18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  She glanced from the gateway to Edinburgh Sheriff Court back towards its doorway.

  ‘It’s a cost thing,’ McGurk replied. ‘You know how we Jocks are when it comes to watching the pennies. The Scottish Courts Administration lays down the limits: ninety seconds maximum for a first appearance, twenty minutes for a guilty plea, mitigation speech and sentence, one week for a murder trial, two for fraud.’

  The inspector gasped. ‘You’re kidding,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Sure, but I had you for a second or two, admit it.’

  ‘You bastard. Somewhere along the line you’re going to suffer for that.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it. Forget golf: taking the piss out of the English is our real national sport. Hasn’t Ray taught you that yet?’

  Stallings let a half-smile cross her face. ‘Our relationship is still too new for DS Wilding to be taking chances.’

  ‘Jeez. It must be the real thing if that one’s minding his manners.’

  ‘You’ve worked with him?’

  ‘For a bit, back in Dan Pringle’s time.’

  ‘Dan Pringle?’

  ‘My old boss, latterly head of CID. He retired last year. He didn’t have blue-eyed boys, but . . . let’s just say that Ray and I got on pretty well with him. Old-fashioned cop.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Drinking.’

  ‘Shame. I’ve seen that before, though, an old-timer retiring, then discovering he doesn’t have a life.’

  McGurk shook his head. ‘It’s not that with Dan. He lost his daughter, and it crushed him.’

  ‘Poor guy. You must find the new regime different.’

  ‘What does Ray say?’

  ‘We’ve never discussed it. He’s never mentioned Dan Pringle.’

  ‘We tend not to. But you’re wrong about Mario McGuire, and Neil McIlhenney for that matter. The Glimmer Twins might seem a bit flash . . . no, scratch that, they are a bit flash, especially Mario . . . but below all that, they’re bedrock. You can trust them.’

  ‘That’s good to know. The Met’s full of flash guys too, but they tend to be scrambling up the ladder as fast as they can, without caring whose fingers they step on.’

  ‘Glad to be out of it?’

  ‘Are you asking me if Ray was just an excuse?’

  ‘Hell, no!’

  ‘I’d forgive you if you did, but the answer would be no. Private life first, job second; I’ve always managed to stick to that.’

  ‘Maybe I should have too.’

  Stallings gasped. ‘Oh, God, Jack. Don’t take that personally; I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘That’s okay, boss. I tried it your way, but that didn’t work either.’ He looked at his watch, then back towards the court building. ‘They’re taking time turning Weekes loose,’ he said. ‘Bail formalities, I suppose. Either that or Frankie’s got another case in court and he’s waiting for her to chum him out of the building.’ He pointed towards the throng of press and television cameras waiting in Chambers Street. ‘He won’t fancy running that gauntlet.’

  ‘Is there a back door? Maybe he’s used that.’

  ‘No, they won’t let him. He’ll be coming this way.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Put it this way: if he doesn’t, some uniforms in there will be looking for a place to hide.’

  ‘You fixed it?’

  McGurk nodded. ‘This guy’s getting no job-related favours. Every other punter comes out the front door: so does he. Besides . . .’ As he spoke, the door opened and Frankie Birtles stepped out, followed by her client. As he stepped into the summer sunshine Weekes looked out into the street; a look of panic crossed his face as the camera-bearing horde sprang into life and surged towards the entrance. He started to remove his jacket, to cover his face, the sergeant guessed, as he stepped back through the gate, into the court precincts, out of bounds to the media.

  ‘A word before you go, Theo,’ he said, taking Weekes by the arm and drawing him to one side. ‘We’ll see him into a taxi, Frankie,’ he called to the solicitor.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘My car’s across the road. I need him back at my office.’ She stood, waiting, prepared to allow the detective privacy.

  ‘What is it, you great long cunt?’ Weekes hissed at him.

