Autographs In The Rain Part 42

'What we're playing with here is way short of being even as advanced as that.'

'Let's have a whack at it anyway, Tony,' said Andy Martin. 'We won't blame you for failing to work miracles, but there's a dead girl demanding that we all do our best. Dan and I will have to take a press conference later on today and it would be nice to have something positive to say.'

Davidson nodded and turned off the light in the small viewing room.

'For best results . . .' He pressed the start switch of a big video player which sat on a table, cabled to a monitor screen on a tall stand.

'This is the first tape,' he said, as a green-tinted image appeared on the screen. 'It has a twelve-hour slow speed capacity, so what we're looking for should be towards the middle. It has a time display, so ... I'll wind it forward to midnight.'

They waited, watching as the tape wound on, little or nothing changing save for the blur of the white indicators in the bottom left corner of the picture as the hours, minutes and seconds flashed by. Finally the technical director pressed a b.u.t.ton and the numbers steadied, showing the record time as four minutes past the midnight hour.

On screen the shape of the compound could be made out; they could see the tanks with odd sparkles of green light from the ever-flowing water, as it caught the light from a single window in the cottage beyond. They listened, and could hear its constant soft tinkle and the dull sound of the pumps.

Davidson ran the tape on, switching from slow motion to normal speed, sending the time indicator turning faster, but still legibly.AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN.Suddenly, with 01:12 hours showing on screen, there was a different movement. Quickly he froze the picture, then returned it to its original running rate. Looking intently, they saw the green ghostly outline of a figure walking across the clearing towards the house, a tall-long striding man. He was dressed in boots, and a long hooded jacket, and he appeared to be carrying something light in his left hand.

'What's that?' asked Pringle, of no one in particular.

'Could be a sheet,' Davidson replied, 'or a sack, or a tarpaulin.'

The man in the video walked straight up to the cottage. Right-handed, he banged on the front door... the knock was loud enough for them to hear above the splashing... then stood back, round the corner, out of sight from anyone who might open it.

'Freeze it,' Martin ordered.

The detectives and the technician studied the still frame on screen. 'I'd say that he wants the girl to come out, so that he can throw that sheet or whatever over her head. So why didn't she? Run it on, please, Tony.'

The scene played itself out; the man stood waiting, tensed, the covering now held in both hands. At last, they saw another movement, another figure, a little smaller than him, but stocky, behind him, moving towards him slowly.

'It's the girl,' Pringle exclaimed. 'She's come out the back door.'

She was almost on him when he dropped the sheet and turned. They saw the blur of movement as she swung at him, his hand coming up to catch hers, the two green-ghost figures together in a silent struggle. Then, as they watched, his right hand wrenched clear, with something in it. His arm rose and fell; there was a scream, another blow, another, fainter shout, then blow after blow after blow.

'Oh my G.o.d,' Davidson hissed.

That's it,' said Martin. 'The plan was to throw that sheet over her head and tie her up while the robbery went ahead. But the poor la.s.s had a go.

She saw his face, and he killed her.'

'Someone she knew?' Pringle mused.

'Maybe, maybe not; but someone she'd have been able to identify.'

And then as they watched the screen was filled with green light, and the roar of engines came from the speakers. Four wide beams swung across the picture, two of them lighting up a dark shape, like that of a petrol tanker.

Then the first shafts of light swung round and shone directly into the camera, obliterating all other images, even the time read-out in the corner.

'Dammit!' shouted Pringle in frustration.

186.

They watched the film for fifteen minutes seeing only green but hearing the sound of the farm's machinery, harshly throbbing diesel engines, and something else louder than the pumps, the whoosh of fish and water being sucked from the tanks. Occasionally an indistinct figure would be framed against the light, carrying what could have been a long flexible hose, then would move out of shot once again.

Finally it was over. The noise of the suction engines stopped. As the three listened, they heard a single loud splash, then another, softer, then the slamming of vehicle doors. It seemed to take the camera some seconds to adjust to the darkness once more. When it did, the clearing was empty, and the scene was as it had been at first, save for the fact that the front door of the cottage now stood open, and that on the tank nearest to it, something no, someone - floated.

The Head of CID punched the 'Stop' b.u.t.ton on the player, killing what was left of the sound.

'I'm sorry,' said Davidson, in the darkness, even before he switched on the light. 'As I said, there are limitations to this technology. Shining a bright light into the lens of a night vision camera will b.u.g.g.e.r it, for sure.'

