The Bad Fire (Bob Skinner series, Book 31): A shocking murder case brings danger too close to home for ex-cop Bob Skinner in this gripping Scottish crime thriller

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I don’t know, Councillor,’ Alex replied. ‘That’s for the police to determine, and it’s why you should have called them as soon as you became aware of Carrie McDaniels’ death.’

  Stephens sagged into herself, a dumpy, unattractive middle-aged woman, stripped of her authority. ‘Maybe, but do you know what happened after Marcia did herself in? Her twin sister turned up at a council meeting. She didn’t say anything, just sat in the public gallery staring at me. I didn’t know of her existence until then, and I was utterly terrified. I’ve never been as scared in my entire fucking life. When your woman brought it up again, that all came back. I just wanted the whole fucking thing to go away.’

  ‘Speak to the police, and maybe it will,’ Alex said. ‘I’ll check with DCC McGuire at ten tomorrow morning. If he hasn’t heard from you, I’ll tell him myself, and the consequences will be down to you. Goodbye, Mrs Stephens.’ She rose and left the room, with Dominic following her.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ she asked him in the corridor.

  He took his phone from his breast pocket and held it to his ear as he played back a voice recording. ‘Sounds okay,’ he told her.

  ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘What I thought before we went in there: a little woman puffed up by aggression and spurious authority. Her act’s okay for the West Coast Council, but it’s no wonder she’s never looked at national politics. She’d be eaten alive at that level.’

  ‘And Carrie? Could Stephens have had a hand in her death, and in the attack on me?’

  ‘Not a prayer,’ he assured her. ‘She has her hands full staying alive herself, figuratively speaking.’

  Sixty-One

  ‘I’ve got it!’

  Sauce Haddock looked up from his paperwork at Tarvil Singh’s shout.

  ‘The Passport Agency have come up with Zaqib Butt’s photo,’ the DS continued.

  ‘Are we sure it’s our Zaqib?’

  ‘Yes, boss, the address matches. It’s him, no question.’

  The DI moved from the cubicle that he had borrowed from the absent DCI Sammy Pye to stand behind Singh and view his computer monitor. He saw a clean-shaven young man, managing to look engaging and friendly even while posing unsmiling as the purpose required. ‘When was it taken?’

  ‘His last renewal was five years ago, when he was twenty-four.’

  ‘The big question: does he match the image you recovered from the car park camera?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ Singh parked the photograph in a corner of the screen and went into his library. He made a selection, clicked, and a second image appeared. With a deft movement of his trackpad, he laid them side by side. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Haddock admitted. ‘The resolution on the car park pic isn’t good enough to be absolutely certain. Can you boost it?’

  ‘That’s as good as it gets. It could be, I suppose, if you allow for ageing since the passport mug shot was taken. If only he’d been arrested recently,’ the DS grunted, ‘we’d have something more definitive.’

  ‘You have checked that?’

  ‘Do me a favour, Sauce.’

  ‘Sorry, of course you have.’

  ‘I’ve done a general search too, in case there’s been a photo in the local press: Chamber of Commerce do, that sort of thing. No luck, though. There was a story about WZB in the Motherwell Times, about Zaqib collecting an award for steel company of the year from a trade organisation, but it didn’t have a photograph.’

  ‘What about the father?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘It can’t be him. The image might be iffy, but it’s a younger man than Wasim.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Was he mentioned in that story?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t; only Zaqib. “Well-known local businessman”, it called him.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Haddock observed. ‘His dad said he was no fucking use; that he was no more than a poser, or words to that effect. You’d have thought he’d be more proud of him than that, winning awards and all. You know what, Tarvil, there’s something wrong with Wasim. I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s not square.’

  ‘It looks as if he lied to you about Zaqib being in Pakistan to arrange his wedding.’

  ‘Maybe he lied about him being in Pakistan at all. If that was him in the car, he’d have good reason. Noele,’ he called out to the other sergeant, who was sitting a few feet away, ‘you and me, we’re off to Carluke to pay a call on Zaqib’s wife.’