  ‘I love you too, arsehole,’ McGurk growled. ‘Here it is. I want to make sure you understand what your lawyer agreed to in there,’ he said. ‘Especially the bit about not approaching potential witnesses. I think you’ll find that PC Grey will arrest you herself if you go anywhere near her, and the girl you mentioned in South Queensferry thinks you’re a dick anyway. But if I hear of you hassling Lisanne, whether it’s by phoning her, texting her, sending her emails, whatever, your flat feet won’t touch the ground. You’ll be back in front of the sheriff and banged up on remand. On top of that, I have friends in Saughton Prison. No protective segregation for you, pal: you’ll be on open association with the other inmates from day one, never able to eat without somebody gobbing in your food, never able to take a shower without the fear that you might be gang-banged. With me?’

  Weekes’s eyes flashed in a last show of bravado, but only for a second or two. He mumbled something that might have been ‘Fuck off’, then headed towards Birtles, and the cameras, pulling his jacket up and over his head.

  ‘Nice one, Theo,’ McGurk called after him. ‘Do that and you’ll really look guilty. Tell him, Frankie.’

  The solicitor whispered in her charge’s ear. He stopped and glowered at her, but slipped his jacket back on, then followed her out into the street, under the implacable gaze of two dozen lenses as they followed him all the way to her black Mercedes.

  Fifty-nine

  ‘But apart from that, Mrs Lincoln,’ said Bob, ‘how did you enjoy the play?’

  Aileen lifted her head from the sun-lounger; her pale blue eyes stared blankly at him. ‘Eh?’ And then his meaning dawned on her. She pushed herself up on her forearms, until her nipples were just clear of the towel on which she lay; the midday sun glistened on the sheen of perspiration that it had brought to her back, her buttocks, her long legs. ‘Apart from the abortive trip to France to interview a witness . . . which wasn’t too bad . . . and you finding a body across the bay . . . which was . . . I’ve had a lovely time.’ She smiled, then blew away a strand of blonde hair that had found its way into the corner of her mouth. ‘As a matter of fact I’m still having it. I could easily stand this for another week or so.’

  ‘Me too,’ he conceded. ‘But you’ve got a country to run and I’ve got a job to get back to. Maybe we can fit in a week with the kids during the school half-term in October. Sarah and I are agreed that it’s too short for them to go to America.’

  ‘You miss them, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do, love, but that’s the way it has to be.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I know couples who stay together for the sake of their children, and nothing else. If you went to America and said to Sarah, “Come back and let’s give it another go, for Mark, James Andrew and Seonaid,” don’t you think she might?’

  ‘No, not for a second. She might say, “You stay here and we’ll give it a go,” but that’s not going to happen either.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘We’ve been over this. She doesn’t love me, and I don’t love her. I love you, and that’s it.’

  ‘But didn’t you once?’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not so sure of that any more. If I did, if we did, at some point it just stopped. There’s no way back, even if you and her new boyfriend weren’t factors.’

  The killer blue eyes widened. ‘Sarah has a new man? How did you find that out?’

  ‘There are no secrets between the Jazzer and his dad. He told me.’

  Aileen laughed. ‘Will I remember that?’

  ‘Cuts both ways. When I tell him we’re getting married, his mum will be the next to know.’

  ‘You’ve got something to do before that happens.’

>   ‘Yes,’ he said firmly, ‘and I will, if I don’t get arrested first. It’s fucking weird, Aileen, the way that these killings all manage to have links to me. If I was running this thing on the ground, I’d be my own chief suspect.’

  ‘Just as well you’re not. You’re so bloody conscientious, you’d lock yourself up.’ Her laugh faded as she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  His frown deepened, highlighting the scar above the bridge of his nose. ‘Grave-walking. Do you ever have thoughts that cross your mind so fast you can’t catch them?’

  ‘No, but I reckon I know several opposition politicians who do.’ Her smile restored his. ‘And you don’t have to lock yourself up,’ she added. ‘I’m your alibi for the latest murder.’

  ‘Honey-child,’ he told her, ‘just about the time Nada Sebastian was killed, I got out of bed, went downstairs, swam for about twenty minutes, dried myself off and got back into bed. That’s the first you knew of it, isn’t it?’

