The Innocent and the Dead Page 16

  ‘Thanks,’ Knox said. ‘Did Mark get in touch with the DirectFone people?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One of their technicians is on it. Mark says they’ll keep us informed.’

  ‘Fine, Yvonne. You can go home now, you’ve an early start in the morning.’

  Mason looked around the office to make sure Hathaway had gone. ‘We still on for tomorrow night, at yours?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ Knox said, then added, ‘This time I’ll buy the fish suppers.’

  Mason smiled. ‘Bye, Jack.’

  Chapter Twelve

  DirectFone contacted Hathaway at 7.30am. His car was parked in West Register Street opposite the Balmoral Hotel entrance when the call came in. He and Mason were watching a group of tourists who’d exited the hotel and were milling around tour buses which were about to leave on sightseeing trips.

  ‘Ms Tavener’s mobile was last active at 3.30pm yesterday,’ the DirectFone technician was saying. ‘The call was made at the east end of Rose Street in central Edinburgh.’

  ‘How long did the call last?’ Hathaway said.

  ‘Three minutes and eight seconds,’ the man said. ‘I’ve pinpointed reception to the Balmoral Hotel. The phone was switched off after the call, and has stayed off since. I’ll continue to monitor, though, and update you if there’s further activity.’

  Hathaway said, ‘I’d appreciate that, thanks.’

  After the call ended, Mason said, ‘So Knox was right. The kidnapper did contact Tavener.’

  Hathaway nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘To set up another meeting. But where?’

  ‘I think we’ll have to wait an hour or two to find out,’ Mason said. ‘When the town is busy. The kidnapper will want to melt into the crowd.’

  * * *

  When traffic began to build, Hathaway moved the car nearer the hotel entrance. Mason went to the nearby St James’ Centre and bought coffee and bacon rolls, and by the time they’d finished their breakfast it was approaching ten.

  Mason looked at her watch. ‘I’ve a feeling he won’t be long now,’ she said. ‘One of us should leave the car in case we have to follow on foot.’

  Hathaway smiled and said, ‘You or me?’

  Mason grinned. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Might look suspicious if we switch seats now.’

  As she exited the car she looked to her left and saw Tavener sprint down the hotel steps and cross to the kerb.

  Mason signalled Hathaway, who started the engine.

  At that moment, a black cab drew up, Tavener jumped in and the taxi moved off.

  Mason hurried back to Hathaway’s car, got inside, and her colleague pulled away from the kerbside.

  ‘Panama hat,’ Mason said. ‘I didn’t recognise him at first, then I saw the bag.’

  Hathaway pointed to the taxi, which stood at traffic lights three vehicles ahead with its left indicator blinking. ‘He’s turning onto Waverley Bridge,’ he said.

  He turned left in pursuit, following the taxi up Market Street, over the ridge of the Old Town to George IV Bridge, then the taxi turned right into Victoria Street, a cobbled incline leading to the Grassmarket.

  ‘Looks like he’s heading to the Grassmarket,’ Mason said.

  Hathaway shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Saturday market,’ Mason said. ‘Always a big crowd. That’s where the exchange will take place.’

  * * *

  Knox arrived at Gayfield Square at 9am and went over the note Murray had left him: Contents include a bankbook which may prove interesting.

  Murray hadn’t elaborated.

  Knox removed the handbag from the plastic evidence bag as his partner approached the desk. ‘Murray didn’t find any prints?’ Fulton said.

  ‘No,’ Knox replied. ‘But there’s a bankbook. He says it warrants a closer look.’

  Knox opened the handbag, removed an A6-sized blue-covered book, and began leafing through it. He studied the last transaction, turned back a page or two, then said, ‘This is interesting.’

  ‘What is?’ Fulton said.

  Knox traced the last two pages of the bankbook with a finger, then said, ‘Seven deposits over the last fourteen weeks, each of them for the same amount – £250. Before that, her balance was in the region of forty pounds.’

  ‘I thought the McCormacks said she wasn’t working?’

  Knox nodded. ‘They did.’

  Fulton said, ‘Then where did she get the money?’

  ‘Good question,’ Knox said.

