18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘How did she die? Did she have a heart condition? Or was it some sort of an accident?’

  ‘She was shot in the head, at close range.’

  ‘And you’re looking for Dave?’ the MP exclaimed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Stallings, quickly. ‘I’m not saying he’s a suspect. We’re going to be speaking to everyone who knew Miss Dean.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Colledge murmured again. ‘It’s unbelievable. Such a vivacious girl. Who’d . . .’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of weeks ago. My wife and I visited Edinburgh to attend the school prize-giving. Dave won the art prize. We arranged to take him to dinner the night before, and he asked if he could bring a friend. We were expecting another lad; we got quite a shock when she arrived. That was Thursday evening; and you’re saying that she was . . . That’s just awful.’

  ‘You called her vivacious, sir.’

  ‘Yes, and I meant it literally: full of life, that’s how she struck my wife and me. We took to her, once we had got over the initial surprise.’

  The MP was being more talkative than Stallings had expected. She decided to move the discussion on, further than she had intended when it began. ‘Did Davis . . . did they . . . discuss the nature of their relationship?’

  ‘He introduced her as his art tutor. He told us that they had met at an inter-school event and that she had been impressed by his work, enough to have offered to coach him in her spare time.’

  ‘So they were simply pupil and tutor.’

  She heard Michael Colledge take a deep breath. ‘That was how he introduced her. However, it became clear during the evening that they were very good friends.’

  ‘Intimate?’

  ‘There was nothing said to confirm it, but from something my son let slip, I wouldn’t have been surprised.’

  ‘Would that have worried you?’

  ‘It might have worried Irma, Dave’s mother, but I wouldn’t have been too concerned. My son is a grown man: he’s approaching nineteen, a mature nineteen, I think you’d say. He’s had girlfriends since he was fifteen, at school and at home. Yes, I could see him being attracted to an older woman, and she to him.’ He paused. ‘Inspector, the fact is, he and Sugar were planning to go to France together.’

  ‘To Collioure?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I was told that Sugar was supposed to be going there.’

  ‘It’s true. Dave told me that they had rented a place for July, through an agency, and that they were going to spend the time painting. It’s a favourite spot for artists, apparently; Charles Rennie Mackintosh, among others. I asked him how much they were paying. The figure he gave me didn’t sound very much for that part of the world, so I surmised that it didn’t run to a bedroom each.’

  ‘Do you know where your son is now?’ Stallings asked.

  ‘I assume he’s in France. He travelled back to our home in Buxton with us after the school closed. We drove, as he had to move all his stuff out of the boarders’ residence. The arrangement was that Sugar would fly there on the Saturday, that’s . . . what? . . . ten days ago now, and that Dave would follow her a couple of days after that. He left for Collioure last Monday; he flew to Perpignan and planned to take the bus from there.’

  ‘Have you heard from him since then?’

  ‘No. Not a word. I’ve been assuming that the two of them were painting away, or whatever. The last thing he said when I dropped him at Stansted was that he’d send me a postcard. Those can take for ever to get here from Europe, so I haven’t been bothered.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  ‘No, he didn’t give me one. I don’t think he knew it himself.’

  ‘Do you have a means of contacting him?’

  ‘He has a mobile. And as soon as we’re finished, Inspector, I’ll be calling him. Be sure of that.’

  ‘I think it might be better if I speak to him first,’ Stallings ventured.

  ‘You can think what you like,’ Colledge snapped, ‘but you’re not going to forbid me to call my son. I’ll be happy to give you the number, but I want a few minutes’ grace before you use it.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it, you’re right, I can’t stop you. But please, be careful what you say to him. Mature he may be, but it’s not the sort of news he’ll be expecting.’

  ‘I’m not without experience of such matters,’ the MP told her. ‘I’m a barrister by profession. I’ve handled Privy Council appeals for a couple of Caribbean clients in my time, in capital cases; unsuccessful appeals, I should add. It’s never easy to tell a chap they’re going to hang him in the morning. Here’s the number, if you’re ready. It’s a UK mobile, as I say. You won’t need to use the French code.’

