20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  McGurk pointed to the barricade, as he and Haddock took the seats they were offered. ‘Do you really need that?’ he asked.

  ‘It works,’ Gerulaitis replied, as he sank into the chair behind his desk. ‘We haven’t had a break-in since I had it put there.’

  ‘Did you have many before?’

  ‘A couple; we never lost anything other than a couple of DVD recorders, but it was a nuisance. The wide boys think because we own licensed premises we store booze here. Naturally, we don’t, nor do we keep cash; why should we when the banks still have night safes. Nevertheless . . .’ He shook his head, presumably at the stupidity of the city’s pretty criminals. ‘You guys want a coffee?’ he offered. ‘I’ll get my wife . . .’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said the sergeant, glad to have seen the back of the woman. ‘You’re a director of the companies, sir, yes?’

  ‘No, the directors are Mr and Mrs Zaliukas. I look after the figures. I trained as a bookkeeper in Lithuania, before I came over here to join Tomas.’

  ‘And that’s all you’ve ever done for him?’

  Gerulaitis smiled again, this time with a raised eyebrow. ‘That’s all. My talents are financial, not physical. Tomas is my cousin, so I know what you’re getting at; but all I’ll say is that if he ever was involved in the sort of activities there used to be talk about, he’d have known better than to involve me.’

  ‘What do you do here?’ Haddock asked. ‘What does Lietuvos Leisure own?’

  ‘It has pubs and clubs, plus a couple of restaurants; it’s a successful, growing business. The other company’s very profitable too: Lietuvos Developments Limited, that handles our property activities.’ He opened a drawer, took out a brochure and tossed it across the desk. ‘That’s some of its portfolio. Mind you,’ he added, ‘we’re sitting on our hands, like every other developer right now, waiting for the market to get its balls back.’

  The young DC picked up the document and glanced at it. ‘And the massage parlours?’ he said, quietly.

  Gerulaitis shook his head. ‘They have nothing to do with me, and their acquisition wasn’t funded by either of the companies.’

  ‘So legally, who or what owns them?’

  Suddenly he seemed a little less friendly. ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Detective,’ he said.

  Haddock grinned. ‘That’s Detective Constable, sir; you’re making us sound like LAPD. If we were interested, which I’m not saying we are, we could find out in no time from the property register.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to do that, or ask Tomas’s lawyers.’

  ‘Who would they be?’

  ‘The same as this company, I suppose, although I don’t know for sure . . . Curle Anthony and Jarvis, that’s who we deal with.’ Suddenly, all humour left his face. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘The obvious thing would be for you to ask Tomas himself, not come questioning me. What’s up? Has he been arrested?’

  ‘No, sir.’ McGurk looked at him solemnly. ‘I can assure you that he hasn’t. When did you see him last?’

  ‘Yesterday; he was here till after six, apart from a break in the afternoon when he went out. After that Laima . . . that’s my wife . . . and me went to eat in Portofino, one of our restaurants. The manager’s just hired a new chef, and we wanted to check him out. Tomas was supposed to be coming with us, but at the last minute he told us to go on our own. I guessed he might still be upset.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘His wife left him. She took the girls too.’

  ‘Was it sudden, her departure?’

  ‘She was supposed to be coming last night as well, when the arrangement was made.’ Gerulaitis leaned back in his chair. ‘But look, why are you asking this?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish his state of mind, sir.’

  ‘His state of mind?’

  ‘Yes, how did he seem yesterday?’

  ‘A bit edgy, after Regine did her runner. A bit moody, but that’s typical Tomas.’ He frowned. ‘A bit like the old days,’ he added quietly.

  ‘What do you mean, like the old days?’

  ‘When Tomas was younger, he was very volatile, unpredictable. As he’s got older, that’s disappeared, and he’s got a lot more controlled. But now you make me think about it, that’s how he was yesterday.’ Gerulaitis leaned forward, he frowned, and for the first time he seemed impatient. ‘But come on, gentlemen, out with it. What the fuck is this visit about?’

  ‘A body was found this morning, sir,’ Haddock told him, ‘right up on top of Arthur’s Seat. Male.’

