18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  McGuire smiled. ‘Trust us, Alice, that’s a no-brainer. Be honest with yourself: you can see the situation. You passed on sensitive information about an inquiry to somebody who was one of its subjects. It was your uncle, sure, he’s a serving police officer, sure. You weren’t to know that he’d do something reckless and inappropriate with that knowledge and land the pair of you in deep shit. But none of that is a mitigating factor, given the sensitivity of what your department does on a day-to-day basis. You’ve got to be moved out of there, and that’s that. No appeal.’

  The sturdy woman’s eyes misted over; she chewed a corner of her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I should have known better. What happens to me?’

  ‘In career terms, nothing,’ the head of CID told her. ‘Do you think we’re complete bastards? As you said, you’ve been in that job for a while. It was time for you to be moved out anyway. Officially that’s what’s going to happen; a routine move. You’re going to be replaced by DC Tarvil Singh, from the Leith office. That’s where you’re going; it’ll be a straight swap.’

  Cowan brightened up almost instantly. ‘Will that be working for DI Pye?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said McGuire, ‘and DS Wilding. But first, there’s something else we’d like you to consider. It’s a sensitive task; you should take that as a sign of our continuing faith in you. Although you’ll be under observation all the time, there will be a degree of personal risk, so it would be entirely voluntary. If you turn it down, there will be no blame, no pointing fingers.’

  The detective constable looked up at him, clear-eyed once again. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a plane to catch,’ he replied, rising from his chair, ‘but it’s Mr McIlhenney’s operation. I’ll leave him to run you through it.’

  Seventy-nine

  ‘That’s us.’ Becky Stallings looked at her watch. ‘We’re twenty-four hours into the Theo Weekes homicide investigation. One week since the Sugar Dean murder. And what have we achieved?’

  ‘That depends on how you want to look at it,’ her sergeant answered. ‘We’ve eliminated all the immediate potential suspects; now we can concentrate on the rest.’

  ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘we haven’t worked together long, but already I know what I like about you. You don’t seem to buy negativity. You’re like those Man U supporters who used to sing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” to the opposition supporters, as their team was being thumped.’

  ‘You’re not a Red, are you?’ he asked her.

  ‘Hell, no! I’m an East End girl, a Hammer through and through. That’s why I’ve got a tendency towards the pessimistic. The way I see it, “the rest” of the suspects means the whole bloody world. It was bad enough running one investigation into the buffers, but two! “Stallings by name, stalling by nature,” my male colleagues in London used to say, whenever I got into a bind. It’ll be spreading up here soon.’

  ‘Not around me it won’t. You’re a bloody good detective, boss. But you’re wrong in your analysis, as far as the Weekes investigation goes at any rate: it’s much narrower than that. We’re looking for a male; that takes half the population out of the frame. Kick out the elderly and children, and that knocks it down to a quarter. We’re looking for someone who’s powerful, and able to overcome a big man like Theo. That’s us down to about five per cent. Finally, we’re looking for a left-hander. So we’re not trawling through the entire population: less than one in a hundred fit all those criteria. Now, this wasn’t a random killing: the guy was sought out and executed. If we take what we know and look at every person who knew the victim, his killer should be staring us in the face.’

  ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ Stallings asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s more bad news for the police force. We’ll have to interview every officer who’s ever worked with Weekes, or even been in the same station.’

  ‘No, Jack, not all of them, just the southpaws.’

  ‘True. But I don’t suppose that detail’s on the HR files, is it?’

  ‘There was nothing about it on my transfer form.’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Stallings and McGurk both turned and looked across at DC Haddock.

  ‘Yes, Sauce?’

  ‘I heard what you and the sarge were saying,’ he began. ‘Isn’t it possible that whoever killed PC Weekes might have had a heavy-duty grudge against him, without actually knowing him all that well, at least?’

  ‘Anybody in mind?’

  ‘Well, we know it wasn’t Sugar Dean’s dad, but what about PC Grey? Does she have a father, and is he left-handed? And then there’s the ex-wife. Are her parents still alive and well?’

  ‘That’s a good point, Sauce, but we weren’t actually going to confine the trawl to police officers, were we, Jack?’

  Silence.

  ‘Jack?’ she repeated.

  Still there was no response. McGurk was somewhere else, staring at the wall.

  Eighty

  Lena McElhone, the First Minister’s private secretary, was happy again. During her boss’s absence on holiday, the deputy First Minister had been in charge of Scottish affairs, and Lena did not trust him to find his way to the toilet unaided, much less to take important decisions.

  Consequently, she had hidden the more important submissions and correspondence from him, even though several were stamped ‘Urgent’ in red, risking complaints about delay from people who were considerably senior to her in the civil-service hierarchy, but fielding them firmly when they arose.

  Although Aileen had noted that her blue box was full to overflowing when it was delivered to Gullane at the weekend, she had not been surprised. The deputy First Minister was a political necessity, forced upon her by the electorate, but she and Lena were agreed that he should never be allowed to do any damage.

