‘I know who he is,’ Macy Robertson replied. ‘I’ve seen him on TV a couple of times this week. Is that what this is about? The child murder?’
Pye nodded. ‘In a way. But it’s not a murder. It’ll be a suspicious death until the Crown Office makes up its mind what box to fit it into. There’s no rush about that, since the perpetrator’s dead. So tell me, Ms Robertson, who do you work for?’
‘Didn’t Harry say?’
‘Harry?’ the DCI repeated ‘The entire Scottish police service and everyone attached to it knows him as Sauce.’
Macy’s eyes widened as did her smile. ‘Really? That’s wonderful. That’ll be round all my Facebook friends before the night’s out.’
‘Have fun with it. Now, who do you work for?’ Pye repeated, as his colleague returned with the gin and tonic.
‘Bloomberg.’
‘What?’
‘Bloomberg,’ she repeated. ‘It’s a business-based American TV channel, on satellite and cable. It has an Edinburgh office, although not too many know about it. So, what do you want to pick my brains about,’ she paused, and winked, ‘Sauce?’
Haddock scowled across the table. ‘Thanks, pal,’ he muttered. ‘The last group of people that still used my proper name, and you’ve blown it.’ He glanced to his right. ‘We’re looking for background on a company called Mackail Extrusions. Oh aye,’ he added, ‘and we’re looking for it off the record.’
‘What if a real story develops?’ she asked.
‘A head start on it,’ Pye promised. ‘Does it stir any recollections?’
She smiled, slowly. ‘As a matter of fact it does; very vivid ones. I’m glad I came already.’ She sipped her G and T. ‘You know what the company did, yes?’
‘As we understand it, it made UPVC window frames for the double-glazing industry.’
‘Spot on,’ she confirmed. ‘I don’t have to tell you that when the recession hit and the housing market, which hadn’t seen it coming, died in its sleep, life became very difficult for that sector. Mackail Extrusions was hit as hard as anyone else, but it was a well-managed, family-owned company with a decent cash base, since Hector Mackail didn’t overpay himself or stuff his pension fund, as happens in all too many self-managed enterprises.’
She sipped again, and Haddock realised that her glass was almost empty. She raised it, an unspoken suggestion that it might be refilled. ‘In a minute,’ he said.
‘I’ve got to earn it, have I?’ Macy chuckled. ‘Okay. The company traded on through the tough times; it pared itself right down, and focused on the home improvement market where there was still a certain amount happening. It lost money, but it wasn’t immediately calamitous, for as I said, it had gone into it with a strong balance sheet. It had an underlying weakness, though. No, sorry, two. The first was that it was heavily dependent on a single customer. The second was that its banker was, not to beat about any bushes, a real See You Next Tuesday.’
‘You haven’t lost your command of the language, Mace,’ Haddock remarked.
‘No . . . Sauce,’ she giggled, ‘I’ve got more subtle with age, that’s all. Anyway, this is how the story developed; I got this from Hector Mackail, personally. I can tell you that now he’s dead, poor sod. Basically, the customer saw off most of its rivals, by landing a couple of big contracts when central government started to pump money into public sector projects, and by securing work from other companies within its group.’
‘What group?’ Pye asked.
‘I’ll get to that,’ the journalist replied, ‘as soon as you get me another large G and T.’
The DCI muttered something mildly obscene, but headed for the bar.
‘So how’s it with you and the chica, Harry?’
‘She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ Haddock said.
‘And the richest, from what I hear. Pity about her mother being in jail.’
‘We don’t talk about that across the dinner table. But you’re out of date,’ he added. ‘She’s on parole.’
‘There.’ The returning Pye placed a fresh drink before her, and a second pint before his sergeant. ‘Get singing.’
‘Certainly. The customer was called Destry Glazing Solutions. For the last several years it’s been a subsidiary of Higgins Holdings, the umbrella company of Eden Higgins, the squillionare. Although he owns it, he doesn’t run it. Day-to-day management is in the hands of the widow of the company’s founder. His name was James Stewart, obviously a man with a droll sense of humour.’
‘In what way?’ Haddock asked.
‘I can tell you that,’ his boss said, drily. ‘In the movie Destry Rides Again, guess who played Tom Destry,