The Impossible Dead

  ‘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.

  29

  ‘Always in the basement,’ Joe Naysmith commented as they walked along the windowless corridor. All three were rubbing antibacterial foam into their hands. ‘Path labs, autopsy suites …’

  ‘You want them in the car park?’ Tony Kaye shot back. ‘So everyone can see the cadavers?’


  ‘Time was,’ Fox stated, ‘the public liked a post-mortem exam.’

  ‘That’s because the public, as we all know, are sick and twisted.’ Kaye pushed open another set of doors and almost wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Well, well,’ DI Cash drawled. ‘The gang’s all here. Come to check out your handiwork?’ He turned towards DS Brendan Young. ‘Nothing the rubber heels like better than hounding a man to his death.’

  ‘While all you were doing was accusing him of murder,’ Fox countered. ‘How long did the questioning go on – nine, ten hours at a stretch?’

  Cash stabbed a finger towards Fox. ‘I seem to remember sending you to the wilderness.’

  ‘And I was quite happy there, but we’ve got a bit of news we need to share.’

  Cash slid his hands into his pockets and went up on his toes. ‘This’ll be good,’ he told Young.

  ‘First we need to hear what the autopsy says.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ Young muttered, checking the time on his phone.

  On cue, the door marked ‘Examination Suite’ swung open. The pathologist was suited and booted and looked impatient.

  ‘How many of you want to watch? We only have three sets of scrubs.’

  Naysmith looked relieved to hear it. Kaye stared dolefully at Fox, knowing rank was about to be pulled on him. Five minutes later, Fox, Cash and Young were inside, listening to the hum of the extractor fan and the pathologist chivvying his assistant.

  ‘We’re a man down, but it can’t be helped,’ he told Cash. Fox knew that Scots law required corroboration – meaning two pathologists should have been present. ‘We can always put him in the fridge until tomorrow …?’

  But Cash shook his head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  Paul Carter was laid out on the metal table. Water was still seeping from him, being diverted to the table’s drainage channels and from there into pails beneath. Fox could see that Carter’s face was swollen. There was a brackish smell in the small, already claustrophobic room. Maybe he’d misjudged this: Fox hadn’t been present at many autopsies; he was hoping he wouldn’t keel over. Nor was Brendan Young looking too comfortable. The pathologist spoke into a microphone as the examination got under way. He pushed down on the chest, expelling a gurgling stream of water from the corpse’s mouth. Fox’s own mouth was dry, his heart pounding in his ears. The body had probably been in the water eight to ten hours, putting time of death at somewhere between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Core temperature was tested, and the eyeballs checked. Once the Y-incision had been made and the ribcage prised open, the pathologist was able to examine the contents of the lungs.

  ‘No doubt in my mind that he drowned,’ he said. ‘Whether he fell in or jumped …’ He made a gesture that could have been a shrug.

  As the examination continued, organs removed and weighed, Brendan Young shuffled back until he was resting against the wall, eyes all but closed. Fox stood his ground, though he was concentrating with his ears rather than his eyes.

  ‘Nose is broken,’ the pathologist said, almost to himself, as he peered closely at the face.

  ‘Maybe the body took a pounding against the sea wall,’ Cash offered.

  ‘Not much wind last night … doubtful there was enough of a swell to cause an injury like that.’ The pathologist moved to Carter’s hands and arms. ‘Tissue on the knuckles is scraped … Same goes for the tips of the fingers.’

  ‘He was in a fight?’ Fox speculated.

  ‘Or fell to the ground. Put his hands down instinctively and grazed them.’ Eventually, the stomach was opened.

  ‘Smell that?’ the pathologist asked, turning his attention to his audience.

  ‘Booze,’ Cash said.

  ‘Lager, I think. And spirits of some kind.’ The man bent down over the body and sniffed. ‘Whisky.’

  ‘So he’s drunk and he goes walking down by the harbour.’

  ‘It’s one scenario. Another would be a tussle of some kind.’

  ‘But he was alive when he went in the water?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Almost definitely,’ the pathologist stated.

  Quarter of an hour later, they had taken off the protective clothing, splashed water on their hands and faces and were back in the corridor, leaving the pathologist and his assistant to finish up.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Cash told Fox. An unfortunate choice of words, since DS Young had just spent several minutes bent over the sink, attempting to hack some residual taste from the back of his throat. He looked pale and was still perspiring. When Naysmith offered him a stick of gum, he snatched at it.

  ‘Carter had a meeting in a local bar last night,’ Fox said. ‘But before I tell you who with, I want a promise that me and my team won’t be kept out in the cold.’

  ‘No promises,’ Cash said.

  Fox took his time considering this. He even turned his head to make eye contact with Kaye.

