18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘No, you do that. I can grab something later.’

  He held the door open as she slid behind the wheel and drew the seat a little further forward, then waved her off as she turned and headed back to the junction. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and walk into the gendarmerie station.

  Skinner had been in local police offices in seven countries, on three continents, and found them more or less interchangeable: busy, untidy, poorly furnished, and marked by the underlying body odour of those who worked there. The Collioure version was an exception to his rule of thumb. There were freshly cut flowers in the reception area, and a modern air-conditioning unit was going full blast, a blessed relief from the heat of the day outside.

  ‘Oui, monsieur?’ the desk officer greeted him.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he replied. ‘Je suis Monsieur Skinner, d’Edimbourg, ici pour Lieutenant Cerdan.’ The words felt thick on his tongue. He wondered how far his limited French would carry him. Every sentence had to be thought out carefully before it was uttered: he knew that conversation would be very difficult.

  He sighed inwardly with relief when a voice behind him said, in clear, confident English, ‘Good day, sir, and welcome to Collioure. I am Lieutenant Jérôme Cerdan.’ He turned, to see a slightly built man with dark hair and a small moustache, dressed, almost identically to him, in a white short-sleeved shirt and lightweight tan trousers. The two shook hands. ‘I am told you are here to find a young Englishman,’ the French officer continued.

  ‘That’s right: a lad called Davis Colledge. I’m grateful for your help.’

  ‘No, it’s you who have done me a favour: I am based in Perpignan, but on days as hot as this I take every opportunity to come to the coast.’

  Skinner smiled. ‘Glad to be of service. Have you been told why I need to speak to the boy?’

  ‘His lady friend is dead, yes? Murdered?’

  ‘Yes, in Edinburgh, almost two weeks ago. We have no reason to regard the boy as a suspect, but we need to interview him.’

  ‘And there is a delicacy, yes?’

  ‘His father is a public figure. As far as I’m concerned that doesn’t win him any favours, but if our press found out about his involvement, they’d give him a hard time. We don’t have the privacy laws that you do in France.’

  ‘I understand, sir. You have an address for him?’

  ‘Yes; three Passage Jules Ferry, studio apartment.’

  ‘Then we will go there at once. It’s not far, but a local officer will take us.’

  Cerdan led the way through the station, past a row of cells, of which three seemed to be occupied, to a courtyard at the rear, where a uniformed corporal waited beside a police car. He saluted as they approached, then opened the front passenger door for the lieutenant, and the rear for Skinner.

  Rather than take the busy main thoroughfare, the driver showed his local knowledge by picking his way through a maze of back-streets, deserted but for parked cars, all with French registrations, and most of them covered with dust. As Cerdan had said, it was a short journey, less than five minutes, until they took a turn and the sea-front opened out before them, a tight bay bounded on the right by a tall domed tower, and on the left by a pier, leading to a rocky outcrop, on which stood a stone shelter, topped by a bell, and beside it, a life-sized figure of Christ on the cross.

  The corporal pulled up at the roadside, on a red line that could have meant only one thing, and spoke quietly to the officer.

  ‘He says we have to walk from here,’ Cerdan explained. ‘These are old streets and only for pedestrians and cyclists.’

  They stepped out of the car’s chilled air into the blazing afternoon heat, the corporal leading the way. He took them along the beach-front past a crowded restaurant, two art galleries, a busy crêperie and, improbably, an ancient Fiat Abarth motor-car that had been converted into a soft drinks bar, until they reached a street that was little more than a wide alley. They had gone no more than a hundred yards when he turned right into a cul-de-sac that was even narrower.

  ‘Ici,’ he announced.

  There were no shops or bars in the passage, only a dozen or so houses. Number three was half-way along and beside it a blue door, bearing the word ‘Studio’. There was no sign of a lock, only a handle. Without bothering to knock, Cerdan seized and turned it, revealing a stone stairway behind that appeared to lead up to the roof. They climbed until they reached a landing, barely large enough for the three men, with a second door, this one brown, with a mortise lock, and a Yale, for extra security. Skinner rapped on it firmly and waited. He knocked again, harder this time, and called out, ‘Davis. Davis Colledge. Open up, please. I’m a police officer from Scotland.’

  The corporal reached out and tried the handle, but the door was secure.

  ‘Bugger,’ Skinner muttered. ‘He’s probably gone out for lunch. I guess we might have to hang around and wait for him, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cerdan replied, ‘but let’s ask first.’ He spoke to the corporal, who nodded, and trotted back down the stairway.

  He was gone for several minutes: Skinner filled them by asking the Frenchman about his career, about the structure of the gendarmerie, and about its interface with its parallel force the Police Nationale, the Sûreté of Simenon’s Maigret. Much of it he knew already from the research he had done in preparing his paper for Aileen, but he found it interesting to have the perspective of a serving officer in one of the forces. ‘It’s all right,’ the lieutenant said finally, ‘as long as we take care not to become involved together. That can lead to arguments over . . .’ He paused. ‘I don’t know the word.’

  ‘Jurisdiction?’