  She entered the eleven digits into her Filofax, under ‘C’, then followed it with Michael Colledge’s personal House of Commons and mobile numbers. ‘I expect to be kept informed,’ he told her.

  ‘I promise to do so,’ said Stallings. ‘Does your son have the means to get back to Britain?’

  ‘He has a return ticket; plus he’s not short of cash. He has a decent allowance, and a couple of pieces of plastic.’

  ‘Mr Colledge, one final question. Let’s assume that your son got to France to find that Sugar wasn’t there. How would he react?’

  ‘In any number of ways, Inspector. Because we’ve been apart for most of Dave’s growing up, I might not know him as well as I should. But I can tell you this. He will handle it; if he’s worried or hurt or anything else, he will not turn to anyone else for help . . . not even me.’

  Fifteen

  As Becky Stallings walked up the path towards number eight Meriadoc Crescent, she saw the curtains twitch at number six, and guessed that Mrs Holmes was at her post.

  On her second visit to the bungalow, there was no need to ring the bell. The door was opened as she approached by a tall, middle-aged man in a checked shirt and faded jeans. His face bore an expression that managed to combine shock and trepidation. ‘Ms Stallings?’ he asked. ‘I’m John Dean.’

  They shook hands, and the inspector introduced DC Haddock, who was following her. ‘Thank you for letting me know you were back,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you till this evening.’

  ‘Don’t ask how fast I drove,’ Dean replied, as he led them into a thoroughly conventional living room, one of thousands of its type in Edinburgh’s middle-class suburbia. A woman sat in an armchair, a glass full of a brownish liquid clutched tightly in her hand. ‘My wife, Greta.’ He caught Stallings’s glance. ‘I’m sorry, after the journey we both felt the need of a drink. Would you like one?’

  ‘No, thanks. I know it’s a cliché, but we’re on duty.’

  ‘Have you sorted this thing out?’ the anxious mother asked harshly. ‘Have you found out who this woman is? It can’t be Sugar: we’d have ... We’d just have known.’

  Unbidden, Stallings sat on the couch close to her. ‘Mrs Dean,’ she began, but got no further. The woman bent forward, putting her hands to her face and pressing the glass against her forehead, as if she was trying to hide inside it from the truth. Her shoulders began to shake with sobs.

  Her husband came and stood beside her, as if he was standing guard. ‘There’s no doubt?’ he whispered, colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘The medical history you gave us,’ Stallings told him, ‘appendectomy scar, healed radial fracture: they’re both present on the dead woman.’

  Dean was shivering as he stared blankly at the wall. Sauce Haddock stepped across to the sideboard, picked up his discarded glass and a bottle of Famous Grouse, and poured a large measure. ‘Here, sir,’ said the young man, as he handed it to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he murmured. He took a swallow, then another. ‘You’ll want me to identify her, I take it. I’d be grateful for an hour or two to prepare myself.’

  ‘In the circumstances,’ the inspector replied, ‘that won’t be necessary. We can confirm your daughter’s identity b
y DNA, if you can give us personal samples.’

  Greta Dean had recovered some composure. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She paused for a strengthening breath. ‘But we’d like to see for ourselves that it’s true.’

  Stallings looked up at John Dean, hoping that he had read her meaning.

  He had. ‘No, Gret,’ he told his wife. ‘What the officers are saying is that there’s no legal requirement for a formal identification, and that it will be better for us to see Sugar in a funeral home, rather than in the mortuary. In that case, that’s what we’ll do.’

  The inspector nodded, hoping that they chose the most skilled mortician in the city. Dean motioned her towards the back of the room, then through an open door that led into the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’m aware now, from the radio, that this is a murder investigation.’

  ‘Sugar was shot in the back of the head. Her death bears strong similarities to a series of murders committed earlier this year.’

  Dean frowned heavily. ‘Yes, I remember. Sugar knew one of those poor girls, Stacey Gavin. They were at art college at the same time. But I thought that you’d caught the person who did those.’

