20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘No,’ said Regine Zaliukas. ‘That’s Max. Zaki’s the other one.’ She stepped out into the hall. She wore an outfit that was a cross between a tracksuit and pyjamas, and pink fluffy carpet slippers.

  ‘Then tell them both I’m sorry, and that I hope there are no hard feelings.’

  She did as he asked, adding a lecture for their heavy-handedness. Max nodded, muttered, ‘I sorry,’ in strangled English and offered his hand.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, turning towards a door at the rear of the hall. ‘Come on through to the living room. We can talk there; I’ve just put the kids to bed. Who’s your colleague?’ she asked as the officers caught up with her.

  ‘DI Becky Stallings,’ McGuire told her. ‘And who are yours?’

  ‘Friends of Jonas, my brother-in-law. They served under him in the United Nations army, in the Congo, hence their jungle French. They’re here to protect us. We weren’t expecting you, though.’ Her laugh was quiet, but there was sadness in it. She led them down a few steps into an elegant room, as modern as the exterior of the house was old. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘To be honest, I could slaughter a beer.’

  ‘I can do that. I’ve even got Perroni. That’s what you drink, isn’t it? And you, Inspector?’

  ‘Becky, please. Any sort of white wine would be lovely.’

  The widow nodded and disappeared up a second short stairway, shuffling in the backless slippers.

  ‘Nice house,’ Stallings murmured. ‘I fancy this furniture: cream leather, very nice.’

  ‘There’s a very good shop in Bordeaux,’ said Regine, returning with a bottle of Italian beer, another of Chenin blanc, and two glasses, all on a tray.

  ‘Is this your house?’

  ‘It’s my parents’ place. But they’re not here just now,’ she added, as she handed McGuire his beer and poured two glasses of wine. ‘They have an apartment in Marbella, in the south of Spain. Too cold for them here in winter now.’ She sighed. ‘And for me.’

  ‘I’m deeply sorry, Regine,’ McGuire told her. ‘You must still be in shock.’

  She looked at him. ‘Mario, I honestly don’t know what I’m in.’

  ‘But you are safe? We need to be sure of that. Things have been happening back in Edinburgh since Tomas died.’

  ‘I know. But yes, I’m safe now.’

  He took a slug of his beer, straight from the bottle. ‘Are you implying that you haven’t always been?’

  ‘I’m implying nothing. I’m saying nothing; not just now.’

  ‘Regine, what’s going on? This story about you leaving Tomas: nobody believes it for a second.’

  ‘As I told Alex Skinner, I didn’t leave him; that must have been what Tomas told people. He made me take the kids and come over here, for safety, he thought.’

  ‘But why? What was the threat?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mario, please, not now. Honestly, I can’t tell you any more tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Yes, you come back tomorrow, and if everything is as it should be, I will talk to you then.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. If I feel that I can, then I will. You come back at midday. In the meantime, don’t worry: I’m safe with Max and Zaki.’ She smiled again, weakly. ‘Maybe not from you, if you were an enemy, but from everybody else. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Hotel de Ville, across the street.’

  ‘Good. If there is a problem I can call for you. But there won’t be, I’m sure.’

  ‘OK.’

  They sat for a while in silence, finishing their drinks. When they were done, the police officers rose to leave, and Regine stood with them. ‘Valdas and Laima,’ she began, as they walked to the door. ‘They died in a fire, I was told.’

  ‘That’s what we’re saying, but we believe they were killed before it was started. There’s evidence that he was tortured, but why, we don’t know.’

  ‘But they were dead before the fire . . . reached them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shuddered. ‘That’s a sort of kindness, I suppose. He was a greedy, vicious fool, and she was a deeply unpleasant woman, but they didn’t deserve to . . .’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,’ said McGuire, as she opened the door. ‘Good night. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Stallings exclaimed, once they were outside on Rue St Cauzimis.

  ‘God knows. And hopefully so will we after our next meeting. Something heavy’s happened, that’s for sure. Regine is not a woman to be scared easily, but she has been.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  McGuire shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m heading for that wee restaurant up in the square. Right now, a pizza and a few more beers seem to be the only show in town.’