  The Lithuanian’s face paled, instantly. ‘Are you saying it was Tomas?’ he whispered.

  ‘We think it was, but identification isn’t straightforward. Cause of death appears to have been a contact wound inflicted by a sawn-off shotgun, so . . .’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Gerulaitis’s mouth fell open; he covered it with his right hand.

  ‘Do you know if your cousin had a sawn-off?’

  ‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had.’ The man recovered some of his composure. ‘Was there a tattoo?’ he asked.

  McGurk nodded. ‘Yes. Lithuanian national crest, back of his hand.’

  ‘Then it’s Tomas; nobody else would have one.’

  ‘Probably not, but still . . .’ He paused. ‘Did he have any other distinguishing marks that you know of?’

  ‘There was another tattoo.’ Gerulaitis tapped his right arm, just below the shoulder. ‘Just there; his wife’s name, entwined through a heart. Was it there?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ the sergeant admitted. ‘We haven’t seen the body, or any photographs. Easily checked though. Do you know where Mrs Zale . . . sorry, Mrs Zaliukas, is? We have to find her; if I’m right in assuming they’re not divorced, she’s next of kin.’

  ‘No, and Tomas said he didn’t know either. My wife and I are not close to them as a couple. I know Regine is French, and that she comes from a place south of Bordeaux . . . I leave remembering place names to Laima; I’m lousy at it . . . but not a lot more about her than that.’

  ‘How will she live? What will she do for money?’

  ‘No problem there. With dividends, she takes a hundred and fifty thousand a year out of the companies. She has her own bank account, so access to cash won’t be a problem for her.’

  Haddock glanced at McGurk. ‘We should be able to trace her through her withdrawals, Sarge. Which bank is it, sir?’ he asked the Lithuanian.

  ‘We’re with what used to be Bank of Scotland, but Regine had her own arrangements. You’d better ask the lawyers.’

  ‘We’ll do that. Do you have a contact there?’

  ‘The man I deal with is called Willie Conn.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll pay him a visit. Meantime, since you’re a blood relative, we have an unpleasant task for you. Your cousin has to be formally identified.’

  Gerulaitis shuddered. ‘Maybe Laima should do it. She never liked him; it’d serve her right.’

  Eight

  Detective Constable Griffin Montell leaned back in his chair, linked his fingers behind his head and let out a sigh so loud that it was almost a bellow. ‘Hey,’ he said, to the room in general, ‘do you ever feel that when some people go missing we should simply say, “Thanks, God, for that one,” rather than open a bloody file on them?’

  DC Alice Cowan glanced at him across their facing desk, frowned, and continued with the witness statement that she was keying into her computer. Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding swung round in his chair. ‘Got anyone particular in mind?’ he asked.

  Montell sat upright once more and slapped the folder in the centre of his desk, between two piles. ‘This guy here,’ he replied. ‘Maurice Glazier; reported missing almost two years ago, in April. He’s got a record as long as my . . . It goes all the way back to when he was eight years old. He’s such a boon to society that it took six months for his partner to report him missing, yet here we are spending police time trying to find him.’

  ‘And have we?
’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Found him.’

  ‘Not a trace.’

  ‘No, and we won’t either.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s dead?’

  ‘Hell no, I’m saying that he’s done a runner and doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘You know the guy?’ Montell’s accent pointed straight to his South African origins.

  ‘Wee Moash?’ Wilding chuckled. ‘Sure. Everybody who’s been around for a certain length of time knows wee Moash. The only reason his record started when he was eight is because that’s the age of responsibility in Scotland. “Habitual” or “recidivist” aren’t good enough words to describe him. His criminality’s genetic, it’s in his DNA. He was born a thief, simple as that. His girlfriend probably took so long to report him missing because she thought he was in the nick, or with his other woman. He had two, one in Granton and the other up near the Old Town.’

  Montell nodded. ‘Spot on there. That’s what her statement says; that he was quite often away for a few months, for either of those reasons.’ He laughed. ‘She also said that she finally reported him missing after she decided he’d never have stayed away from his greyhound that long.’

