The Impossible Dead

28



John Elliot was filming a piece for later in the day. The up side was, Fox didn’t need to drive into the centre of Glasgow. The downside: he was on a trading estate on the outskirts. For some reason, a modern black slab of a hotel had been placed there, and Elliot’s crew had taken over the restaurant. Bemused guests were eating breakfast in the bar area while lights were repositioned, cameras slotted into place on their tripods.

‘It’s guerrilla stuff,’ the segment’s director told Fox. Fox had been provided with a little cafetière and a couple of miniature pains au chocolat. Elliot was being attended by a make-up woman in a corner of the restaurant. There was a large illuminated mirror, and something resembling a toolbox, but filled with cosmetic products rather than wrenches.

‘Mad business,’ Elliot commented to Fox, meeting his eyes in the mirror. His hair was being combed into place, his nose and forehead checked for sheen, a paper towel protecting his shirt collar from smudges. His eyes glittered, and Fox wondered if drops had been applied. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt, black cotton jacket, and faded denims, frayed at the bottom.

‘I appreciate you seeing me at short notice.’

‘When I’m done here, we’ll have about fifteen minutes. After that, I have to be back in the studio.’

The director had arrived at Elliot’s side. He was holding a script and looking stressed.

‘Chef says the lobster’s claws are taped shut, so there’s no danger,’ he was explaining.

‘The glamour of television,’ Elliot said, meeting Fox’s eyes again and sand-blasting him with a smile.

There was a rehearsal, after which it took three takes to get the piece right. Then there were cutaways and changes of angle and lighting and other stuff Fox didn’t quite understand. An hour and a half after starting, they had their three minutes of screen time. Elliot was rubbing a wet-wipe across his face as he crossed the room towards Fox. The gear was being packed away, tables and chairs returned to their original positions. One guest, a middle-aged woman, intercepted Elliot and asked him to sign her copy of the breakfast menu.

‘A pleasure,’ he said. A small tremor seemed to pass through her as she watched him write.

‘Get a lot of that?’ Fox asked when he was eventually able to shake the presenter’s hand.

‘Better a fan than the abuse I’d get on Sauchiehall Street after closing time. Let’s sit here.’ Elliot nodded towards a banquette in the open-plan bar. ‘So,’ he said, slapping his palms against his knees, ‘my nefarious past catches up with me …’

‘It’s no secret, is it?’

‘My whole life is public property, Inspector.’

A waiter came over to ask if they needed anything. Elliot ordered mint tea, then changed his mind to sparkling water. Fox was nursing half a cup of lukewarm coffee.

‘Are you still interested in politics?’ he asked when the waiter had retreated.

‘The question is: was I ever?’

‘You nearly went to prison …’

Elliot nodded slowly. ‘But even so. How much of it was posture? I mean, students back then … we didn’t always think too clearly about the reasoning.’

‘What was it, then – a way to pick up the opposite sex?’

Elliot gave a lopsided smile. ‘Maybe.’ He wriggled in his seat, making himself more comfortable. ‘That court case … it was ridiculous really. We were made to look like the mujahideen, but we were just kids playing games.’ His eyes widened slightly, perhaps hoping Fox would share his incredulity. ‘Hijack a government car? Hold the minister to ransom?’ He shook his head. ‘The ransom, incidentally, consisting of a referendum on Scottish self-government – how hare-brained is that?’

‘You doubt it would have worked?’

‘Of course it wouldn’t have worked! People were laughing at us during the trial – they’d sit in the public gallery and their shoulders would be heaving as we explained the tactics. The prosecution went on about “planning”, but as we pointed out, this amounted to a couple of nights in the pub and a few doodles on the back of a napkin.’

‘Might explain why none of you went to jail.’

‘Our university didn’t even bother kicking us out – that’s how seriously everyone took it.’

‘Might be different today,’ Fox commented.

