18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I’d have demanded that he order McIlhenney to desist. He’s obviously forgotten that in criminal matters the police report to the Crown Office, not the other way around.’

  ‘Have you expressed this sentiment to Detective Superintendent McIlhenney yourself?’

  ‘I instructed a colleague to tell him as much.’

  ‘And did he respond?’

  Chrissie Proud read the menace in the chief’s tone. Dowley did not. ‘Yes, he did, in most offensive terms, and that’s something else I want to complain about. I want him disciplined.’

  Proud chuckled. ‘What would you like me to do with him?’

  ‘An official reprimand at the very least.’

  ‘Mmm. One more question, Mr Dowley. After I’ve told you to fuck off, where do you go next?’ Sir James was oblivious of Lady Proud’s glare.

  The Crown Agent spluttered, but the chief continued, ‘You and I disagree profoundly about our relationship, sir. It’s the job of my force, like any other, to investigate crimes and to do what is necessary in pursuit of its enquiries. Once we’re finished, we report to the procurator fiscal, but until we’ve done that, any person who obstructs us wilfully is committing an offence himself. I repeat, any person, wherever he might be. No doors are closed to us. I know about your exchange with McIlhenney; my head of CID told me all about you being on your high horse. I endorse Neil’s position entirely, and I even have some sympathy with his language.’

  ‘I’m not taking this,’ Dowley hissed.

  Finally Proud exploded. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he roared. ‘If he’d been available Gregor Broughton would have sorted this with a couple of phone calls. Instead you want to start an interdepartmental war. Well, you go ahead. See if you can find somebody who has the authority to tell me to back down.’

  He cut the Crown Agent off and tossed the handset back to his wife. ‘If that bloody thing rings again, Chrissie,’ he said, ‘you do not answer it. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she replied. ‘Not until The Bill’s finished.’

  He settled back into his chair, and picked up the digi-box remote, then paused. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Lady Proud stared at him. ‘Enough of The Bill?’

  ‘No, love,’ he replied. ‘I’ve had enough of being one of Edinburgh’s bloody institutions. I’ve had enough of our evenings being interrupted by pillocks like him. My time’s up. The truth is, it’s been up for a while now, and I’m the only man on the force who hasn’t seen and acknowledged the same. That guy there just told me I was his court of second resort after Bob Skinner. He didn’t put it in so many words, but that’s what he meant.’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, he didn’t.’

  ‘He did. And the thing is, he’s right. Bob’s where the power lies now. Everybody knows that if he takes a decision I won’t countermand it, and equally they know that I won’t make a major decision myself without talking to him about it. I’m drawing the salary under false pretences. And why? We don’t need the money, that’s for sure. My pension will be the equivalent of Mario McGuire’s salary, give or take.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re due to go in less than a year anyway.’

  ‘Too long. I need to go now. Tomorrow I set the retirement wheels in motion, once I’ve spoken to Bob and told him that I’m getting out of his way.’

  Chrissie Proud frowned. ‘I know you’ve always wanted him to succeed you. But will he apply for the job?’

  ‘He has to make up his mind about that, and I’m not delaying the moment for him any longer. It’s bloody well time he did.’

  Twenty-three

  Bet Rose looked at her sister from the doorway. ‘Are you on that bloody computer already?’ The question was pointless since Maggie was staring at the monitor, with her right hand on the mouse.

  She twisted round in her chair. ‘Sorry. Do you need to go on line?’

  ‘No, that’s all right. I can work on my lap-top and copy stuff across for transfer later. It would help if you had a wireless network, though. Then we could both access the Net at the same time if we needed.’ She paused. ‘But Margaret, it’s not even quarter to nine yet; you’re up, dressed, Steph’s fed and changed, and you’re at it already. This is not what recuperation’s supposed to be like.’ She peered at the screen. ‘What are you doing anyway?’

  ‘Working on my memoirs. Now bugger off and get designing.’

