Jack in the box, p.18
Jack in the Box, page 18
‘Can we come in and wait for him?’ Smythe asked.
‘Can I be honest? No,’ Mrs Finch said.
Another silence.
‘I guess we’ll wait here for him, then,’ Smythe said.
‘Did you want to talk to me?’
‘Not at all,’ Smythe said. ‘We’re totally satisfied as to your movements the past week or so. Unless you can shed any light on your husband’s? Something we’ve all missed?’
That threw her the tiniest bit, but not for long. ‘I’m not sure I like your tone, or your accusations.’
‘I haven’t made any accusations,’ Smythe said. ‘My tone’s calm and neutral, but it shouldn’t be. Because we called you and said we’d come round to speak to your husband, and he isn’t here. So someone has wasted our time.’
‘He’s not a prisoner,’ Mrs Finch said. ‘Though the amount of times he’s had to speak to the police this past week . . . because of something that happened in this street, God rest her soul. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘We’ll come back shortly,’ Smythe said curtly. ‘Call us if he gets back and we’ve missed him.’
‘You’ll find him out in the trees,’ Mrs Finch said before closing the door. Even the security light blinked off on Smythe and McGill.
‘Well, back into the scary woods we go,’ McGill said.
‘Aye, our own little fairy tale.’
‘She’s a cracker, eh?’
Smythe nodded. ‘I bet she writes letters to the paper.’
‘Bet she’s got a Neighbourhood Watch sign, and means it.’
Smythe shook her head. ‘Lost my patience there. You won’t tell the interview panel, will you?’
‘I’d tell them you were a saint. I was so pissed off, I wanted to practise the fucking euphonium in front of her.’
‘I was so angry, I’d have listened to it.’
‘So how are we searching? Split up? Actually, no, that’s a terrible idea.’
‘Never works out in Scooby-Doo.’
‘Or anywhere else.’
‘Let’s just keep going and keep an eye out. If we have to go back to that house and wait until he arrives, or answers us, we will.’
‘You reckon he was in the house? Stalling us?’
‘It’s odd, whatever’s going on. I spoke to him earlier, and he said he’d meet us.’
McGill triggered the torch on her phone, and shone its milky beam through a faint mist among the trees.
‘What’s up?’ Smythe asked.
‘Thought I saw something.’
‘Don’t be doing the whole Scooby-Doo thing.’
‘You started it.’
‘No, you started it,’ Smythe said.
‘Wait . . . there, there it is.’ McGill’s torch rose. A red light blinked. There was a sound like fishing line reeling out, fast – a panicky sound.
‘Yep. That’s a drone.’
‘So is Finch a registered drone owner?’
‘Aye. And the gaffer reckons the victims are being tracked by drone.’
‘It’s on his doorstep, though,’ McGill said. ‘Bit much, eh?’
‘If I’m honest, it’s all we’ve got right now. Hey, that’s not him, is it?’
It was. Vincent Finch was thrashing his way through some bushes in the lee of the birch trees. He looked up, startled, too late to make any reasonably explicable attempt to escape. He hid his face from McGill’s torchlight. He wore a knee-length woollen coat, unbuttoned, and his green wellies were a little too big for him. His crazy-professor hair wasn’t out of place among the curled, brittle fingers of the winter branches.
‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Switch that off!’
McGill aimed the light away from his face. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just making sure it was you.’
‘And who do you think I am?’
‘Vincent Finch. I’m DS McGill, and this is DS Smythe. We’re here to talk to you about your drones.’
‘You’ve found it?’ He took a step closer.
‘Found what?’ McGill asked warily.
‘My drone, for goodness’ sake! The one I’m looking for.’
He held a controller in his hand, lit by a landing strip of green LCD lights. He made no effort to conceal it, though there were deep side pockets on the woollen. He had a long stick, maybe a walking stick or a mop handle, in his other hand.
‘When did you lose it?’
‘I had two out tonight . . . one’s gone missing. It’s happened before.’
‘We saw a drone,’ McGill said. ‘It was flying over us when we came out on the path. Not too far away.’
