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‘The same man was there in the library, standing beside the fireplace, only he was younger than in the painting. How is that possible?’
I look at Florence. ‘What do you know about David and Simon’s father?’
‘Not much. He inherited wealth from his father, who had made a fortune buying and selling property in the poorer parts of Liverpool and Manchester after the Second World War.’
‘When did he die?’
She takes her phone and types in a search. ‘Ten years ago.’
‘That means he was alive when the Arianna II caught fire and sank. Is there a photograph?’
She hands over her phone. The image is in black and white, showing a middle-aged man with curly grey hair swept back from his forehead. He’s wearing a blazer and a wide seventies tie and is gazing skyward, letting the natural light fall on his face.
‘It’s in the National Portrait Gallery,’ says Florence.
I show the image to Evie.
‘That’s the man in the painting,’ she says.
‘Did he . . .?’ I stop myself.
‘No, not him,’ says Evie. ‘I met the younger one. He was lighting a fire.’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No.’
My mobile begins singing. DI Carlson’s name lights up the screen.
‘Where are you?’ he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Angus Radford has been granted bail on compassionate grounds to attend his brother’s funeral. The surety is half a million pounds. His father lodged the paperwork ten minutes ago. Radford will be free within the hour.’
I begin to calculate how long it would take Angus to get here. Seven, maybe eight hours by road from Grimsby. He could fly to Edinburgh, but that would take almost as long with transfers and waiting around.
Carlson is still talking. ‘Radford’s barrister has made a complaint to the Independent Office of Police Conduct, alleging that his client was interviewed without his lawyer being present. You’re named.’
‘It wasn’t a formal interview.’
‘That hasn’t stopped them. You’re also accused of harassing and intimidating his family.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m not arguing, Cyrus, I’m telling you. Leave Scotland.’
‘OK, but I need something from you.’
Carlson stifles a complaint, letting me continue.
‘Twelve years ago, Angus Radford skippered a trawler that was smuggling migrants into Britain. That boat sank off the Scottish coast. Only one migrant survived. She can identify Radford and the crew.’
‘This is your friend, Evie Cormac.’
‘Yes. After the boat sank, Evie was taken to an estate that belongs to the Buchan family.’
‘Hold on, hold on. Are you talking about Lord David Buchan?’
‘The estate belonged to his father.’
‘Christ!’ mutters Carlson. ‘Be careful what you say to me. I’m required to act upon any information that you give me and take it to my superiors. And I’m not sure they’re going to want to hear this.’
