It was another three hours before the phone rang in McBride’s flat. He had positioned it by his side and lifted it instantly. The same voice he had listened to with mounting excitement earlier spoke to him easily and with a hint of satisfaction. The caller had a story to tell, he informed McBride, and, although some of the details were still elusive, there might be enough information to be of assistance.
The journalist hundreds of miles away said the name of the person involved was not who McBride thought it would be but was almost certainly Charles Mikel, a middle-ranking police officer who, twenty years ago, had been one of his country’s most promising officers. In furtherance of his career, which his superiors had hoped would develop and become international, Mikel had been sent to Scotland to attend a four-month course at the Scottish Police College at Tulliallan. His fellow students were other officers who had all been hand-picked by police forces in the United Kingdom and other parts of the world. Like Mikel, each of them had been identified as having the potential to reach the highest echelons of their profession.
The course had gone well for Mikel until two weeks before it was due to end. Then it had been suspected he’d become involved with a young male constable attending the college as part of the new recruits intake. The visiting officer had succumbed to the persistent advances of the attractive probationary policeman. Others on the course had been questioned about the suspected liaison and afterwards Mikel was ordered to return home, his studies incomplete. McBride had listened in silence, only nodding quickly from time to time and urging his caller to continue with his historic account.
When it seemed he had finished, McBride started to speak. But the voice on the other end of the line interrupted him. ‘There is a little more, Mr McBride,’ he said. ‘Two weeks after Mikel returned home in disgrace a reporter from this newspaper learned of the story and published an account of what had taken place. Although it was not a sensational-style article, Mikel was devastated by the effect he knew it would have on his family. He committed suicide two days after the story appeared. His wife never recovered from his death and exactly a year later she also took her own life. It was a very sad thing for them.’
McBride asked several questions and the answers he received confirmed much of what he had bizarrely begun to suspect when Gordon Dow had proudly pointed out the photograph of himself and his award-winning staff earlier that afternoon. There was just a single question to be answered and the man speaking to him from one of Europe’s best-known cities would not be able to enlighten him. McBride thanked his helpful fellow journalist, indicated that he might be in a position to repay his co-operation in the near future and rang off.
Without putting the phone down, he called Petra’s number. She did not reply. The call clicked on to her voicemail and he remembered her promise of an early night. He did not leave a message. Instead, he rang police headquarters and asked if Superintendent Hackett was still on duty. To his surprise, he learned he was. To his greater surprise, he was put straight through.
Hackett was not especially delighted to hear from him. He struggled to sound friendly. ‘How can we assist you, Mr McBride?’ It would have been a reasonable question if it hadn’t been laden with sarcasm.
McBride ignored the hostility. ‘Might be the other way round, actually,’ he said. ‘If you can tell me what I need to know, I may be of considerable assistance to you.’ He could sense the superintendent’s battle to hold himself in check. The line was heavy with silence.
McBride pressed on. ‘I need to know the names of all the officers who were on a particular course at Tulliallan twenty years ago.’ He said it matter-of-factly – not making it sound like a ridiculous thing to ask just a couple of hours before midnight.
Hackett showed unexpected restraint. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ he almost hissed, pausing between each word for effect. ‘How in God’s name am I supposed to know that? You do own a watch, don’t you? The college shut up shop about five hours ago. Get real, McBride.’ Then, years of police training at last kicking in, he asked quietly, ‘Why do you want to know?’
It was a fair question in the circumstances and McBride was about to tell him. Then, just as though he’d suddenly been caught in the headlamps of a truck hurtling towards him, he knew he had not needed to speak to Hackett. Hadn’t required any assistance from him. Realising that he was already in possession of the information he thought he had wanted, a sudden chill ran the length of his spine.
McBride was also positive beyond doubt that he had to act on it without delay. ‘Tell you tomorrow, Superintendent,’ he said curtly. Without waiting for the acerbic Hackett to respond, he hung up.
Then, for the second time that day, McBride took a flight of stairs two at a time before throwing himself into his car and moving away at speed.