  ‘Okay, you old charmer. By the way,’ she called out, as Maggie turned back to her computer, ‘you’ve got your wig on back to front.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She laughed. ‘I checked where the label was when I put it on.’

  Alone again, she focused on the screen once more; she was logged on to the Fishheads website once more and, when Bet had interrupted her, had just clicked on the biography of Godric Hawker, BSc (Acc), CPFA, the chief executive officer.

  There was a photograph at the top of the page, showing a clean-cut, immaculately groomed young man in his early thirties. He was pictured, jacketless, in an open-necked shirt, seated on the arm of a chair, rather than in it. Clearly, she thought, the company’s publicity advisers believed that their clients should look like young politicians rather than business leaders.

  Hawker’s biography told her that he was a graduate of the University of Southampton, and that he had completed his professional training with a leading, but unnamed, firm of London accountants. He had spent three years as a manager, specialising in corporate finance, before being head-hunted by Fishheads to become its finance director. He had been chief executive for only a month. The section gave minimal career information and said nothing about the man.

  On impulse, Maggie went to the foot of the screen and clicked on ‘Press Releases’. A list of announcements made by the company over the previous twelve months unrolled before her eyes. Two of the most recent were headed, ‘First major order from Hong Kong’, and ‘Fishheads.com climbs suppliers’ league table’, but when she scrolled up, at the top of the list was one titled ‘Board Appointments’. She checked the date and saw that it had been posted that morning. She opened it.

  It read:

  The directors of Fishheads plc wish to confirm a number of boardroom changes, which have been in place on a provisional basis for the last two months. These follow the decision of David Barnes, the founder of the company, to withdraw from business life, and are designed to ensure continuity in the upper tier of management.

  Mrs Sanda Boras has been confirmed as a director and as non-executive chair of the company.

  Mr Godric Hawker has been confirmed as chief executive officer, with day-to-day responsibility for all operations. With Mrs Boras, he will exercise oversight of all financial matters and will continue to act as finance director.

  Mr Ifan Richards continues as an executive director, assuming responsibility for investor relations and corporate communications.

  The board also wishes to announce that agreement has been reached on the acquisition of the shareholding of David Barnes by the LTN Trust. In consequence of the sale Mr Ignacio Riesgo is appointed as a non-executive director of the company.

  ‘Who the hell is he?’ Maggie murmured. She returned to the biography section. The name of the new director was listed there; she clicked on it, and read:

  Mr Ignacio Riesgo, 30, is the son of the late Hilario Riesgo. He was born in Panama, and was educated there and in the United States. He is a trustee of the LTN Trust, which is based in Bermuda, where he is resident.

  ’That tells me precisely fuck all,’ she said. ‘But I suppose ... Dražen has to disappear, so he cashes up by selling his fifty-one per cent share in Fishheads, which is worth, going by the company’s current market value, about two hundred million. Where does the money go?’

  She picked up the phone and dialled the number of Levene and Company, hoping that Jacqui Harkness was an early starter. She was.

  ‘Who’s Ignacio Riesgo?’ Maggie asked, not spending time on pleasantries.

  ‘Hah.�
�� The analyst laughed. ‘I thought I’d be hearing from you this morning, once you caught up with the Fishheads announcement. The answer is that I haven’t a clue who the bugger is, other than that he’s tied into the LTN Trust. It has investments around the world, in computing, property, and even football.’

  ‘Is Ignacio a director of those companies?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but most of them aren’t in my sector so I don’t study them.’

  ’Will this make it more difficult for me to locate Dražen?’

  ‘If he doesn’t want you to find him, and it seems clear that he doesn’t, it makes it bloody near impossible. These old Bermuda trusts are very difficult to penetrate. Dražen’s money will be locked up in Switzerland by now, and you’ll never pick up the trail.’

  ‘He’ll be long gone, with a new identity anyway,’ said Maggie, gloomily. ‘What do you know about the LTN Trust?’

