18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Neither of those. If you press me to give you my opinion, not a guess, but not offered as fact either, I’d say he’s on the run. I’d say that you lot are after him.’

  ‘But if he’d broken any company laws, that would be the subject of a very open investigation.’

  ‘I don’t mean company laws, Margaret.’

  ‘Everyone except my sister calls me Maggie. You mean another sort of criminality?’

  ‘Yes. Am I right?’

  ‘Will you take silence for an answer?’

  ‘I often do.’

  ‘Do you know who’s running Fishheads now? I know that his mother’s taken over the chair, but who’s in charge?’

  ’Ostensibly, it’s the CEO, Godric Hawker. He was Dražen’s finance director.’

  ‘Ostensibly?’

  ‘That’s the other open question. Is he really in charge or is he still taking orders from Drazen? Or even from Davor? Is the evil emperor pulling the strings now?’

  ‘Or might he have been pulling them all along?’

  Harkness drew a breath. ‘Are you saying that the family-at-war thing was a hoax?’

  ‘Has Davor’s business suffered?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Put the two of them together and how does it look in terms of total market share? Positive or negative?’

  ‘Heavily in the black. But you know what? The City doesn’t care; all it sees are two very successful companies. Ethical investment is a load of shite, Maggie; you’d better believe that.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t, but I’m one of nature’s cynics too. A couple more questions, Jacqui, then I’m done. When Dražen was around, how close were he and Hawker?’

  ‘They were always side by side at City presentations; that’s all I can tell you.’

  ’Apart from him, was Dražen close to anyone else in the company?’

  ‘Ifan Richards, the third executive director, had the authority to speak for the company when he wasn’t around. You might talk to him.’

  ‘I might very well,’ said Maggie. ‘Thanks, Jacqui; Maurice was right.’

  She hung up, just as Stephanie began to stir in her cot.

  Twenty-one

  ‘I hope Aileen’s not too pissed off,’ said Neil McIlhenney. ‘I wouldn’t fancy being in her bad books.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Skinner. ‘She’s okay. But I promised her we wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, so bear that in mind.’ He paused. ‘Can you guys see me all right at your end? You’re fine on my screen.’ Two figures nodded in reply.

  He, McIlhenney and Mario McGuire were making their first stab at a video conference over the Internet. ‘I didn’t give Aileen any details,’ he went on, ‘beyond that there’s been a crime in Edinburgh and you need my input. How’s your investigation going?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ McGuire told him.

  ‘How are the media playing it?’

  ‘As a straightforward murder so far. Nobody’s made the art connection yet; all Neil said at the press briefing was that the victim was a member of staff at Mary Erskine.’

  ‘They will, though. Three dead artists inside five months, the latest after the perpetrator of the first two topped himself . . . or, rather, was topped, although they don’t know that yet either.’

  McIlhenney leaned towards the web cam. ‘Sugar Dean was a teacher, though, not really an artist.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Skinner countered. ‘I’ve been doing some digging of my own, through a lecturer I know. She was a prize-winner at the art school, then she moved on to her teaching qualification. While she was doing that, she was commissioned by the Scottish Executive, on the back of her final-year work, to paint a series of pictures under the theme “justice”. There are four in all; one hangs in the High Court in Glasgow, one’s in the Crown Office, one’s in the Parliament building, and the fourth is about two hundred yards away from you two, in the conference room at Fettes. Fucking detectives, eh?’

  McGuire and McIlhenney looked at each other, in the same moment. ‘You guys are on borrowed time,’ said Skinner. ‘If this connection doesn’t break before tomorrow, I’ll be surprised. What are your priorities?’

  ‘At the moment, Sugar’s background is,’ McIlhenney told him. ‘We’ve got a nasty ex-fiancé in her past, who just happens to be a serving police officer.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘PC Theodore Weekes, aged twenty-eight, been on the job for five years, currently stationed at South Queensferry, resident in west Edinburgh.’

