Open Season (Bob Skinner) by Quintin Jardine

Author:Quintin Jardine [Jardine, Quintin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2022-11-09T16:00:00+00:00

Fifty-Two

Sauce Haddock stood silent, thinking of times gone by and of unfulfilled potential, reading again the name on the stone. ‘Samuel Pye. Beloved husband and father.’ His friend, his boss, his mentor, whose place he had taken after his diagnosis of motor neurone disease, and whose path to higher rank he trod. Since the funeral he had visited Pye’s grave at least once a month. Usually he would take flowers but he had seen none that morning that were worthy. For a few more moments he looked down, then, whispering, ‘So long, Luke,’ he pulled his coat tight around his body and turned to walk away. He was distracted, still lost in the past, and so as he neared his parked car it took him completely by surprise when he realised that he was being watched. ‘What the . . .’ he exclaimed, involuntarily.

‘Sorry, Sauce,’ Noele McClair said. ‘We didn’t mean to startle you. The office told us you were here, and we thought it was better to come to you rather than wait at Fettes.’

Haddock looked back at her and at her companion. The hood on her overcoat was pulled up and it took him a few puzzled seconds to recognise ACC Becky Stallings. ‘Ma’am,’ he murmured. ‘Noele. Why the ambush? Am I in trouble?’

‘Not at all, DCI Haddock,’ Stallings replied. She looked around. ‘Can we talk in that waiting room over there? It’s empty and there might even be some heating in it.’

He shrugged. ‘Lead on.’

The room was for mourners attending funerals in the crematorium that was close to the cemetery, somewhere to shelter when its schedule overran. On a normal winter day it might have been full, but the DCI had noticed a sign earlier saying that all cremations had been postponed due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. An unpaid gas bill? he had wondered idly.

As Stallings had hoped, there was a radiant electric heater mounted on the wall. She pulled the cord that switched it on, and stood close by. ‘DI McClair,’ she said, ‘perhaps you’d like to explain.’

Cheers for that! McClair thought, ironically. ‘DCI Haddock,’ she began.

He raised a hand. ‘Stop!’ he demanded. ‘Why the formality, Noele? This is sounding more and more like a disciplinary. Am I being accused of something? If so, this isn’t a proper place, or a proper procedure.’

‘It isn’t, Sauce,’ his colleague assured him. ‘The ACC’s only here because I asked her to be. This is a personal matter for you, although it’s something that’s come up in the course of our inquiry.’

‘Your inquiry, Noele,’ he reminded her. ‘I was stood down, remember. Okay,’ he conceded, ‘there was no real choice. Go on with whatever it is.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, gratefully. ‘You know that the skeleton Jazz found on Sunday wasn’t the only one buried in those woods.’

‘Yes, I do. You found a second.’

‘We did. We now believe we’ve identified both of them, thanks to DNA comparison. They’re the son and daughter of a man named Moses Trott, a career criminal from Dundee. Their names are, or rather they were, Samuel and Naomi.

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