The Impossible Dead

20



‘It’s not the same gun, I promise you that.’

Her name was Fiona McFadzean and she was, as Mills’s text had put it, ‘Fife’s ballistics person’. She was based at the Constabulary HQ in Glenrothes. It had taken Fox a while to find the place: too many roundabouts and a shortage of signposts. McFadzean didn’t work in the main building. Fox had been directed to a squat brick structure behind the petrol pumps. A uniformed officer was filling the tank of his squad car.

‘Aye, that’s Fiona’s lair,’ he assured Fox.

McFadzean had to come and unlock the door for him. She wasn’t wearing a white coat and seemed quite happy in her windowless space. Against one wall stood an array of building materials, from brick to wood, pockmarked with bullet holes. A glass-fronted cubicle contained a white-painted wall, speckled pink. McFadzean had explained to Fox that they used it to confirm blood spray from a gunshot.

‘And what exactly is it that you shoot?’ Fox asked.

‘Anything from watermelons to pigs’ heads. My uncle’s a butcher, which is handy.’

She was a young, vibrant woman, and she took him on a quick tour of her domain. An assistant sat at a computer. She introduced him as Paul, and he waved a greeting without looking up from the screen.

‘Much gun crime in Fife?’ Fox asked.

‘Not really. We were set up as a kind of experiment. Carpet’s always about to be pulled from under us – budgets getting squeezed, et cetera.’

McFadzean had no desk as such. She seemed content to perch on a stool at a narrow counter which ran the length of one wall. There was a coffee pot, and she poured for both of them, while Fox tried to make himself comfortable on the spare stool, before deciding to stand instead.

‘Thanks again for seeing me,’ he said.

She nodded her head once and lifted the mug to her lips, cupping it in both hands.

‘How can you be so sure about the guns?’ Fox then asked. The coffee was too bitter, but he took another sip anyway, so as not to give offence.

‘Serial numbers for a start,’ she said. ‘Paul had some free time last year, so he computerised all the old records.’ She showed Fox the printout. ‘This is the gun Francis Vernal used. Four-inch barrel rather than six-inch. Same-calibre bullet, but six chambers rather than five.’ A second printed sheet was passed to Fox. ‘The revolver used to kill Mr Carter …’

Fox studied the details. ‘Different gun,’ he agreed. ‘It says here the gun from the Vernal shooting was destroyed.’

She nodded. ‘Happens to all the weapons we confiscate.’ She handed him a third sheet. It was a detailed list of weapons from Fife and Tayside Constabularies sent to be melted down. There weren’t many. The revolver found on Alan Carter’s table should have been destroyed in October 1984. The one found near Vernal’s car had suffered the same fate a year later.

‘Have you got a history for both guns?’ Fox asked.

‘We can do only so much,’ McFadzean apologised, blowing across the surface of her coffee.

‘Be in a file somewhere,’ Paul called out. ‘Probably at the National Ballistics Lab in Glasgow. Buried deep in the archives.’

‘So you don’t know where they came from in the first place?’

McFadzean shook her head.

‘The revolver found in Alan Carter’s cottage … how do you think it got there?’

‘Somewhere between the lock-up and the furnace, it took a walk.’

Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Has that happened before?’

‘Guidelines are pretty strict – lots of checks and balances.’

‘Not a regular occurrence, then?’ Fox studied the sheets again. ‘Someone pocketed it,’ he guessed.

‘Seems likely. I mean, it could have been dropped or mislaid …’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Okay, that’s not so likely,’ she admitted.

‘Do we know who was on the detail? Whose job it was to dispose of the weapons?’

‘Over the page,’ she said, motioning for him to flip to the final sheet.

‘Ah,’ he said, because there was a name there he recognised.

Detective Inspector Gavin Willis.

‘Yes?’ McFadzean prompted.

Fox tapped a finger against the paper. ‘DI Willis,’ he explained. ‘Alan Carter worked under him. Bought his house when Willis died.’

‘Might explain it,’ Paul said, swivelling round in his chair to face them. ‘Gun was in the house. Carter found it and kept it …’

‘Making it more likely that he took his own life,’ McFadzean added.

‘Or at least that the revolver was lying around for someone else to use,’ Fox argued. ‘Wasn’t it you who noticed the fingerprints weren’t right?’

