TWENTY-SIX

When Chipchase discovered that their destination was the Caledonian Hotel, he expressed the candid view that Harry was mad.

'Ferguson will have given Lloyd's widow and daughter the clear impression we sabotaged Wiseman's motor. How do you think they'll react to us popping in for a cup of tea and a chat?'

'Danger was going to assure them of our innocence.'

'Yeah, but look what happened to him.'

'We have to make them understand how absurd that whole idea is, Barry.'

'Easier said than done.'

'And the daughter can tell us more about what happened during Askew's overnight stay at her house in London.'

'Did anything happen?'

'I don't know. That's what we're going to find out.'

—«»—«»—«»—

It was, however, as Chipchase had pointed out, easier said than done. The receptionist at the Caledonian informed them that Mrs Lloyd and Mrs Morrison, her daughter, were both out. This was no real surprise, given why the pair had come to Aberdeen in the first place.

Harry retreated to a table in the foyer to record a message for Mrs Morrison on a sheet of hotel writing paper. It was hard to know how to word it and harder still to concentrate on the task with Chipchase craning over his shoulder. But he persevered.

Dear Mrs Morrison,

I hope you do not feel we are intruding on your grief. Please accept our condolences. Your father was a good man. The police are mishandling their enquiries into his death. We only want to learn the truth. I am sure you do too. Could we meet to discuss what happened? It might be helpful for all of us. You can contact us on—

He broke off to remind himself of Shona's phone number. But, as he was delving into his pocket, Chipchase said, 'You can give her my mobile number, if you like.'

Harry stared at him in amazement. 'You've got a mobile?'

'Certainly.' Chipchase plucked a smart-looking model from inside his coat. 'You should get up to speed with the communications revolution yourself.'

'But… you let me troop off to the payphone in the pub. You even directed me to it.'

'A man in my straitened financial circumstances has to watch his budget. This is a strictly pay-as-you-go jobby. I can't have you holding rambling conversaziones on it. You'll be dialling the delectable Donna before I know it. But for receiving calls, in an emergency, which I suppose this counts as, well…' Infuriatingly, Chipchase smiled. 'Be my guest.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry finished the note and delivered it to the receptionist; then, with a sarcastic excess of politeness, he asked if he might possibly make brief use of Chipchase's mobile. He rang Erica, who was still incommunicado, but this time he was able to leave a message complete with a number to call back on.

—«»—«»—«»—

After a late and hurried pizza-parlour lunch, they took a taxi out to Torry and kept it waiting while Chipchase fetched his passport. Shona was wherever her Tuesday afternoon cleaning duties took her and Benjy mercifully absent. The house was small and cramped, a Victorian dockworker's dwelling not dissimilar to 37 Falmouth Street, Swindon, but more fashionably furnished. Chipchase spared a moment to draw Harry's attention to the convertible sofa he was destined to spend the night on — 'Looks like a real back-breaker, doesn't it?' — before they left.

Next stop was Legg, Stevenson, MacLean, where Chipchase left Harry to pay the taxi driver, arguing that the fare could be offset against future phone usage. It had not taken long, Harry reflected, for his former partner to revert to freeloading type.

—«»—«»—«»—

Kylie Sinclair was in clinically efficient mode, relieving Chipchase of his passport and making a note of their address in Torry before giving them an unvarnished assessment of their situation.

'What happens when you return to the police station next week depends entirely on what Chief Inspector Ferguson and his team learn in the interim. If there's anything to your disadvantage you think they might learn, you should tell me about it now. Forewarned, gentlemen, is forearmed.'

'There's nothing,' said Harry.

'Less than nothing,' added Chipchase. 'Ferguson's barking up the wrong baobab.'

Miss Sinclair puzzled for no more than a fraction of a second over Chipchase's weakness for colourfully customized metaphors. 'I need to know any and all relevant information. You do understand that, don't you?'

'We do,' Harry responded. 'And we're being completely open with you.'

'Good.'

'What really worries me, though, is what I pointed out in my interview. By concentrating on us, the police are giving the real murderer ample opportunity to cover his tracks.'

'Or hers,' Chipchase chimed in unhelpfully.

'Quite,' said Miss Sinclair. 'Well, that really is their problem, isn't—'

'Excuse me,' Chipchase interrupted. 'It's our bloody problem if we're next for the chop.'

'Are you genuinely concerned about such a possibility?' The expression on Miss Sinclair's face suggested it had simply not occurred to her until now that they might be.

'Of course we are. Wouldn't you be? Say, if several of the legal eagles who qualified at the same time as you started turning up dead in suspicious circumstances.'

'It's an unlikely scenario.'

'Well, it's the scenario we happen to be in, unlikely or not.'

'Perhaps. But I don't see—'

'We've thought of checking out a few possibilities ourselves,' Harry cut in. 'You know? Ask some of the questions we reckon the police should be asking but aren't.'

'That would be most unwise. Chief Inspector Ferguson could interpret such behaviour as interference in his conduct of the case and hence a breach of your bail conditions.'

'A complete no-no, then?' asked Chipchase.

'Absolutely.'

'Despite—' An electronic travesty of the theme music to The Great Escape suddenly started jingling inside Chipchase's coat. 'Sorry,' he said, pulling out his mobile. 'I should have… Hello? … Ah, yes. Of course. Hi. Er, good of you to…' He rolled his eyes meaningfully at Harry. 'Yes. Well, it's, er…'

'If we're barred from taking any action ourselves, Miss Sinclair,' Harry said, speaking loudly enough to distract her attention from Chipchase's burblings and improvising as he went, 'are we also barred from taking ourselves off to what we think might be a safer location? My mother's house in Swindon, for instance. We could stay there until next week, couldn't we? We can't flee the country without our passports, so what would be the objection to us getting out of Aberdeen for a few days? I mean, it's not as if—'

Harry broke off as Chipchase ended his conversation with the words, 'See you then,' and sheepishly tucked his phone back into his pocket. 'Sorry,' he said, grinning apologetically. 'Mrs McMullen. Checking up ... on our whereabouts. Where, er, were we?'

'Discussing the possibility of you spending the period between now and your appointment at the police station next Tuesday in Swindon,' said Miss Sinclair.

'Ah. Right. Excellento. Swindon-by-the-Sea. The Wiltshire Riviera. Can't beat it.'

Once again, Miss Sinclair was only momentarily bemused by Chipchase's badinage. 'Well, I can't see any reason why you shouldn't base yourselves there in the interim. Citing a concern for your safety could even make a favourable impression. Chief Inspector Ferguson might ask you to report to the police in Swindon while you're there, but he has no justification for vetoing the trip. If you give me the address… I'll run it past him.'

'Fine,' said Harry.

'Great,' said Chipchase.

There was a pause. Miss Sinclair looked at them expectantly. 'So, do you have any other questions?'

—«»—«»—«»—

A few minutes later, they were walking away from the practice's imposing Georgian front door.

'That thing we assured Smiley Kylie we wouldn't do,' said Chipchase. 'You remember? Interfering in the case, sticking our noses in where they aren't wanted.'

'I remember,' said Harry.

'We start doing it in half an hour. Helen Morrison's agreed to speak to us.'