It was a decent description of Anna Jennings. ‘What made you talk to her, Mr Thomson?’ I asked, bearing in mind the difficulty I’d had opening him up.
‘She said she was from the Clydesdale Bank and that April had an old policy with them. The money was due to her nearest surviving relative, and they hadnae been able tae trace her daughter.’ Peachy frowned. ‘Mind you, I havenae heard anything since.’
Nor was he likely to. It was a story I’d used myself on occasion. Mention cash and people become markedly less suspicious. Even the Wee Frees of this world.
Peachy threw the bolts on the front door and held it open. It was a relief to walk out of the fetid atmosphere of the house and into the crisp evening air.
I was near the end of the garden path when it came.
‘Mr Gabriel, about April. I know you’re no’ a man of faith, but ye do understand that there was nothing else I could have done . . .’
I closed the latch on the gate and carried on walking.
THIRTY-FOUR
The Bannock’s front of house may not have changed much since Harry Lauder went roamin’ in the gloamin’. It was a different story in the rooms. Sixty quid bought an Orwellian hutch with walls, carpet and bedspread in matching lilac. Freeview TV was available, as was complimentary Wi-Fi. After struggling out of my clothes, I finessed the controls in the shower stall. When the jets reached a precise median between scalding and freezing, I stood under them and reviewed my conversation with Peachy.
April had run away from her dad, slap-bang into Frank and then DI Cartwright. If that weren’t enough, the father of her child had left her to bring up her daughter alone. It didn’t make me proud to be male, or entirely surprised that April had turned to drugs and God alone knew what else.
Anna Jennings was presumably aware of Frank’s affair with April. Otherwise why had she bothered to see Peachy? I wondered how much she knew about Cartwright. If she had found out that Frank had pimped April out to him, it would make for one hell of a story. And that was before factoring the DI’s death into the equation.
So why hadn’t it been printed? The only reason I could think of was that Anna Jennings lacked sufficient proof. Accuse multi-millionaires of corruption and murder and you need to be standing on pretty firm ground. As far as I was aware, the only people who knew all the details were Frank, Farrelly and myself.
I stepped out of the stall and into a scratchy white robe. Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour. I staved off hunger with a half-tube of Pringles, after which I slid under the duvet for a kip. I was out longer than I’d anticipated. Four hours and twenty-six minutes longer, to be exact. According to my watch it had gone ten, which meant they’d be clearing up in the restaurant. I hoped a burst of Gabriel charm would soften up the waitresses enough to plead my case with the chef. As it turned out, there were none to charm. The room was locked and empty.
My back-up plan was to visit the bar and clear its shelves of peanuts and crisps. The Wee Frees may have been big in Saltrossan, but there was still a healthy congregation in the church of the latter-day drinker. At least fifty congregants had crowded into the place. Alec had a deputy to deal with the clamour. I gave him a wave and he marched to the end of the bar.
‘Busy tonight,’ I said as an opener.
‘Aye,’ he agreed.
‘I was hoping to get something to eat, but they seem to have closed the kitchen.’
‘The cook’s sick.’
‘Don’t suppose you have a bar menu.’ Alec looked at me as though I’d asked him for a loaded gun. ‘Crisps or nuts?’ I asked hopefully.
‘If it’s food yer after, there’s a nice wee restaurant in Lomond Street. Ye might just get there before it closes. Tell ’em I sent ye.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll have a whisky and ginger ale to be going on with.’
Alec poured out a shot of Famous Grouse and placed the glass next to an uncapped bottled of Canada Dry.
‘Did ye manage tae talk to Peachy?’ he said as I poured the contents of the bottle into the glass.
‘I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘Was he pleased tae see ye?’
‘Absolutely. We cracked open a few cans and had a singsong.’
‘No doubt that’ll be yer famous English sense of humour.’
‘Not exactly Captain Chuckles, is he?’
‘You were warned.’
‘Did you know his wife?’
‘That I did. No one could understand what she saw in Peachy.’
‘Thought he used to be a bit of a player.’
‘Aye, he was a handsome man, all right,’ Alec said. ‘But he was always quick with his fists.’
‘Until he found the Lord?’
‘And after.’
‘Did he hit Mary?’
‘Let’s just say she walked intae doors quite often.’
‘What about April? Did she walk into doors?’
‘Not that I noticed. Does Peachy know where she is now?’ I nodded. ‘That’s a result, then.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Just not the one I was hoping for.’
The Nook turned out to be a cosy bistro that wouldn’t have been out of place in Covent Garden. Refreshingly, the owners hadn’t Scotsed it up in an effort to attract the tourists. There were no pictures of Flora MacDonald, proverbs about mickles and muckles, and the menu hadn’t been edged in tartan.
The lighting was low and a jazz track faintly audible. Only one of the eight tables was occupied. A young couple gazed into each other’s eyes over the remains of dessert. The waitress looked as though she was about to disappoint me. When I mentioned Alec’s name, she sighed heavily, grabbed a menu, and showed me to a table.
I opted for a fillet of locally caught cod and a bottle of Sancerre with a portion of blueberry pie to follow, and a pair of malts to finish. Unfortunately not even the excellent food and booze could ameliorate my sour mood. After my second Scotch, I paid the bill and left the Nook less than an hour after arriving.
The walk to the Bannock took me along the promenade. It was bloody freezing, but the whisky insulated me from the worst effects of the cold. The tide was in and a small flotilla of boats bobbed on the water. For a while I hung over the barrier and listened to rigging rattle in the wind and waves slap against the harbour wall.
All I had to do was duck under the rail and slip into the sea. The freezing water would numb me into unconsciousness and whatever lay beyond. It was probably a better way to check out than in an old folks’ home or a cancer ward.
My brother would be upset and Stephie might shed a tear or two, but that would be it. And it wouldn’t be as though anyone could definitively call it suicide. The alcohol in my system would make it feasible that I’d accidently toppled in.