18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

The small piece of Margaret Rose Steele’s soul that remained incurably romantic was disappointed. When Bob Skinner had told her of Adrian St John’s discoveries, and of Davor Boras’s interesting trip to Monaco, she had seen herself flying south in the seat next to the DCC, headed for a confrontation that she had done much to create.

  The rest of her, the greater part of her that a lifetime of personal tragedy had made dourly realistic, knew that she could go nowhere near it. She was recovering from major surgery, she had a child to look after, but most of all, she could not rely upon her self-control if their quarry was run to ground.

  So she sat at home in Gordon Terrace and fretted. Bob had called her, as he had promised, reporting that he had put the honorary consul on standby, and that Mario McGuire had met with the commander of the Monégasque police, to advise him of their presence and of their purpose. She had been encouraged, and yet she had sensed that somehow he was less certain, less confident than he had been that morning.

  With Stephanie fed and readied for the night, she held her in her lap and picked up the television remote. She joined a holiday programme half-way through, watching a package on Jamaica, but imagining Monaco instead.

  It was almost over when the telephone rang. Bet had gone out to meet an old school friend, so she laid the baby in her cot and picked it up.

  ‘Maggie?’ Maurice Goode’s voice was unusually hesitant. ‘Sorry about the hour. It’s for a colleague again; this time it’s the guy who took over my old job. I might as well go back on the crime desk. That bastard doesn’t seem to have a single reliable contact.’

  ‘I think I prefer you where you are, Mo,’ she told him. ‘You can do less damage there. What is it? Another highly placed source claiming to know who blew up Lord Darnley?’

  ‘This isn’t a source. It’s an anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘You know how much they’re worth.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said, but the editor wants it checked out because of what the caller said. I told them to take it to the force press officer, but the boss said that if it was true Royston wouldn’t admit it. The informant’s claiming that Bob Skinner’s been suspended from duty, and that he’s under investigation.’

  Maggie gasped. ‘That’s all bollocks,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve spoken to Bob twice today. I know exactly where he is, and I know exactly what he’s doing . . . and before you ask, I’m not going to tell you. But, believe me, he is on police business.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘Sorry, Maggie, of course not.’

  ‘Just as well. You go back to your editor and your colleague and tell them they’ve been had. Tell them this too. You know Bob’s daughter?’

  ‘Not personally, but I’ve heard of her.’

  ‘In that case you’ll know she’s a lawyer, with the biggest firm in town. If you or anyone else runs that story, you’ll find out how she reacts when anyone has a go at her dad.’

  Eighty-five

  ‘Do you think we’ll be in trouble with the Northumbria force for this,’ asked Mario McGuire, seated opposite Skinner in a restaurant in the place des Armes, ‘since Stevie died on their patch? Not that I give a damn if we are, you understand.’

  ‘Only,’ the DCC replied, ‘if Les Cairns and his chief want to get involved in a public row that’ll very quickly focus on their failure to achieve in three months what our Maggie did in three days, armed with no more than a phone and a computer. But if they do kick up a fuss, I reckon we’re on pretty solid ground. He was one of our officers, killed in the line of duty. As far as I’m concerned, that gives me the right to investigate his death, regardless of where it happened, and to pursue suspects as far as we have to. I ran that thinking past Gregor before we left and he agrees with me.’

  ‘Did you tell him where we were going?’

  ‘No, the fewer people who know that the better. If word got to that bastard Dowley, you never know what he’d do, especially after what Aileen told me when I spoke to her five minutes ago. Someone’s nicked a drug haul from the evidence store in Dundee. He was going to have a ball with it, until she told the Lord Advocate to stop him.’

  ‘Revenge on Andy?’

  ‘What else? Aileen was talking about firing him, but I persuaded her to back off. Instead the Lord Advocate’s going to give him a lecture about pissing in the right direction from now on. If that doesn’t work, he’ll wind up on the bench in Stranraer Sheriff Court.’

  He stopped as a waiter approached to take their orders. Skinner had just chosen a focaccio when his mobile sounded. They were seated in an archway, in the shadow of Monaco’s great rock, and so he walked away from the table to take the call, in search of a stronger signal.