'The man, Tony,' asked Martin. 'Is there anything you can do to isolate and enhance that image, to get a face out of it?'

'No. I'm afraid not. Even if he hadn't been wearing that hooded jacket, I couldn't get you the sort of definition you need.'

'How about those guys who appeared in shot carrying the sucker hoses?'

'Without the headlamps, probably, but with all that light behind them?

Not a prayer.'

'Ah, too bad,' the Head of CID sighed, then brightened up almost at once.

'Still, Dan,' he said. 'It's not a total loss. We can wave those tapes about at our press conference. The killer and his pals; they're not going to know they're useless, are they?'55.Neil Mcllhenney reflected on his day as he drove up Colinton Road. There had been an air of unmistakable tension about the place, and clear signs that something had happened. The ACC's new secretary, for a start, drafted in without warning; not a hint dropped by Ruth in his direction that Chase had won his unsubtle battle to increase his personal staff.

Then there had been Jack Good; he never could stand the boiled-shirt b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and even less so since he had made inspector and had shown himself to be the sort who glared when a junior uniform failed to salute him, and who insisted on being 'sirred' all the time, even by his contemporaries, guys who had known him for years.

But all that day, the same Jack Good had been a bag of nerves. He had b.u.mped into him three times in the corridor; twice he had been coming out of the toilet, but on the first occasion, he had been leaving the DCC's room.

On every encounter, he had been jumpy, like a man trying to get out of the path of a speeding car.

Yes, something was up all right, and he deduced that it had to do with ACC Chase, and that peculiar grin which he had been carrying all day. Bob Skinner often told Mcllhenney more than he needed to know, but he never talked about anything that went on inside the Chief's room, unless there was a clear reason for it.

He had never suggested that tension might possibly exist between Chase and himself. He had never needed to, of course; Neil knew his boss well enough to understand that coppers like Chase were anathema to him. He had never mentioned Chase's notorious paper either, any more than had Ruth, who had typed it. He might still not have known about it, but for a series of heavy-handed hints from Good, which had eventually provoked him to exclaim one day, in his own small office, 'Jack, exactly what the f.u.c.k are you talking about?'

It had to be that d.a.m.ned paper that lay behind Chase's smirk. Yet if it was, why was his aide so clearly s.h.i.teing himself?

188.

AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN.'Ah, what the h.e.l.l' he thought as he turned into his driveway, "the boss 'II tell me when he's good and ready:

He drove his car into the garage, checked with Marie that Lauren and Spencer were fine, then walked the short distance round to Louise Bankier's safe house. As he opened the garden gate, he saw, almost hidden behind a tall hedge, a silver-grey Renault Megane hatchback. He glanced at the registration: Glasgow. Of course, Lucy's. Lou had mentioned that her sister was bringing her father through to see her.

He rang the bell; its echo had barely died before Louise swung it open.

'Hey,' he said, trying to look severe. 'I thought I told you not to do that; take a look through the peep-hole first.'

'I saw you coming up the path; and eyeballing poor wee Lucy's car too.'

He smiled as he noticed that she sounded more Glaswegian than ever. 'Come and meet the guys,' she said.

Warren Judd and Elliott Silver had been gone by the time he had arrived the evening before to pick her up. He studied them both carefully, but politely, as she introduced them. Judd was a short, stocky man, about his own age, he guessed; he flashed him a smile and was taken aback by the hostility in the look which he shot back. Silver was ten years younger, in his late twenties, of medium height and light build, with soft features and, unlike his colleague, possessed of a ready, endearing smile.

Behind them, at the window another man stood. He was big; at least six two, bulky shoulders in a denim shirt, black hair cut close. Mcllhenney's eyebrows began to rise, unconsciously, until Lucy walked over to him and took his arm. 'This is Barren Mason, my boyfriend,' she said. 'He's never met my famous sister before.'

Louise smiled at them, then exclaimed, with more pride in her voice than he had heard before, 'And last, but the opposite of least, the most important man in my life; Malcolm Bankier, my dad.

'Dad, this is Neil Mcllhenney, who's sort of looking after me while I'm here.'

The old man in the armchair made to push himself up on a thick brown cane. 'You stay there, Mr Bankier, please,' said the detective, laying his left hand gently on his shoulder and offering him his right. He settled back then shook it, with a gnarled, twisted, arthritic claw, looking not at Louise, but at his younger daughter, who was perched on the broad arm of the chair.