  ‘I need to know what you know first,’ Cash went on, his tone softening a little.

  ‘The meeting was with Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson,’ Fox conceded.

  Cash slid his hands into his pockets again. The habit was beginning to annoy Fox. It was as if the detective inspector had learned most of his moves from old gangster films.

  ‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘We sent Naysmith in to eavesdrop.’

  ‘And how did you know about the meeting in the first place?’

  ‘Does it matter? The thing is, the four of them were out together last night. You’re going to want to talk to them, and I want to hear what they’ve got to say.’

  Cash was looking at Naysmith. ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘It was just before eight when they sat down with their drinks,’ Naysmith obliged.

  ‘And when did they leave?’

  Naysmith looked towards Tony Kaye for help.

  ‘They clocked him,’ Kaye told Cash. ‘By ten past the hour, we were on our way.’

  Cash didn’t say anything for a few moments, happy to bask in the Complaints’ inefficiency.

  ‘So your undercover surveillance lasted a maximum of fifteen minutes?’ He turned his attention to Fox and offered a gloating smile.

  ‘All right, you’ve had your fun,’ Fox said coldly. ‘The thing is, they’ll know what sort of state Paul Carter was in, and what time the session broke up.’

  ‘That they will,’ Cash acknowledged with a nod.

  ‘So we need to talk to them.’

  Cash stared at him. ‘No promises, remember?’

  Fox had had enough. He got right into Cash’s face. ‘One thing you’re forgetting – my report goes straight to your Chief Constable. That report’s already going to make pretty interesting reading. The whole reason we’re here is so your boss can show everyone how spick and span everything is. Last thing he wants is the media getting wind that obstacles were put in our way. Names will be named, Detective Inspector Cash.’ Fox paused. ‘I never did catch your first name. Better spell it out for me, just to be on the safe side.’

  Cash made Fox wait – which was fine by Fox. He knew the man would climb down eventually. Eventually he held his hands up in a show of surrender.

  ‘Cooperation has always been my byword,’ he said with a humourless half-smile. ‘We’re all on the same side after all, aren’t we?’

  Fox maintained eye contact, their faces only inches apart.

  ‘Duly noted,’ he told the CID man.

  There was further news waiting for them at the station – news that changed everything. Cash mulled it over and decided he wanted all three of Paul Carter’s colleagues in the same room at the same time. The interview room was too cramped, so he cleared the CID office. DS Young had been sent to fetch Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson.

  ‘We’ve got recording equipment,’ Fox told Cash. The DI nodded his agreement and Joe Naysmith started setting everything up: video as well as audio. The three others – Cash, Fox and Kaye – started moving desks, making a decent-sized space. Eight chairs were needed: five facing
three. Phones rang but went unanswered. Cash wiped sweat from his forehead with a voluminous white handkerchief.

  ‘You three,’ he explained to Fox, ‘are here to listen.’

  ‘Until advised otherwise,’ Fox agreed.

  The door opened and four figures trooped in. Haldane and Michaelson looked dazed, Scholes wary. DS Young pointed towards the three chairs.

  ‘What is this?’ Scholes asked.

  ‘Got a few questions for you,’ Cash stated.

  Scholes took in the three Complaints officers and nodded his understanding. ‘Next time you try a stunt like that,’ he said, eyes on Fox but gesturing towards Naysmith, ‘use someone old enough not to be asked for proof of age by the landlord.’

  The colour rose to Joe Naysmith’s cheeks as he checked the gear. Scholes had turned to his colleagues.

  ‘It’s because we were out with him last night,’ he told them. Then he sat down. There was silence in the room, until Naysmith said, ‘Okay.’ Cash took a deep breath and folded his arms.

  ‘It’s pretty grim, all of this,’ he said. ‘Sorry you’ve lost a friend …’

  Scholes grunted a response.

  ‘As you say, you were out with him last night …’

  ‘Few jars at the Wheatsheaf,’ Michaelson stated.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘We left the back of nine, maybe half past.’

  Cash kept his attention on Scholes, whether or not he was the one to answer. ‘What were the four of you talking about?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘His uncle’s death?’

  ‘For a bit.’

  ‘You all left the Wheatsheaf together?’

  There wasn’t an immediate answer. Haldane glanced in Scholes’s direction.

  ‘Yes, DS Haldane?’ Cash prompted him.

  ‘We’d had a few words,’ Scholes admitted, pre-empting his colleague. ‘Bit unsettling to find you’re being tailed.’ He gave Naysmith a hard stare. ‘Paul was on his high horse about it.’

  ‘And after a few drinks, he did have a bit of a temper.’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ Haldane blurted out. ‘It was just such a bloody headache listening to him drone on.’

  ‘Droning on, was he?’