‘Signal went off, camera went off . . . It’s annoying. They’re not cheap.’
‘What were you using them for, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Smythe peered closely at the patch of bushes Finch was still thrashing.
He paused. ‘I’ve had some trouble,’ he said. ‘With some of my properties.’
‘You still in that game?’ McGill asked.
Finch raised his head, glaring at her. ‘It’s not a game. It’s my living.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Biblical plagues, would you believe. Rats. Cockroaches. Fly infestation, the other week. Middle of bloody winter! All mysteriously breaking out in properties I’m trying to develop.’
‘How long has this been happening?’
‘On and off, for about a year and a half.’
‘How do the drones come into it?’
‘I fly them to keep an eye on the properties after they’ve been finished.’
‘You’ve not got security?’
‘Sometimes. They get past it. Whoever they are.’
‘So you think someone’s messing with your houses?’ Smythe frowned. ‘Who would do something like that.’
‘No idea. Incidentally, have you met my ex-wife?’ He laughed bitterly.
‘You think she’s got something to do with it?’
‘I have the right to remain silent.’ He continued thrashing. ‘I’ve pinpointed the place I lost contact . . . Around about here.’
‘And why were you out here, particularly?’
‘Because one of my sites is over the brow of the hill, over there. New flats, just up. They’ve been wired and finished. Then, would you believe it, some rats got found a couple of days ago. On the one site I’d had a problem with staffing on the security side of things. Bloody filthy. Here’s one for fact fans – I was bidding against Avalon King for that one.’
Smythe considered this for a moment. ‘You share a son with Nicole, is that right?’
‘That’s right. He lives at the Ponderosa . . . He’ll be off like a shot soon as he gets into uni. Far away from her. He wanted to stay with me, you know? But he didn’t want to upset his mum. No one wants to upset his mum.’
McGill cleared her throat. ‘So you don’t have a good relationship with Nicole Kingsley, then?’
His laughter was infectious. ‘You met Nicole?’ he said. ‘You know who she is? Where she came from? I honestly believe that if it wasn’t for Shane I’d be in with the foundations on a nice plot of family homes by now.’
‘Christ,’ McGill said. ‘How did you meet her? I mean, I don’t want to be weird, or anything, but you two . . .’ She tilted her hands in parallel.
‘Yeah. I ask myself the same question. The answer is, I had money and contacts. She just had money. Wanted to take old Raglan’s cash and make it legitimate. Succeeded, as well. Once she got started she didn’t need me.’
‘Sounds like money-laundering to me,’ Smythe said.
‘Sounds like, yes, but isn’t. Nicole’s not daft.’
‘Avalon King’s doing well,’ Smythe said. ‘That means Nicole’s doing well. So why would she want to put you out of business?’
‘Spite, and the fact that I’m still competition. She’s got what they call reputational damage, owing to her charming background. People would rather go with me than her. Plus, she likes stepping on toes. Mine, mostly, but just about anyone else’s too. They say she’s got more of Raglan in her than her three brothers, and I think they’re right about that. Raglan was mental, but he wasn’t daft. The brothers . . . let’s say they came out of the shallower end of the gene pool.’
‘You ever get bother from them?’
‘Nah. Nicole wears the trousers.’
McGill asked, ‘Still doesn’t explain why you got together. I mean, you said you had money – an inheritance, was it?’
He cocked his head at her. ‘You been spying on me?’
‘Aye,’ McGill said coyly. Smythe was discomfited to see her flirting quite so openly, but let it run.
‘Well, she has the body of an angel, I’ll give her that. And she can give you patter. I met her at the Piano Bar one night. Had no idea who she was until our third or fourth date. I wondered why people acted all tense whenever she showed up. I thought it was because she was beautiful. One of the doormen at some club or other put me right. It ended in a complete farce. I was glad to be shot of her, really.’
‘Know what else I found out? When I was spying on you?’ McGill asked. ‘I found out that drone owners have to be registered . . . and you are. Expensive hobby, no?’