  ‘The deposits,’ Fulton said. ‘Cash or cheque?’

  ‘Only one way to find that out,’ Knox said.

  The phone on Knox’s desk rang at that moment and he picked up. ‘Knox?’

  ‘Jack, it’s Ed Murray. You’ve seen the bankbook?’

  ‘Yes,’ Knox replied. ‘As you say, it makes interesting reading.’

  ‘I thought you’d think so,’ Murray said. ‘But there’s something else. I just checked Patti’s laptop – a mix of the usual: music websites, movie and book reviews, Amazon and the like. But there’s one website of specific interest, Patti visited it a lot: C-A-T.’

  ‘CAT?’

  ‘Yes,’ Murray said. The acronym stands for Counselling for Abused Teens. As it says: advice, counselling, but it also has a very active forum. Patti contributed to it on a few occasions.’

  ‘Did she post anything specific?’ Knox said.

  ‘Not really. Asked advice from other youngsters who’d suffered sexual abuse and found it difficult to cope.’

  Knox said, ‘Any mention of her own experiences?’

  ‘No,’ Murray said. ‘I’m about to e-mail you a screenshot of the site and a link to her posts.’

  ‘Okay’ Knox said. ‘I’ll take a look at them. Meantime, I’m going to give her bank a ring to see if the deposits were made by cheque. Might give us a clue to where the money came from.’

  ‘Right,’ Murray said, then added, ‘Oh, by the way, Jack. Dundee reckons the fibres found on Patti’s blouse were wool, dark grey, most likely from a glove. I’ve asked uniform to scour Figgate Park to see if they can find one.’

  ‘Thanks, Ed,’ Knox said. ‘Let me know if they do.’

  After he ended the call, Knox rang the branch of National ScotSavers where Patti McCormack had her account, and the manager verified her deposits had been made in cash.

  When he put down the phone, he turned to Fulton. ‘The payments were made by Patti herself.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Fulton said. ‘Do you think–’ He was interrupted by the sudden ringing of Knox’s mobile. Knox took his iPhone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘Yvonne?’ he said.

  ‘Tavener’s at the Grassmarket, boss,’ Mason said. ‘I think the kidnapper’s about to pick up the money.’

  * * *

  Edinburgh’s Grassmarket cuts a swathe through the south-western edge of the Old Town. Roughly a half-mile from end to end and more than a hundred yards wide, it had once been a gathering place for cattle drovers and horse traders.

  Over the years, the market became confined to the northern half, leaving a strip for traffic on its southern edge.

  The taxi dropped Tavener at the market’s eastern entrance where he made for the stalls, already thronged with shoppers. As Mason exited the car and began following, Hathaway drove a short distance to the nearby Cowgate and found a parking space. There he activated the remote locking and rang Mason.

  ‘I’ve just parked,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At a tartan gift stall opposite the Beehive Pub,’ she answered.

  ‘You see Tavener?’

  ‘Yes, he’s at an antiques stall thirty feet from me.’

  ‘Any sign of the guy he’s meeting?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mason said. ‘By the way, I phoned Knox. He and Fulton are on their way.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hathaway said. ‘Be with you in a sec.’

  Mason continued to watch Tavener. He strolled from the antiques stall to the one adjacent, a continental-
style patisserie bedecked with EU flags.

  A moment later, a man approached Tavener. It took Mason a second to realise it was the same person she’d seen in Princes Street Gardens. But instead of denim, he now wore an Adidas sweatshirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, and a baseball hat pulled low over his forehead.

  The woman behind the patisserie counter said something to Tavener, who smiled and shook his head. The man with the baseball hat chose that moment to move in behind him. He tapped Tavener twice on the right shoulder, then the Lochmore Distillers boss let the holdall fall to the ground.

  The man acted quickly. He grabbed the bag and darted towards the roadway.

  As Hathaway arrived, Mason pointed to the kidnapper. ‘He’s got the bag,’ she said.

  The officers took off in immediate pursuit. Their quarry had crossed the road and was now headed towards the Vennel, a steep stairway leading from the Grassmarket to Lauriston Place, a road connecting the Old Town with routes south and east.

