Weekes nodded.
‘An audible reply, please,’ Stallings snapped.
‘Yes.’
‘But the necklet, Theo,’ McGurk said. ‘Why the hell did you take the necklet?’
‘To remind me of her. I gave it to her, after all.’
‘So why did you give it to Lisanne?’
‘So it wouldnae just be stuck away in one of my drawers, so I’d see it all the time on her, and so that when I looked at Lisanne I’d think of Sugar as well.’
The sergeant whistled. ‘Weekes, you are one sick man.’
‘So that’s your client’s story, is it?’ Stallings asked Birtles.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘and he’s going to be sticking to it. So charge him with murder, if you think you’ve got the evidence, which I for one doubt, or release him.’
‘I don’t need to charge him with murder,’ the inspector replied. ‘Not yet. I’m going to charge him with everything he’s admitted in this room. We’ll begin with attempting to pervert the course of justice, and leaving the scene of a crime, add in concealing a body, and round it off with theft. That’s more than enough to hold him overnight, pending a court appearance. Who knows what else we’ll have on him by then?’
Forty-two
Aileen walked in from the terrace to the living area, towelling herself off after a swim in the pool. Bob smiled when he saw that she was wearing a bikini. ‘Want a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Let’s go out for one.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Then wait a minute till I put some clothes on and dry my hair. Where will we go? Into the old town?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah, it was crawling with people when I went down for the croissants and papers, and that was just after nine. Let’s walk along to the Hostal Empuries.’
‘Is that the place right on the beach? The one we can see from the terrace?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Yes, I fancy that. I won’t be a minute.’ She ran off towards the stairs.
Bob glanced down at his shirt and saw patches of sweat under the arms. Heading off after Aileen, he started to unbutton it, tossing it into the laundry basket as he reached the bedroom. Looking for a fresh replacement, he took a cream-coloured T-shirt from his drawer and slipped it on. The letters ‘FBI’ were emblazoned on the front and back in big black letters. It looked like one of a few million sold on souvenir stalls across America, but his was different, a gift from the deputy director at the end of a visit to Quantico. He grinned at himself in the mirror, remembering the trip.
The sound of a hairdryer came from the bathroom. Idly, Bob picked up a pair of binoculars that had been left on the dressing-table and stepped out on to the sun terrace. He put the glasses to his eyes, and focused on the Hostal Empuries, which lay across the bay. He could see people on the terrace, but several empty tables also. He hoped that one would still be free when he and Aileen arrived.
He tracked down to the small curving bay, with its mushroom-shaped parasols and blue sun-loungers; it was packed, thronged with sun-worshippers of all ages, shapes and sizes. He made a mental note not to join them. He swung the binoculars to the right, following the line of the path that led to L’Escala, and then picking up the sea, as it washed gently up on to the rocks. A woman lay there, on a gentle slope away from the rest of the sunbathers; she was on her back, arms by her sides, wearing only a pair of black pants. Bob guessed that she was local, someone who knew where the quiet spots were, even in summer. He moved on, and was scanning the larger beach that led up to the road when he felt a hand tug his elbow gently.
‘I’m ready.’
He turned. Aileen was dressed in blue shorts and a matching shirt, tied below the third button, to leave her midriff exposed. She smiled at his T-shirt. ‘You look like my bodyguard.’
‘I am your bodyguard, love, duly authorised by the Mossos d’Esquadra, the Catalan police force, to carry a firearm for your protection while we’re in this country.’
The smile became a frown. ‘Are you serious?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘You don’t have a gun, though.’
‘They offered me one.’
‘You didn’t take it, did you?’
‘No. If I had we’d have argued about it.’
‘Yes, we would, sure as hell. I don’t need an armed guard, not even you.’
‘My darling, you’re a head of government. If you didn’t live with me, you’d have full-time protection officers.’