  ‘How nasty?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ McGuire interposed. ‘I’ve spoken to his inspector, Chippy Grade, and to Jock Varley at Livingston, where he used to be stationed. Chippy doesn’t like him, but has nothing against him. Varley said that he had a reputation for being a bit heavy-handed.’

  ‘All police officers need to be able to handle themselves.’

  ‘Not when tackling a five-foot-four-inch law student whose only crime is throwing a fag packet at a bin and missing.’

  ‘No,’ Skinner conceded. ‘Has he volunteered information about his past relationship with the victim?’

  ‘No,’ McIlhenney replied, ‘but to be fair, he’s hardly had time. He’s got until midday tomorrow, then he’s being pulled in here for interview.’

  ‘If it comes to it, don’t go easy on him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, boss.’ The superintendent paused. ‘But before that, there’s something else to be done.’

  ‘In due course,’ said Skinner, ‘but let’s talk basics first. It appears that the Dean murder has many of the hallmarks of the Gavin and Boras killings. Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ McGuire agreed.

  ‘The full details of the murders carried out by Daniel Ballester, they’ve never been revealed, to my knowledge.’

  ‘No, they haven’t.’

  ‘So we might be looking at a leak, in our own organisation or in the Crown Office.’

  ‘Yes,’ said McIlhenney. ‘We’re addressing that, don’t worry. Mario’s putting together a list of all officers who were part of the overall Ballester inquiry, and who might know the whole story. I’ve been to the fiscal’s office to ask them to do the same.’

  ‘Did you see Gregor Broughton?’

  ‘No, he’s away just now. I spoke to his new assistant, a woman called Lock. As soon as I’d closed the door behind me she went running off to Gregor’s boss, the Crown Agent.’

  ‘Joe Dowley? I don’t like that man.’

  ‘Me neither,’ the superintendent growled. ‘He had Lock call me back and threaten me with the chief’s carpet if I didn’t back off.’

  ‘What did you threaten him with?’ asked Skinner, laconically.

  ‘Emasculation, and I don’t think I was kidding.’

  ‘Pointless. Inappropriate. If the guy had any balls he’d have phoned you himself, not got a junior to do it. Bugger him; my time’s limited so let’s get on with it. Run through all the points of coincidence between the Dean murder and the others.’

  ‘One, the method of execution: single shot, back of head. Two, the victim is an artist. Three, the way the body was laid out, although after ten days we can’t be so sure about that.’

  ‘Points of diversion from the Ballester killings.’

  ‘The body was hidden. Stacey Gavin and Zrinka Boras were left in the open.’

  ‘Amy Noone wasn’t.’

  ‘Amy Noone was killed in her flat. She wasn’t an artist either: she was a potential witness. We believe that’s why Ballester killed her, and it’s why he killed Harry Paul, Zrinka’s boyfriend. Boss, you’re working up to asking us whether we think Sugar Dean was killed by a copycat with inside knowledge of the earlier murders. I know I speak for Neil when I say that, on balance, we do. Yes, the body was hidden and that’s different from the pattern, but this girl was shot around eight in the morning on the edge of a golf course. There were golfers out there already; they hadn’t reached that part of the course yet, but the gree
n-keepers could have turned up at any time, so he had to get the body into the woods and out of sight.’

  ‘Yes, that’s about a fair assumption. So what about Weekes? What else do we know about him?’

  ‘He’s just one lead,’ McIlhenney reminded Skinner. ‘But we have checked him out. He was off shift when Sugar was killed. We know that much. We also know that he’s engaged again, this time to a fellow police officer, a woman called Mae Grey. They met when he was at Livingston; she’s still there. The problem with Weekes has to be motive; he and Sugar split two years ago. It might have been acrimonious then, but there’s no obvious reason for him to go back and kill her now.’

  ‘Not obvious, but it may be there, nonetheless.’

  ‘Yes, and we’ll look for it, unless he can give us a stonewall alibi. The thing that interests me most about him is that he’s stationed at South Queensferry; that’s where Stacey Gavin’s death was first reported. It’s possible that he was at the scene, and saw the body; Chippy Grade’s checking the duty rosters to find out.’

  ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘Sugar’s most recent boyfriend, and he’s the real reason we needed to brief you on what’s happening.’

  Skinner grinned. ‘I’d like to think that you’d be briefing me anyway, but I suppose it serves me right for promoting two independent-minded bastards like you. What about the man?’

  ‘Only just a man,’ said McIlhenney. ‘He’s eighteen, and until the week before last, he was a pupil at Stew-Mel. A promising artist, and she was coaching him in her spare time.’

  ‘Coaching him in what?’

  ‘Nothing against the rules, or so her head teacher and parents believe, but it’s pretty clear they were about to move on to that part of the tutorial.’

  ‘Is the boy a suspect?’

  ‘He’s somebody we have to interview.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So his dad’s in the shadow fucking cabinet,’ McGuire drawled. ‘The boy’s name is Davis Colledge.’

  ‘Aah,’ said Skinner. ‘Son of Michael, last of the Conservative tough guys among the new user-friendly breed. Making waves?’

  ‘Not as yet; he’s been co-operative with Becky’s team in helping us try to reach his son.’

  ‘You can’t find the boy? Does that make him prime suspect?’ Pause. ‘God, I hate that fucking series!’

  ‘Me too,’ said McIlhenney, ‘but it doesn’t. Davis was last seen when he left to meet up with Sugar. They were supposed to spend a month together, painting.’

  ‘Cut the euphemisms and get to the point.’

  The superintendent grinned. ‘Point is, we’ve located him, in France. Now we need to interview him, to take him out of the frame altogether.’

  ‘I’m with you. If you contact the French police, they’ll treat it as a “detain for questioning” request, and lift him, running the risk of Colledge senior becoming uncooperative, and sending in lawyers.’

  ‘Exactly, and then it could all go pear-shaped. Worst case, we might need to extradite him just to ask him where he was when Sugar was killed. Whereas . . .’

  It was Skinner’s turn to smile for the camera. ‘Whereas if you had a man on the ground, ready to interview the lad informally, maybe without the gendarmerie even being involved . . .’

  ‘. . . someone of sufficient seniority to impress even his dad . . .’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We have an address for him in a town called Collioure. He used his bank card there on Saturday.’

  ‘Collioure’s just up the road,’ said Skinner. ‘I’ve been there. Nice place; it’ll be crawling with punters at this time of year. I’ll do it, but it has to be with the knowledge of the French authorities.’

  ‘If it’s only an informal interview . . .’ McGuire began. ‘Private investigators don’t ask permission when they cross frontiers.’

  ‘No, they don’t, but if things don’t go right for them they’re in trouble. Suppose young Davis proves you wrong? Remember, boys, I don’t do friendly chats. Suppose when I find him and ask him the straight questions that I’ll have to, he bursts into tears and says, “It was me, guv, wot dun it”? What can I do then? No, I’ll need someone with me with power of arrest, just in case.’

  ‘Point taken,’ the head of CID conceded. ‘We’ll make an arrangement and get back to you. When can you get up there?’

  ‘Now, if I have to.’

  ‘Let’s hold on that until tomorrow morning; I may not be able to tie up the French end before then.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave here at eleven, ten o’clock your time, whether I’ve heard from you or not. After that you can raise me on the mobile. Meantime, send me the address by e-mail, and a local map showing me where it and the local police office are. So long for now.’

  Skinner clicked on the exit symbol on his screen to end the conference, then closed the lap-top and walked out into the evening heat. Aileen was lying on a lounger on the terrace, face down. He sat beside her on the tiles, picked up a bottle of Piz Buin and began to massage the lotion into her back.

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ she murmured languidly.

  ‘Feeling good?’ he asked.

  ‘Am I ever . . .’ She twisted her head round and peered at him through a half-closed eye.

  He beamed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘do you fancy coming with me to France tomorrow, while I interview a suspect in a murder investigation?’

