‘Not as such, but I’ve got a general insurance policy on all my vehicles and I let him use one when he wants.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Last night, but . . . Fuck me, my house isn’t far from the primary school.’ He whistled. ‘No wonder Mary was having a hard time in Cumbernauld. There are no secrets in a place like that.’
‘You didn’t see him this morning?’
‘No, nor did I hear him, and I probably would have if he’d been in. He’s always got music going in his room.’
‘Does he often go out early?’ Haddock asked.
‘Not often, but it’s not unknown. As well as helping me, he works part-time down at the Seabird Centre. It opens at ten, but if there’s been an evening event, sometimes they ask him to go in early to clear up.’ Sullivan’s hands were shaking. ‘Christ, you’ve got me worried. He is a quiet lad, Maxwell, but I’ve never read anything into that. Now, I feel as if I don’t know the boy at all.’
‘Can you describe him for us?’
‘He’s tall, and he’s thin . . .’ He looked the sergeant in the eye. ‘Are you saying it might have been him that was driving the Beamer?’
‘No,’ Pye replied. ‘The description we have is of an older man, and our witness is . . . reliable, let’s say. But we do need to speak to Maxwell, if only to eliminate him. As a matter of interest, does he wear a hoodie?’
‘He’s got one.’ The reply was a whisper.
‘Thanks . . . but listen,’ the DCI added, ‘who doesn’t these days? It seems to be unofficial uniform for youngsters.’
Haddock nodded. ‘I have one myself,’ he volunteered. ‘So has my girlfriend.’
‘How do you want to handle this?’ Sullivan asked. ‘Do you want me to bring him here?’
‘No,’ Pye replied, at once. ‘If he is at the Seabird Centre, will he go home for lunch?’
‘Yes, Mary too. I usually make it for all of us. ’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should be getting back there. Can I go now?’
‘You’re not being detained,’ the DCI told him, ‘but we’d appreciate your cooperation. To be frank, we need to see the boy before you do, and we don’t want you to call him before then. Trust us, it’ll be in his best interests.’
‘Will it? Suppose he’s . . .’ He stopped. ‘No, suppose he can’t give a good account of himself?’
‘Either way, I promise you, we will be discreet. If the kid has nothing to do with this, we don’t want to mess up his life . . . or yours, for that matter.’
Eight
Mario McGuire slid his car into an empty space. It was marked ‘Reserved’, but there was nobody within half a day’s drive who would outrank him, and so he took it without a moment’s hesitation. He knew Hawick, from a brief stint in Borders CID a few years before. He had been based in Galashiels back then, much closer to Edinburgh, but the wool town had kept him busy enough.
He switched off his engine and stepped out. There was a dampness in the air, although the clouds were high and rain did not seem imminent. He looked across the car park at the building to which he was headed, a squat, three-storey structure that stood in stark contrast in its ugliness with the elegant houses on the other side of the street, but which redeemed itself by making the area a burglar-free zone.
They would be waiting for him, around the conference table, the area commander and senior staff, and the CID team that he had come to visit, as part of a tour that would take him all around Scotland, in line with Andy Martin’s decree that his senior officers should fend off accusations of centralisation by showing their faces in each local policing area as often as possible. The sandwiches would be curling up at the corners; he had been delayed by a lorry accident that had given him too much time to dwell on the awful gut-wrenching sight in the Fort Kinnaird mall.
He had wanted to stay there, to take command and drive the investigation to a swift successful conclusion. He understood the frustration that Bob Skinner must have felt, the impotence of being just another bystander. But the days of action were gone for them both. He was part desk jockey, part tourist and his one-time mentor was a civilian.
‘For how long, I wonder,’ he murmured, thinking of