  Seventy-two

  ‘You’re having us on!’ Skinner exclaimed.

  ‘Not about this. The man you’re after is called Henry Brown; I’m sure of it. The joke in Dundee is that he was the model for Dan’s statue in the High Street. Henry’s forty-six years old, and he runs a metal recycling business on the outskirts of the city. He’s been doing that for the last sixteen years, since he married a woman called Daphne McCullough, the younger sister, by fourteen years, of one Cameron McCullough, known in and around the Silver City by the affectionate nickname of Grandpa. Except there’s nothing affectionate about Grandpa; he’s as cold-hearted a bastard as I’ve ever met.’

  ‘You told me about him, didn’t you?’ said McIlhenney. ‘Last year you had him in the High Court on murder and drugs charges.’

  ‘That’s right. The only charges that have ever been laid against him. And he walked on both. The witnesses to the murder disappeared, and he suborned a Polish clerk to steal the heroin we were going to do him for, out of our own evidence store. The clerk vanished as well; he was supposed to have gone back to Krakow, but he never showed up there.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘I remember that. Graham Morton had the piss ripped out of him at the next chiefs’ association meeting. Phil Davidson, Lady Broughton, was the judge, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She was as angry as me after it all collapsed.’

  ‘Are you taking it personally, Andy?’ the chief murmured.

  ‘Too fucking right I am. Is that unprofessional? Yes, and I do not care. The day that Cameron McCullough goes down will be the highlight of my career. I’ve taken a copy of the Tayside file on him to my new office.’ He scowled. ‘It’s not going to be easy, though. Grandpa has run things at second, third and fourth hand for the last twenty years and more, hiding behind his legitimate businesses, and with every year that passes it becomes harder to nail him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because his cover is absolutely uncrackable, because he operates behind clever people who are absolutely ruthless, and because when it comes to it he’s more ruthless than any of them. He doesn’t take risks of any sort. Since he had his close shave, he’s become even more elusive. He’s says that he’s getting ready to retire, and he spends most of his time on the golf course. There’s some evidence that he has backed off on the criminal side; drugs are a wee bit harder to come by in Dundee these days. But that could just be his people jacking up the price.’

  ‘What’s he supposed to be?’ McIlhenney asked. ‘His legitimate cover?’

  ‘Grandpa’s a group: CamMac Enterprises PLC, that’s the parent company. It operates in quite a few areas. For example, construction. CamMac Homes builds houses; on spec, and more recently for housing associations, since they’re the only people with money just now. CamMac Projects is a commercial contractor, tendering for stuff like factories and offices. He tends to win most of the projects he offers for in the Tayside region. People seem to work out that it might just be best to give him the job, even if he isn’t the lowest bidder. Still, not even he’s immune to the current market, so that company is just ticking over just now. CamMac Metals is still doing fine though. That owns the yard that his brother-in-law
Henry runs, as well as a big metalbroking business. CamMac Leisure has a couple of country house hotels in Perthshire and Angus, with leisure clubs attached, and it owns a few city centre pubs in Dundee. To all outward appearances the group is legit: its legal business is handled by Lionel David, one of the top firms in Dundee, its auditors are Deacon and Queen, a small but prestige accountancy firm, and to put a final layer on its veneer of respectability, last year it appointed a new public affairs consultant. Guess who that was?’ Martin challenged.

  ‘Tommy fucking Murtagh,’ Skinner growled.

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I know just about everything that little bastard does. I saw the appointment at the time, but I didn’t look into the background of his client. The name meant nothing to me.’

  ‘You won’t nail Murtagh through the connection,’ Martin told him, ‘or even embarrass him. These companies are all profitable, and although we are quite certain that they were started with the proceeds of crime, no one will ever prove it. If you’re thinking that McCullough might be using them to launder drug money, forget it. He’s way too clever for that.’

  ‘What else has he got?’

  ‘There’s a farm; he owns one up in Angus, a few hundred acres of arable land and some slopes where he has cattle.’

  ‘If he’s that successful in business, why is he . . .’ Skinner began.

