Vincent went on to relate his tale of the missing racehorse, and then produced the autobiography of the man he’d claimed was on to him, pointing to a passage from the middle of the book.
“So we’ve gone from Arthur Negus to Braveheart,” said Reilly. “Why the hell would a big time Scottish gangster be wasting his time waging a vendetta on small fry like you?”
“Because of what it says in that book, and what I did.”
“How long ago did that happen?” Gardener asked.
“Thirty years, maybe.”
“And you think a man like Danny MacDonald would have waited until now before coming back for revenge?” Gardener asked.
“You’d have been holding up the M8 motorway long before now, son.”
Before Vincent opened his mouth, Gardener continued. “And what does all this have to do with the murders we’re investigating?”
Vincent grew angry. “Read the email.”
“I have,” replied Gardener. “Seems to me the man in here has far more sense than you have. He’s playing games with you, and he’s admitted absolutely nothing. Look at this paragraph here, the one that mentions Steven Cooper.”
Vincent did as he was asked.
“We did a little bit of digging after you left yesterday. Steven Cooper was released from prison in 2002 and took a job at a stable in Ireland. He died in 2006. Now you’re in here telling us it’s an infamous Scottish gangster called Danny MacDonald. Study the text in the email, Mr Baines. The man writing to you knows a hell of a lot more about you, than you do about him.”
“Of course he does, that’s why he’s threatening my life.”
“Well, even if he is, don’t you think you ought to look a lot closer to home?”
Vincent could feel the butterflies in his stomach. “What do you mean?”
Gardener withdrew a newspaper from his file and passed it over.
“Read that, and then go and make an official complaint at the front desk, see if they will assign someone to investigate the Pudsey Poisoner for you. We have more important things to do, Mr Baines. If and when you finally turn up dead, then we’ll look into the matter, because it will have become a murder investigation. That’s where we come in.”
Both detectives rose and left the room.
Before doing so, the Irishman turned and faced Vincent. “Don’t give up your day job, son. Leave the detective work to the professionals.”
Chapter Forty-six
Raymond Allen was in trouble.
After leaving the chemist, he’d made his way to Kirkstall. The abbey had been cordoned off with scene tape. The police were stopping everyone, asking if they had seen anything strange the previous day.
In an effort to try and find out more, he’d evaded them, returning instead to the Vesper Gate. The place was morose, nothing like it had been the night before.
Allen had ordered a drink and questioned a barmaid. The landlord had been down at the police station helping them with their inquiries. The barmaid was pretty sure the man Allen had spent some time with at the bar the previous night was the one who’d been killed. Beaten to death with a hedge stake and dumped in a wheelchair.
Allen was now in the library in Otley. They didn’t know him there. He figured he’d outstayed his welcome in the Guiseley library. He had one more email to send to Vincent. It would have to be constructed differently.
His best approach would be to let Vincent know exactly what was going to happen to him, and why. It wouldn’t make a great deal of difference, because the self-claimed reporter and private detective still didn’t know who he was, or when he would strike.
Even if he did, the man had shown complete incompetence in regard to the clues he’d so far been given. Some detective he was. He hadn’t even cottoned on as to who had robbed the chemist in the early hours of the morning. Maybe Vincent should have stuck to backing horses. That’s the only thing he’d been any good at.
Allen couldn’t stay at the hostel much longer. Once the email was safely on its way, he would have to go back and plan his final assault before bailing out. He would finish what he started, and then disappear for good.
Chapter Forty-seven
“You rang?”