  Mason and Hathaway dodged between traffic and gained the opposite pavement, but the man had reached the Vennel and was sprinting up the steps.

  Hathaway overtook Mason and called out, ‘Phone Knox. Tell him to intercept at Lauriston.’

  Mason retrieved her mobile, speed-dialled a number, and as she negotiated the first of the Vennel’s steps, Knox answered.

  ‘Yvonne?’ he said.

  ‘Where are you, boss?’ she said.

  ‘Crossing into George IV Bridge,’ Knox said. ‘About to turn into Victoria Street.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Mason said. ‘Keep going. Tavener’s passed over the money.’

  ‘Where’s the kidnapper now?’

  ‘Coming up the Vennel.’

  ‘Towards Lauriston Place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, Yvonne. We’ll try and nab him there.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Hathaway reached the top of the Vennel, the man was only a hundred yards distant. He began to narrow the gap, but as he drew level with a cobbled street on his right, a youngster on a tricycle appeared in front of him from behind a low fence.

  Hathaway jinked left to avoid the child, but caught his instep on a cobble, then stumbled and fell.

  Mason caught up a few seconds later. ‘You okay, Mark?’ she said.

  ‘Only winded,’ Hathaway gasped. He pointed to where the passageway connected with Lauriston Place. ‘Keep after him. He can’t have got far.’

  Mason continued on to the street, glanced in both directions, but saw no one. A moment later, a car started up on the opposite side twenty yards distant, then pulled out and drove off.

  She stopped to catch her breath, then her phone rang.

  Mason answered and heard Knox say, ‘Sorry, Yvonne. We’re caught in traffic in the one-way system in Bristo Place. Where are you?’

  ‘Corner of Lauriston Place and George Heriot’s School. The kidnapper’s just escaped in a red VW Golf.’

  ‘You get a number?’

  ‘Only a partial,’ Mason said. ‘Two-seven-one-sierra-papa.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll radio an alert. Traffic’s clearing a bit. We’ll be with you in a minute.’

  As Hathaway joined Mason, Knox pulled up at the kerb and he and Fulton exited the car.

  Knox said, ‘I just received a message from a patrol car at Tollcross. They’ve found the Golf in Leven Street.’

  Hathaway gave Knox an optimistic look. ‘They got our man?’ he said.

  ‘No such luck,’ Knox said. ‘It was abandoned. They ran a PNC check. It was stolen last night from the Asda supermarket at Brunstane.’

  Mason shook her head. ‘So, he changed cars?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Fulton said. ‘The bugger could be anywhere now.’

  Knox glanced at Hathaway, who winced as he changed stance, shifting his weight to his left leg. ‘You okay, Mark?’ he said.

  Mason said, ‘A young kid on a trike came out in front of him at Keir Street when we were chasing the kidnapper. Mark dodged him and fell.’

  ‘Only a skinned knee, boss,’ Hathaway said. ‘An Elastoplast’ll fix it.’

  Knox nodded. ‘Did Tavener see either of you give chase?’

  Hathaway said, ‘I don’t really know. It happened fast.’

  Knox shrugged. ‘He did everything to keep the rendezvous a secret,’ he said. ‘Don’t think he’ll be best pleased when he finds out we’ve been involved.’

  ‘But surely now the kidnappers have the money, the girl will be released?’ Mason said.

  Knox shook his head. ‘Samantha’s in danger as long as she’s in their hands.’

  Hathaway’s mobile rang and he glanced at the screen. ‘It’s the DirectFone guy,’ he said.

  His colleagues moved closer as Hathaway thumbed “Accept Call” and put the phone into speaker mode. ‘DC Hathaway,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Steve Collins, DirectFone.’

  ‘Hi, Steve,’ Hathaway said. ‘Something for us?’

  ‘I think so,’ Collins said.

  ‘Fire away,’ Hathaway said.

  ‘Ms Tavener’s phone was switched on again fifteen minutes ago,’ Collins said. ‘At Tollcross in Edinburgh. A ten-second call was made to an address in Joppa. Her phone was switched off again and has remained off since.’

  ‘The address in Joppa,’ Hathaway said, ‘you’ve got it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Collins said. ‘121 Seaview Court. I took the liberty of checking Google Maps. It’s on the seafront in Eastfield. The call was received at the back of the house.’

