18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘He’s suggesting it himself. At least, he’s pointing out the obvious, that there’s a chain of circumstantial evidence connecting him to the victims, not just these two but the Ballester victims as well.’

  ‘But those cases are closed. We know Ballester did it.’

  ‘As you say,’ Martin concurred, ‘those cases are closed.’ He glanced along the road to where the press corps was mustered behind a barrier. ‘But maybe they shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake!’ McIlhenney protested. ‘You’re suggesting that our deputy chief, never mind that he’s a friend of both of us, might have gone on a killing spree.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Neil. But that’s what the circumstances are suggesting. Among the six victims, there are four artists. Bob owns work by three of them and he’s in close proximity to a piece by the fourth, in his office. Three of the victims died on his doorstep, two in Gullane and one in Spain. He was at the scene of a fourth death and within reachable distance of the other two. He doesn’t have a cast-iron alibi for any of them: I know this because he volunteered it, but you’ve been there while it all happened. You must have put the same facts together for yourself.’

  ‘I have,’ the superintendent admitted. ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Then you’ve been ignoring something he’s taught us: never back off from thinking the unthinkable.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve thought it, and I’m sure that Mario has too. But neither of us believes it.’

  ‘Neither do I, but I’ll continue to look at the evidence, as he wants me to do. And there is something else, something you know about. Last year, before any of this started, Bob was involved in that major incident at St Andrews. So were you. The situation was resolved successfully, but there were deaths.’

  ‘Yeah,’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘Something happened that night, Andy. I was there, I saw the bodies, and I maybe even accounted for one of them, but there was something else that was never talked about afterwards. One of the dead: he was never identified.’

  ‘I know who he was,’ said Martin. He paused, looking the superintendent in the eye. ‘Neil, you know that the big guy isn’t conventionally religious, but he has a couple of confessors. I’m one, and Jim Gainer, the Archbishop, is the other. He told me everything about that night: Jim probably knows too, but neither of us can talk about it. Suffice to say that it was bad. It hit him very hard: it would probably have broken anyone else, but not him. However, if other investigators came into this thing and looked at the total picture, it might be hard to persuade them that it didn’t knock him off the rails. He’s vulnerable, Neil, and he knows it. What he’s really asked me to do here is clear him.’

  ‘On the face of it, there’s only one way to do that: find our killer.’

  ‘Maybe not: confirming Ballester’s guilt would help. It would keep the copycat theory firmly in play. And it would put Davis Colledge back in the spotlight.’

  ‘He’s never been out of it, Andy. We just can’t find the wee bastard, that’s all. We lost his trail in Holland.’

  ‘He’ll turn up. Meanwhile, brief me on what we’ve got here.’

  ‘We’ve got a situation, DCC Martin. This man Weekes spent the last few days of his life drawing trouble like a turd draws flies. On Friday evening, Jack McGurk found him parked outside his ex-wife’s house, in breach of his bail conditions. Weekes threw a punch, but big Jack whacked him. He let him off, sent him on his way, with a heavy warning not to come back. He also arranged for frequent drive-pasts of this place, just to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Was McGurk with the ex-wife?’

  ‘They’d been out on a date. They’re two single people, so why not? I have no problem with it professionally, and in practical terms it’s helped her by removing her as a suspect. Jack’s finished up here, and he was keen to get off to see her, so I’ve let him go.’

  ‘Fair enough. Back to the story.’

  ‘Yes. Yesterday afternoon Weekes had a visitor: John Dean, Sugar’s dad. His story is that Weekes insulted his daughter and they came to blows. One of the drive-by cars broke it up. Stallings was called; she acted as peacemaker. No charges, no arrests. Incidentally both of those officers, she and Jack, are now feeling a bit of guilt, thinking that if either of them had taken a harder line and had him locked up, when they could have, he’d still be alive. I’ve pointed out that Frankie Birtles would probably have had him released inside an hour, but it’s still niggling at them.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with them, if you think it’ll help.’

  ‘It might. Anyway, that brings us to today, when PC Grey, the victim’s by now former fiancée, arrived to collect some personal possessions and, in her words, to shove his engagement ring up his arse. She found said arse sticking up in the air in the hall, having been as dead as the rest of him since last night. Incidentally, now that the time of death’s more or less confirmed she’s also well alibied, since she and her mother were on their way home from shopping, and she has time-stamped till receipts to prove it. Dorward’s team are still working inside, lifting prints and DNA traces, but they haven’t found anything that looks remotely like the murder weapon. The pathologist believes that to be a large, broad-bladed knife of the sort carried by hunters or, more likely, scuba-divers, with a cutting edge on one side and serrations on the other. As you’ll have seen, we’ve got uniforms searching the surrounding area, but so far, nothing. On top of that, Jack McGurk’s found a closed-circuit camera. It belongs to the local supermarket and it covers its car park and the bus terminal for this area. He’s had a quick look at the footage for late yesterday afternoon. The only thing it told him is that there were a lot of people around; no familiar faces, though.’

  ‘Did the doc offer any theories on the attacker?’