  ‘What about me?’ Singh asked. ‘I’m sitting on my hands now, and it’s getting fucking painful.’

  ‘Then do everything again, and a wee bit more. Everyone who’s a witness in the investigation, everyone we’ve interviewed, everyone who’s been mentioned, right back to the moment Marcia Brown was nicked in LuxuMarket. Background checks on them all, as far back as you can.’ He paused. ‘And one more thing: find bloody Spider-Man.’

  Haddock was heading for the door, with McClair following, when his phone chimed. ‘Lottie,’ he said as he took the call. ‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’

  ‘Lay off the “ma’am” for a start, and maybe I won’t have to call you “sir” when you make detective super in a few years. I thought I’d let you know: we’ve pinned down Joan Brown through her bank card to a town in Spain called Burgos. She stayed there last night in a tourist apartment; I’ll ask the Spanish police to check it out. If she’s still there, great; if not, she won’t be very far away, since the point of the trail is that you do it on foot, like St James did himself. They’ll find her and ask her to call me.’

  ‘Is there any guarantee that she will?’

  ‘When she hears I’m investigating her sister’s murder? What do you think? I have one small problem, though, and I need your help. Dan’s got tickets for a Fleetwood Mac concert in the Hydro tonight; personally I can’t fucking stand wrinkly rock, but I can’t let the wee soul down. For the time it lasts, can I put my phone on divert to yours?’

  Sixty-Two

  ‘I suppose you could argue that the national police service has improved things,’ Noele McClair suggested, as Haddock turned into Station Road. ‘Before, we’d have needed to tell Strathclyde we were coming to see this woman, maybe even had to bring one of their people along with us.’

  ‘Don’t let Bob Skinner hear you suggest that,’ the DI told her. ‘He’d argue that he never had a territorial problem, and that all unification did was make people feel remote from their police service and with it more vulnerable. He did argue it, loud and long, but the politicians didn’t listen to him.’

  ‘What do you think? Or are you automatically in his camp?’

  ‘I think they should have listened to each other. Bob’s right: people do feel less secure in their homes; they feel that the butter’s spread too thin in the national service. But you make a good point too: CID works better as part of a single organisation, so maybe that’s what should have happened. Public order and safeguarding should have been kept as it was, and criminal investigation should have been made national. If it was down to me, I’d have a dozen assistant chiefs, pretty much autonomous, running the uniform section on a regional basis, and big Mario at the head of a single crime-fighting organisation, with everybody under the supervision of Maggie Rose or somebody like her. But I’m only a simple foot soldier. Nobody listens to the likes of me. Is this it?’ He slowed to a crawl to allow McClair to read the name burned onto a varnished board at the entrance to a drive leading up to a detached bungalow. Green moss on its roof tiles suggested that it was older than some of the neighbouring houses.

  ‘Yes, Russell Court,’ she replied. ‘That’s the address Tarvil gave us. And there are two cars in the drive. It looks as if the chance we took not calling her in advance has paid off.’

  ‘She and the kids were unlikely to have gone to Pakistan on holiday with Daddy.’

  ‘Indeed not. Look.’

  The front door of Russell Court had opened and a young woman wearing a halter top and shorts emerged, ca
rrying a boy child on her hip, with another, older, by her side, and tugging at a stroller with her free hand.

  Haddock turned their car into the driveway, switched off the engine and stepped out. ‘Mrs Butt?’ he called as she stopped to stare at him. ‘Krystle Butt? Police. We’re wondering if we can have a word.’

  ‘Why? What’s it about? Has the yard been broken into or something?’ Sudden fear crossed her face. ‘Is it my husband?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘No, he’s fine,’ the DI assured her. ‘It has to do with a visitor he had at WZB last Friday.’

  ‘The woman? He told me about her.’ Releasing the stroller, she hitched her younger child higher and patted his brother on the shoulder. ‘Go back indoors, Rashid; we’ll go to the pool in a wee minute, but Mummy needs to talk to these people.’ The child obeyed without protest. ‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘This might be a big plot, but our neighbours can hear our budgie fart.’