  Wilding nodded. ‘That’s probably true. Who made the report?’

  ‘Sadie Greengrass, of Dowie Road.’

  ‘That’s Granton Woman. Who looked into it?’

  ‘Tarvil Singh.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He interviewed a woman called Maxine Foster, of Neuk Drive.’

  ‘That’s Lochview Woman. I’ve lifted Moash from that address myself. What did she say?’

  ‘A mirror image of the other one’s statement.’ He beamed. ‘I suppose she didn’t report it because she wasn’t left holding the greyhound.’

  ‘We know he’s not in jail, do we?’ asked Alice Cowan, interested at last.

  ‘Tarvil’s better than that,’ Montell told her. ‘After he spoke to the Foster woman he went straight to the Crown Office and checked that out. He also made inquiries south of the border. Glazier wasn’t in custody anywhere in Britain, and if he’d been charged since then we’d know, because he’s flagged as missing. Cold trail; nowhere else to go.’

  ‘So,’ said Wilding, ‘any theories?’

  ‘Maybe he’s dead,’ Cowan suggested. She ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair; several months earlier she had dyed it blond for an undercover operation, and had stuck to the style. ‘Maybe he stole from the wrong bloke and got caught in the act.’

  ‘No,’ the sergeant declared, firmly, ‘I don’t buy that. Wee Moash never steals anything big enough to get him killed for it. He also never gets caught with his hand in the till, pocket or anything else. He’s a pretty good thief; all his arrests, as an adult at any rate, have come when he was stopped with stolen gear on him or when it was traced back to him. When that happened he always pleaded guilty, got the minimum sentence, did his time or paid his fine and went back to work. Christ knows how many thefts he’s actually pulled off.’

  Montell frowned. ‘And he’s lived in Edinburgh all his life?’

  ‘Apart from a few spells locked up in other places, yes.’

  ‘So why should he vanish, if he’s not dead? There’s no clue in either woman’s statement.’

  ‘Well,’ Wilding drawled, slowly, ‘there is a wee bit of background that’s not in your file. Let’s see; the last Moash sighting was what month, six months before April, October, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mmm. In that case . . . in that month, there was a suspicious death investigation under way. I wasn’t involved in it, I was doing something else, but Stevie Steele was, and I heard from him that wee Moash had got himself involved on the periphery. It turned out that he found the guy’s body, stole his coat, then phoned the death in anonymously, only Tarvil Singh recognised his voice when he heard the tape. He cooperated in a meaningful way, and the property was recovered, so he wasn’t charged. But . . .’ He paused, scratching his chin.

  ‘But what?’ Cowan demanded, impatiently.

  ‘At the time it wasn’t clear whether the death was murder or suicide. Stevie knew that Moash couldn’t kill anybody, but he put the frighteners on him anyway, to get a statement out of him. I reckon the wee man was scared that in the absence of anyone else, we might come back to him, so he did a runner.’

  ‘And are we still looking for him in that connection?’ Montell asked.

  ‘No, of course not. His file wouldn’t be in that pile of yours if we were. Anyway, that thing was cleared up pretty quickly. So no, we have no reason to give a bugger about where he is, other than the fact that it’s our job. So, Griff, if I were you I wouldn’t waste any more time worrying about it. I’d get back into your stack of missing person cold cases to see if you can trace somebody who is worth finding.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  The DC had barely placed the Glazier papers on the heap by his right hand when Wilding’s phone rang. ‘CID,’ he said as he put it to his ear.

  ‘It’s Kathy at the front desk, Ray,’ a woman told him. ‘Is DI Pye there? I’ve got a call that I think is for CID.’

  ‘Sammy’s on a course, I’m afraid. That leaves me in command, or so he laughingly said. Who’s the caller?’

  ‘It’s the doctors’ surgery along at Ocean Terminal.’

  ‘One of the docs?’

  ‘No, it’s the practice manager; her name’s Taylor. It’s about a girl they’ve had brought in. They think . . .’