  ‘Steve, when this investigation’s over I’d like to buy you a drink,’ Hathaway said.

  Collins laughed. ‘All part of the service,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold you to that drink offer, though.’

  * * *

  Seaview Court in Joppa was a collection of houses five miles east of Portobello, a seaside town on the Firth of Forth. The properties were accessed by a lane that led to the promenade. Number 121 lay at the foot of the lane, a two-storey house whose front faced the sea, and the rear a small courtyard with access to the backs of two other houses.

  Knox’s alert triggered four units into immediate action. The first comprised a tactical command car and van with a dozen officers kitted out in stab vests. These men carried an Enforcer, known to officers as “The Big Red Key” – a manual battering ram specially designed to smash open any door in as short a time as possible.

  The second was an armed fast-response unit with two firearms-trained officers, the third an officer with the rank of Inspector who was a trained hostage negotiator, and the fourth a dog team. An ambulance was also on standby in case medical help was required.

  When Knox and the others arrived, they were met by the officer in charge of hostage negotiation, Detective Inspector Dave Mackie. Mackie, an avuncular-looking man in his late fifties, approached Knox as he and Hathaway parked their cars.

  ‘The property’s completely secure, Jack,’ he said. ‘Dog team at the promenade side, two vehicles at the top of the lane, officers from those units both at the back and the Portobello side.’

  He indicated a dark-blue Ford Mondeo parked a short distance away. ‘Armed unit. We’ll call on them only if it proves necessary.’

  Knox said, ‘You haven’t phoned the house yet?’

  ‘Not yet, Jack,’ Mackie replied. ‘I was waiting until you got here.’ He motioned to a green Vauxhall Astra with a long aerial protruding from its roof. ‘I’m about to ring now if you’d care to join me.’

  Knox nodded, then walked to the car and got in the passenger side. Mackie entered the driver’s door and indicated a telephone handset nestling behind the gearstick. ‘DLC Comms set,’ he said. ‘Direct Link Connexions, more reliable than mobile networks. It piggy-backs directly onto the nearest landline, gives a clear signal that doesn’t break up.’

  ‘You’ve got the house’s telephone number?’ Knox said.

  ‘Yes, the DirectFone fella gave it to us: 0131 828 5964.’ He tapped the dashboard speaker and said,
‘You’ll be able to listen in when I get through.’

  He flipped a switch and dialled the number. Knox heard it ring four times, then a male voice answered.

  ‘Alistair?’ the man said. ‘I thought you’d have been here by now.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mackie said. ‘It isn’t Alistair calling.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  Mackie said, ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’

  A short silence, then, ‘You’re the cops?’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Dave Mackie, yes. Who am I talking to?’ The question was met with a long silence, then Mackie added, ‘We know you’ve taken Samantha Tavener hostage. I’d like to talk to you about releasing her.’

  ‘You’re outside the house?’ the man said.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Mackie answered in a conciliatory tone. ‘Look, I’d like this to end without anyone getting hurt. Can you confirm Samantha’s with you?’

  Another lengthy silence, then the man replied, ‘Yeah, she is.’

  ‘She’s unhurt?’ Mackie said.

  ‘Of course, she’s unhurt,’ the man said, sounding offended.

  ‘Okay,’ Mackie said. ‘Here’s how we’d like to proceed. I’d like to establish how many are in the house. Can you tell me that, please?’

  Another short pause, then the man said, ‘Only two.’

  ‘Just you and Samantha?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, can you bring her to the door, and keep both your hands in view?’

  ‘You think I’m armed?’ the man said.

  ‘No, I didn’t say you were. But we have to take precautions – for everyone’s sake. You understand that?’

  A gruff reply: ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll say it again. Will you bring Samantha to the door and keep both your hands in view?’

  ‘Which door?’

  ‘Where in the house is Samantha?’ Mackie said.

  The man hesitated, then replied, ‘She’s in the basement. A room at the back.’

  ‘Is it nearest the back door?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mackie said. ‘Come out at the back then.’ A pause. ‘Will you confirm you’ll do that?’