  ‘Nothing, other than it’s an investment vehicle that’s been around for years. There are loads like it, there and in other offshore places. It’ll be legit, though; I’d vouch for that. Bermuda isn’t lawless; investment is its main industry and it’s regulated. You have to be these days, or the G8’ll shut you down. Sorry, Maggie, you’re stuck. You’ll have to try something else.’ Harkness chuckled. ‘How about tapping his mother’s letters, phones and e-mails?’

  ‘I could do all that. I could follow her every movement, and Davor’s too. But, Jacqui, this man is way too smart to be sending his mum postcards from exotic locations, or dropping her a quick call on the mobile, and his folks aren’t going to put him at risk by meeting him.’ She paused. ‘Have you got any literature on Fishheads, anything that goes back to the time he was there?’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of the last annual report. I’ll send you that. Where do you want it?’ Maggie gave her the Gordon Terrace address. ‘That doesn’t sound like a police station,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not. It’s my home; I told you, I’ve got Special Branch status on this, but I’m working on my own, with my boss’s approval.’

  Harkness whistled. ‘Wow! Go on, Maggie, tell me what’s he done? I won’t breathe a word, I promise.’

  As she spoke, Stephanie stirred in her carry-cot, and began to cry.

  ‘Do you hear that wee one in the background?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Couldn’t fail to. Yours?’

  ’Yes. Just before she was born, Drazen killed her dad.’

  Twenty-four

  Inspector Grade had carried his nickname from childhood, having inherited it from several generations of male forebears, since his official Christian name, Joyner, had been introduced by marriage to his family in the mid-eighteenth century. In his infancy he had been known as ‘Wee Chippy’, until, in his seventh year, his grandfather had died and the sobriquet ‘Young Chippy’ had passed to him. He still wore it within his circle of relations, friends and neighbours in and around the town of Broxburn, where he had been born and where he still lived. His father . . . plain ‘Chippy’; the term ‘senior’ was never used . . . was a hearty sixty-nine. Grade hoped that he would still be ‘Young Chippy’ long after he had given up work, and that his older son, aged fourteen and six feet tall, would have to wait far longer than he had before the time came for him to move up the pecking order.

  In fact, when the current ‘Wee Chippy’ had been born, he and his wife had considered breaking the chain by naming him William, but had bottled out in the face of his father’s silent glare when they had broached the subject.

  So, when the call was put through, he replied automatically, ‘Chippy Grade.’ ‘Young’ was beyond the pale at work and his given name had simply disappeared from the public domain.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Detective Superintendent Neil McIlhenney.

  Grade tried to read his tone, but failed. He barely knew the recently appointed Edinburgh CID commander, or his boss, DCS McGuire, but their formidable reputations had spread throughout the force: they were to be treated with caution.

  ‘And the same to you, sir.’ He carried on, briskly, ‘I’ve looked out those rosters Mr McGuire asked me about. PC Weekes was indeed on duty the day that Stacey Gavin’s body was found. But without asking him directly, I’ve no way of telling whether he was at the scene or not. I do know this, though: less than two hours after it was reported, he was at the scene of a traffic accident on the A90. So if he did respond to the Gavin call . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t there long,’ McIlhenney concluded. ‘That’s fine, Inspector; at least we know he was in the vicinity. He’s on shift now, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He clocked on at eight.’

  ‘And the poster we circulated, the one asking for information about Sugar Dean, with her photograph, that’s on prominent display in your station?’

  ‘You can’t miss it,’ Grade assured him. ‘You can’t walk into this building without coming face to face with the poor woman. It’s in the locker room too, as DCS McGuire asked.’

  ‘Has Weekes reacted?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Has he said anything about it, to you or his sergeant?’

  ‘No.’ Grade drew a deep breath. ‘Look, sir,’ he sighed, ‘what’s this about?’

  ‘Maybe nothing, but we’ve discovered from the woman’s folks that Weekes was engaged to her a couple of years back.’