  She looked at him, as if his eyes would tell her whether he was serious.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes indeed. I’ve never told you this before, but you could sleep for Scotland. So you’re a lousy alibi.’

  ‘I could lie.’

  ‘Thanks, but you’d make an even worse liar.’

  ‘No worse than you, I’m happy to say.’ She rolled off the lounger, and on to his, on to him, along his length, her arms on his chest, her palms on his shoulders. ‘That’s how I’ll know,’ she murmured, gazing down at him, ‘if the moment comes when you stop loving me.’

  ‘It won’t,’ he promised, sliding his hands down her back, cupping them around her firm buttocks and pressing her into him. ‘You’re different. You fill me up. You make me truly happy. You make me believe I could achieve anything . . . even filling Proud Jimmy’s uniform.’

  ‘Then go get it.’ She lowered her lips to his. ‘Speaking of filling up,’ she murmured, as the kiss ended, ‘how about . . .’

  From the other side of the house, they heard the door chime. ‘How about we just ignore that?’ he suggested.

  ‘Second that.’

  They heard the sound again, and again and a fourth time. ‘Bugger.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the police. Can’t be anyone else, not as persistent as that.’

  ‘Whoever it is,’ said Aileen, ‘you’d better cover the bulge in those trunks.’

  ‘And you’d better hide upstairs.’

  ‘Sounds like a deal to me.’

  He picked up his towelling robe and put it on, knotting its cord firmly, then walked to the door, just as its warning chimed for a fifth time. He twisted the handle and jerked it open. Intendant Josefina Cortes stood there, cool in her uniform shirt, a yellow folder in her hand. ‘Bon dia, Comisario,’ she said, in Catalan.

  ‘And a good day to you too.’ He held the door wider for her to enter. ‘What do you have to tell me? Have you made an arrest?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Have you?’

  ‘You may not have noticed,’ he said, ‘but I’m off duty. My people don’t report to me every step of the way. Last I heard we had a guy in court this morning on holding charges relating to the Edinburgh murder, but we’re still looking for young Colledge.’

  Cortes’s expression frosted over. ‘You did not tell me yesterday about this other man.’

  ‘True, because he may not have done it. So? What brings you here?’

  She waved the folder she was carrying. ‘I have the autopsy report. I thought you might like to see it.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Skinner, ‘but to be honest, I don’t really fancy looking at photographs of brain tissue and extracted organs. Summarise it for me. Shot dead, yes?’

  ‘Yes, as we knew already. The pathologist believes she died at around seven thirty in the morning. We talked to her neighbours in Bellcaire. One of them told us that she liked to sketch very early, and to take photographs of the sea and the town with the sun low in the sky. She had a digital camera, a very good one, the man said. We found several images on her computer to bear out his story.’

  ‘No camera, no sketchbook, no clothes: the killer took the lot.’

  ‘We found her clothes,’ Cortes told him. ‘They were in one of the basuras, the public rubbish bins, in the street that goes behind the beach nearest the town. We’re looking for traces of the criminal on them, but . . . it was a mess in there.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’>

  ‘So he has the camera and the pad.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘If there is no connection with the Edinburgh murder . . . that is, if it wasn’t the Colledge lad who did it . . . you’re back to it being an opportunist killing. In that case the killer might try to sell the camera.’

  ‘We are looking for that all across the region. We recovered the serial number from the studio in Bellcaire.’

  ‘What about the bullet? Did you recover that?’

  ‘Sí. As you suspected it was small calibre. We’re not sure, but our scientific people think it may have been fired from a modified starting pistol, or a replica firearm.’

  ‘Which might imply a degree of skill on the killer’s part?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That gives me something to go on. I’ll ask my team to check up on what the boy did at his school. We know already that he was in the CCF.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Military cadets.’

  ‘You did not tell me that either.’