She nodded. ‘First thing we do,’ she explained, ‘is check any firearm for trace evidence. After that we match the gun to the bullet, just to be sure. And then we search for provenance.’

‘It hadn’t been fired in a while,’ Paul continued. ‘Hadn’t been looked after.’

‘Rust,’ McFadzean explained. ‘And a lack of oil.’

‘Unused bullets in the other chambers,’ Paul added. ‘They had to be a couple of decades old.’

‘From the fibres we found, it had probably been stored in a piece of cloth, just plain white cotton.’

‘So they should be searching the cottage for that cloth,’ Fox said.

‘They have done – at our request.’

‘Nothing so far,’ Paul interrupted.

‘Nothing so far,’ McFadzean confirmed.

Fox blew air from his cheeks. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘I’m not really sure,’ she confided. ‘Paul’s theory is that the gun had been taken to the cottage, used to kill the victim and then his prints pressed to it in a half-baked attempt to make it look like suicide.’ She paused.

‘But?’ Fox prompted.

‘But … you’ve just given us reason to believe the gun may have been in the cottage all along.’

‘Alan Carter might have had cause to be fearful,’ Fox stated. ‘Maybe he kept the revolver close by.’

‘That doesn’t work,’ Paul said, rising from his chair and pouring himself more coffee. ‘Victim was seated at the table. From the spray pattern, we know that’s where he was when he was shot. If someone’s taken your gun from you and is pointing it at you …’

‘You’re not likely to stay seated with your back to them,’ Fox agreed. He thought for a moment. ‘What if someone has the gun pointed at you and tells you to sit down? They want something from you, something that’s already on the table?’

Paul considered this and nodded slowly. ‘You find it for them, and they then shoot you?’

‘Or you refuse, and they shoot you anyway,’ McFadzean added. The room was silent for a moment.

‘So,’ Fox asked, ‘was the revolver there all along, or did someone bring it with them?’

‘I know CID are looking at the victim’s nephew,’ McFadzean commented. ‘He would have known the cottage, and might have known where the revolver was kept.’

‘The two men weren’t exactly close,’ Fox argued. ‘If there was a gun on the premises, Carter kept it secret even from his oldest and closest friend. And what about the missing cloth?’

‘Killer took it with him,’ Paul suggested.

‘If there was a killer,’ McFadzean cautioned.

‘If there was a killer,’ her assistant agreed. Then he turned towards Fox. ‘One other thing … Fiona’s quite right when she says not many guns go astray – these days, I’d say none at all.’

‘But back then?’ Fox prompted.

‘A few of the guns that turned up in police custody began life with the army. Back in the seventies, a lot of stuff – explosives included – went AWOL from barracks up and down the land, most of it destined for the Troubles.’

‘Northern Ireland?’

‘The paramilitaries needed weapons. They were being stolen to order.’

‘What’s your point?’

Paul shrugged. ‘That revolver could have been destined for Belfast.’

‘Ulster wasn’t the only place with terrorists,’ Fox informed him. ‘We had our fair share on the mainland, too.’ He was thinking of the Scottish National Liberation Army and letter bombs in Downing Street, the Dark Harvest Commando with their anthrax spores …

And their possible paymaster, Francis Vernal.

‘You’ve got a point,’ Paul said. He went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and started searching. McFadzean gave Fox an indulgent smile. He nodded his agreement: Paul was good at his job. A minute later, he’d found the relevant file and was handing a photograph to Fox. It showed a desk in a police station. Laid out for the media’s attention was an array of firearms. The dozen or so rifles were tagged; the pistols, revolvers and ammunition were in sealed evidence bags. Fox read the label on the back – ‘1980, Scottish Republican Socialist League trial’. He nodded at Paul.

‘Another splinter group to add to the list,’ he commented. ‘Some of these would have come from the army?’

‘From “break-ins” at barracks.’

Fox looked at him. ‘Inside jobs?’

‘All it takes is a few sympathisers, a blind eye turned, a key handed over …’

‘I’m seeing shotgun cartridges but no shotguns,’ Fox said, handing the photograph to McFadzean.

‘Par for the course,’ she explained. ‘No one’s saying these groups had high IQs.’

‘Not even the leadership?’

‘We caught them, didn’t we?’ She brandished the photo as proof.

While Paul placed the photograph back in its file, Fox rubbed at his jaw with the palm of his hand.

