The Impossible Dead

Seven





23



The morning was blustery. Fox parked on the esplanade and got into the back seat of the car next to his.

‘Coffee,’ Joe Naysmith said, handing him a takeaway. Fox thanked him and removed the lid. The liquid was tepid but drinkable.

‘Keeping our seats warm for us at Fettes?’ Tony Kaye asked.

‘Little visit yesterday from Special Branch,’ Fox informed him. ‘They’ve got their eye on those explosions.’

‘Kids with fireworks,’ Kaye said. ‘I’d bet the house on it. Suits the spooks to act as though it’s serious – keeps punters worried and them in their cushy little jobs.’

‘Since when did kids put together nail bombs?’ Fox countered.

‘You saying we’ve got to start watching out for a tartan jihad?’ Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘As if we didn’t have enough on our plates.’

‘Maybe the Dark Harvest Commando are back,’ Naysmith added.

‘Aye, you and Malcolm should paddle out to Anthrax Island, see if they’re digging it up again.’ Kaye shook his head slowly.

‘But in the meantime …’ Fox prompted.

‘Got a call from your pal Mills this morning,’ Kaye obliged. ‘I was hardly out of the shower – she’s a keen one, isn’t she?’

‘What did she say?’

‘A little present would be waiting for us in reception.’

‘And?’

Naysmith held up a memory stick. He then reached down and produced his laptop from the floor between his feet. The three men finished their drinks as they listened to the telephone recording. It had been logged at eight ten the previous evening, and the quality was variable.

‘That’s me just home,’ Paul Carter complained. ‘Ten hours of questions.’

‘Harsh,’ Ray Scholes offered.

‘Harsh is right. Someone’s knifing me in the gonads here.’

‘I know.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘You remember the Shafiqs? I’ve been wondering if one of the sons maybe held a grudge.’

‘That was last year.’

‘Well, I’ve offered it to Cash anyway.’

Naysmith turned in his seat. ‘I did a quick check: the Shafiqs own a range of businesses all across Fife.’

Fox nodded and continued listening.

‘Your uncle had a few headcases on his books,’ Scholes was saying. ‘Tosh Garioch, Mel Stuart …’

‘I know them,’ Carter said.

‘Then you’ll know they’ve both done time. Short-fuse merchants pumped up from bodybuilding and illegal supplements.’

‘Uncle Alan had them working as doormen.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re thinking they might’ve had a grievance?’

‘Not really,’ Scholes eventually admitted.

‘CID seem to think the only one around here with a motive is yours truly.’

‘I’m doing my best, mate.’

‘Look, Ray,’ Carter responded, ‘I can appreciate you might’ve thought you were doing me a favour—’

‘Let me stop you right there, Paul. No way I had anything to do with this, so let’s get that clear in our minds.’

‘What about Gary or Mark?’ Meaning Michaelson and Haldane.

‘You’re grasping at the wrong straws.’

‘Sounds to me like you think I did it.’

‘Nothing’s for certain yet – the crime scene might look a bit wonky, but it’s suicide until proven otherwise.’

‘I didn’t kill him, Ray.’

‘That’s what I’m saying – maybe nobody did.’ There was the sound of a door opening and a woman’s voice. ‘I’ve got to go, Paul,’ Scholes said, sounding relieved rather than apologetic. ‘Stay strong, eh?’

‘Can I come over?’

‘Not tonight, mate.’

‘I’m … sorry. About everything.’

‘You’ll beat this, Paul – you’re Mr Non-Stick, remember?’

‘Non-Stick,’ Paul Carter echoed, sounding tired and not nearly convinced.

Naysmith closed the laptop. ‘End of,’ he stated.

‘Carter said he was sorry,’ Kaye stated. ‘Presumably for all the shite he’s put Scholes through – including perjuring himself.’

‘Bit of detail would have been nice,’ Naysmith argued. ‘What do you think, Malcolm?’

‘He’s pretty adamant he didn’t top his uncle.’

‘Aye,’ Kaye retorted, ‘like he was adamant in court he didn’t do anything to those women.’

‘Speaking of which …’ Fox prompted.

‘I spoke to Billie and Bekkah again,’ Kaye obliged. ‘Interesting that Scholes mentioned those two knuckle-draggers: Tosh Garioch happens to be Billie’s current squeeze.’ Kaye turned in his seat so he was facing Fox. ‘It was when you mentioned that Alan Carter’s company employed doormen …’

‘You thought you’d see if the two connected?’ Fox nodded slowly. ‘And they do.’