  ‘Because he is, simple as that. Look, all three of us have known recidivist criminals, all through our careers, the Dougie Terrys, the Moash Glaziers, the Kenny Basses. OK, they’re all small time, and McCullough’s at the other end of the scale, but he fits into the same category. It’s what he does, it’s what he is, and he’s better at it than anyone I’ve ever met.’

  ‘This Henry Brown,’ asked McIlhenney, ‘what does he do for him, apart from running the scrap business?’

  ‘Everything, mate. Cameron’s great strength is that he keeps it in the family. Those witnesses who disappeared last year? You can bet that Henry either organised it, or he made it happen himself.’

  ‘How could he have done that? Weren’t they protected?’

  ‘In theory, yes, they were; in practice, sadly, no. They were under twenty-four-hour police observation up in Aberdeen; there was always a car in their street, and they had an Alsatian in their back yard. But one night, the cops who were keeping an eye on them were called away to a major incident that turned out to be a false alarm. When they got back, the dog had been fed a poisoned steak and two women had vanished.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘What did Brown do before he married McCullough’s sister?’

  ‘He was in the army for a few years; he fought in the first Gulf War, in a special demolition unit that operated behind enemy lines; real close quarters, no mercy stuff. When he left he became a fireman for a couple of years . . .’

  ‘A fireman? Now that’s interesting, given what happened to Gerulaitis and his wife.’

  ‘That is a thought, indeed. Anyway, he was in the fire service when he got hitched to Goldie, and after that he was made.’

  ‘Goldie?’ McIlhenney repeated.

  Martin smiled. ‘Apparently Daphne’s never been too keen on her given name. Everyone calls her Goldie.’

  ‘Including the woman who was with her when she collected those eight Estonian girls from their hideaway last Wednesday,’ the superintendent told him. ‘We have a witness, Marius Ramanauskas, one of Zale’s men, who heard her.’

  ‘Is he in custody, this witness?’

  ‘No,’ the superintendent replied. ‘We didn’t have grounds to hold him, although we know he helped Valdas bring the girls in. We released him on bail, until we can stick him in a line-up for Anna Romanova to pick out. Even then, we’ll be struggling to prosecute him without a second witness.’

  ‘If he’s out there,’ Martin retorted, ‘and he can tie Goldie Brown to these girls, you’d better bring him in for his own safety. Meantime . . .’ He looked at his companions. ‘Do you guys fancy some overtime, and some activity completely unbecoming to your rank?’

  Skinner smiled. ‘I’m always up for an away day.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t we head straight for Dundee? I’m not having anyone else pick up Henry Brown, or his lovely wife.’

  Seventy-three

  ‘You do know where we’re going, Andy, yes?’ Bob Skinner asked, as he drove up the Kingsway, the dual carriageway that skirted Dundee to the east.

  ‘Of course I do, Bob. I have all the McCullough family addresses committed to memory.’

  ‘I would doubt that of anyone else,’ Neil McIlhenney murmured, ‘but not you.’

  ‘Left at this roundabout,’ Martin instructed, ‘then right, about half a mile along.’ The three officers sat in silence as the chief constable followed his directions. ‘That’s fine,’ he declared, as they made the second turn. ‘The Browns’ place is the fourth on the left, the one on the double plot.’

  ‘Chunky pad,’ the superintendent commented, as they drew to a halt. ‘Has it got a name?’

  ‘Would you believe South Fork?’

  ‘It was either going to be that or the Ponderosa. That’s fucking gangsters for you.’

  ‘Not really; all the house names have TV themes. CamMac homes built this place, and the rest; it’s owned by CamMac Metals and Henry and the wife pay a market rent. But you’re right in a way. This street’s becoming a compound. Tommy Murtagh lives in the last house on the right.’

  ‘What about the Bentley Continental there in the driveway?’ Skinner asked. ‘Is that a company car?’

  ‘That’s Goldie’s; a birthday present from her big brother.’

  ‘You know a lot about these people, Andy.’