‘Can I ask you something else?’

‘Fire away, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

He gave her a smile. ‘Do you have a theory about these explosions?’

McFadzean gestured towards Paul’s computer. ‘Paul’s been doing a bit of work on that. Plastic containers filled with bits of metal – screws, washers, stuff you can find in any DIY store. Detonation sent the whole lot flying a distance of thirty metres.’

‘Probably not kids, then?’

‘Not unless they’ve been reading The Anarchist Cookbook,’ Paul said.

‘They’ve not perfected it yet, though,’ McFadzean added, folding her arms.

‘But they’re getting better,’ her colleague cautioned.

McFadzean nodded her agreement, looking pensive.

‘They’re getting better,’ she said.

‘And once they’re satisfied?’ Fox asked.

‘Then it won’t be trees they’ll be targeting,’ McFadzean said.

Fox thought long and hard about a detour to Kirkcaldy, maybe a snack at the Pancake Place with Kaye and Naysmith, but weighed up the risks and decided against it. Instead he drove back to Edinburgh, stopping for petrol and a burger. He had called ahead, but Charles Mangold was busy until two. At half past one, Fox was parked outside the New Town headquarters of Mangold Bain. The offices were on the ground floor of a steep-sloping Georgian terrace, looking directly on to Queen Street Gardens. The receptionist smiled and asked him to take a seat. There was a copy of the Financial Times on the coffee table, along with the latest property guides and a golfing magazine.

When a taxi drew up outside, Fox got to his feet and watched Mangold get out. His face was reddened by alcohol. As he came inside, he spotted Fox immediately and offered his hand.

‘Good weekend, Inspector?’

‘I did a lot of reading.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Actually, a bit of a page-turner.’

Mangold seemed satisfied by this answer. ‘Coffee, please, Marianne – good and strong,’ he barked to the receptionist. Fox shook his head to let her know he wouldn’t be needing any. Mangold was already leading the way through the door to the right of reception. They entered what would have been the hallway of a private house at one time. There was an unused fireplace, and a grand staircase leading up. Another door at the foot of the stairs took them into what Fox guessed would have been a sitting room. Fireplace with antique mirror above it; intricate cornicing and ceiling rose. Mangold switched on some lights.

‘Marianne said it was urgent,’ he began, resting his hand against an electric radiator, then stooping to turn it on. ‘Should warm the place up,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Good lunch?’ Fox inquired. ‘New Club, was it?’

‘Ondine,’ Mangold corrected him.

‘The other night … you were waiting for guests …?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did Colin Cardonald happen to be one of them?’

Mangold shook his head. ‘Though I did spot him in the club that evening – dozing in his chair with the crossword half-finished.’ He checked his watch. ‘Did Marianne say?’

‘She told me I could only have fifteen minutes.’ Fox followed Mangold’s lead and seated himself at the polished oval table. ‘But that only holds if I’m working for you – which I’m not. I’m a police officer and this is a police matter, which means I take as long as I need.’

There was a knock and the coffee arrived, along with a bottle of water and two glasses. The receptionist asked Mangold if he wanted her to pour.

‘Yes please, Marianne.’

They waited until she’d gone, closing the door behind her. Mangold was gulping at the coffee, eyes closed.

‘Can’t drink like I used to,’ he explained. ‘And I do have a very full afternoon.’

‘Then I’ll get to the point – two points actually.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I want to talk to Imogen Vernal.’

‘Impossible,’ Mangold said with a flutter of one hand. ‘Next point, please.’

‘If I don’t see her, I’ll drop off those two box files at the front desk and that’s the last you’ll hear from me.’

Mangold stared hard at Fox, pushing out his bottom lip. ‘What is it you need from her?’ he asked.

‘What is it you think you’re protecting her from?’

‘I’ve already told you – she’s very sick. I don’t want her to be made to feel even less comfortable.’ Mangold paused. ‘Second point,’ he commanded, reaching into his pocket for a voluminous handkerchief.

‘Not until we’ve dealt with the first.’

‘It has been dealt with,’ Mangold stated, wiping around the sides of his mouth.

‘I want her take on things,’ Fox decided to explain. ‘I want to hear her talk about her husband.’

‘I can tell you about Francis!’

‘You weren’t married to him, though.’

‘I knew him as well as Imogen did.’

