18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Bloody well better,’ he chuckled, ‘but I don’t hold out any real hope.’

  ‘Do you want to change the flight?’ she asked. ‘Go back tomorrow instead?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, my love. I have very firm plans for tomorrow. None of them involves travel, and all of them involve you.’

  Fifty-five

  ‘Thank Christ for a pause button,’ Mario McGuire exclaimed, as the phone rang for the second time in ten minutes, ‘or this DVD would be a total waste of time.’

  ‘Stop moaning.’ Paula Viareggio laughed. ‘You must know Pirates of the Caribbean off by heart now. I’m beginning to think of you as an outsize Johnny Depp.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t do the accent.’ He glanced at the caller number on the handset. ‘Hello, Mags,’ he said. ‘Are you and McIlhenney conspiring to ruin my evening?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mario.’ She sighed. ‘I forgot the time.’

  Her crestfallen tone made him feel instant guilt. ‘It’s okay. I didn’t mean it, honest. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Probably nothing. I wanted to share something with you, that’s all.’

  ‘Then share away. I’m listening.’

  ’I think I’ve found a route to Drazen Boras.’

  ‘You’ve what? Explain!’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Margaritaville?’

  ‘Jimmy Buffett’s greatest hit. He’s a country singer. Wrote a couple of books as well.’

  ‘He’s more than that, and so’s Margaritaville. It’s been turned into a franchise, a chain of bar restaurants in hip places, like Jamaica, Las Vegas, Florida and so on. Remember the jacket Boras wore when he came to Edinburgh, the day you saw him down in Leith?’

  ‘Margaritaville,’ said McGuire. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘That was the Jamaican one,’ she told him. ‘He’s also been to the Las Vegas version; there’s a Fishheads press release all about his trip, and a photo to prove it. His pal Ifan Richards was there as well, according to a shirt he was wearing in a shot taken a few months ago in Cape Town. He’s also been to the Margaritaville in Key West.’

  ‘They seem to be big fans of Mr Buffett.’

  ‘Very much so. Ifan Richards was in Columbia, South Carolina, on Wednesday last week, and guess where he bought the shirt he was wearing in the pic that his PR firm circulated last Friday? Margaritaville, Myrtle Beach: South Carolina.’

  ‘That’s bloody good, Mags,’ Mario conceded. ‘But we can’t stake out every one of these places indefinitely in the hope that Boras drops in for a beer, and nobody else will do it for us.’

  ‘We don’t have to,’ Maggie retorted. ‘On Monday, the document recording the sale, or transfer, of his share-holding in Fishheads was lodged with the company’s registrar in London, in accordance with company law. It was dated the previous Tuesday, the day before his mate showed up in Columbia wearing the Myrtle Beach shirt . . . and Dražen’s signature was on it.’

  ‘It could have been couriered to him from anywhere.’

  ‘It could,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t think it was. Do you? You’re the one who spoke of the Boras arrogance. Don’t you think that he’d show up with his new identity and his old signature to meet his mate?’

  ‘I’ll give you that,’ he murmured. ‘Go on. What’s the next stage?’

  ’We don’t waste time looking for Dražen,’ she said. ‘We concentrate on his mate instead. And we don’t write off Davor; we keep tabs on him too. We track every flight booking Richards makes, and every flight plan that’s filed for Davor’s private jet. If either of them heads for a place that has a Margaritaville, then so do we, and we check out the local hotels for a booking in the name of Ignacio Riesgo.’

  ‘That’s bordering on the brilliant, Mags, but . . . forgive me for saying this . . . “we” aren’t looking for Dražen. Stevie was murdered in Northumbria: it’s their investigation.’

  ‘And they’re stuck!’ she snapped. ‘They could have done this, if they’d been willing or able, but they’ve got nowhere. Their thinking doesn’t extend beyond the River Tees.’

  ‘But how are you going to do all of this keeping tabs?’

  ‘I’ve got a contact, through Bob. His name’s Adrian St John.’