‘I can afford my toys,’ he said simply. ‘Second childhood. Always wanted to be a pilot. Might take lessons in that too.’
‘Do you take films with your drones?’
‘I have done. Western Isles, Campsie Fells, Loch Lomond, you name it.’
‘Could we see them? Would that be cool?’ McGill asked.
‘Sure. I’ve got them all somewhere. You’ll want to see the ones of these woods, eh?’
McGill brightened. ‘Now you mention it, that would be very cool.’
Smythe cut in. ‘What do you think has happened to the drones you lost? Tech problem, maybe?’
‘Not one of these,’ Finch said firmly. ‘Best in the market. Top of the range.’
‘What’s your theory?’
‘I think another drone has taken it out.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s head back to the house. Belinda will be delighted to see you.’
‘She already has been,’ Smythe commented drily.
‘Yeah, she told me you were coming, but not till later. Sorry about that. Anyway, I’ve got the videos all backed up on the cloud, and a few memory sticks as well.’
‘It would be great to see those,’ McGill said. ‘Maybe give me a wee shot with one too?’
‘I can do that,’ Finch said brightly. ‘You can climb into my cockpit – I’ve got one in the loft.’
Dear God, Smythe thought. Horny dads. Spare us.
‘You know,’ Finch went on, ‘I’ve absolutely nothing to hide. Whatever you’re looking for from me, there’s nothing to tell you. Honestly. But I guess there might be a wee clue somewhere.’
‘I’ll get you a medal if there is,’ McGill said.
41
Tait knuckle-rapped the window, driver’s side, which irritated Slater. He stabbed at the button, but kept his face neutral as the window lowered. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve just had my car washed. Why don’t you try the local welfare office?’
Tait frowned. ‘I think I’d be more worried about what’s on the inside if I was you.’
‘You only kept me waiting five minutes,’ Slater said. ‘You’re slipping, boy.’
‘It’s Myles, by the way,’ Tait said, walking round the car to open the passenger door. He had stacked two takeaway coffee cups in one hand, and had to angle his body awkwardly as he got in to avoid spilling them. ‘Or Mr Tait. Or DS Tait.’
‘DI Tait soon. Am I right?’ Slater locked eyes with him, still smiling.
Tait didn’t respond. But he didn’t flush or flinch either. ‘Here. You want to clear the crap out of your holders so I can set one of these down?’
‘It’s all clear. You go for it.’
‘And you’re welcome, by the way.’
Slater pulled away before Tait could secure the seatbelt. ‘Thanks. Why’d you choose the Kiosk? I could have picked you up.’
‘I’m happy to meet you halfway.’
‘It isn’t halfway, though, is it? I could have got you from your house . . . but you don’t want me to meet you at your house, for some reason.’
‘You’d take the look off the place.’
‘Quite a nice house, all the same,’ Slater said. ‘Nice big bedrooms.’
‘You what?’
‘I mean, I had a look when you put it on the market. Took it off sharp enough, though. Change your mind? Nobody biting?’
‘The wind-ups and carry-on . . . you know, they’re going to get you killed one day.’
‘Keep fantasising about it. One day you might get your wish.’
Tait tried to blow air down the sip-hole in the polystyrene lid. ‘If you must know, I was at the office. Tying up some loose ends. Following tips, ruling folk out.’
‘Mention that to the interview panel.’
‘They’ll know it already. How about you? Turn anything up?’
‘Not really. Following the gaffer’s hunches.’
‘Any of them worth anything?’
Slater shrugged. ‘You know the gaffer. His hunches have a funny wee habit of turning out right.’
‘Except when they don’t.’
‘Well, we’re a team. What’re your thoughts, then? Any suspects?’
‘I think the guy’s a ghost.’
‘The guy we’re going to talk to can tell us a bit about that.’
Tait ventured a drink of coffee. ‘I meant – he’s no one. In the background. We haven’t spoken to him yet. He’s not on our radar. Probably never been in bother before. And he’s going to do it again. Papers are gasping for it, anyway. If there’s anyone in the frame at the minute, it’s Laybourn.’