  The house was spacious, with a welcoming hall and a wooden staircase whose banisters reminded Haddock of his boyhood home, a late-fifties villa. In contrast, the furnishings were modern, and European in style. There was no hint of the absent Zaqib’s ethnic origins, in either his home or the dress of his children as their mother deposited both in the middle of an array of toys on the living room floor.

  ‘What about this woman?’ she asked, once she was free to give them her complete attention. ‘Why are you after her?’

  ‘We’re not,’ the DI replied. ‘We’re after the people who killed her.’

  Krystle Butt’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking,’ she gasped.

  ‘I wish I was. Her name was Carrie McDaniels; her remains were found on Monday morning. We had information that she visited your husband on Friday afternoon at the WZB warehouse, but when we spoke to your father-in-law and his foreman, we were told that nobody had any knowledge of her being there.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ she snapped. ‘How would they know? Wasim wasn’t even there, and as for Steve O’Donnell, he never leaves the shop floor. I’ve been in Zaki’s office half a dozen times and not bumped into him. Last time I saw him was at the Christmas lunch. Zaki never mentioned her name, but if it’s the woman you’re talking about, the one that was murdered, she was definitely there.’

  ‘Which makes us wonder, Mrs Butt,’ McClair ventured, ‘why he left the country so suddenly. Can I ask you something? Are you and Zaqib formally married? Are you legally husband and wife? Bear in mind we can check it out.’

  ‘You don’t need to; it’s not a secret. We call ourselves Mr and Mrs, but we aren’t. Zaki’s Muslim by birth and upbringing, but he’s non-practising. The truth is he’s an atheist, but that’s a dangerous thing to say within his community. It’s seen as blasphemy, and they have the death penalty for that in Pakistan. We’ve never married because I’d have to convert to Islam, and I’m not prepared to do that. As for Rash and Ally, the kids, we’re putting off the evil hour, so to speak, but the hints have begun to drop.’

  ‘Does that mean that when his father told us he’s gone back to Pakistan to arrange his wedding, he might have been telling the truth?’

  She paled beneath her summer tan. ‘The old bastard!’ she hissed. ‘He told you that?’

  McClair nodded.

  ‘He’s a . . .’ She stopped in mid sentence as she realised that Rashid was looking at her, distracted from his toys. ‘He might wish that, but it’s not true. He can’t really do anything about it, for he needs Zaqib to run the business. He might have invested the start-up money, but he knows nothing about it. Zaqib is managing director in every respect; he runs sales, distribution and the financial side. He’s an accountant,’ she added, ‘as am I. We met at uni and graduated on the same day.’

  ‘Is your husband really in Pakistan?’

  ‘Oh yes, that much is true. His father called on Friday evening, left him a voicemail while he was playing golf at Lanark. He said he had to go to Rawalpindi because Wasim had to come back to Scotland on business, and because Imran, Zaki’s uncle, is dying. Wedding indeed! Unless . . . Imran’s got a daughter, Benazir, and I think Wasim’s always had an eye on pairing them off. He’s an evil old sod really. He’s never seen his grandchildren, you know.’

  ‘When did Zaqib leave?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Saturday morning, from Glasgow Airport. I drove him there, with the kids in the back. I had to take them; there was no time to find a sitter.’

  ‘Have you heard from him since?’

  ‘No, but . . .’ She paused. ‘To hell with this! I’m going to FaceTime him now; you can ask him these questions yourself.’

  She picked up an iPad from a sideboard that was just within reach, turned it on and tapped the screen several times. The detectives watched her, listening to a ringtone until it ended abruptly.

  ‘Krys,’ a male voice said. ‘Baby, I’m sorry, I meant to call you earlier. I’ve been out for supper and it went on for longer than I’d imagined.’ The accent was almost pure Glaswegian.

  ‘How’s your uncle?’ she asked.

  ‘Imran’s fine; that’s who I was with. I don’t know what my dad was playing at sending me out here. Imran’s cancer’s in remission, and his consultant expects him to make a full recovery. He’s in no danger at all and hasn’t been for a while. I’d come home tomorrow, but I haven’t seen him recently, so I’ll stay for another few days, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘How’s your cousin?’ she asked pointedly.