  ‘Thames House?’ asked Mario, taken by surprise.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve met him. In that case, you’ve got a chance. Those people probably know my shoe size. What happens when he gets a hit?’

  ‘I get on a plane.’

  ‘Mags!’

  ‘Just kidding,’ she said quickly. ‘When that happens I talk to you and Bob. Hopefully you can go to the Met, and ask them to arrange for the co-operation of the local agency, whatever that is.’

  ‘That’s a sound idea. Listen, kid, if we get that far, and I can swing it, I’ll get on that plane myself. Seeing Dražen in the dock has been your dream up to now, but I’m starting to buy into it.’

  Fifty-six

  Although Detective Inspector Becky Stallings was the senior police officer present in the elegant office, she felt at a disadvantage. She was the only person there who had not met Gregor Broughton, the area procurator fiscal. She looked at him, and saw a bulky man with a face that told of younger days spent in the front row of many a rugby scrum.

  He seemed to sense her hesitancy, as she took her place at his conference table. ‘First time in the Crown Office?’ he asked her, with a reassuring smile.

  She nodded.

  ‘First major case in Scotland?’

  ‘That too,’ she confessed, although she guessed that he had known already.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The principles are exactly the same on this side of the border, but we’re better. The chain’s shorter, and you get to deal with me directly, round a table like this one, instead of sending your report up the line and waiting for some character in the Crown Prosecution Service to decide whether or not you’ve got a ninety per cent chance of getting a conviction.’

  ‘I know that scenario,’ said Stallings. ‘I’ve had a few sent back marked “no pro”, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Well, not here,’ said Broughton, cheerfully. ‘Here you’re dealing with real lawyers, experienced prosecutors, not some kid straight out of university who’s never been in a courtroom in his life. We’re braver, too. We’re not worried about percentages. A fiscal has one benchmark. Can I sell this to at least eight out of fifteen jurors?’ He glanced at McGurk. ‘What do you think, Jack? Can I convict Weekes of murder?’

  The sergeant was impassive. ‘That’s the question we came to ask you, sir.’

  ‘Hah!’ the fiscal laughed. ‘It’s well seen you’ve spent some time in my friend Bob’s office. He’s shown you the ropes, all right.’ He looked to his left, where Weekes’s solicitor sat. ‘Well, Frankie,’ he asked, ‘how did you draw this one?’

  ‘He asked for me, Gregor,’ she replied. ‘I must have been doing something right these past few years.’

  ‘Your television advertising can’t do you any harm either. “Been arrested? Then call Frances Birtles.” Not too subtle, but effective, no doubt about that. Even a cop knew your number off by heart when he found himself in trouble.’ His smile vanished. ‘So?’ he asked abruptly.

  Birtles had played the game many times before. ‘So what?’ she retorted.

  ‘I’ve read the papers in the case, and I’ve listened to the tapes. Your boy is teetering on the edge of the precipice. The jury at his trial will know he’s a police officer: that’s not going to win him sympathy, however clever you are at empanelling them. There’s enough there for me to ask them for a murder conviction. If I do that will you plead him guilty?’

  ‘It would be my client’s decision, Gregor. You know that. Plus, if I retain counsel, his or her view would have to be taken on board too.’

  ‘Frankie,’ said Broughton, ‘you’ve got rights of audience in the High Court. You can appear for Weekes yourself, and we both know you like the limelight that an acquittal brings. We
both know also that you’ve got a bloody good record of “not guilty” and “not proven” verdicts, precisely because you have a talent for reading the evidence and then reading the jury’s collective mind. If you bring in an advocate to defend this guy on a murder charge, you’re as good as telling me you think he’s guilty. Come on. Are you going to plead him, and save us the cost of a trial?’

  Birtles shook her head. ‘On a murder charge, no . . . and I’ll defend him myself.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. And on the other charges?’

  ‘On those I’ll be offering mitigation.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Stallings.

  ‘It means,’ Broughton told her, ‘that Frankie knows when she’s on a loser.’

  ‘If I do that,’ the lawyer continued, ‘what’s the deal?’