‘No, I bloody wouldn’t. I don’t believe in them. Look at that man Colledge, carrying a gun. A fat lot of good that’ll do him against a suicide bomber.’
‘They tend not to go after individuals . . . No, but a man with a knife, that’s different. If someone gets close enough to you with a blade, a gun’s pretty much useless. You haven’t got room to get it out.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘You die, or you take it off him, if you’re good enough.’
‘You are good enough, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Speaking of Colledge, any news of his son?’
‘Yes, I called Edinburgh while you were swimming. He’s pulled another six hundred euros from his bank account.’
‘What does that tell you?’
Bob wrinkled his nose. ‘It tells me that he’s running around with quite a bit of cash for an eighteen-year-old on a painting holiday. But what does it suggest to me? That’s the real question. He’s a bright lad, so he probably knows that plastic leaves a trail. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know where he is. His last withdrawal was made at Perpignan railway station: that’s on the main line. It goes everywhere.’
‘Maybe somebody will remember him buying a ticket.’
‘I phoned my friend Cerdan and asked him to check, but it’s a big place. They have thousands of travellers every day, and at this time of year half of them will be backpackers from northern Europe buying their tickets in very bad French. Anyway, finding the boy may have dropped a point or two in the importance stakes. We’ve got a guy in custody and it’s looking bad for him. He’s one of us, unfortunately.’
‘A police officer?’
‘I’m afraid so. But don’t let’s dwell on it, or my morning will be blighted.’
Aileen frowned. ‘Maybe it will be anyway. I haven’t finished with this protection stuff. Until now I’ve written it off as one of your jokes. Do you have a gun in the house in Gullane?’
‘No. I won’t, with the kids there, but you’re protected in other ways. There are sensors all around the place that tell me if anything heavier than a cat comes anywhere near.’
‘But it’s only me,’ she protested. ‘I’m nothing. And it’s only Scotland: we’re only a devolved assembly.’
‘Government,’ he corrected her. ‘And you are its leader. That makes you my responsibility, professionally as well as personally, and I will look after you as well as I can . . . without a firearm.’
‘I’ve got faith in you.’
‘Let’s hope it’s justified,’ he said. ‘But enough of the heavy stuff: let’s be on our way.’
They left the house and took the footpath that led down to the entrance to the beach road and to the one-armed headless statue, erected to mark the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. The walk to the hotel took less than ten minutes even at a gentle pace. When they arrived, all but one of the terrace tables were occupied. Bob took the steps two at a time, and sat down, just beating a German couple to the prize. He glanced at his watch as the waiter approached. ‘Will we make it lunch, rather than a coffee break?’ he asked.
Aileen nodded. ‘Might as well.’
They ordered a selection of tapas from the menu, with two beers. The young waiter was attentive. When Bob complimented him on his English, he replied that his father was British, his mother Catalan. They ate slowly, watching the holiday-makers on the beach below. ‘I wish we could stay here,’ said Aileen, as she finished the l
ast of the patatas bravas.
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ Bob replied. ‘In a few years I hit fifty, and I can retire on a decent pension. If the electorate decides in its wisdom to get rid of you at the same time, we could move out here, put the kids in one of the English schools . . .’
She stared at him. ‘Would you do that?’
‘My love, if that’s what you wanted; I’m told the schools are pretty good.’
‘Not that good, though. Your ex-wife would go crackers if you even suggested it. And you’d go crackers too, after a few months out here. The last thing I want to do is cage you, or even get in the way of your career. Let’s just leave all that as a distant dream.’
‘Speaking of my career,’ he said, ‘we still haven’t discussed that report I prepared for you. Have you read it yet?’
‘Of course I have. Three times. It makes perfect sense, especially when you look at the examples you quoted. Given the size of Scotland, a single police force would work very well. And, as you say, Britain as a whole is almost unique in not having a national police force as such.’
‘Could you get a Bill to set one up through the Parliament?’