  Twenty-two

  Sir James Proud had a hidden shame: it was known only to himself and to his wife, Lady Chrissie . . . No-one ever addressed her by her proper name, Christine. None of their children were privy to it, and neither was Bob Skinner, his deputy, nor any other senior colleague. The truth, if it ever emerged, would not end his career, but it would make it impossible for him to see out its final months without the suspicion, even the certainty, that those who offered him smart salutes in the corridors of the headquarters building would be exchanging winks and smirks as soon as his back was to them.

  Sir James Proud was an addict.

  He knew well enough, because his rank required him to know, that he was not the only police officer to be in the grip of a private vice, or to have a skeleton from the past so serious, to its owner if no-one else, that it had to be hidden not in a cupboard but in a safe.

  There was Assistant Chief Constable Brian Mackie, whose meticulous personal grooming could not disguise the fact that outside the office he was an incurable cigar smoker. Chief Inspector David Mackenzie, the new executive officer on the command corridor, had just recovered from an illness that had had as much to do with alcohol as the stress to which it had been publicly attributed. Detective Inspector Dorothy Shannon, who ran Special Branch, had had a fling with the married DS George Regan that had put an end to her relationship with the then single Stevie Steele. Chief Superintendent Margaret Rose Steele, and Bet her sister, had been sexually abused as children by their father. Gerry Crossley, his secretary, suspected by half the force of being gay because he was a man in what was perceived to be a woman’s job, kept a collection of girlie magazines in his desk.

  And there was Skinner himself; his strength was his weakness, expressed in an obsession with physical fitness that had become even greater since the fitting of a pacemaker to counter an unpredictable heartbeat, and which was rooted, according to his last psychological profile, in a sense of shame at his own infirmity.

  The chief constable’s secret was not as dark as any of those; it was more of an embarrassment.

  Proud Jimmy was addicted to The Bill, a twice-weekly police drama that had been running on Scottish Television for almost as long as Coronation Street. He found many of the story lines ludicrous, and barely a week went by without him muttering to Chrissie that ‘any officer on my force who behaved that way would be out the door in two seconds flat’. Nonetheless he watched it whenever he could, as he had done for almost a quarter of a century, back when June, Tony and Reg were rookies, before Carver went on the booze and when Meadows was still on the be
at in another part of London.

  The week’s first episode was five minutes old when the phone rang. It was six feet away from his chair, but he made no move to answer. Lady Chrissie frowned at him, sighed and went to pick it up.

  ‘Let it ring,’ he grunted at her. ‘They can leave a message.’

  ‘They can do no such thing,’ she replied. ‘Press your “pause” button. That’s what you got it for.’

  He snatched up the remote and pressed it, freezing DI Manson’s scowl on screen as she picked up the handset from its charging socket. He heard her recite their number, as she always did when she took a call.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he is, but he’s rather busy. Is this urgent? Can it wait till morning, or can he call you back in an hour or so?’ She waited, listening as the caller spoke into her ear. ‘In that case, if you’ll just hold on a second. Jimmy, it’s Mr Dowley, the Crown Agent; he says it’s very important.’ She held the phone out for her husband.

  Sir James almost snarled as he took it from her. ‘Proud,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Sir James, it’s Joe Dowley, Crown Agent.’

  ‘So Lady Proud tells me. What’s the crisis?’

  ‘Crisis it is, Sir James,’ the man replied, his voice rising. ‘I find myself in an impasse with your force and I’m not having it. I’ve been told by your man McIlhenney that I have to conduct an inquiry within the Crown Office into a potential leak of information. That’s bloody outrageous. Information does not leak from the Crown Office; the organisation is tight as a drum when it comes to confidentiality. I’m not having us called into question. I’ve tried to contact Skinner, but your new executive officer insists that he’s incommunicado, so in his absence I’m coming to you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Dowley?’ Chrissie Proud looked at her husband. When his voice dropped to a level just above a whisper it was a sure sign of a gathering storm. ‘Did I hear you correctly? You couldn’t contact my deputy, so you’re coming to me in his absence?’

  ‘I think . . .’

  Proud cut him off. ‘And suppose you had contacted DCC Skinner,’ he said, ‘what would you have said to him?’