  ‘That is it. Do you have such problems in Scotland, sir? I understand that you have a different way?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s relatively simple. We’re organised on a territorial basis; there’s the boundary line and we don’t cross it, operationally, other than in hot pursuit. There is a national body tackling serious crime, but that co-operates with forces like mine.’

  The noise of footsteps on the stairway announced the corporal’s return. He was smiling and holding a key-ring, breathing slightly hard as he reported to his officer.

  ‘Some good news,’ Cerdan announced. ‘Madame Marnie, the lady in the house below, is the owner of the studio. She has given us keys. But now, not so good. The young man is not here. He left early this morning.’

  ‘He’s gone back to Britain?’

  ‘It seems not. He told her that, since he was alone, he was going to see some more of the coast. He asked her also that if his friend should arrive she should tell her that he would be back in a few days.’

  ‘A few days,’ Skinner muttered.

  ‘I can find him,’ the lieutenant offered. ‘I can put out an order to all the stations in the region to look out for him. We can find out if he uses a credit card.’

  ‘We can, but then we’ll have started a manhunt. We’ll have made it look as if he’s a murder suspect, and I don’t want that. Let’s take a look. Maybe there’s another way I can play this.’

  The Frenchman nodded, took the keys from the corporal and unlocked the door, then held it open for Skinner. He stepped inside.

  ‘The studio’ was exactly that, a big living area, with a kitchen in a corner to the left, a double bed against the wall on the right and a sofa and armchair in the middle. In the furthest part of the room a door lay ajar, revealing a basin and mirror. Two wider doors, half glazed, lit the apartment; they opened out on to a roof terrace.

  The place was a mess. The bed was unmade, and the area was littered with pizza boxes . . . Skinner counted four . . . beer cans . . . Davis Colledge appeared to be a Kronenbourg drinker . . . and discarded wine bottles. But all that was incidental.

  In the middle of the room there stood an easel, supporting a large canvas. The picture seemed to be complete: it was a woodland scene and in the centre was a female nude, slim, fair-skinned and dark-haired, with heavy, brown-nippled breasts. In the b
ackground, to the left, a young man stood, observing her. Skinner moved closer. The male figure was also naked, with a shock of fair hair and an erect penis. It was a beautiful piece of work, spoiled by only one thing; the woman’s face had been obliterated, wiped out by a great black smudge that gave the painting an air of menace. Skinner moved closer, examining its detail. The female form had a small pink scar on the right side of the abdomen. He made a mental note of that, then looked at the self-portrait of Davis Colledge. As he studied it, he whistled. The young man’s eyes were vivid, and his mouth was a slash across his face. He held something in his hand. Unmistakably, it was a gun.

  Skinner reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small digital camera. Using its LCD screen to frame the image, he photographed the picture.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m going to leave my business card and a note for Davis, if he comes back here, asking him to call me as soon as he finds it. But I hope it doesn’t get to that stage. I’ve changed my mind about your looking for him. I think you should. If this picture represents his state of mind, then he is a very troubled young man.’

  Twenty-nine

  ‘What the hell is this?’ asked PC Theo Weekes. ‘Why couldn’t I have given you my statement at the mobile HQ? What’s wi’ dragging me down to Torphichen Place?’

  ‘Shut it, Constable,’ said DS Jack McGurk. ‘You’re in no position to complain. You’ve kept us waiting for information we should have had yesterday.’

  ‘And much good will it do you. I know fuck all about this. I went out with Sugar a couple of years ago, and now she’s dead. That’s a pity; I’m really sorry. But I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Whoever said you had?’

  ‘You’re treating me like a suspect,’ the constable snapped, as the door opened.

  ‘Not yet,’ said DI Becky Stallings, as she stepped into the interview room. ‘We’re treating you like a witness for now. You’ve made a voluntary statement and that’s good, but there are some questions we’d like to ask you.’

  She reached for the tape-recorder on the table, then paused, her hand hovering above it. ‘Before I switch this on, I want you to know something. Mr McIlhenney called me, so I’m aware of the story you told him, about why you and Miss Dean split up. That’s being checked out separately, but at this stage it’s not going on the record.’

  ‘Did those two no’ believe me?’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Weekes. You spin them a story about your station inspector’s wife giving you the clap and you think they’re going to take it at face value? But even if it’s true, it may not be relevant to this inquiry: so what I’m saying to you, and what I believe Mr McGuire said to you also, is that I don’t want any reference to it while this tape is running. Understood?’

  ‘Fine by me. Can we get on wi’ it? I was due off shift half an hour ago.’

  ‘In that case, let’s be brief,’ said Stallings, coolly. She switched on the twin-deck recorder, announced the venue, date and time and identified the three people in the room.

  Jack McGurk took over. ‘Constable Weekes, you’ve given us a voluntary statement about your former relationship with the murder victim. In it, you said that it terminated because you had second thoughts about marrying her. Why did you have your first thoughts?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Why did you ask her to marry you in the first place?’

  The constable pursed his lips as he considered the question. ‘Dinnae ken. I suppose I liked her.’