  She had worked all morning in her St Andrews House office to clear the backlog, sending back the red-letter submissions, with decisions rendered, and had spent much of the afternoon in a catch-up meeting with the Permanent Secretary, her most senior civil servant, but eventually she was finished. She pressed a button on her desk console; less than a minute later the massive door opened and Lena stepped into the room, a folder in her arms.

  ‘More?’ she complained.

  ‘Diary stuff, First Minister, that’s all. The usual raft of official invitations to events.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Hibernian Football Club want you to unfurl the league championship flag at the start of the new season.’

  ‘No danger. I’d upset half my voters.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Delegate to the sports minister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that too, so I warned him. Next, there’s an invitation from Scottish Opera to a performance of Tristan and Isolde. That’s in October, in the Festival Theatre. Does Bob like opera?’

  ‘Bob likes most music, except Wagner. Have you any idea how long Tristan and bloody Isolde lasts? Going on for six hours, and I couldn’t dare fall asleep, or it would be all over the gossip columns. That one’s for the arts minister.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Lena. ‘I thought I’d give her this last one too. It’s only just come in and it’s very short notice, next Tuesday. It’s an art exhibition, in a new gallery down in Home Street. It’s of work by a Scottish-born painter, just back from the US; she studied there and exhibited in New York and Washington. Her name’s Caitlin Summers. Her agent says that if you’ll agree to open her show it’ll help him make a big splash in the press and get her the attention she deserves. She’s very new on our scene, though, not really your weight.’

  Aileen smiled. ‘My weight, is it? I put on a couple of pounds on holiday, but I hoped it wasn’t that obvious. What the hell? I can’t be turning everything down. Tell them I’ll do it. What else is there?’

  ‘That’s it, boss. The rest is pure gossip.’

  ‘You’d better pour us a drink, then. There’s so
me white wine in the cold cabinet. In fact, do you fancy eating somewhere quiet a bit later on? I’m a single woman for the next few nights.’

  ‘That would be good. Just like old times.’

  Aileen watched as her assistant drew the cork from a bottle of Cloudy Bay. ‘What’s the goss, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Fresh from the Crown Office,’ Lena replied, as she handed her a glass. ‘The Lord Advocate called to tip you off before it breaks in the media. It’s a bit of a misfortune for the police in Dundee, where Bob’s pal’s the deputy. They have a big drugs case in the works. The man they’ve got for it is being tried for murder first, but they had this as a back-up. There was a big row when you were away: they were ready to begin the murder trial last week, but the Crown forgot to get the accused to the court. The judge gave them pelters.’

  ‘No wonder. So, what have the police cocked up?’

  ‘They’ve lost the evidence in the drugs case, a serious amount of heroin and cocaine. It’s gone missing, assumed stolen from the evidence store in the Tayside Police headquarters. The Lord Advocate said the Crown Agent nearly split his sides laughing when he heard about it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Aileen, ‘and I know why. You tell the Lord Advocate from me that if Mr Dowley does any side-splitting in public, I will ask Sir James Proud to send me a copy of a so-far confidential report he has sitting in his office, with a view to disciplinary proceedings. We’ll see if the so-and-so finds that funny.’

  Eighty-one

  ‘But where does it take us, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss,’ said McGurk, ‘but it’s interesting, is it not? It’s enough for me to take another look at stuff we put away earlier, looking for long shots.’

  ‘You do that; meanwhile I’ll start compiling a list of male officers who’ve crossed paths with Theo over the years. Sauce is already looking into Mae Grey’s family background. We know she still has a mum, because she mentioned her, so chances are there’s a dad as well, and given that she’s mid-twenties, he needn’t be old and decrepit.’

  ‘I hope he thinks to check on any brothers as well.’

  ‘I’ve told him to. You sure Lisanne doesn’t have any?’

  ‘She told me she’s an only child, and that her mother’s a widow.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Stallings, as her phone rang, making a mental note to check anyway. She picked it up.

  ‘Inspector,’ a firm voice said, ‘Arthur Dorward, bearer of positive tidings.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That shirt your lad had sent across from Gayfield. I haven’t had time to do any definitive tests yet, but I’m pretty confident it was dumped by the guy you’re after. I’ve analysed the blood that was soaked into it and it’s A negative, the same as your victim’s.’

  ‘But how many . . .’

  ‘Would you like to hear the odds? Seven per cent of the population have A negative blood, so it’s thirteen to one on that it’s his. I’ll be able to tell you for certain once the DNA testing’s complete.’

  ‘Thanks, Arthur,’ said Stallings. ‘That’s a step forward: it tells us where the killer went after the murder. It’s a pity it doesn’t tell us any more about him, though.’

  ‘Don’t you be so sure. This man might be thinking he was clever cutting the labels off, but if he’d really been smart he’d have turned it inside out and removed his personal traces as well. When my people had a good look, they found four oxter hairs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ah, sorry, Inspector. I forgot to make allowance for your Englishness. Oxters would be armpits to you. Three of the hairs have roots, which means they can be used for testing. Find me the guy, and I’ll prove he wore this shirt when he killed PC Weekes.’

