issue?’

              Phil relaxed back into his seat. ‘He’s not an easy boy to slot into a comfortable category, which is why Debbie Ritchie has never been given her statement from the local authority. Jane suggests that Alex is emotionally immature and his IEP states that his processing skills are slow. He has a reading age of 11.’

              ‘Does Alex have any history of violence? What is Jane’s opinion of the lad – does she think he
could
be violent?’

              Phil shook his head. ‘Alex is a gentle boy. Jane used the word ‘withdrawn’ to describe him at school. He’s never been violent towards other children, although he has suffered himself from a certain amount of bullying by the other kids. Jane said that even if he’d done something to Maisie, Alex wouldn’t be capable of keeping it quiet for very long.’

              ‘Okay, this confirms Andy’s assessment of the lad. I had thought that perhaps Maisie had confided in Alex about what she had planned, or even how she was making this extra cash that she had. But with Jane’s testimony, I think it’s unlikely. Maisie would have known that Alex couldn’t keep a secret, even if he’d wanted to.’

              ‘She definitely didn’t tell Georgina what she’d been up to. I’d know by now if she had.’

              ‘What about the Norwegian line of enquiry?’

              Phil sighed. ‘DC Clifton and I are still going through all the letters and e-mails. Very few are directed towards specific individuals at Barents Oil. Most are propaganda pieces about the dangers to wildlife and the eco-system if drilling were to take place in the Arctic Ocean. There
were
a slew of e-mails directed at Charles Riddell, just after he fronted a press conference last year. Most were from high profile environmental groups but a couple were anonymous.’

              ‘Were they threatening in any way?’

              Phil pulled a face. ‘Not directly, although they certainly weren’t complimentary.’

              ‘Could you print off copies of all the anonymous messages? I’d like to see the wording of those.’

              ‘Sure. I can’t see any of the established environmentalist groups being involved in a kidnapping. These days they have a great deal of funding and tend to fight their battles through the courts, invoking International Law. The abduction of a teenager doesn’t quite fit with that approach.’

              ‘No, but Charles may have riled up some radical fringe group. There are criminal organisations out there that simply look for a righteous cause to give their actions credibility.’ Dani made to stand up.

              ‘I’ll get a print-out ready for you by lunchtime.’

              Bevan took a couple of paces towards her office. Phil halted her progress by suddenly saying, ‘Ma’am, don’t you get the sense that all we’re doing is closing down possibilities? It feels as if we’re actually getting even further away from finding Maisie.’

              Dani paused for a second and then, as if her sergeant hadn’t spoken, she got on with the work of the day.  

Chapter Twelve

T
here wasn’t a plausible reason that Bill could think of for why he might be taking a trip to Aberdeen on a Friday evening. He was forced to tell Joy the truth instead. She was not as condemnatory as Bill had expected. In fact, his wife was less alarmed by her husband’s inquiries into the death of Terence Sinclair and more concerned about his plan to visit a pub frequented by criminal types.

              ‘The landlady sounded perfectly nice on the phone. I’ve already introduced a good cover story,’ Bill insisted, as he gathered together his coat and bag.

              Joy furrowed her brow. ‘Louise will be here early in the morning. What will I tell her if something happens to you?’

              Bill paused from his preparations and put his arms around her. ‘I’m going to be fine. I shall simply ask a few innocent questions, dear. I’m fairly inconspicuous. I’m quite obviously not a police officer or private investigator.’

              Joy wasn’t sure that was actually a good thing, but she forced a smile and gave Bill a peck on the cheek before he slipped out of the door.

The Fisherman’s Bar was in a run-down building not far from the harbour. Bill couldn’t imagine for a second that anyone would wish to come to the place for their evening meal. It struck him immediately as a hard-core drinking establishment, for those individuals working at the docks, perhaps. The windows contained panes of almost opaque glass, like the bases of milk bottles. Bill couldn’t make out a single thing on the other side of them. It made him distinctly nervous, but he took a deep breath and pushed through the heavy door.

              The light inside was dim and the décor reminded Bill of a working men’s club he’d been taken into once by a friend in Stirling. He immediately approached the wood cladded bar. A forty-something woman was serving drinks to a group of men. She was thin and her face heavily lined, a strappy top dotted with sparkly sequins hung off her bony frame. When she’d finished with the customers, the woman turned towards Bill.

              ‘Liz?’ He enquired. ‘We spoke on the telephone a couple of days ago. I’m Bill Hutchison. I was a friend of Terry’s.’

              The woman cracked a smile. ‘Oh aye, I remember. Can I get you something?’

              ‘A pint of 70 shilling please.’ He decided it would be best to drink what everyone else was, although he could really have done with a stiff brandy.

              ‘Sure.’ Liz reached for a clean glass and placed it under a pump with no discernible markings. ‘It’s a bit early yet, but when Terry’s cronies come in, I’ll give you the nod. Okay?’

              Bill took his pint over to a small table where he could observe the rest of the pub. There was a television set high up in one corner, showing an obscure sporting event. A pool table was accommodated in a dark alcove at the opposite side of the room. This was where the scant clientele had congregated, leaning in close and speaking in low voices. None of them were yet playing a game.