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Stirling was your university?’ Elliot nodded, then thanked the waiter as his water arrived. There was a bill with it, but the presenter pointed the waiter in the direction of one of the crew.

‘Ever see any of your old gang?’ Fox asked.

‘Hardly ever.’

‘None of them still active?’

‘Active? You mean plotting the overthrow of the state? No, none of them are still “active”.’ He sipped the water, stifling a belch. ‘We were young and foolish, Inspector.’

‘Is that what you really think?’

‘You’ve got me pegged as some sort of sleeper agent?’

Fox returned Elliot’s smile. ‘Not at all. But you’re a public figure – it’s good PR to play down a militant past, maybe make light of it, turn it into an after-dinner routine …’

‘That’s probably true.’

‘And they were very different times.’

‘They were.’

‘Plus, as far as I can tell, the Dark Harvest Commando had a seriousness of purpose. If you’d just been along for a laugh, I doubt they’d have tolerated you.’

Elliot’s face darkened a little. ‘The DHC was too much for me,’ he confided.

‘You went to a few of their meetings, though?’

‘A few.’

‘So you knew Donald MacIver?’

‘Poor Donald. They got him eventually, even managed to have him certified after he attacked another prisoner. He’s in Carstairs now.’

‘Ever thought of visiting him?’

‘No.’ Elliot seemed surprised by the question.

‘He must have been close to Francis Vernal, though …’

‘I can’t believe anyone’s finally paying attention to that,’ Elliot said.

‘In what way?’

‘We all knew Francis had been assassinated – MI5 had him on their hit list. When he died, nobody seemed bothered – no police investigation, almost nothing in the papers …’ He took another sip of water. ‘But it did the job all right.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘A lot of the groups got the message and disbanded. They didn’t want to end up like Francis.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You never met him at meetings?’

‘I was in the same room as him a few times, but I was a foot soldier. He was at the top table.’

‘He was the money man, wasn’t he?’

‘Another reason the groups fell apart – when Francis went, the cash went with him. It wasn’t as though anyone used bank accounts. We didn’t have a chequebook with Dark Harvest Commando on it.’

‘I suppose not.’

Elliot remembered something. ‘There was one meeting where things got a bit heated. Hawkeye needed money for something. Francis went outside and came back in with a wedge of fivers and tenners.’

‘Where was this?’

‘A pub in Glasgow – we used the back room sometimes. Spit and sawdust and patriot songs …’

‘The money must have been in Vernal’s car, then?’

‘I suppose so.’

The car saved from the scrapyard by Gavin Willis. Had he taken it back to his garage to strip it? If so, how had he known about the money? And if there was money to be found, what did he do with it?

And why hang on to the car …?

‘Who’s Hawkeye?’ Fox thought to ask.

Elliot offered a shrug. ‘Never knew his real name. He wasn’t normally the type to attend meetings – everyone was a bit scared of Hawkeye.’

‘Oh?’

‘He definitely wasn’t just playing at radicalism. Two or three armed robberies, I’m pretty sure he was responsible. The members liked to talk about Hawkeye when he wasn’t there – he was our Robin Hood. Liked his explosives, too.’

‘The bombs sent to Downing Street and Parliament?’

‘More than likely.’

‘Why the name Hawkeye?’

‘No idea.’ Elliot had finished his water. The equipment had been packed away, the crew heading for their vans. ‘I need to go,’ he apologised. ‘You really think you can get to the truth after all this time?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Reckon anyone out there really wants to hear it, Inspector?’

Fox didn’t bother answering this. He reached into his pocket instead and produced Professor Martin’s book. ‘Ever seen this?’ he asked.

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Elliot stated, taking it from Fox and flipping through its pages.

‘You’ve never wanted to read it?’

‘Archaeology doesn’t interest me.’

Fox took the book back from him, found the photo of Vernal and Alice Watts outside the police station and held it open for Elliot to see.

‘Do you remember her?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘You don’t recognise her from the meetings?’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Is it important?’