  ‘You liked her? Is that your criterion for a wife?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Criterion. Singular of criteria. Is that all you need to marry someone, that you like them?’

  ‘It’s a start. From what I’ve heard your wife disnae like you much.’

  McGurk stiffened: his eyes hardened as they locked on to Weekes. Stallings leaned forward as if to intervene, but he held up a hand. ‘I’m impressed, Constable,’ he said, ‘not by you, but by the power of the police-force grapevine. Mind you it’s not always accurate. My wife and I are separated, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like me. As it happens, we’re very fond of each other. No, more than that; we love each other, only not enough. We have a problem living together, and we can’t get over it. Did you love Sugar?’

  ‘Ah suppose.’

  ‘You’re as certain as that? She must really have swept you off your feet.’

  ‘Well, like I said, Ah liked her. We got on.’

  ‘After your split, did you keep in touch?’

  ‘I called her a couple of times.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ah dinnae ken. Just to see how she was doing, I suppose.’

  ‘And with whom?’ asked Stallings.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you want to know how she was getting on without you? Whether there was a new man in her life?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

  ‘Did you ever ask her?’

  ‘Ah suppose I must have.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘Not that she told me.’

  ‘When did you meet?’ the inspector probed.

  ‘About four years ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Tap o’ Lauriston.’

  ‘The top of where?’

  Weekes looked at her scornfully, as he repeated the name. ‘It’s a pub,’ he replied. ‘Up near the art school.’

  ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘There was a wee bit of bother up there: outside, like. I was stationed here then, and my mate and I went to sort it out. Sugar was there, trapped in the doorway by the rammy. It was controlled quick enough, but even after the van had taken the hooligans away, she was scared to walk across the Meadows. She was living in a flat then, up Warrender place. It was a wild night; lots of drunks about and such. So my mate and I, we ran her home. He drove, and Sugar and I got talking. When we got there, I walked her up the stairs and we made a date.’

  ‘And you went on from there?’

  ‘Aye, the usual thing, Ah saw her a couple of times a week, depending on my shift pattern. I was moved out to Livingston not long after that, but we still kept on.’

  ‘Where did you live then?’ asked McGurk.

  ‘Gorgie.’

  ‘With your parents?’

  Weekes scowled at him. ‘With my wife.’

  ‘I see.’ The sergeant smiled. ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then why were you going out with Sugar?’

  ‘I liked her too.’

  ‘When did you and your wife split up?’

  ‘We were divorced two years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  Weekes glared across the table. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do wi’ you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Constable, you’re on tape,’ Stallings reminded him.

  He ignored her. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s interesting, Theo,’ McGurk replied calmly. ‘You were quick to take a crack at my marriage, yet you go all prickly when I ask about yours. Why did your wife divorce you?’

  ‘She didn’t. We just agreed.’

  ‘Then who left who?’

  ‘Ah moved out; got a wee house out East Craigs way.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three years ago.’

  ‘But according to your personnel file, you were living with your wife in Caledonian Crescent until two years ago.’

  ‘I never got round to telling them until then.’

  ‘But all of us have to be contactable all the time, for emergencies. You must know that.’

  ‘It took me a while to get the phone into ma new place.’

  The sergeant frowned. ‘Let’s imagine that you’re under oath. You’re not, but humour me. If you were, would you have perjured yourself just now with that answer?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t get coy on us, Weekes, and don’t lie to us either. You’ve already had one formal reprimand today. Where you live is cabled. You hav
e a choice of two telephone providers, fighting with each other to get you on line, without any waiting time. So let me ask you again. Why did it take you so long to report your change of address?’

  The constable sighed. ‘Because I was still at Gorgie most of the time. Okay?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, but let’s go on. What you’re saying is that while you were going out with Sugar Dean, you were still living with your wife.’

  ‘On and off.’

  ‘Enough!’ Stallings shouted. She leaned forward and slapped the table. ‘Don’t bloody prevaricate with us, Constable. When you were dating Sugar, you were two-timing your wife. Yes or no?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Yes or fucking no?’

  ‘Yes, then.’

  ‘At last. What’s her name, by the way, this wife, or ex, of yours?’

  ‘Lisanne.’

  ‘Did Sugar know about Lisanne?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all? Never?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you started going out, where did she think you lived?’

  ‘I told her I lived at home, that was all.’

  ‘You lied to her.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Stallings whistled. ‘It’s men like you that make women like me glad we’re still single. At what point did you and Sugar begin a sexual relationship?’

  ‘Not until after I got my house; after we got engaged.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘About two and a half years ago.’

  ‘Are you telling us,’ McGurk asked, ‘that you asked her to marry you so you could get your leg over? Because that’s how it’s beginning to sound.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Whose idea was the divorce? Yours or Lisanne’s? Which one of you was first to suggest it?’

  ‘Me,’ Weekes murmured.

  ‘Louder for the tape, please.’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘How did you put it?’

  ‘I said our marriage was goin’ stale, and that I thought we needed space between us.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Before I got the house.’

  ‘But you didn’t move out for a year?’

  ‘Not finally, no.’