              Half an hour later, Bill took his empty glass back to Liz for a re-fill. As he stood at the counter, trying to avoid resting his sleeve in a puddle of beer, another group of men arrived. Liz greeted them warmly and automatically supplied her new customers with drinks, indicating that these gentlemen were regulars. She even took their brimming glasses over to them on a circular tin tray, of the type Bill hadn’t seen in several decades. Not since his mother had been the stewardess of a Golf Club in Helensburgh. When Liz was re-installed behind the pumps, she nodded to the group she’d just served.

              ‘Those folk knew Terry. The tall one is called Stewart. If you mention there’ll be a free spread and some liquid
hospitality
on offer, you’d definitely get that lot to the poor guy’s funeral.’

              Bill took a swig of his ale, suddenly thinking this may not have been such a good idea. Before giving himself chance to back out, he picked up his glass and strode across to their table.

              The three men eyed him suspiciously.

              ‘Good evening. My name is Bill. I was a neighbour of Terry Sinclair. Liz told me that you were friends of his too?’

              A silence surrounded them that was so thick, Bill almost felt as if he could slice through it with a knife.

              ‘Are you from the paper’s pal?’ One of the men finally demanded.

              ‘Oh no. I retired a few years ago now. I was the bookkeeper for a furniture factory in Stirling.’

              ‘He wasn’t asking for your life story,’ the man who Liz referred to as Stewart added with a snort, eliciting raucous laughter from the other men. ‘Come on, take a seat.’

              Bill lowered himself carefully onto a stool, placing his drink on the tiny table.  

              ‘I’m Stewart, this is Dougie and Paul. We used to drink with Terry on a Friday night. If you don’t mind me saying, Bill. You don’t look like the type of fella Terry usually hung out with.’

              ‘Oh, my wife and I were simply his neighbours, but we got to know each other quite well.’

              ‘Are you the couple with the grandchildren?’

              Bill nodded, without elaborating.

              ‘Oh aye, Terry said you were all right.’

              ‘Yes, well, we’re organising a gathering down in Stonehaven for Terry. After the police finally release his body and allow the funeral to go ahead. I’ve been trying to track down some of his pals to come along for the send-off. Terry didn’t appear to have many close family members.’

              The three men nodded solemnly. ‘He went through a nasty divorce. Terry’s been pretty much on his own ever since.’

              ‘So there isn’t any chance his ex-wife would come to the funeral?’

              Stewart snorted again. ‘Michelle’s long off the scene. Terry would barely have her name mentioned after she left.’

              ‘Did Terry ever do any work up here in Aberdeen? There may be some colleagues around the city who would want to pay their respects.’

              Stewart narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Are you sure you’re no’ the polis?’

              Bill chuckled, as confidently as he could manage, ‘of course not.’

              Stewart slapped him hard on the back, causing Bill to spill a small amount of his beer. ‘I’m only joking, pal. You certainly don’t look like the polis.’

              ‘Had Terry ever been a fisherman himself?’ Bill wondered out loud.

              ‘I think his father was,’ Dougie put in. ‘He grew up in Stonehaven. When I met Terry he was living here in Aberdeen. He did odd jobs for various folk back then, cash in hand mostly. It was always to do with the boats, though.’

              ‘He doesn’t strike me as a person anybody would want to kill,’ Bill muttered quietly.

              Stewart leaned in close, his beery breath tickling the older man’s cheek. ‘Terry had his finger in a lot of pies. I wasn’t really that surprised to find out he’d been done over. Not surprised at all.’

Bill had taken a number from Stewart and promised to call him about Sinclair’s wake. He returned to the bar. Suddenly hungry, he asked Liz if they were still serving food.

              ‘I could do you sausage and chips?’ She suggested.

              ‘That would be perfect, thanks,’ Bill replied, trying to peer behind her into the kitchen area. All the doors leading back there were firmly closed.

              The voices of the men around him were growing increasingly louder as the evening wore on and the beers were replaced by stubby tumblers of whisky. Bill’s food arrived. A young woman in an apron passed it to Liz through a serving hatch. The girl’s striking appearance caught his attention. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed, looking to Bill to be extremely youthful.

              He finished up his plate of food, adding conversationally, ‘that was great, just what I needed. My compliments to the chef.’

              Liz nodded. ‘I’ll tell Keith, he’ll be pleased. Most of the folk in here barely notice what they’re shovelling down their necks.’

              ‘I thought the girl may have been the one doing the cooking?’

              Liz stopped wiping down the bar and looked at him closely. ‘Anita just helps us out. She washes the dishes and collects the empties.’

              ‘I see.’ Bill polished off his pint and gathered his things together.

              ‘Are you off?’ Liz asked flatly.

              ‘Aye, my daughter is coming early to visit in the morning. I can’t stay any longer.’

              ‘Well, maybe next time you’ll not need to rush away so quickly,’ she said cryptically. Then Liz fished a crisp business card from a pile on the back of the bar, just like the one pinned to Terry Sinclair’s notice board. ‘If you’ve enjoyed your evening and want to do it again, give me a call. Any friend of Terry’s is always welcome here.’