  ‘Boss?’ McIlhenney’s voice was staccato, but understandable. ‘You need to hear this. I’ve just had a call from Mags.’ He relayed the story of Maurice Goode’s approach, and of the way in which it had been dismissed. ‘What’s all that about?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘How many enemies have I got, Neil? Tell Andy about it, and make sure that anybody else who asks that question gets the same response. You’d better brief Alex too, just in case somebody’s silly enough to run it tomorrow. If that happens, I will want her involved. Apart from that, fuck it. Thanks for letting me know.’

  He replaced his phone in his trouser pocket and rejoined McGuire. ‘Routine,’ he announced, picking up his beer.

  ‘So we’re all set for tomorrow,’ said the head of CID. ‘Do you think he’ll show?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Skinner replied. ‘It’s a gamble, us coming here, but it’s one we had to take.’

  ‘On emotional grounds?’

  ‘Operational. Let’s keep emotions out of this. All the same,’ he admitted, ‘I wish I was more certain. There’s something about the whole equation that doesn’t sit quite right, just a small piece that’s out of place. I wish to hell I could spot it.’

  Eighty-six

  ‘Morning, boss,’ Jack McGurk called out from his desk, as Becky Stallings walked into the CID room.

  She stared at him: his clothes were crumpled, and familiar, and a shadow showed on his chin. ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘Yup,’ he replied, ‘but not awake, not all the time at any rate. I had a kip in one of the cells. Not too bad, actually; it felt strange, not having my feet hanging over the edge.’

  ‘Are you trying to ramp up the overtime?’

  ‘No, just trying to fit some pieces together. Before I forget, we had a call last night from Mr Colledge, MP. He’s been reunited with his tearful son: they’re flying up at lunchtime. I said we’d send an unmarked car to meet them at the airport.’

  ‘Have we got an unmarked car?’

  ‘I can dig one up if you want, but I thought . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ said the inspector. ‘I should pick them up myself. It might help the boy’s memory if he sees that he and his dad are getting VIP treatment.’

  He followed her into her small office. ‘I’ll come with you. I’ve never met a shadow defence secretary before.’

  ‘How did he sound when he called?’

  ‘Co-operative, and more than a bit relieved to have his son back home.’

  Stallings smiled, as she threw a copy of the Scotsman on to her desk and hung up her jacket. ‘I wonder if young Dave’s told him the story of his trip to Holland yet. He thought his squeeze had changed her mind so he went to the most famous red-light district in Europe to get his ashes hauled. Boys will be boys.’

  ‘And that’s all this one is, too; just a kid, for all he’s a big lad.’ He picked up the newspaper and glanced at the front page. ‘What the hell’s this?’ he exclaimed, holding it up for her to see.

  ‘What? “Returning Artist Gets First Minister Plaudit”? Caitlin Summers? Never heard of her, but she must be good if Aileen de Marco’s endorsing her.’

  ‘No, not that.’ McGurk straightened the paper, so that she could see the lead story.
>
  She blinked at the banner headline. ‘Jesus. “Red Faces for Tayside Cops. Who Let the Drugs Out?” Blimey, that’s a warning to us all. Someone’s nuts are in the wringer, for being that careless.’

  ‘If it’s carelessness,’ the sergeant murmured, as he read the story. ‘The biggest hoodlum in Dundee’s going to be the beneficiary of this. They’ve got him on a twenty-year-old murder charge, but he’d probably have got longer inside for the drugs.’

  ‘You think somebody’s been bunged? I didn’t think that happened in Scotland. I thought you were all too tight with the bawbees.’

  ‘Why go to the expense of a bribe, when a simple threat to chuck acid in someone’s wife’s face is just as effective?’

  ‘Either way,’ Stallings pointed out, ‘it’ll get the media off our backs for a day or so. Their pain, our gain.’ She looked at McGurk. ‘If you’re coming to the airport with me, a wash, a shave and a change of clothes won’t do any harm. Nip off home for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Be sure,’ he told her, ‘that’s on my agenda. But before I go, come back through here and take a look at what I’ve been doing for most of the night. Once you’ve seen what I’ve found, I don’t think you’ll have any problem signing my overtime claim.’

