she was also Eden Higgins’ sister. And Bob Skinner’s . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘What?’ his colleague asked.
‘Never mind. It was fifteen years ago, and more. Ancient history now.’
‘Okay, so back to the present,’ Haddock declared. ‘If we’re all agreed that Callum Sullivan’s a paragon, now can we have a look at Hector Mackail?’
‘Okay,’ Pye laughed. ‘You win.’
Forty-Four
‘You do realise we might as well have interviewed Sullivan at home,’ Sauce Haddock grumbled as he stared into his cup. ‘Two hours later and here we are in bloody North Berwick . . . again. They should change the name to fucking Punxsutawney.’
‘Puncture-what?’ Pye laughed.
‘Punxsutawney. Have you never seen Groundhog Day? It’s about a town where the same thing happens over and over again. That’s us, Sammy. We’re trapped in a fucking time loop.’
‘There are worse places to be trapped, mate. This Sea Bird Centre coffee’s quite acceptable, and so are the scones. I’ll tell you what; there are a couple of holiday parks here, why don’t you and Cheeky buy a wee cabin? Then you can nip down for the weekend.’
‘Why don’t you . . . ’ He threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Sir.’
Pye reached down and picked up a document case from the side of his chair, then produced an iPad. ‘Okay, let’s take a look at Dickson’s report on Mackail.’ He opened a Pages document and read through it. ‘The business was called Mackail Extrusions,’ he began.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Haddock asked, puzzled.
‘It made window frames for the double-glazing industry,’ Pye explained. ‘It seems to have been a victim of the slump. It suffered three consecutive years of trading losses, until finally its bank pulled the plug. Quite a few suppliers caught a cold in the collapse, Grete Regal Graphics among them, but she was the only one who pursued the directors personally. Actually there was only one director, Hector Mackail. His address is given in the final court decree as Seventy-five Adelaide Avenue, North Berwick, and he’s described as unemployed. Dickson checked the electoral register; also listed as voters there are his wife, Gloria, and daughter Hazel.’
‘Did William come up with anything else?’
‘No. That’s it.’
‘Does he know we’re coming?’ Haddock asked.
The DCI shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want him forearmed.’ He drained his coffee and finished the last of his scone. ‘Come on, let’s give him a pleasant surprise.’
Adelaide Avenue was not the prettiest street in the coastal town, but it looked respectable and its houses were well maintained. The street had begun life as part of a council estate, but most of its homes had been purchased by their tenants in the right-to-buy surge of the nineteen eighties, and so their appearance was less uniform than once it had been, with a variety of window designs and decorative colours and one or two substantial extensions.
‘I grew up in a street like this,’ Haddock observed.
‘Me too, funnily enough,’ his colleague said. ‘It’s ironic, that the Mackail family should wind up here. It’s a monument to the double-glazing industry, where he made and lost his money. I’m older than you, so I remember when the C. R. Smith and Everest vans were everywhere.’
Number seventy-five was a semi-detached villa, painted in off-white Snowcem. A privet hedge enclosed the garden, and the drive to the side was laid in brick.
The detectives walked up the path to the front door, and Haddock rang the bell. They had been waiting for no more than a few seconds when a gruff male voice called to them from the pavement. ‘They’ll be naebody in.’
‘Do you know where we could find them?’ the DS asked the grey-haired septuagenarian shuffling along with a Co-op bag in each hand.
‘Ye’ll look far for him, but she’ll be doon at the Eddington. She’s a nurse.’
‘Thanks. What’s the Eddington?’ the sergeant murmured.
‘It’s the health centre cum cottage hospital,’ Pye replied. ‘I know where it is; it’s not far from here.’
In fact it was less than half a mile away, along a wide road and beside a church. The car park was full, and Pye was forced to find a space in the street, uncomfortably close to a set of traffic lights.
The reception area was busy as they stepped inside, filled with people with heavy eyes and puffy noses. ‘Whatever they’ve got, I don’t want it,’ Pye whispered, as they approached the counter.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Mackail,’ he told the receptionist, quietly.
‘Sister Mackail,’ she corrected him, primly. ‘I’ll see if she’s free. Who will I say is