  ‘We did. He was found dead, and those investigations are closed.’

  ‘So this might be the sincerest form of flattery? Is that what you think?’

  ‘It’s an unavoidable possibility.’

  ‘So there may be more on the way?’

  ‘Let’s hope not. But we’re not there yet. The first thing we have to try to do is establish a motive for Sugar’s death. If we can’t, then we may come to the conclusion that it was random.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You thought your daughter was in France, sir?’ she continued.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Off on the Picasso trail, as she put it, with her young friend.’

  ‘Davis Colledge?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Friend? Or boyfriend?’

  ‘Moving towards the latter status, I’d say. My daughter is well aware of the duties and responsibilities of a teacher towards pupils . . . all pupils, that is, not only her own. But Davis is off to art school now, and a studio apartment, as she told me they’d booked, doesn’t really allow for young people being just good friends.’

  ‘Art school? That’s where he’s going?’

  ‘Yes. He has a place at Edinburgh. He’s a very committed young man, and very talented, Sugar says.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in Sugar’s life? Another man?’

  ‘That’s how you’re thinking, is it? A lover cast aside?’

  ‘That’s one of the first directions we take in an investigation like this,’ Stallings admitted.

  Dean frowned. ‘I doubt if it will get you far. Her last serious involvement was two years ago, with a bloke called Theo Weekes. The fact is, they were engaged, but he broke it off.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ asked Stallings.

  ‘He went off with someone else, Sugar told me. She didn’t volunteer any more, but I could tell that she was hurt very badly. Now that I think about it, it’s only since she’s been friendly with Davis that she’s been back to her old self.’

  ‘Did she ever see Mr Weekes after the engagement ended?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Have you any idea where we could find him?’

  ‘Probably by checking with your personnel department. He’s a police constable; or, at least, he was then . . . or at least that’s what he said he was. Us dads, we tend to accept our daughters’ involvements regardless of personal feelings: if we have reservations we keep them to ourselves. I never took to Weekes, and I was secretly pleased when it ended. The man was such a shit that I wouldn’t put it past him to have made the police thing up.’

  ‘Where was he stationed? Or, rather, where did he tell you he was stationed?’

  ‘Livingston.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘About boyfriends,’ Dean mused. ‘If you look at old flames routinely, what about new ones?’

  The inspector frowned. ‘We will be interviewing Davis,’ she replied, ‘as soon as we can find him. He was last seen heading for France to meet Sugar. Why do you ask? Did you have doubts about him?’

  The teacher shook his head. ‘No. He’s a very impressive young man. But when something like this happens . . . I’m just discovering that you see the devil in everyone.’

  ‘I know. In my career, I’ve met too many people in your situation.’

  ‘Then, if I can be brutal,’ the bereaved father asked, ‘in how many of those cases did the boyfriend do it?’

  Stallings sighed. ‘Mr Dean, I’m new to this force, so I’m still moving cautiously. It could be more than my job’s worth to give you a straight answer to that question.’

  ‘Then forget I asked.’ He drew his shoulders back. ‘These DNA samples; how do we give them?’

  ‘I’ll send forensic officers round as soon as possible; they’ll do it. A saliva swab from each of you is all they’ll need.’

  ‘Okay.’ As Dean led her back towards his wife, the inspector saw that Haddock was seated on the couch, speaking to her quietly. For the first time she understood why he had been fast-tracked into CID.

  As they stepped out into the crescent, she thanked him.

  ‘What for, ma’am?’

  ‘Comforting the mother. Not many people can do that. Most of us just stand stiff and stare ahead.’

  ‘It’s how I was brought up,’ he replied.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Sugar. You know how she got the name? Mrs Dean’s favourite film is Some Like It Hot. Poor woman was almost embarrassed to tell me that she called her daughter after Marilyn Monroe’s character.’

  Sixteen

  Maggie Steele, as she always thought of herself now, smiled at her daughter, asleep in the carry-cot that was part of something called by its manufacturer a ‘baby travel system’. They were alone, Bet having gone to a late-afternoon movie.