  Eighty-seven

  ‘This couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ said Skinner.

  ‘Would there have been a good time?’ asked Andy Martin.

  ‘Of course not. Sorry, Andy, that was a thoroughly selfish thing to say. You’ve got to stay in Dundee, no question. My apologies to Graham Morton for depriving him of your presence when it was obviously needed.’

  ‘I can’t see that my presence would have prevented what’s happened, but I’ll know better when I’ve had a look at the situation. It could be that my chief will be asking yours to return the favour, by sending us somebody to do an outside investigation job.’

  ‘I’d come myself, if he asked, but it might not be the time. Have you heard what happened last night?’

  ‘The anonymous call? Yes, Neil rang to let me know. Maggie seems to have nipped it in the bud, though.’

  ‘So far, but I wish to Christ I had access to the Scotsman’s telephone records, to see if the call could be traced to its source.’

  ‘Fat chance of that. There are still some working phone boxes.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. It didn’t exactly make my night, though.’

  ‘Think positive, man.’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘The call is proof that someone’s setting you up, to embarrass you at the very least. There’s half a dozen people within your set-up who could know of the link between you and these murders, and I guarantee you it’s none of them.’

  ‘Dowley?’

  ‘Dowley is an insecure, arrogant son-of-a-bitch with an apparent down on the police, but he isn’t professionally suicidal. No, I reckon the guy who made that call has the blood of at least five people on his hands. I can’t see how he could have done the sixth, but let’s leave that aside. I wasn’t sitting on my hands yesterday. I had a consultant look at the full autopsy report on Ballester, and I asked Prof. Hutchinson for an opinion as well. They both agreed that the condition from which the man suffered would have meant he couldn’t have hit a bull on the arse with a banjo, far less hit a moving target with a hand-gun. Old Joe told me that if he’d done the PM, he’d have told you that straight away.’

  ‘Magic,’ said Skinner. ‘Have we got egg on our faces, or what?’

  ‘Less than you think. You found the gun, the trophies, a shed-load of evidence that pointed straight at Ballester. I’d have written it up exactly as you did. What I’m seeing is that Dražen Boras planted it all, that he’s your killer, and that he’s still out there. You exposed Ballester’s death as murder, not suicide. You came within an arse-hair of catching Dražen in London. Now he’s on the run, with a big down on you. My money’s on him as last night’s mystery caller.’

  Although it was afternoon in Monaco, and although it was a cloudless day, a light came on in Skinner’s brain, so bright that it almost blinded him. ‘Fuck!’ he whispered. ‘That’s a very sound theory, Andy,’ he said, ‘but you forgot a couple of things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve spoken to a bloke called Ignacio Riesgo.’

  ‘Who the hell’s he?’

  ‘Tell you later. I’ve got to go now. Things are happening.’

  ‘Bob, where the hell are you?’

  ‘Right at this moment I’m in a café outside the Monte Carlo casino. Can’t you hear the seagulls?’ He snapped the phone shut and concentrated his attention on what was happening across the concourse on the driveway in front of the Hôtel de Paris.

  Two people had emerged from a white stretch limo: a blonde woman, elegant, slim, middle-aged, and a stocky, balding man, with powerful shoulders and a hook nose. ‘Hello again, Davor and Sanda,’ Mario McGuire muttered. As two porters descended on the boot of the vehicle, a third person, another man, emerged from the front passenger seat, wearing a pilot’s uniform and carrying a briefcase. He trotted around the car and fell into step behind the couple as they walked into the hotel.

  McGuire started to rise from his chair, but Skinner stopped him with a hand on his forearm. ‘Let them check in,’ he said. ‘Our contact inside will tell us when they’ve gone upstairs.’ His mood seemed to have changed completely. ‘I know what’ll happen next.’ He sighed.

  They waited at their table for ten minutes, until the DCC’s phone emitted its ‘text received’ signal. He flipped it open and read. ‘It’s clear,’ he announced, standing and striding off without a glance at his companion.