‘She seems to have had some sort of relationship with Mr Vernal – I’d like to talk to her about it.’

‘I wish I could help.’

‘Her name back then was Alice Watts …’

Elliot tried to place it but failed. ‘Back then?’ he prompted.

Fox didn’t say anything, but when he went to close the book, Elliot took it from, him, still open at the photograph. ‘Seventh of April 1985 …’

‘Were you there that day?’

‘In a manner of speaking: I was one of the ones they arrested. But we were out again by late evening.’

‘But you don’t recall seeing Alice Watts?’

Elliot shook his head again. ‘Nice to see Hawkeye again, though.’ He turned the book towards Fox. ‘That’s him there, arm in arm with the young lady.’ Fox took the book back and studied the photo again. The man Professor Martin hadn’t known, the one with long hair, beard and sunglasses.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Fairly sure.’ One of the production runners was standing in front of them, hugging her clipboard to her chest and tapping at an imaginary watch on her wrist.

‘I really have to go,’ Elliot apologised to Fox.

‘Can you give me anything else on Hawkeye?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘A first name? His accent?’ Fox was trying not to sound desperate.

‘Scottish,’ was all Elliot said, rising to his feet. And there was that smile again, the one that told the world John Elliot had moved on, that he lived for the present and not the past.

‘Can we talk again?’ Fox proposed.

‘I really don’t have anything more to say.’

‘I might have more questions.’

Elliot stretched out his arms, underlining that he’d told Fox as much as he could.

‘You’re the first terrorist I’ve ever met,’ Fox told him.

‘I hope I’ve lived up to expectations.’ Elliot’s voice had hardened.

‘We’re out hunting bombers right now – wonder if they’ll be hosting TV shows in a few years.’

‘You’ll excuse me.’ He turned away and started to follow the assistant. Fox was only a step or two behind him.

‘Did your side win?’ he asked.

Elliot paused and seemed to give the question some consideration. The assistant started to say something, but he silenced her with a gesture.

‘We’re closer than ever to an independent Scotland,’ he told Fox. ‘Maybe that process started when the government in London had to acknowledge our existence.’

‘Sounds to me like you’ve still got a few political bones left in your body, Mr Elliot.’

‘I’m not allowed to take sides, Inspector.’

‘Bad for the public image?’

The assistant was actually tugging at Elliot’s arm. With a slight bow of the head in Fox’s direction, he allowed himself to be led away to the waiting van.

Fox’s phone rang. He was staring at the photograph as he answered.

‘Paul Carter’s dead,’ Tony Kaye’s voice informed him.

‘What?’

‘Happened some time last night. They pulled him from the harbour early this morning.’

‘Drowned?’

‘Body’s gone for autopsy.’

‘Christ on a bike, Tony …’

‘Quite so.’

‘Do we know anything else?’

‘Not much.’

Fox was remembering his last meeting with Carter. Remembering, too, that Joe Naysmith had seen him even more recently.

‘The Wheatsheaf,’ Fox commented.

‘Suppose I better let someone know we were there.’

‘When I saw him at the cottage, he seemed pretty wrung out.’

‘Suicidal, though? I wouldn’t have said he was the type.’

‘Me neither.’

‘You know, Malcolm, just for once I’d like a nice clear-cut death.’

‘Are you in Kirkcaldy?’

‘Station’s a bit subdued.’

‘Does the incident room know?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about Scholes?’

‘Haven’t seen any of that lot yet.’

‘You better talk to DI Cash. Let him know about last night.’

‘Okay.’

‘Will the autopsy be at the hospital?’

‘Far as I know.’

‘Then I’ll see you there.’

‘Cash might not like it.’

‘Mood I’m in, that’ll suit me fine.’

‘Just so long as I can have a seat ringside,’ Tony Kaye said.

‘Bring a pair of white gloves and I’ll make you referee.’ Fox ended the call and headed out to his car.