  ‘I won’t ask the judge for more than five.’ The fiscal frowned again. ‘But we’re not there yet. I’m not afraid to face you in court on the murder charge.’

  McGurk looked at Stallings, and nodded.

  ‘Before we go there,’ the inspector said, ‘we have some new information. I’m sorry you haven’t had advance sight of this, Mr Broughton, but we didn’t hear of it ourselves until this morning.’ She opened her case and took out a slim folder from which she extracted a print, an image of a woman, lying on a rock. ‘Her name’s Nadine Sebastian, she was an artist, and she was shot dead yesterday morning in Spain, within sight of DCC Skinner’s house there. He saw the body from his terrace and alerted the local police.’

  As the fiscal studied the photograph, Stallings handed him another, showing the bullet wound. ‘It’s almost a perfect match for Dean, isn’t it?’ he murmured, then passed the sheets to Birtles. ‘Curious.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ the lawyer declared, after a few seconds. ‘You can’t nail my client for this one, and the similarity is striking. Has there been an arrest in Spain?’

  ‘No. But . . . Remember Davis Colledge, Sugar Dean’s protégé slash boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. The one you haven’t interviewed yet.’

  ‘We know he was in the area at the time of this incident, and we know that he caught a flight to Holland not long afterwards.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’ Broughton asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve advised Customs to be on the lookout for him, obviously. We don’t think he caught a connecting flight out of Rotterdam, or Schiphol, but to be honest we can’t be sure.’

  ‘Have you checked with his parents? His father’s an MP, as I recall from your report.’

  ‘He was contacted yesterday,’ said McGurk, ‘and again this morning. Mr Colledge is still saying he hasn’t seen or heard from him since he left for France almost two weeks ago.’

  ‘But he will. Sooner or later he’ll show up at the family home, wide-eyed and innocent, and probably pleading ignorance of Miss Dean’s death.’ He turned back to Birtles. ‘Frankie, this changes things. The Spanish incident may have no connection to the Dean case, but until this young man is found and eliminated as a suspect, it would be unwise of me to proceed with a murder charge against your client. I’m still going to do him for attempting to pervert and the lesser charges, make no mistake about that, but anything more serious is on hold, without prejudice. We’ll stick him up before the sheriff as planned this morning, for the remand hearing.’

  ‘I’ll ask for bail,’ Birtles told him.

  ‘I imagine you will. I’m not of a mind to oppose it, unless the police have a strong view that I should. Inspector?’

  Stallings shook her head. ‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘we won’t ask for a remand in custody. However . . .’ she paused for emphasis ‘. . . I do want, as a condition of bail, that Weekes be forbidden from contacting or approaching his former wife, Lisanne Weekes, and his by now, I reckon, ex-girlfriend, PC Mae Grey. It’s possible that both these women may be witnesses against him.’

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘I’ve got no problem with that.’

  ‘In that case,’ Broughton announced, ‘I’ll see you in court in about an hour. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like a further word with the officers.’

  Birtles smiled, going from severe to attractive in an instant. ‘I’m sure you would,’ she said, sliding her papers into a black leather document holder, and heading for the door.

  The fiscal watched her leave. ‘The lad,’ he began, as the door closed. ‘What do we know about his movements on the morning of the Sugar Dean murder? We know where PC Weekes was, but what about him?’

  ‘He was a boarder at the school,’ McGurk replied. ‘The problem is that by the time the body was found, it had broken up and the other pupils were scattered to the four winds. We’ve been as thorough as we could: we located his dormitory warden and interviewed her. She says that he came in for breakfast at nine sharp. They were given a lie-in that morning as it was the last day of the session. She hadn’t seen him before that, though. She gave us the names of some of his pals; since he left his digs in France we’ve been contacting as many as we can find, but they’ve all been pretty vague. What we have been told, though, more than once, is that Davis is a very fit lad, and that he often got up early and went for a run.’

  ‘So it’s possible that he ran up to the golf course, intercepted the victim and shot her, then got back in time for a late bowl of All Bran?’

  ‘All other things being equal; for example, him having access to a firearm, yes.’