‘I reckon so. If I read them right, our coalition partners would support it, and maybe the Tories as well.’
‘Will you try?’ he asked.
‘That depends on one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your approval. The document sets out the case for amalgamation of the existing forces, but that’s all I asked you to do. It doesn’t have any recommendations. You haven’t told me what you think of the idea.’
Bob slid his Ray-Bans down his nose and fixed his eyes on her. ‘I’m a cop; I do what I’m asked or ordered.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re also my closest and most trusted adviser, so cut the crap.’
‘Okay, if you insist. I’ve consulted one or two people close to me in drawing it up, but the paper you have is the only copy. Burn it, shred it, chuck it in the sea, whatever; but don’t let anyone else see it.’
‘You think it’s a bad idea?’
‘No, no. I think it’s a terrible idea. The structure we have at the moment is in the public interest because it makes it difficult for badly intentioned politicians to put improper pressure on the police. Your predecessor wanted to control us; if he’d just had one guy to lean on it would have been much easier for him.’
‘But,’ she countered, ‘the paper’s very specific about the machinery for the appointment of the commissioner and senior officers. It would leave it all in the hands of the local authorities, and that’s how it would be enacted. That’s what the Bill would say.’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘that’s how it would be set up. But suppose you lot get the boot at the next election and the SNP get in? Or suppose the hairy-backs on your extreme left gain a significant number of seats and decide that they want control? There would be nothing to stop them changing the rules, if they had the votes in Parliament to do it.’
‘I could fix it for Westminster to veto it if they tried.’
Bob snorted. ‘The way the polls are looking for your party, you won’t be able to fix anything down there after the next general election. No, you asked for my advice and you’ve got it, as firmly as I can express it. The present system works, and the crime figures prove it. So since it ain’t broke . . .’
‘What if I went ahead anyway?’ she asked. ‘What would you do?’
‘If I had to, I’d lead the opposition, and I’d mobilise the chiefs’ association to speak out against it. I wouldn’t seek any post in the new force; in fact, I’d leave the service the day it was set up.’
To his surprise, she laughed softly. ‘How did I know that was what you’d say? Lover, I’ve got a confession to make: I’ve never had any thought of amalgamating the police forces. I feel exactly the same way you do about the notion.’
‘Then why the hell . . .’
‘. . . did I ask you to undertake the study? For your sake, to give you something to focus on, and to bring you out of yourself. Bob, after that business up at St Andrews, you were a psychological mess. Jimmy Proud told me that if you hadn’t agreed to go on sabbatical he’d have ordered you. He and I dreamed up the idea of the study between us.’
‘So you and my chief constable were plotting behind my back,’ he said heavily.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘In that case . . . thanks.’ Suddenly, his grin reflected the brightness of the day. ‘You were right: I really was in a fucking mess. But your wee scheme worked. It took me out of all that shit, out of my brooding self.’
‘When Stevie Steele died,’ Aileen confessed, ‘I was afraid you’d sink back into your depression.’
Bob shook his head. ‘No. If anything, that had the opposite effect. When something like that happens, it makes you want to be twice the cop, to honour the memory, so to speak. I’m ready to roll now and, for all our fantasy a few minutes ago, I’m itching to get back into action.’ He glanced at their empty glasses. ‘Want another beer?’
‘No, thanks. We’ve probably outstayed our welcome at this table. Let’s move on, and give somebody else the chance to eat.’ She waved to their waiter, who read the gesture correctly and brought the bill.
Instead of heading back to town, they carried on along the beachside walkway. After a few minutes they reached an entrance. ‘Are these the ruins you told me about?’ asked Aileen.
‘That’s right. That pile of rocks on the other side of the fence was the first Greek colony on the Iberian peninsula; it goes back over two and a half thousand years. They called it Emporion . . . means “market”. There were people here before the Greeks; there was the indigenous population, and Etruscans, Phoenicians, maybe even Persians, visited and left traces. The Romans showed up eventually, and built their own town. For a wee while, this was the most important place in Spain. Want to go in?’
