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Leo Hamilton sat in the back in front of his client, a leather-bound notepad on his lap, and Laithwaite was in the front passenger seat.
The driver flipped and swiped on the sat-nav and nodded. ‘About forty-five minutes, so we’ll be there by eleven,’ he said in a rich, sing-song Highland accent.
Laithwaite reached for her radio. ‘Destination: White Loch near Newton Mearns in East Kilbride.’
‘Marine 1, all received,’ was the crackly reply.
‘MIT support 1, all received,’ came another reply.
‘Who’re those bastards?’ said Davie, sharply.
‘Who?’ said Maxwell.
‘MIT support 1?’
‘A DI and a DS from the murder investigation team. They want to be there, don’t worry, they’re following at a discreet distance, Davie. This operation is as low profile as a set of BMW M3 run-flats.’
‘Well, let’s hope it’s a little more comfortable. I had an M3 once, and it was a right spine shatterer,’ said Davie.
‘Your driver, Cleggy, is an advanced driver, pal. Smooth as silk,’ said Laithwaite as they drove off through the gates that almost seemed to be inching open.
The journey was slowed by the heavy traffic, but the morning was pleasant enough and Davie was enjoying seeing the familiar streets begin to whizz by as the van gained speed. They left the built-up Shotts and came into the more attractive Lanarkshire countryside.
‘Ten minutes away,’ Laithwaite said into the radio as they entered the open and bleak countryside of East Kilbride and onto the narrow road winding through the tussock grasslands, which were punctuated by lazily turning wind turbines.
‘You ready for this, Davie?’ said Maxwell.
‘Aye, and isn’t it a lovely day for pointing out where dead bodies are?’ said Davie, smiling, as the late morning sun shone through the windows and danced on the ice-crusted grass.
‘Davie?’ chided Leo, turning to glare at his client.
Davie just chuckled. ‘Along this road, straight for a wee while longer. You’ll get to a metal gate at the edge of the loch. Pull over there and I’ll direct you in.’
They drove along for about another mile, the sweeping road carving a path through the low, featureless hills until they rounded a bend, and there it was. The White Loch sparkled like a sapphire against the stark countryside, the watery winter sun reflecting off the glass-like surface.
‘Just here, by the gate,’ said Davie, pointing at a metal farm gate that was secured with some blue baler twine. A solitary paddleboarder was silhouetted on the water.
‘So where, Davie?’ Maxwell turned to face Davie.
‘I need to get out. We need to walk along the shoreline towards the trees you see in line with the wind turbine. Once I’m there, I’ll recognise it.’
‘Okay, but nae tricks, man. Any shite, and you’re on the deck, twisted up in rigid cuffs, ken?’ Maxwell said, his accent broadening, as if to add authenticity to his threat.
‘Sergeant, my client has cooperated all the way. There’s no need for threats,’ said Leo, superciliously.
‘No threats, just a friendly warning,’ said Maxwell.
‘An unnecessary one.’
‘Aye, right. Let’s go then, how far are the marine unit?’ said Maxwell.
Laithwaite spoke into her Airwave handset. ‘Marine 1 and MIT 1, ETA at White Loch?’
‘Marine 1, ten minutes.’
‘MIT 1, fifteen.’
‘Okay, you ready then, Davie?’ said Maxwell.