  ‘So why wasn’t he taken seriously as a suspect from the start? Because of his dad?’

  ‘Because there was no reason to, Mr Broughton,’ said the sergeant. ‘The victim’s parents spoke well of him. The night before the murder he took her to meet his folks, and they all got on. The day after, they were supposed to be meeting up in France for what was shaping up as a pretty intimate holiday. Where does any of that put him in the frame?’

  The fiscal nodded. ‘Well put, Jack. You’re right: I accept that. And then, of course, PC Weekes lumbered on to the scene and offered himself up as the perpetrator.’ He looked at Stallings. ‘Be in no doubt, Inspector, regardless of what’s happened elsewhere, I still fancy him. But before I lay it all on him, we must pursue the Colledge alternative. Do all you can to find him. When you do, I want him brought back up to Edinburgh for questioning. There will be no cosy chat in Mummy and Daddy’s drawing room, with them eyeballing the proceedings. I need you to interview him in the same room and under the same conditions as Weekes, and I want you to go just as hard at him as you did on the tapes I heard this morning. Squeeze him and see what pops out. Don’t worry about comeback from the Shadow Defence Secretary. I’ll deal with any flak from that quarter.’ He winked. ‘You never heard anything like that from the Crown Prosecution Service, did you?’

  She returned his smile. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I never even got to talk to them.’

  Fifty-seven

  ‘Can it be done?’ Adrian St John repeated. ‘Yes, Chief Superintendent, it can be done. It’s an unusual request to be coming directly from a Scottish police force, rather than through Special Branch at the Yard, but we can access that information.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Maggie Steele.

  ‘We can do it, but . . . You understand that I’ll need to take it up the line for authorisation. I know I was told to co-operate with you, but this is a bit special.’

  ‘Adrian, I don’t care if you clear it with the Prime Minister, as long as it gets done.’

  ‘I won’t have to go that high.’ He laughed. ‘Top floor will do.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘If I’m lucky, two minutes.’

  ‘And if you’re not?’

  ‘If I’m not, I’ll come back to you . . . or that someone up the line will.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  ‘If I’m asked why you need this information, what should I say?’

  ‘That the people under surveillance may be attempting to contact a fugit
ive from justice.’

  ‘That isn’t normally our concern.’

  ‘Come on, now,’ said Maggie, sharply. ‘We’re all playing for the same team.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ he paused ‘... if you want to continue with the sporting analogy, we all have different roles. You’re a striker, whereas I’m one of those unsung chaps labouring away in mid-field.’

  ‘In that case, think of it this way. The boys at the back have let a goal in. I’m after the equaliser.’

  ‘Indeed? Let me ask you something. Should this task you’ve asked me to undertake lead to me slipping you a scoring opportunity, how do you propose to convert it?’

  ‘Like any good striker. I’ll improvise.’

  ‘That may be more difficult than you think. Are you aware of the terms of the new extradition treaty between the US and Britain?’

  ‘Not really: I’ve never had occasion to use it.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky. It’s a one-way street. It means that the Americans can have anyone they ask for without presenting any sort of a meaningful case against them, whereas we still have to show solid evidence of guilt. In this case, since the man you’re after has disappeared, your greatest difficulty . . . should, by some miracle, you make an arrest . . . may be in proving that the man you’ve caught is who you say he is.’

  ‘Adrian,’ she asked, ‘how do you know who I’m after?’

  ‘I had dealings with your colleagues a few months ago,’ he told her. ‘On that occasion they were tracing Boras junior. My guess is that you still are.’

  ‘You’re too clever for your own good.’

  ‘That has been said, Chief Superintendent. That’s why I’ve been running my own checks on the logged movements of Davor Boras’s plane ever since his son disappeared. If anyone’s made contact, it isn’t him. The thing hasn’t left its hangar since it returned from its unauthorised journey to the USA.’

  Fifty-eight

  ‘Your Scottish courts don’t waste any time,’ said Becky Stallings. ‘That can’t have taken more than a couple of minutes. I’d have had to write off the best part of a day for this in London.’