  Eighty-two

  Her Majesty’s Honorary Consul in Monaco was not used to evening visits from British police officers, bearing copies of international warrants. Looking at the nervous little man, Skinner was not sure that he was used to anything disturbing his sunny days.

  He was an expatriate named James Major, who maintained a small law office on the second floor of a building in rue des Orangers, not far from the port. The official crest above his nameplate at street level implied grander surroundings than those in which the Scot stood.

  ‘What is it you’re telling me?’ Major asked.

  ‘There’s a man we’ve been after,’ Skinner replied, ‘in connection with the death of a colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago. Since then we believe he’s found himself a new identity. His parents are flying down here tomorrow: we’re not certain, but we believe there’s a chance that he’ll show up here to meet them. If he does, I’m having him.’

  ‘Why are you telling me? This is a police matter.’

  ‘I’ll be meeting them in the morning. I’m talking to you to warn you that later this week, you could have a British citizen in jail here awaiting extradition. That will definitely be a Foreign Office matter. Unless I’m mistaken, in this part of the world, that means you.’

  ‘Extradition’s way beyond my remit,’ the man spluttered. ‘I’ll need to take advice from the consulate in Marseille.’

  ‘You can take advice from the Foreign Secretary’s mistress for all I care. If this man turns up here, I want him back in Britain as soon as possible after his identity is confirmed.’

  ‘Are you sure you have the authority to do this?’ asked Major, officiously.

  Skinner stared at him. ‘Am I what?’ he whispered.

  It dawned on the honorary consul that he might have drifted into dangerous waters. ‘It is rather off your beat, that’s all.’

  ‘Sunshine, this man killed one of my officers, someone I’ve known all through his career, someone I considered a friend. In his pursuit, there is nowhere, absolutely nowhere, that is off my beat.’

  Eighty-three

  ‘Do you have anything planned for tonight?’ Becky Stallings asked.

  McGurk smiled. ‘Do you mean, am I seeing Lisanne? If so, the answer’s no.’

  ‘Cooling off, or just getting your breath back?’

  ‘The latter, I hope. It’s taken us both by surprise.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Mary about it? I know your separation’s been friendly so far: you want to make sure it stays that way.’

  The sergeant gave her a curious look. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t talk about it very often, but I was married once; it ended twelve years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Your story in reverse; it was him that couldn’t stand the job. I nearly gave it up for him, but at the last minute I decided that I’d rather give him up for it. We agreed that it was best for us to go our own ways, and we separated formally. We were the best of pals for a while, and then it all went tits up.’

  ‘You went out with someone else and he threw a moody?’

  Stallings shook her head. ‘Entirely wrong. He got himself a new girlfriend, about six months down the line. When he told me that he was in love with somebody else and planning to marry her when he was free, I just blew up in his face. I took myself completely by surprise: I didn’t want the guy, and yet I was jealous as hell. We barely spoke after that, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since the divorce went through. No Christmas cards, nothing: he could be dead.’

  ‘And if he was?’

  ‘Now? I wouldn’t care. Eventually I worked out why I reacted as I did. He had a new relationship going, but nobody had given me as much as a look. It kicked me right in the self-esteem. I went without for three years after that, mainly because I didn’t think there was any point in going out looking. So you be careful with your ex, Jack, if you want to keep her as a long-term friend.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Becky. If Lisanne and I do get serious, I’ll break it to her gently. But I think she’ll be all right. Last time I visited her, to pick up some stuff I’d made room for at my place, I had a headache and went looking in the bathroom cabine
t for paracetamol. Didn’t find any, but there was a not-quite-new Gillette Fusion razor in there, and a can of shaving foam.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  He grinned. ‘I was needing a shave at the time, so I had one.’

  ‘God, did she notice?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She blushed bright red, we had a laugh, and I wished her all the best. What about Ray? Does he know about your past?’

  ‘Yes, we had a tell-all session early on. Fancy a pint with us? I’m meeting him in Ryrie’s Bar.’

  ‘I’ll pass. There’s something I want to go back over.’

  ‘Okay. Mind if I go ahead?’

  ‘As if I could.’

  She picked up her bag and headed for the door. McGurk waved her on her way, then picked up a videotape from his desk and walked over to the player. He was about to plug in the cassette when the phone rang. He picked it up: ‘CID, Detective Sergeant McGurk.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ said a clipped, cultured voice, ‘I’m glad I’ve caught somebody. This is Michael Colledge. I’m at Stansted Airport where I’ve just met my son. I’ve been told that you need to interview him. I understand that, but poor old Dave’s still shocked, having only just found out about Sugar. I propose to take him home with me tonight, and bring him up to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir.’

  ‘We’ll catch the midday shuttle. Should be with you about two, if you tell me where we should come.’

  ‘We’ll send a car for you, Mr Colledge.’

  ‘Not blue lights, I trust.’

  ‘No,’ McGurk assured him, ‘we’ll be discreet. Sir, the interview’s no more than a necessary formality, but would your son like legal representation?’

  The Shadow Defence Secretary chuckled. ‘I’m a QC, Sergeant. I think I can fill that role myself.’

  Eighty-four