A uniformed Chief Inspector offered Special Branch a chair and sat, not behind his desk, but upon it’s edge. Special Branch hesitated, struck by the comfortable informality of the office, then sank slowly into the seat. He looked up at a neat line of silver buttons, the perfectly centred tie.
“You had a hard time,” the Chief Inspector commented. “How are you?”
“Reminding myself I’m just another unimaginative plod,” came the reply. “It helps me to sleep at night.”
“I wont dwell on this, but tell me if there is anything I can do for you,” the Chief Inspector said, “on or off the record.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine really, sir. We all have bad ones. I’ll get over it,” Special Branch’s expression was tight as he spoke. “Sorry, I’m not one for couches and counselling,” he twisted and examined a picture on the wall. “Hockney?” he guessed.
“On my salary?” Chief Inspector spoke mildly. “But you’re right. It was a birthday present from my wife.” He eyed Special Branch kindly, “you are leaving, I gather. The noise of unhappiness has been heard coming from a hospital close by. If I were you, I would be praying I never find myself lying on a white table under a certain red haired neuro-surgeon.”
Special Branch sucked a deep breath and admired the Chief Inspector’s precisely centred Windsor knot. “I will make sure I never put myself in any situation where I’m unconscious and he’s in possession of a scalpel. Your future son-in-law is properly upset. He claims that the biker is unfit to be moved. He became, how can I put this, quite vehement. The word ‘outspoken’ also comes to mind. Does he use that sort of language around the house?”
“Frankly, I find it hard to blame him. After all, what is the unholy rush?” the Chief Inspector asked. “Biker-boy cannot go anywhere or understand where he’s been. We brought no charges because of his condition. I’m told he’s booked into a private facility…somewhere.”
Special Branch was reminded of Comb-over’s cautionary advice that the Scottish police were investigating CIA breaches of international law. He sat composedly.
The Chief Inspector’s expression was relaxed. “He’s a good lad” he said, “my future son-in-law. Takes his job seriously.”
“The road accident that resulted in the death of Munro,” Special Branch digressed, eyeing the Chief Inspector, “was murder, if I understand your Scottish law. I knew who it was early doors, the local forester suspected him. Some digging around showed that he was a low grade nutter with a small ‘previous’. Doesn’t like society, apparently. So who does? He’s of the more recent arrivals. I could hardly characterise this as jigsaw ID, to be honest.”
DNA tests were ongoing and necessary to push the presumption of Silas’ guilt over the threshold of reasonable doubt. The question of motive had yet to be answered, however, and Special Branch shrugged on hearing it raised. “Boredom? Impatience? A nonentity’s impulse for recognition? All of these? I must say I fancy the last one, fits our boy’s profile.”
“Boredom as a motive for murder? The deadly impulse for recognition? Imagine what any half-decent brief could do to that in court. I fancy we will have to do better.”
“Munro was a pompous balloon, prime for a pricking. He didn’t have to die. It was bad luck that he did. I understand there were petty grievances. The squad were being cheated out of bonuses because bundles of plants were oversized, for example. Mackinnon, the local chief, supported the men’s claim. There were proofs, but Munro refused them, laughed it off. Our boy may have decided to dispense justice. Saw himself the dashing vigilante. Got bad vibes from authority.”
“Not alone there,” the Chief Inspector said. “I’m being pressed to charge one of the labourers at Polloch. I get the impression that you folk are not telling me everything? This individual wouldn’t be tied into an amnesiac biker boy, by some odd chance, would he?”
Special Branch regarded the immaculately uniformed officer for several seconds before holding both hands up.
“And the fire raiser is the same fellow, Silas,” the Chief Inspector, still sitting on the edge of his desk, said resignedly. “Well, well.”
“It’s hard to prove. Your young constable at Strontian, the alert Ducati spotter, gave me a link, but difficult to give it legs in court. If vigilante goes down for murder, frankly I wouldn’t waste police time further on investigating the fire. It ties a ribbon round the fire business, from our perspective. The biker goes to our private clinic, the fire raiser goes to gaol for murdering Munro. Two out of two. And it saves the extra trial.”
“I see. So you have a connection between biker and fire raiser. I wonder how you made that?” The Chief Inspector smiled. “His laptop? A mobile phone? Careless biker, dear oh dear.”
Special Branch contemplated the trapezium of Windsor knot. The Chief Inspector spoke evenly, “I had a call from my Chief Constable. Listen to CTC, listen to CTC, listen to CTC – the old boy enjoys paraphrasing his sergeant instructor at Sandhurst.” He slipped off the corner of the desk where he had been sitting and paused, allowing this remark to become the bridge towards an exit.
“Look, sir,” Special Branch shifted in his chair. “I’m bloody sorry I can’t tell you everything that’s going on, although I get the impression that you already know. And this CTC thing, a terrible acronym. Very unwarlike. A phonetic disaster. Sounds like a disease. We don’t expect it to catch on.” he grasped both arm rests. “Well, sir, I must go and supervise this final removal of Chummie the forgetful biker. A private facility awaits.”
“Oh, quite,” the Chief Inspector waved a hand. “No need to dwell on it. The Chief Constable emphasised the official line. All those secrets that you never revealed are safe with us.”
“Then I’ll be off,” Special Branch pushed himself up. “My first trip to this part of the world. I’d like to thank you for all your help.”
“My regards to your boss,” Chief Inspector grasped a proffered hand, “and commiserations on his hair loss. We knew each other in another life.”
Special Branch recovered a momentary loss of balance then saw himself out.