Fox didn’t bother responding to this. Instead, he moved to item two.

‘All these groups of the time … the SRSL, SNLA, Dark Harvest Commando … I forget the Gaelic one …’

‘Siol Nan Gaidtheal.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Seed of the Gael.’

‘How close was Vernal to them? I only know what I’ve read.’

‘Imogen can’t help you there. None of those rumours ever reached her.’

‘But you heard them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And believed them?’

‘I asked Francis a few times. He would just dismiss the suggestion with one of his looks.’

‘What’s your feeling, though?’

Mangold took a sip of coffee while he considered the question. ‘Was he an active paramilitary? No, I doubt that. But there are ways in which he could have helped.’

‘Legal advice?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What else?’

‘Money had to be raised, and then kept safe. Frank would have known what to do with it.’

Fox nodded. ‘He was their banker?’

‘I have absolutely no proof.’

‘Would he have kept the money on him?’

Mangold offered a shrug.

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Thousands,’ Mangold speculated. ‘There were a few bank robberies early in the decade; a couple of security-van hold-ups.’

‘Claimed by the SNLA?’

‘Those were the stories at the time.’

‘All the years you worked with him – dodgy visitors … locked-door meetings … odd phone calls …?’

‘No more than any other lawyer,’ Mangold replied with a lopsided smile. He stared into the bottom of his cup. ‘I really do need to stop drinking at lunchtime. I’ll feel bloody awful later on.’ He glanced up at Fox. ‘Are we finished here, Inspector?’

‘Not quite. Did you ever hear names?’

‘Names?’

‘Members of these various groups.’

‘MI5 would know more about that than me.’

‘But they’re not here right now …’

Mangold conceded the point and furrowed his brow in thought. ‘No, no names,’ he said at last.

‘Any of Vernal’s friends seem a bit out of place?’

‘We met all sorts, Inspector. You’d visit a couple of pubs and end up in the company of vagabonds and cut-throats. Never knew if you were going to wake up with a tattoo or an infection – or not wake up at all.’

Fox managed the smile he felt was expected of him. ‘How about your own politics, Mr Mangold?’

‘Unionist now …’

‘But back then?’

‘Broadly the same.’

‘Funny you were such good friends with a dyed-in-the-tweed nationalist.’ Fox paused. ‘Or is that where Mrs Vernal comes in?’

‘I’d rather she didn’t come into it at all,’ Mangold said quietly.

‘But she must,’ Fox insisted, dropping his own voice a little. Mangold looked suddenly tired and defeated. He held up his hands in surrender, then slapped them down against the table.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paused, staring down at his cup again. ‘More coffee, I think.’

‘Thank you for your time.’ Fox started to get up. ‘But just remember – you came to me.’

‘Yes,’ Mangold said, with almost a trace of regret.

‘Oh, one other thing …’

Mangold had risen and was facing Fox.

‘Did Alan Carter ever mention the car to you?’

Mangold seemed confused. ‘What car?’

‘Francis Vernal’s Volvo.’

‘No, I don’t think so – why do you ask?’

‘No reason really,’ Fox said with a shrug. But inside he was thinking: What else did he keep from you … and why?

Mangold stayed in the room, Fox insisting that he could see himself out. He stopped at the receptionist’s desk. She looked up from her work and smiled.

‘Marianne, isn’t it?’ Fox enquired. She added a nod to her smile. ‘Something I’ve always meant to ask Charles and somehow keep forgetting …’

‘Yes?’

‘The firm’s name – Mangold Bain: is there still a Bain?’

‘It was Vernal Mangold,’ she explained.

‘Ah yes, until poor Francis died …’ He tried his best to sound like one of Mangold’s oldest clients. ‘You’re too young to have known him, of course?’

‘Of course,’ she agreed, looking slightly put out that he could mistake her for someone of that vintage.

‘So Mr Bain …?’ he prompted.

‘There’s never been a Mr Bain. It’s a maiden name.’

‘Mr Vernal’s widow Imogen?’ Fox guessed. ‘She’s a partner of some sort?’

‘Not that, no. Mr Mangold meant it as a … well, a kind of memorial, I suppose.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been more of a memorial if he’d just kept the name Vernal on the stationery?’ Fox asked. Marianne seemed never to have considered this. ‘Thanks for your help,’ Fox told her, bowing his head slightly and taking his leave.