‘Coincidence, eh?’ Kaye said with a twitch of the mouth. ‘Alan Carter doesn’t get on with his nephew … makes a complaint about him … nothing much comes of it until Teresa Collins changes her mind and Billie and Bekkah come forward.’

‘And Billie’s boyfriend,’ Naysmith added, ‘happens to work for the uncle.’

‘So what’s your thinking?’

‘Bit more digging required,’ Kaye answered. ‘But I’m just beginning to see a glimmer of light.’

‘Paul Carter was set up by his uncle?’

‘If so,’ Naysmith argued, ‘even more reason to hold that grudge.’

‘Which puts him back in the frame for the murder.’

‘If it was murder.’ It was Naysmith’s turn to twist in his seat so he could make eye contact with Fox. ‘What if Alan Carter wanted to get his nephew in even deeper shit? He’s already decided to do away with himself. He phones Paul so it’ll be on record as the last call he made – knowing Paul will then have some awkward questions to answer.’

‘Been watching Midsomer Murders, Joe?’ Kaye asked with a snort.

‘It’s a scenario,’ Fox conceded. Having finished his coffee, he pushed the plastic lid into the crushed cup. ‘Have you got anything for me about Gavin Willis?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You could try asking Alec Robinson.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The desk sergeant.’

‘He looks at me like I’ve just nicked all his pens,’ Naysmith complained.

‘Other person who might help is Superintendent Hendryson – he ran the show before Pitkethly was brought in.’

‘Steady on, Foxy,’ Kaye said. ‘The lad’ll start thinking he’s a proper grown-up detective.’

‘How about you, Tony? Enjoying being your own boss?’

‘I like it fine.’

‘But you’re starting to think maybe the case against Paul Carter was flawed?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t be so sure. I had Carter on the phone on Friday, just after they lifted him. He admitted that he’d “pulled a few stunts” down the years.’

‘His exact words?’

Fox confirmed as much with a nod.

‘Why did he phone you?’ Naysmith asked.

‘He’s not sure who he can trust.’

Kaye seemed to ponder this. ‘I was going to try talking to Teresa Collins again,’ he confided. ‘Neutral territory – maybe a café or a pub. You know she’s out of hospital?’

‘The shrink gave her the all-clear?’

‘All I know is, she’s back home.’

‘You’ll be sure to go easy on her?’

‘I can do the empathy thing,’ Kaye stated.

‘A nation rejoices,’ Malcolm Fox said.

The geography of St Andrews defeated Fox.

On paper it looked fine. A road led you into the town, after which there were a couple of main shopping streets parallel to one another. But he had an hour to explore the place on foot, and kept finding new angles. Golf course – yes, there was a golf course, naturally enough. Two beaches, one at either end of it. But there was also a ruined castle. A tower. And tucked between venerable college buildings, he caught glimpses of new architecture: glass and steel. And a harbour – St Andrews had a harbour, too, not far from its sea pool. There were no bathers brave enough today. Cliffs … with signs warning the unwary, and regular jet-fighters screaming across the sky, reminding him that there was an RAF base not too far away.

Plenty of students seemed perfectly at ease, running around this maze without getting lost. Elderly residents shared relaxed pavement gossip. Smiling tourists sought cream teas, tartan travel rugs and whisky miniatures shaped like golf balls. But having parked his car on what he thought was the main drag, it took Fox several goes to find it again, by which time he was flustered and annoyed with himself. Two main streets: how hard could it be?

He was kicking his heels because, having eventually found the right person at the university, they had then informed him that it might take an hour or two to come up with anything. The assistant in the registry and admissions office had made it sound like Fox only had himself to blame. She had jotted down what details he had – Alice Watts/Politics and Phil/1985.

‘Date of birth?’

He’d shaken his head.

‘Home address?’

Another shake. ‘Term-time, she stayed in Anstruther.’

‘Year of entry?’

‘I’m not sure. Sorry.’

So there he was, exploring the town and finding himself intrigued by the way its disparate elements somehow didn’t drive everyone slightly mad. He compared it to Edinburgh: students, tourists and residents, all finding space and creating the place in their own image. He had passed up an elegant glass box of a restaurant on the seafront for a tuna-melt panini in the café attached to the Byre Theatre. He had jotted down some notes based on his morning conversation with Kaye and Naysmith. He had forgotten to take a contact number from the assistant, so couldn’t check whether enough time had elapsed. Buying a newspaper for company, he headed back to her office but she was nowhere to be seen. A young man was there instead. He wore a sleeveless jumper and a bow tie, and asked Fox to take a seat. While Fox skimmed the Independent, he was aware of the man studying him surreptitiously. No doubt he had been warned that Fox was a police officer. Whenever Fox tried meeting his stare, he would go back to his computer screen, his fingers busy with keyboard and mouse.