‘Of course.’
They spent two hours exploring the carefully excavated streets and buildings, tracing the city from its founding years through to its expansion under the Romans. Finally, Aileen cried, ‘Enough! I’m historied out!’
They made their way home on the Carrilet, a tractor-drawn train that provided the town’s main public transport during the summer. It dropped them at the top of L’Escala’s main street, leaving them with one last, uphill walk to the villa. ‘Swim,’ Bob gasped, as the door closed behind them, jogging upstairs to change into his trunks.
In the bedroom, he heard a splash. Aileen’s voice drifted up from the pool. ‘It’s okay,’ she called out. ‘There are no helicopters up there.’
He smiled, and picked up the binoculars he had discarded earlier to retrace their journey. He found the ruins, or those he could see through the trees, then tracked back along the line of the walkway to the hotel, and beyond.
The sun-worshipper was still on the rocks. ‘You must be fried, lady,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve been there for hours.’
In another micro-second, he would have moved on, had something not held his attention . . . or, rather, the absence of something, the absence of anything. ‘Where are her clothes?’ he whispered. ‘Where’s her water bottle? She can’t have lain there all that time without drinking.’
The glasses had a zoom facility. He slid it to the maximum, and focused as sharply as he could, watching the woman for long seconds that turned into minutes. He looked for signs of movement, but she lay still, unnaturally still, terminally still.
He was frowning as he stripped off the bathing trunks he had only just donned, exchanging them for running shorts. Quickly, he pulled his FBI T-shirt back over his head, then rescued his trainers from the back of his wardrobe. Aileen was still in the pool as he stepped out on to the terrace. ‘Changed my mind,’ he told her. ‘I’m going for a jog.’ He headed for the door, picking up his mobile on the way.
He was an experienced all-terrain runner, used to uneven surfaces on his routes around Gullane, and so he took the steps down t
o the roadway in his stride, keeping his knees very slightly bent to maintain his balance. He picked up pace as the ground levelled out; as he ran past the one-armed statue he glanced across the bay, and saw that the woman was still there, her pose unaltered. He sprinted around the curve in the road, feeling the sweat begin to pour from him as he cruised past walkers, holding his line and forcing two oncoming cyclists to alter theirs.
It took him only two minutes to reach the start of the path that led to the rocks. It was rough, and he had to drop his pace, picking his way carefully to avoid slipping and plunging into the sea. At first, he passed one or two people, escapees from the throng on the beach, but soon, as the ground became so rough and uneven that he had to slow to walking pace, there was no-one.
He passed the woman by. She was hidden from his view by a spur of rock, and it was not until the Hostal Empuries came into sight that he realised he had missed her. He retraced his steps until he discovered where he had gone wrong, until he stood, looking down at her from only a few yards away. Her face was calm, composed, peaceful. She was naked; the black garment he had assumed he saw through the binoculars was, in reality, a thick pubic triangle.
‘Hola,’ he called out. ‘Hello. Bonjour.’
There was no movement.
‘Esta bien?’ he asked, ‘Are you okay?’, guessing the answer and fearing it.
He approached the woman and knelt beside her on her hard rock bed. He reached out and touched her shoulder. Her skin was hot, from the sun, and yet there was an underlying coldness also. He put two fingers against her neck and pressed, searching for a pulse that he knew, within himself, he would not find.
Moving to a sitting position, he reached into his pocket and took out his mobile, then found its stored phone numbers. He scrolled through until he found the entry that read ‘Mossos d’Esquadra’ and pressed the call button.
Forty-three
‘Realistically,’ Neil McIlhenney asked, ‘what do we have?’
‘We’ve got him for everything he’s already been charged with,’ said Stallings, leaning back in her chair with her feet on her desk. ‘He’s admitted to all of it in his signed statement.’
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