  A woman was waiting for them in the doorway; she wore the Hôtel de Paris livery, but they knew she was no receptionist. Inspecteur Rosalie Gramercy was their Monégasque police liaison, assigned to them that morning by her commanding officer.

  ‘They have registered,’ she said. ‘I handled the paperwork and saw all the passports. Monsieur and Madame Boras, and their pilot, Captain Ross Wallace. He is occupying the single suite.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Skinner exclaimed, ‘the piece of the jigsaw that didn’t fit. The rooms were booked by Continental IT: the reservation is subject to scrutiny by the company’s auditors, and Dražen has bugger-all to do with it. They’re probably down here for a couple of days at the tables.’

  ‘No.’ The Scots looked at their escort as she spoke. ‘There is a reception tomorrow evening in the Hôtel Hermitage, given by the presidency of the republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. They are the principal guests.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  The inspecteur smiled. ‘Madame Boras told me. I asked her why they were visiting. She is a pleasant lady.’

  ‘And tougher than she looks,’ McGuire murmured. ‘She wouldn’t let Davor go off to be fêted all on his own.’

  ‘No,’ said Skinner, ‘and she wouldn’t write off her son for the rest of their lives either. Rosalie, could your department get a sight of the guest list for that reception?’

  ‘We are responsible for security,’ she replied, ‘so we may have it already. I can check.’

  ‘Then please do so. You know the name of the man we’re after.’

  ‘Riesgo, oui. I have checked with Reservations here and there is no separate booking in that name.’

  ‘Except,’ McGuire interrupted, ‘if Davor and Sanda’s accommodation was booked by their firm, then his might be corporate as well. His company’s called Fishheads dot com.’

  She pulled a face at the strange name. ‘That will be easily remembered. I will check here and in every other hotel in the principality.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Skinner. ‘Get in touch when you have information for us, either by mobile or at the Columbus. We can’t hang about here, in case Davor, or his wife, comes back down and spots us.’

  Eighty-eight

  The first thing about Davis Colledge that struck Becky Stallings was his height. It was not that he was a
giant: at a little over six feet tall he was probably of average size for a well-nourished teenager. No, the oddity was that he was almost a foot taller than his father. The Shadow Defence Secretary was no more than five feet four inches tall; glancing down surreptitiously, the inspector noticed that the heels of his black patent shoes were almost as high as hers. After setting eyes on the towering McGurk outside the airport, the Member of Parliament seemed to go out of his way not to stand close to him.

  ‘Was your flight okay?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Inspector,’ Michael Colledge replied. ‘The national airline still has a lot going for it. I did once fly on one of these budget jobs, on a parliamentary delegation. Not an experience I care to repeat.’

  ‘But I imagine that Davis had to use one yesterday, to get back from France.’

  ‘Needs must. These operations are okay for students, I suppose. My attitude is that if someone refuses to give me a seat number, I refuse to get on his damn aircraft.’ He paused. ‘But that’s of no consequence: we’re here to talk about your investigation into Sugar’s murder. In the light of the death of this man Weekes, is it now closed?’

  ‘It isn’t closed until the procurator fiscal says it is, sir. That’s the way it works up here. One of the things that’s been holding us back has been our inability to interview Davis.’

  ‘I understand, but reading between the lines, I’ll guess you’re getting close to a solution.’

  ‘Literally, a solution, Mr Colledge; you have to remember that now we have two murder inquiries in progress.’ Stallings turned to his son, as she opened the rear door of her car for them to enter. ‘Yesterday must have been a horrible day for you, Davis.’

  ‘Frightful,’ said the younger Colledge. He seemed subdued; his eyes were those of someone in his mid-twenties rather than a school leaver, with dark shadows underneath. There was a maturity about him, an indefinable confidence beyond his years, and undeniable attractiveness in his blond good looks. Since the start of the inquiry she had been privately sceptical about the idea of Sugar and him as a couple, but now that she had seen him Stallings could understand her being drawn to him. I could fancy some of him myself, she thought.