  ‘And he hasn’t volunteered the fact? I’ll have him on the carpet right now.’

  ‘No, Inspector, don’t do that. We’ve got other plans for him. Say nothing to him, unless he walks into your office and asks to make a statement about the relationship. If he does that, let me know at once. If he doesn’t, make sure that at midday he’s somewhere we can get our hands on him double quick.’

  Twenty-five

  Skinner checked his watch: it showed one minute to eleven, Central European Time. There had been no call from McGuire with the name and location of a contact with the French police.

  ‘Let’s hit the road,’ he said to Aileen testily, ‘if you still want to come, that is.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replied, ‘but don’t you want to give Mario another half-hour?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, maybe.’

  ‘Which force will your contact be from?’

  ‘The gendarmerie, I suppose, since it’s a rural area. The Police Nationale, the lot that used to be called the Sûreté, operate in the cities and larger towns.’

  ‘See?’ She smiled. ‘National police forces.’

  ‘The gendarmerie is under the control of the French defence ministry,’ he pointed out. ‘They’re bloody soldiers in all but name. Do you want Scotland to have riot police like they’ve got . . . the CRS, bussing in heavies in uniform from Aberdeen when there’s trouble in Glasgow, so there’s less chance of them knowing any of the heads they crack open?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Aileen assured him. ‘I’m not jumping the gun; we still have to discuss your report. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re on edge all of a sudden?’

  ‘Ach, it’s nothing.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bob.’

  His grin had a boyish look to it. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘when you put on that face, I understand how the guy who leads your opposition in the Parliament must feel, when he gets his weekly hammering. I’m sorry, love. When you were in the shower I had a phone call I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘Who was it from?’

  ‘Jimmy, the chief; telling me that he’s chucking it. Retiring. Taking his pension. Now.’

  ‘But he’s not supposed to go until next year.’

  ‘Not quite. He has to go next year, but with his service, he could have retired years ago on full whack.’

  ‘What’s made him change his mind?’

  ‘The tank’s empty, he says. He also said that he’s been feeling like a spare prick in the command corridor for the last two or three years, although I don’t know what he meant by that. Jimmy’s been a great chief constable; there won’t be another like him.’

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘No, there won’t, ever,’ he insisted. ‘Jimmy’s unique.’

  ‘And so will you be.’

  ‘That’s what he said too. He also told me that he’ll take it as a personal affront if I don’t apply for the job.’

  ‘So will I ...’ said Aileen. She paused. ‘Well, maybe not quite as strongly as that, but I’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘Maybe you’re the very reason why I won’t apply. The First Minister’s partner in a chief constable’s uniform? The tabloids will have a field day.’

  ‘Excuse my English, but fuck the tabloids. What’s my job got to do with yours or yours with mine? If I thought that I was preventing you from being all you should be, I’d get out of the way.’

  He stared at her. ‘You’d leave me?’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly. I’ll never leave you. But I’m only a politician, a glorified committee chair. I could be replaced tomorrow, as my predecessor found out the hard way, and it wouldn’t hurt me to walk away. You, my love, are different; you’re a leader . . . born and bred, from what you’ve told me about your father. This is something you’ve got to do.’

  ‘I’m a hands-on cop, Aileen,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Then be a hands-on chief constable; break the bloody mould. I’ve seen all of them, you know; I’ve met all the Scottish chiefs. We don’t need yet another bureaucrat among them. We need you. And if I do start a debate about a national police force, I’ll need you . . . on the right side.’

  He slid his arms around her waist. ‘You know what? I need you too, Ms de Marco, much more than I need any career; you’ve been the salvation of me. Tell you what: I’ll do you a deal. You marry me, and I’ll apply for Jimmy’s job.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘You . . .’ she gasped. ‘Don’t think you can wriggle out of it like that. You’ve got a responsibility to the people.’ She paused. ‘However, if that’s what it takes . . . okay, you’ve got a deal.’