20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘If I’d the energy to be offended,’ she told him, ‘I would. But I don’t, so somebody be kind to an old woman who does their performance reviews and get me a coffee.’

  ‘Put like that, how could Sauce refuse?’ he replied. ‘Good to see you back, by the way. Are you going to tell us where you’ve been?’

  ‘Once I’m sat behind my desk with that coffee, and possibly a choccy biscuit to go with it, I’ll be happy to.’

  He followed her into her small, theoretically private, room, taking a seat as she hung her coat on a hook behind the door, watching as she tidied an accumulation of paper from the previous day, waiting for Haddock to join them. When he did, he was carrying two mugs. He set one before the DI, produced two KitKats from his shirt pocket, and handed one to her.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ McGurk complained.

  ‘You, Sergeant, can fuck off and get your own.’

  ‘Settle down in class, now,’ said Stallings. ‘Thanks, Sauce. You were asking where I’ve been, Jack. I’ve been with the head of CID on a whirlwind trip to France.’

  ‘You’ve been to see Regine?’ Haddock’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Yes I have. And by the time we got to see her, there was someone else in our party: the chief.’ She frowned at her two-man team. ‘Was there any talk yesterday about two homicides, up in Perthshire?’

  The DS shook his head. ‘No, but there was some other news from there. The sensation of the day was Montell and Alice Cowan tracking a truck from a robbery in Edinburgh and catching the driver and her mate. And in the process guess what they found as well?’

  ‘Eight missing Estonian girls,’ she shot back, ‘being looked after by Marius Ramanauskas.’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Yes, and here’s the rest of it.’

  The pair sat in silence as she told them of the interview of Regine Zaliukas, and of her story. By the time she finished, the mood in the room had changed. There was no more banter, only shock. ‘Mr McIlhenney has Tomas’s phone, with the video on it,’ she said. ‘He called me as I was driving in. He says it’s pretty horrible.’ She paused. ‘But only one-twentieth as horrible as what was done to Henry and Dudley, before they died.’

  ‘Serves them fucking right,’ McGurk whispered.

  ‘We all think that, Jack.’ She crumpled the paper from her biscuit and threw it in her bin. ‘That’s the story, lads,’ she concluded. ‘On to the next. After . . . Mr McIlhenney says that we have all to be available for interview this afternoon, by the deputy chief.’

  ‘About what?’ asked Haddock.

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me the agenda, but from his tone, I don’t think he’s going to ask us if we’re happy in our work. We’ll find out when it happens. On you go, now; and close the door behind you. I want some peace and quiet.’

  ‘Any ideas?’ McGurk murmured, as he and Haddock returned to their desks.

  ‘Me? None.’

  ‘That’s not like you: you’ve usually got a theory for every occasion.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Too busy thinking about your baby?’

  ‘Knock off the Marvin Gaye. Remember what happened to him.’

  ‘Is that it, though? Are you chucked? Seriously; I’m not taking the piss.’

  Haddock sighed. ‘Maybe. I tried to call her all day yesterday, after she no-showed on Monday night. I left messages on her voicemail, but nothing.’

  ‘Ain’t too proud to beg?’ the DS murmured as he switched on his computer, a broad grin spread across his face.

  ‘Aw, not more fuckin’ Motown, Jack. Look, it’s down to her to call me now, end of story.’

  Still smiling, McGurk watched his screen and waited as his terminal booted up. As soon as it was ready, he checked his box for email. Finding it empty, he turned to the force’s private network, and saw an intranet message waiting for him. He opened it and read it. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another box ticked.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Haddock muttered, as he waited for his own connection to complete.

  ‘That key we found under the pot at Green’s cottage. Forensics found a print on it and they’ve got a match. It belongs to one Dudley Davis; he had several assault convictions on his record . . . but no more, Dudley, no more.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That name.’

  ‘Dudley?’

  ‘No not fucking Dudley. The other one.’