  ‘Let her tell me, Kath,’ he interrupted. ‘Put her through.’ He listened, until he heard a change in the background noise on the line. ‘Miss Taylor,’ he began, ‘DS Wilding, what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s Mrs; Mrs Rita Taylor. We’ve got someone here, a young woman, we think she may have been assaulted in some way.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is she unconscious?’

  ‘No, but she’s in a deeply confused state. She can’t even tell us her name.’

  ‘You said she’s young. How young?’

  ‘Obviously we can’t be sure, but looking at her, I’d say she’s in her mid-teens.’

  ‘Who brought her in?’

  ‘A delivery driver. He told our receptionist that she stepped off the pavement in front of his van, just up the road from the surgery. He stopped in time, thank goodness. He said he thought she was drunk, and got out to give her a piece of his mind, but realised very quickly that wasn’t it.’

  ‘Is he still there?’ Wilding asked.

  ‘No, he had to get on with his rounds and so he left.’

  ‘That’s a pity. We’d have liked to talk to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who’s to say he was telling the truth?’ He paused. ‘But that can stick to the wall for now. Let’s concentrate on the woman. You said you think she’s been assaulted. Is she cut, bruised? Has she been knocked about?’

  ‘No, but the doctor who took a look at her thinks she may have been sexually assaulted. He doesn’t want to conduct a detailed examination without your presence, because she isn’t in a state to give consent. He is fairly certain, though, that she’s taken a drug or possibly been given one.’

  ‘Date rape?’

  ‘That thought has occurred to us.’

  ‘We’ll be right along,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Can you send a female officer?’ Mrs Taylor asked.

  ‘In a case like this, that’s automatic. We’ll attend shortly.’

  As he hung up he was aware that both DCs were looking at him. Quickly, he filled them in on the half of the conversation that they had been unable to hear. ‘Get your coat, Alice,’ he told Cowan, as he stood. ‘You’re needed on this. You mind the store, Griff.’

  ‘If you say so, Ray.’

  There was hesitation in his voice and Wilding caught it. ‘But?’

  ‘When I was in South Africa, I worked for a spell on a dedicated sex crimes
unit. I’m actually trained in the area.’

  ‘How long were you on it?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘OK, if you want it, I’m happy to let you handle it.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ asked Cowan, with a hint of belligerence.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Alice,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘I am. You’re colleagues, of the same rank; work together. Get along there, find out what this thing is all about, then report back to me.’

  Nine

  As he looked down at the body, Valdas Gerulaitis started to shake, so violently that dandruff began to fall from his shoulders like tiny snowflakes. Jack McGurk took him by the elbow. ‘Steady, sir,’ he said. ‘Just concentrate on the arm, and the back of the right hand; that’s all we need you to look at. Ignore the rest of it.’ He knew that he was asking the impossible; a towel had been placed over the head, but it did little to conceal the truth, that most of it was missing.

  It may have been the sergeant’s words, or it may have been embarrassment over his weakness, but the Lithuanian recovered his composure. ‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered, as he stooped slightly to peer at the small, but intricate, tattoo on the dead man’s right deltoid, but only for a few seconds before straightening again. ‘That’s Tomas. I don’t need to look at the other one to tell you. I was with him when he had it done. He dared me to have one as well. I hate needles but I couldn’t lose face, so I did.’ He turned his back on the trolley, his nostrils narrowing as if to fight off the antiseptic odour. ‘Can we get out of here?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said McGurk. He nodded to the attendant, and led the way back into the anteroom, with its curtained window, through which the viewing would have been done in circumstances that did not require a closer inspection. A little old man was waiting there; he was so small that his students in Edinburgh University’s pathology division were known to call him ‘Master Yoda’ behind his back, and occasionally plain ‘Master’ to his face.

  ‘Your cousin?’ Professor Joe Hutchinson asked.

  Gerulaitis grimaced. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused, awkwardly. ‘I know that sounds inadequate, but one thing I’ve learned in a long career is that there’s no consolation for family members in this place.’ He craned his neck to look up at the skyscraper-like McGurk. ‘What do you want me to tell you, Sergeant?’ he asked.