  Haddock and McClair heard a laugh. ‘Benny’s good too. She’s waiting for the results of her finals, but she’s on track for an honours degree. Yes, Imran drops the odd hint, but he’s not serious any more. Benny just rolls her eyes. The fact is, she’s got a bloke, another medical student; he’s from a good family and Imran likes him, so I think that’s the way it’ll go.’

  ‘Have you been to the mosque?’

  ‘This is Pakistan; of course I have. Appearances have to be maintained. Don’t worry, it won’t become a habit. Hey, kid, I love—’

  ‘Zaki,’ Krystle said, cutting him off, ‘I have people with me. They’re police officers, and they need to speak to you. Detective Inspector . . .’ She looked up from the screen.

  ‘Haddock,’ he called out, loud enough to be picked up, ‘and Detective Sergeant McClair.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Butt asked as his partner passed the tablet across.

  ‘Your Friday-afternoon visitor,’ the DI began, nodding involuntarily to the smooth, youthful face on screen.

  ‘Yes, the investigator. Carrie something; a bit predatory, I thought.’

  ‘Why?’ McClair spoke off camera.

  ‘Quick glance at my left hand for a gold band. I’m not being sexist; it’s a sign of a single person on the prowl.’

  ‘Was she wearing any jewellery?’

  ‘Not that I recall, but her Rolex was impressive.’

  ‘Who did you tell about her visit apart from your partner?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought he’d be curious, that’s all. She asked me about an incident that happened around ten years ago, in a supermarket called LuxuMarket. The old man had got me a summer job there on the security staff.’

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘He’d an interest in the business; only about twenty per cent – the majority shareholder was an alleged gangster from Dundee – but Dad could pull the odd string.’

  ‘When did you tell him about the visit?’

  ‘I called him from the car while I was driving to the golf club.’

  ‘I see,’ the DI murmured. ‘If I read it right, he called you back not long after that and said he needed you to go to Pakistan.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me there and then.’ He paused, looking at the screen of his device. ‘Look, mate, what’s this about? Was this woman on some sort of con? Because if so, it didn’t work.’

  ‘No, Mr But
t, she was legitimate. I’m sorry to have to tell you but the day after she visited you, she was abducted and murdered. When it happened, you were travelling to Pakistan on a scheduled flight. That’s as good an alibi as we’ve ever encountered.’

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ The face on the iPad twisted; calmness was replaced by protestation and anger. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never met the woman before, and I hadn’t given her a thought since speaking to my father.’

  ‘Then you might want to think about it now. I know roughly why she visited you, but what did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing much. She was asking me for details of something that happened when I was a kid and that was over in an afternoon. She was working on a theory that a woman I stopped for shoplifting had been set up by people in the store, people I didn’t even know. I never got to know them either,’ he added. ‘I chucked the job as soon as I heard that she had died.’

  ‘Was leaving your own decision? Did your father play any part in it?’

  ‘I didn’t even tell him!’

  ‘Even though he’d got you the job?’

  ‘Even though.’ Butt made a visible effort to calm himself. ‘Inspector, what is this? What can I do? Where the hell do I stand?’

  ‘If you think about the circumstances, you may realise why we’re viewing you as a person of interest. Be clear,’ Haddock emphasised, ‘I’m not calling you a suspect, and I hope I never have to, but I would like you to return to Scotland for more formal questioning. Will you do that voluntarily?’

  ‘Mate,’ the man replied, ‘I’m on the first flight home. If that woman was murdered, and I didn’t do everything I could to help you, I’d never be able to look my kids in the eye again. That’s not the sort of man their father is. As for mine,’ he added, ‘that’s another matter.’

  Sixty-Three

  ‘They’re on the way back to Edinburgh now,’ Mario McGuire said, ‘and hopefully Zaqib Butt’s on his way to the airport. If he isn’t, I’ll ask for a warrant.’