  ‘I know everything about these people, Bob. I looked at going the Al Capone route; you know, setting the Inland Revenue on them, but Grandpa’s accounting is always immaculate, and everyone always pays their taxes.’

  ‘Is there a Grandma McCullough?’

  ‘No. She died ten years ago; throat cancer.’

  As Martin spoke, McIlhenney’s mobile sounded. He snatched it from his pocket, almost as if he was fearful that the sound would alert those in the house. ‘Yes? Jack, hi. Have you got him?’ Pause. ‘Fuck. Have you talked to the neighbours?’ Pause. ‘Not since then? Did you look for his passport? Of course, sorry. Them too? Ah Jesus . . . Listen, Jack, check with DVLA, for a car registered in his name. If he’s got one, look for it parked locally. Then check with the other Lithuanians. Who knows, they’ve maybe got a regular Monday card school; the bugger might be there.’ Pause. ‘Sure, but do it.’ He ended the call and turned to his colleagues. ‘McGurk,’ he said. ‘He’s at Scotland Street; Marius Ramanauskas isn’t there. He hasn’t been seen since Friday night. Jack kicked the door in and went through the place. There are dishes in the sink, and a bottle of turned milk on the work surface beside the kettle. No sign of recent occupation, though.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Martin drawled. ‘The cleaners have been.’

  ‘Just because he could identify this Goldie woman?’ McIlhenney exclaimed.

  ‘Absolutely because, I’d say. These are very efficient people. The best we can hope for is that they’ve scared the shit out of your man Marius and told him to disappear for good. The worst is that they’ve made him disappear for good.’

  ‘Not in my back yard,’ Skinner growled. ‘Let’s go and see this man Brown and do some scaring ourselves.’ He took his key from the ignition and stepped out of his car into the street.

  ‘How are we going to play it?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘With no subtlety at all. Come on. Andy, you with me. Neil, keep out of sight at the side of the house, in case our man thinks of slipping out the back.’ He led the way up the ungated driveway, towards the big floodlit villa. A few drops of rain were falling, with the temperature low enough to offer the threat that they might be followed by snowflakes, but the front door was set back in a covered porch which offered some shelter. He rang the bell. As they waited, he no
ticed a spyglass just above it. He held his thumb against it, cutting off the view from within.

  ‘Who’s the comedian?’ said a female voice, as the door opened.

  ‘Nobody’s joking, Goldie,’ Andy Martin replied, stepping into the light.

  ‘Jesus!’ the woman snapped. ‘Not you again. I heard we’d got rid of you.’ She was blonde and high-breasted, barefoot but dressed in a tight-fitting leotard. Her cheeks were pink, glistening with a light sheen of perspiration.

  ‘Technically not till the end of the month, but even then, you won’t be rid of me.’ He glanced at her, and sniffed. ‘You’re a bit sweaty.’

  ‘I was in the gym,’ she retorted, ‘and I want to get back there.’ She stared up at Skinner. ‘Who’s your pal?’

  ‘I’m a police officer from Edinburgh,’ he told her, unsmiling. ‘You’ll be Daphne Brown, I take it.’

  ‘Take what you fucking like, as long as it’s not liberties. What do you want?’

  ‘In due course I want to talk to you about eight missing Estonian girls, but right now, we want your husband.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘We plan to charge him with at least one murder, maybe more. That’s for starters. Please tell him we’re here, or we’ll go in and get him.’

  ‘You’ll have a job. He’s no’ in. See for yourself; his car’s no’ there.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Why the fuck should I tell you that?’

  Martin leaned against the door frame. ‘Why doesn’t come into it, Goldie. You’re going to talk to us, either here or along at Tayside police headquarters, after as much exhausting questioning as it takes. If you don’t tell us now, we’re going to arrest you in connection with harbouring illegal immigrants, maybe abduction, and also for the murder of a man called Marius Ramanauskas. You know him; you visited his flat in Scotland Street, in Edinburgh, last week, and relieved him of some guests; you and another woman that I believe was your niece Inez.’

  ‘What do you mean murder? He’s . . .’ She stopped in mid-sentence. ‘I’m saying fuck all to you, here or in the polis station.’