  ‘It’s an easy life being two months old, isn’t it?’ she whispered. Stephanie made a small noise, but dozed on, as her mother walked over to the desk that she and her father had once shared.

  A brown envelope lay there: it had been delivered half an hour earlier by a uniformed constable from police headquarters at Fettes. She took a deep breath, then opened it and removed its contents.

  The document was slimmer than she had expected, but as she looked at the list of sections she realised that it dealt only with events directly related to Stevie’s death, and did not include the detailed investigation into the Ballester murders. Also, if the original had contained crime-scene photographs showing her husband’s body, as she guessed it would have, they had been omitted from the copy.

  ‘You might have given me one of Boras, Mario,’ she murmured. ‘You might have let me see his face. Or did you think that might upset me?’

  She opened the report and began to read, slowly and carefully, taking note of every detail, even those that were seemingly insignificant. Twenty minutes later she finished. ‘There’s nothing there that I didn’t know already,’ she said, to no-one other than her sleeping daughter.

  Dražen Boras, tycoon son of a tycoon father, had been very clever. He had set up two unwitting detective constables to provide his alibi. It would have stood, too, but for the tenacity of Bob Skinner and Mario McGuire, and the investigative skill, bordering on genius, of Detective Inspector Arthur Dorward, the force’s senior scene-of-crime officer. Thanks to them, the case against Boras had been made.

  But to no avail: the killer had evaded capture. He had fled the country in a private plane, just as the net was being readied to close around him. ‘Or, rather,’ Maggie whispered, ‘they assumed that he fled the country.’

  She picked up the phone and called McGuire’s private number at Fettes. ‘Mario,’ she said urgently, as he answered, ‘thanks for the report. I’ve just finished reading it. Tell me something: how did the Met establish that he had
left the country?’

  ‘His father’s company jet was missing from its hangar. Davor Boras said that he had no idea where it had gone, and nobody could prove different.’

  ‘What about the flight plan?’

  ‘There was none, but the plane had the range to cross the Atlantic.’

  ‘So that’s where the Met assumed he was headed?’

  ‘Yes, but they had other reasons to believe that.’

  ‘Did anyone search for him in England? Were commercial flights and ferry crossings monitored? Was the Channel Tunnel checked?’

  ‘No. They were dead sure he’s gone to the US.’

  ‘And what if they were wrong? What if he didn’t head for America? What if the plane was simply moved somewhere else?’

  McGuire sighed. ‘Then he could have gone anywhere.’

  ‘He could still be in Britain.’

  ‘Risky.’

  ‘He’s used an assumed name in the past, to distance himself from his father. Okay, he can’t call himself David Barnes any more, but what if he had a third identity, ready and waiting?’

  ‘It would be typical behaviour for him, but, Mags, don’t count on him being in Britain.’

  ‘I’m not, but at least I’ve got somewhere to go from here.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Any joy, Jack?’ asked Stallings, as she stepped back into the mobile police station, which was still parked outside the golf club. ‘Have you managed to contact Davis Colledge?’

  ‘No, boss,’ McGurk replied. ‘I’ve tried the mobile number you gave me, but the network says it’s switched off. There’s no voicemail available either. The best I’ve been able to do with it is send him a text, asking him to contact us about Sugar Dean.’

  ‘That could alarm him.’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t care. We need to talk to him; if I have to give him a shake to make him call us, so be it.’

  ‘Kid gloves, Jack; his dad’s important.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to his dad. He’s had no luck with the mobile either. He’s getting worried about him; he was talking about flying down there. I advised him not to, not yet at any rate, till we’ve exhausted all our channels. However, I did persuade him to give me the numbers for his son’s debit and credit cards, and the account details. The issuers told me that he used the credit card to buy eighteen quid’s worth of books in WHSmith at Stansted airport last Monday, and in a supermarket in Collioure on Thursday, to buy goods worth forty-seven euros. On Saturday, he withdrew three hundred euros from an ATM, again in Collioure.’