Against the Clock by John Carson (best mobile ebook reader TXT) 📕

wanted a word again. Just some follow-up questions,’ Harry said as a train went by on the Fife line.

‘Of course. Come into the office.’

They walked across the yard, where two buses were sitting out, gleaming wet in the sun. A hose and buckets were sitting at the front of one of the buses beside a long-reach brush. They were parked in front of an industrial garage with six large garage doors and an office area on the right side. Another small garage-type shed was attached at a ninety-degree angle and had three garage doors.

‘Maintenance shed,’ Morton said as he saw the policemen looking.

‘You do your servicing?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Not personally, but yes, it’s all done in-house. I have a couple of guys who look after the older buses we own, but to be honest, I lease the newer ones for the bank shuttles. The leasing company takes care of any problems; that’s the agreement.’

There was a newer-looking bus with blacked-out windows sitting outside one of the maintenance doors. It was smaller than a coach but larger than a minibus.

‘That’s a midi coach,’ Morton explained, seeing them looking at it. ‘Twenty-nine seater. It’s more economical running that when it’s for a small party. It’s very popular.’

They went into the office, where a middle-aged woman was sitting behind a desk.

‘Why don’t you go and have an early lunch, Janice?’ Morton said.

‘Aye, okay,’ the woman said, smiling at them as she grabbed her handbag and left the office.

‘We have a wee canteen next door with a coffee machine and a vending machine. If they want any hot food, they have to bring it themselves.’

Employer of the year, Harry thought.

‘Grab a seat.’

‘We’re okay standing,’ Dunbar said.

‘Suit yourself.’ Morton sat behind a desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You didn’t tell us your wife, Agnes, was a teacher and that she was there the day that Alice Brent went missing.’

‘She wasn’t Alice’s teacher,’ Morton said defensively.

‘We didn’t say she was,’ Harry said. ‘We just wondered why you didn’t mention she was at the leisure centre at the same time Alice was there.’

Morton shrugged. ‘I just didn’t think.’

‘You didn’t think to tell us when you were the driver of Alice’s bus?’ Dunbar said.

‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just didn’t think. We were there for Brian yesterday, that’s all. Everybody was emotional. I knew he was a basket case and he’s not been looking after himself recently. I told him he should have stayed here, but he wanted to go and fill shelves for a living.’

‘What do you mean, stay here?’ Harry asked.

‘As a bus driver. He used to drive for me.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Until about six months ago. After his wife died. He couldn’t do the driving anymore, he said, and he went to fill shelves for a living. He was convinced that Sandra was going to walk through the door at any moment. Poor bastard.’

‘He was a driver when his daughter went missing?’ Dunbar said.

‘He was. He did some of the service work on the little granny run, as we call it. The shopper bus that goes through Clermiston and Corstorphine to the Gyle. It’s mostly old women or young mums. But Brian was our man for the private hires. He liked driving the coaches.’

‘He ever get in trouble with the law?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Like what? Fighting in a bar or something?’

‘Or something.’

‘You mean interfering with wee lassies, that kind of or something?’

‘Exactly.’

‘We’re vetted here. If somebody applied to be a driver and he had some kind of record, he wouldn’t be given a job. School work requires us to have a police background check done. Brian isn’t a perv. His daughter was missing for five years, for God’s sake. And now she’s dead.’

‘It’s happened before that a parent’s killed their child,’ Harry said.

‘Are you suggesting that Brian killed Sandra? She died of carbon monoxide poisoning, you said. Brian told me.’

‘How many drivers do you employ?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Twelve. And a couple of part-timers who do the weekend work.’

‘I’d like their names.’

‘Why?’

‘Do we have to spell it out, Mr Morton?’ Harry said.

‘It’s an invasion of privacy. I’m cooperating with you, answering your questions, but there have been a lot of drivers here over the years. Some of them last a week. One bastard stayed for one shift. I even had another driver who quit halfway through his shift. He called me from his house in Dalgety Bay, saying he wasn’t coming back. I had to scramble to get somebody to cover his shift.’

‘Dalgety Bay?’ Dunbar said. ‘We really could do with speaking to him.’

‘He’s a waste of space. If he asks for his job back, tell him from me that he can go whistle.’

‘Anybody else stick out?’ Dunbar asked.

‘I’ve had a lot of dodgy bastards through these doors, but sometimes the only requirement I had was for them to be able to steer a bus. Nobody with a criminal record, though.’

‘We’ll get a warrant for those names,’ Harry said. ‘And while we’re at it, we’ll have our friends at the Revenue and Customs tear this place apart. If they even suspect you’re using your buses for trips across to France to bring in cigarettes, they’ll be so far up your arse with a microscope, you won’t be able to sit down for a week.’

Morton sat up. ‘I do a few a year, but it’s not like we bring boatloads of cigarettes in. Just for personal use.’

‘They won’t take your word for it. In fact’ – Harry turned to look at Dunbar for a second – ‘they’ll be along today. They don’t take weekends off. They’ll bring an army with them, especially if the phone call comes from a detective chief inspector.’

Harry looked Morton in the eye as he took his phone out. ‘You can call my bluff, or you could give us the driver records. Either way, we’ll get those records. A judge will sign off within the hour, especially since kids are involved, and we’ll be able to watch Customs rip your garage apart while we’re waiting.’

‘Alright, alright.