‘Sorry,’ the female assistant said, entering briskly by the same door as Fox. She returned to her own side of the desk, removing her coat and hanging it on a peg, then patting her hair back into place. ‘Took quite a bit of digging.’ She had been carrying a large brown envelope. As Fox approached the counter, she pulled a few A4 sheets from it.

‘This is what we have,’ she said.

Alice Watts had been born in Glasgow in March 1965, making her twenty at the time of Vernal’s death. She had enrolled at St Andrews in September 1983. There were two passport-sized matriculation photos of her, one from 1983 and the other from ’84. She had changed dramatically inside a year – mousy and deferential-looking in the first; tousle-haired and determined in the second. In her first year she had stayed in a hall of residence; by second year she was renting the Anstruther address.

‘Bit of a hike,’ Fox commented as he read.

‘But Anstruther’s lovely,’ the female assistant argued.

Her home address was a street with a Glasgow postcode. There was a phone number too. Fox flicked to another sheet and saw that it listed her exam passes along with progress reports from relevant members of staff. He would have called these reports ‘glowing’ to begin with, but then tutors had started to notice that Alice was spending more time ‘on demos than essays’. She was ‘increasingly active in student politics, to the detriment of her studies’. Fox turned the sheets over, but they were printed on one side only.

‘Nothing after second year?’ he commented.

‘She left.’

‘Kicked out?’

The assistant shook her head and pointed to the relevant text. Alice had stopped attending St Andrews altogether. Letters had been sent to her Anstruther address and eventually to her family home. She had responded to none of them. Fox checked the relevant dates. As the widow had said, after Francis Vernal’s death, Alice had wanted nothing more to do with her university.

‘Never heard from again,’ the assistant said. Then, leaning towards Fox and dropping her voice: ‘Has she been murdered?’

Fox stared at her and shook his head.

‘What then?’ Her eyes had widened, eager for details. Her male colleague had stopped typing and was paying close attention.

Fox kept his counsel, holding up the sheets. ‘I’m taking these with me,’ he informed the assistant. ‘All right?’

‘The originals need to stay here,’ she said, failing to hide her disappointment in him. ‘I’ll have to make you copies of them.’

‘Will that take long?’

‘A couple of minutes.’

Fox nodded his satisfaction with this, then noticed that she was holding out her hand, palm upwards.

‘It’s thirty pence per sheet,’ she informed him. ‘Unless you have a student card …’

The Anstruther address was a flat overlooking the harbour. So many day-trippers were queuing at the fish and chip shop, they had spilled out on to the pavement. The woman who lived in the flat was an artist. She offered Fox some herbal tea but little else. She had bought the place from the previous owner, who had died of old age. Yes, it had been a rental property at one time, but she had no details. Mail sometimes arrived for people she’d never heard of, but she just threw it in the bin. She didn’t recognise the name Alice Watts, and none of the old tenants had ever paid a visit. Fox made show of admiring her work – the walls were covered in vibrant paintings of fishing boats, harbours and coastlines – and left her to it, but only after she’d pressed a business card on him and informed him that she did commissions.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said, making good his escape.

He considered a trip to Glasgow – it would take maybe ninety minutes – but made a few calls from his car instead. Eventually someone got back to him from Govan police station. The officer had driven out to the address himself.

‘It’s an office block,’ he informed Fox.

‘Offices?’ Fox frowned as he stared at Alice Watts’s university details. ‘How long has it been like that?’

‘It was a warehouse until 1982. Renovated in ’83.’ Nineteen eighty-three: the year Watts had arrived at St Andrews.

‘I must have the wrong address.’

‘Reckon so,’ the officer agreed. ‘No housing in that street at all.

Far as I can tell, never has been.’ Fox thanked him and ended the call. He tried Alice Watts’s home phone number again. The constant tone told him no such number existed. He held the two photos of Alice next to one another. A low sun had broken from behind the clouds, causing him to lower his windscreen visor. Even with the windows closed, he could smell batter and oil from the chippy.

‘I’ve got a gun that shouldn’t exist and a student who’s vanished without trace,’ he explained to the photographs. ‘So I have to wonder, Alice – just who the hell are you?’

And where was she now?