  ‘Physically strong, she said, and almost certainly male, from the degree of force used. The attack was savage and sustained. The blood trail begins in the kitchen. The first blows were delivered there, before Weekes either staggered or crawled out into the hall, with his attacker following him, hacking and stabbing away at him. The doc counted twenty-seven penetrating wounds and six slashes, but she reckoned that he was finally killed by a deep cut to the neck that severed the jugular and the carotid. Some of the wounds, including one to an eye, might have been post mortem.’

  ‘Speaking of which, who’s doing it?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Old Joe; Professor Hutchinson. He’s still around, and still the best there is, especially now that Sarah’s gone.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. What about the man Dean? Has he been interviewed yet?’

  ‘Becky went to see him: there was nobody home. He and his wife left last night for their place up north. He called in to see his neighbour at about five thirty to let her know they were off, and she saw them drive away about fifteen minutes later.’

  Martin frowned. ‘So far, Neil, you’ve done a hell of a good job of eliminating suspects. As far as I can see, all the runners were withdrawn before the tape went up.’

  ‘All the obvious ones, yes, but then someone else turned up at the starting gate. Our door-to-door questioning turned up two neighbours who mentioned seeing a car parked outside yesterday evening; definitely after five, they both said. It was a dark blue Volvo and they noticed it because it was parked across Weekes’s drive, blocking the exit.’

  ‘Number?’

  ‘Neither of them could tell us, but Stallings checked with the traffic department. It was noted by a patrol car at five forty. Just for fun, they ran a number check. Guess who popped out? Do you remember Jock Varley, a uniformed inspector?’

  ‘The name’s familiar.’

  ‘Have you read the Sugar Dean file, including Weekes’s formal statement?’

  ‘Jesus, yes!’ Martin exclaimed. ‘He claimed that Varley’s wife gave him a sexually transmitted disease.’

  ‘That’s right. And our investigation found evidence to support that.’

  ‘What have you done about it?’

  ‘I’ve
sent Stallings and young DC Haddock to pick Varley up from his home and take him to Fettes. Mario and I will handle the interview. Do you want to sit in?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Martin. ‘I can listen to the tape, if I need to. I’ve got to get back to Perth. When I tell Karen I’m going to be out of town for another week, she’s not going to be best pleased. I don’t want to stoke her fire any more than I have to.’

  Seventy

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Aileen asked, as they watched the gate close behind Alex’s car.

  ‘She’ll probably be in a better state than she was when she arrived,’ Bob replied. ‘If I didn’t think so, I’d have insisted that she stay the night. She got something off her chest that’s been festering for too long. I suspect its intensity surprised even her. I don’t recall my daughter ever getting so emotional.’

  ‘Does she have any surviving grandparents? I know your folks are dead, but what about her mum’s?’

  ‘No, they’re gone too,’ he told her, as they walked through to the garden room. ‘I never really got to know Myra’s dad, but I confess that I miss her mother more than I miss my own. Which reminds me, lady: when do I get to meet my new prospective in-laws?’

  ‘When they get back from my dad’s retirement trip, in a month or so.’ She laughed. ‘And when I’m sure that my mother will behave herself. She’s only ten years older than you, she’s pretty attractive and she’s a hell of a flirt.’

  ‘Does your dad play golf?’

  ‘He’s a member of Royal Troon; handicap eleven, last I heard, so you’ll be giving him shots.’

  ‘With pleasure. He can bring his clubs when they come to visit us.’

  ‘No, dear, you can take yours. Custom dictates that you call on him to ask for my hand, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll tell me I’m not having it.’

  ‘You’ve got all the rest, so it won’t matter much. What’s a hand, anyway? But worry not, he approves of you. He knows you by reputation, and he’s a big fan.’

  ‘What’s he like . . . off the course, that is?’

  ‘I doubt if he votes for me.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does. If my daughter told me she was standing for the Raving Loonies at the next election I’d vote for her.’

  ‘You would too! My mum votes Labour; I know that for sure.’ She paused. ‘Bob, changing the subject, that chat you and Andy had, indeed Andy’s visit itself, what was that about?’

  ‘I need his help, love. It’s these killings: the pointers to me are beyond coincidence. Somebody’s trying to set me up, and the way things are going he’s succeeding. I’m trying to head it off before it all gets beyond control and sucks you in, and Andy’s my best hope.’

  ‘Can’t you do it yourself? You’re usually your own best hope.’

  ‘How can I investigate myself?’

  ‘Point taken.’ Aileen frowned, and bit her lip. ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘last Thursday morning, when the Sebastian woman was shot, I was swimming alongside you at the time. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No, because you weren’t. The pool’s not that big; I’d have noticed. You were upstairs all the time, sound asleep.’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ she repeated.

  ‘Aileen,’ he sighed, ‘I love you and I wouldn’t let you do that, even if I was in the dock. Don’t even hint at it again, please.’

  ‘Bob, who would want to set you up?’

  ‘I can think of a few hundred people.’ He grimaced as the phone rang. He reached out and picked it up, answering by reciting his number.

  ‘Bob,’ a female voice said.

  ‘That’s me. Amanda, this is a surprise.’

  ‘You’re back in harness,’ she replied, ‘so you’re the man I speak to in your place.’