  ‘True. Forgive me, Intendant, but if you had caught up with Davis Colledge in Spain, I didn’t want your people shooting first, then checking to see if he was armed.’ He saw outrage rise in her eyes, and forestalled it. ‘And don’t tell me that only happens in London.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she admitted.

  He turned back towards the open door, a hint that her visit was over. ‘Thanks for that information. I’ll call my officers straight away, and tell them about the camera too. Who knows? When they find the kid, he might just have it.’

  ‘Merci,’ she said. ‘You’ll keep me informed when you return to Scotland?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll get me there as of tomorrow evening.’ He opened a drawer in a hall table, and took out a card. ‘These are my business numbers. Mobile’s usually best.’

  He closed the door as she left, and went straight to the phone. McIlhenney was away from his office, but his number was on voicemail. He left brief instructions to check on Colledge’s metalworking capability, then hung up.

  Aileen looked at him as he hung his robe behind the door of the en-suite bathroom. ‘I see you’re not in the mood any more.’ She chuckled.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, but there’s no time to do you justice, First Minister. Get yourself ready; we’re out of here. One last surprise: I’ve booked us a room in the Hotel Arts in Barcelona, and arranged a lift down there. Our pick-up comes in an hour and a half. It’s the last night of our holiday and we will spend it where no bastard can find us.’

  Sixty

  ‘I appreciate your finding the time to come to see me, Gregor,’ said Andy Martin, reclining in Bob Skinner’s comfortable chair.

  ‘No problem. I always like seeing what life is like at the sharp end of the criminal justice system.’ He stopped. ‘How’s the family?’ he asked.

  ‘My girls? They’re great, and they’ll be having company soon. Yours?’

  ‘Ranald and Fergus? Aged twelve and nine now, and they’re growing frighteningly large. As for Phil, she’s taken to her new job with a vengeance . . . Nice phrase for a judge, don’t you think?’

  ‘I couldn’t top it.’

  ‘And how about you, my friend? I hear you’ve been up to Chambers Street.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin chuckled, ‘and I’m not sure I’ll be welcome there again.’

  The fiscal smiled across the desk. ‘He didn’t go into the detail of your conversation, but I don’t think you’re the Crown Agent’s
favourite person right now.’ He winked. ‘That’s no bad thing, but watch out that he doesn’t try to bite back at some time in the future.’

  ‘He hasn’t got the fucking teeth for that. He may not have much of a future either, not in his present job, at any rate. I’ve had DCI Mackenzie go through the list of people at the Rotary meeting where he shot his mouth off about the Ballester killings. One of them is the principal maths teacher at Stewart’s-Melville school. Mackenzie had a quiet chat with him at home, about an hour ago. He admitted talking about it in the staff room, so the genie’s well out the bottle, and your boss is entirely to blame.’

  ‘What have you done about it?’

  ‘For now, I’ve passed the information to DI Stallings. It establishes the possibility that this missing youngster, Colledge, was familiar with Ballester’s methodology. For later, I’ll be reporting to the chief constable that I’m as satisfied as I can be that information did leak and that Dowley is the only source. You were my last interview: I’ll be writing everything up this afternoon.’

  ‘What do you reckon Sir James will do?’

  ‘Can’t say for certain, but I suspect he’ll pass my findings to the Lord Advocate. It’ll serve the guy right if he does. If he’d kept his head down and his mouth shut when your assistant went running to him, none of this would be happening.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Broughton agreed, ‘but any potential case against Davis Colledge would be missing a vital element: possible knowledge of the previous murders.’

  ‘Cases,’ said Martin.

  ‘Of course, the Spanish incident: Ms Stallings briefed me about that. In the process she prevented me from going ahead and charging the man Weekes with the Dean murder . . . for now at any rate. Very strange circumstances, Andy, if you’re not a believer in the power of coincidence: that the Spanish murder should happen on Bob Skinner’s doorstep.’ He paused. ‘Only it’s not so strange. If the young man Colledge did leave Collioure to explore the coast, as he seems to have told his landlady, that would take him quite naturally through L’Escala, as I understand the geography.’