‘Weird guy. Ex-army, and you would think it to look at him, but, speaking to him, you’d think he was more likely a cult leader or something.’
‘Yeah, I can see that being Mr Jack-in-the-Box.’
‘Fucking papers,’ Slater said.
‘Whoever spilled the details is at fault there.’
‘Definitely victim one’s mother,’ Slater said. ‘I don’t think you’d stop her talking with a gag. Anyway, best we get through the tunnel.’
‘He heading south?’
‘He was picked up going through Paisley.’
‘Could we not have stopped him leaving in the first place? And don’t we have his van in storage anyway?’
‘He’s hired another one. Guy’s got to work. And we’ve got nothing to charge him with. Besides, I want to know what he’s up to.’
‘Doesn’t he work for a distribution company?’
‘Sometimes. And sometimes he works for himself. Leaves wee adverts in shops, local guides you get through the door, message boards and social media. That’s how he got hired for the Hazell Court drop-off. Wonder if he gets much business through that, in fact?’
‘Nice,’ Tait muttered.
They drove in silence, taking the tunnel at Anniesland. Slater was going to joke about seeing who could hold their breath longest, but, studying Tait’s narrowed eyes, he thought, no. No jokes. What’s the point?
‘Is Lomond still going ahead with his mad scheme?’ Tait asked suddenly.
‘Yep. Not to be deflected. He reckons that’s the key.’
‘What’s he looking for? Secret tunnels?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘He’ll be believing the UFOs and ghostie theory next.’
‘The guy’s getting into the houses somehow, and we don’t know how. No witnesses, no fingerprints, no hair, no blood, no footprints, even. So there’s something we’ve missed.’
‘Could end up with his jotters on this one. He almost got taken off the Ferryman case.’
‘He’s caught a few dafties. They’d be mental to sack him.’ Slater kept his tone neutral. Partly to suppress anger, partly to see how wide this muppet would open his mouth.
‘He’s taking his time on this one. People will end up dead.’
‘How would you go about lifting our guy, then? Share your theories.’
‘I don’t think he’s anything to do with property companies or anything like that. There’s no motive. No link between the victims. He’s just a sicko.’
‘Avalon King houses both times.’
‘Not the homeless guy – who we still don’t know anything about.’
‘We know enough about how he lived; a couple of snouts came in. Off the grid, on the gear, desperate, about as vulnerable as a grown man can get. Gaffer reckons he was practice. So give me some more of your theories.’
‘I’ll keep them to myself. And I’ll wait and see what our guy Laybourn is up to.’
‘Think it’s him, don’t you?’
‘He’s the only clear link, isn’t he? We know he dumped a body. That’d be good enough to charge him, for me.’
‘Except for the stuff that clears him. But’ – and Slater raised a hand to cut off any protest – ‘he’s as close as we get, I’ll give you that one.’
‘We’re heading into the sticks here.’ Tait frowned at the houses, growing grander but more sparse as the city limits receded.
‘Satnav says he’s about half a mile ahead. Turned off at . . . hey, a quarry. Senses twitching yet, mate?’
Tait gulped down the last of his coffee. ‘They’re rarely wrong.’
42
Tait shook his head and made a kissing sound with his teeth. ‘He can’t be for real, this guy.’
Slater sighed. ‘How’d you mean?’
‘He’s under investigation for murder . . . I mean, whether he knows it or not, it must have registered somewhere that we’re interested in what he’s up to. And he drives out into the boonies, doing Christ knows what.’
Slater scratched his scalp. ‘I dunno. As I said, guy’s got to work.’
‘He’s up to something. I know it. Here we go . . . Where the hell is this? Satnav doesn’t know.’
Slater said nothing, concentrating on keeping a fair distance from Daniel Laybourn’s Transit van. It was a brand new rental, and nippy with it. Tait had chided Slater for letting the white blob get so far ahead of them. They were heading out into the Renfrewshire hills now, and a fine mist appeared as the two vehicles dropped into a dell. This would seem spooky, Slater thought, if it was a film. Right now, it was just a pain in the arse.