  ‘That’s not quite the case, but fire away.’

  ‘First, the markings on the bullet your people sent me. The gun that fired it has no criminal history. It’s not on IBIS and I’ve even had my people check with the American Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The most positive information I have for you is that it’s likely to be an expensive weapon. The bullet that killed your victim was relatively unmarked. The traces that we find are made by imperfections in the barrel, and there are fewer of these found in high-quality guns than in mass-produced.’

  ‘Sugar Dean won’t have cared how much the damn thing cost,’ Skinner muttered.

  ‘No, but it probably made a difference to her killer. This is someone who knows firearms, I’d say. It’s also unlikely that the weapon was the kind a criminal can buy, or even rent, in the back room of a pub. One other thing. I can’t tell you which gun fired your bullet, but I can tell you which ones didn’t. It wasn’t a firearm used or issued by any police force, by this department or by the protection squad. That, I am glad to say, takes the Shadow Defence Secretary out of the equation. That would have been nasty all round.’

  ‘Unlikely too,’ Skinner conceded. ‘I never really fancied him, but I did wonder if young Dave might have borrowed Daddy’s gun when he wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘It was just a thought. Is that it?’

  ‘Not quite. My boy Adrian . . . you met him, remember? . . . was quite taken by Mrs Steele and her quest when he contacted her, so much so that he’s been doing a little digging, with the help of a friend in the FBI. He got him to run a passport check with hotels in the area of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, last week. He discovered that among the guests last Tuesday night were Mr Ifan Richards, UK citizen, and Señor Ignacio Riesgo, a Panamanian national, according to his passport. Bob, to get a Panamanian passport, all you need to do is open a big enough bank account there, over a minimum five-year term. A hundred and twenty-five thousand US dollars will do it.’

  ‘The way things are going up here, I may bear that in mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing; only joking.’

  ‘Whatever. That wasn’t Adrian’s only success. He’s discovered that Davor Boras is on the move on Tuesday. He’s filed a flight plan for his aircraft.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘Gatwick to Nice, returning Thursday.’

  ‘Two nights. Where’s he staying?’

  ‘Adrian’s looking into that.’

  ‘You’ll let me know, as soon as you get a hit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not Maggie, you understand. She’s taken this as far as I’m going to let her.’

  ‘Understood. One way or another I’ll be in touch.’

  As he hung up, he saw that Aileen was staring at him. ‘She’ll let you know?’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you were hands-off for the next week.’

  He chuckled. ‘I seem to remember you telling me over dinner, just a few nights ago, that it was okay to be hands-on.’

  Seventy-one

  Inspector John Varley had been plucked from his garden. He was wearing a check shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tan shorts and a pair of ancient trainers that might once have been white. His grey-streaked hair was ruffled and stubble showed on his chin, accentuating his dark moustache. He sat at a small table, his big fists clenched and tense. A dirty bandage was wound round his left hand, strapping the middle fingers together. He glared at McGuire and McIlhenney as they stepped into the interview room at the back of the force headquarters building, and as the uniformed officer who had been guarding him stepped out.

  ‘You two,’ he said, as McIlhenney switched on a twin-deck recorder and spoke into its microphone. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘You’re in a bad place, Jock,’ the head of CID told him. ‘You should be pleased that it’s us who’ve come to interview you and not some young DS, eager to make a name for himself. We’re deferring to your rank by taking this on ourselves.’

  ‘You’re deferring to my rank? This is a fucking insult, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. You send a woman I’ve never met to my house, and a boy straight from the playground, and they tell me to get straight into
their car, without a word to my wife or anybody else. She won’t be happy, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Bluster won’t work, Inspector,’ said McIlhenney, evenly. ‘My wife isn’t happy either.’ He jerked a thumb in McGuire’s direction. ‘And as for his partner . . . his tea will be in the dog when he gets home, I promise you. What happened to your hand?’ he asked.

  Varley held up his left fist. ‘This? I broke my ring finger a couple of weeks ago. They splinted it to the one next to it.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I slipped on wet tiles at home, and caught it on the edge of the kitchen table.’

  ‘That was a bit careless. Did you have something on your mind at the time?’

  Varley stared at the superintendent. ‘No, why should I? It was a pure accident.’

  ‘What did you have on your mind yesterday?’

  He turned to McGuire. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. What were you thinking of yesterday, about twenty-four hours ago?’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ the inspector exclaimed. ‘Aw, Jesus.’

  ‘Did you think you wouldn’t be seen, Jock? We were watching the house.’

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake! I should have . . .’

  ‘Guessed? Yes, you bloody should. Weekes was on bail on the strict condition that he stay away from potential witnesses. One of them’s an officer at your station. Of course we’d look after her. So tell me, for the record, why did you go there?’

  ‘Because I found out about that bastard and my Ella,’ he snarled, ‘about him having sex with her.’

  ‘That bastard being Theo Weekes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Jock, that happened two years ago.’

  ‘Maybe, but I only found out about it on Friday.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got a contact.’

  ‘What do you mean, a contact?’

  ‘In the force. That’s how I found out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’d been checking on Weekes’s medical history and on Ella’s and mine. At the VD clinic.’