  ‘Davis. That’s his surname.’ The sergeant looked at his young colleague. ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘Probably nothing, Jack. It’s just that coming from a police family, I was brought up to believe that most coincidences aren’t.’ He reached for his phone, then stopped. ‘No,’ he said, to himself. ‘Do something for me, please,’ he went on. ‘Get the number for an accountancy firm called Deacon and Queen, then call their office and ask if you can speak to one of their trainees, a Miss Davis. If they say yes, just hang up.’

  At once McGurk was as serious as the detective constable. He took Yellow Pages from his drawer, found the number and dialled. ‘Hi,’ Sauce heard him drawl. ‘Council here, finance department. I wonder if you could connect me with one of your postgraduate trainees. She did some work for us, and there’s a query. Miss Davis.’ He paused, listening. ‘Sorry,’ he continued. ‘My mistake; I must have my firms mixed up.’ As he hung up, he whistled. ‘They don’t have a Miss Davis,’ he told Haddock. ‘In fact they only have one female trainee, and her name is Cameron McCullough.’

  Eighty-seven

  ‘Do you agree with my diagnosis?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘About Mario and Neil as a command pairing? Yes, I do. Truth be told,’ Andy Martin continued, ‘I wondered about it when you made the two appointments, but the guys had worked their way there. Sometimes you find things out by trial and error.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘There might be a solution soon, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There are going to be two jobs coming up in Tayside; mine and the chief’s. Graham Morton told me he’s going early.’

  ‘Really? First I’ve heard of it.’ He frowned. ‘I doubt if Mario would fancy a move to Dundee, though, and he’s not eligible for the top job anyway. And Neil couldn’t apply for either.’

  ‘No, but Brian Mackie could. He’d be a perfect replacement for Graham. Right age, right experience.’

  ‘By God, you’re right,’ Skinner conceded. ‘I don’t want to lose him, but he deserves the step up. I can’t prompt him, though, Andy.’

  ‘No you can’t, but I can mark his card. Leave it with me: this conversation never happened.’ He glanced around the great hallway in which they stood. It was Victorian, reminiscent of much of Edinburgh’s New Town, he thought, but grander than any building he could recall. ‘First time I’ve been here,’ he remarked. ‘I hate to admit it, but McCullough runs a very impressive hotel.’

  ‘What’s it called? I missed the sign when you drove in.’

  ‘It’s doesn’t have one, not on the road; very discreet. Its name is Black Shield Lodge.’

  ‘Sounds Masonic.’

  ‘That’s your Motherwell origins showing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he paused as a figure approached them from the right of the stairway, ‘but I tell you one thing. It takes more than a building to stamp class on a place. The staff have a lot to do with it too.’

  Martin turned, and laughed softly when he saw who was coming to greet them.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Thomas Murtagh. He was dressed in a five-hundred-pound suit, and immaculately groomed, his hair the customary shade that everyone who saw it assumed was a dye. ‘Welcome to Black Shield.’

  ‘Nice to see you in a jacket and tie,’ Skinner retorted, ‘and with your fly zipped. You can stop faking nice, though. You hate our guts, and we don’t like you either.’

  ‘I try to be professional. My client is ready to see you, but there are a couple of ground rules I want to get clear.’

  ‘What?’
the chief constable roared. ‘We’re police officers, and you’re nothing. You hear me? Nothing!’

  ‘I’m Mr McCullough’s adviser,’ the former politician countered,

  ‘and the only way to see him is through me.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ Skinner growled, then felt Martin pull gently at his sleeve, as if he was tugging at a leash.

  ‘Go on, Mr Murtagh,’ he said. ‘Say what you have to and we’ll decide whether we’re staying, or whether we’re going to arrest your client.’

  ‘I don’t see that you could. My advice to Mr McCullough is that we should all be clear that this is a private visit, not an official one, and that he should be sure that it isn’t recorded.’

  ‘Oh for fu . . .’ the chief sighed. ‘If we were going to tape him, we’d be doing it at our place, not his. As for it being official, just get out the road or it will be.’ Murtagh’s nostrils flared. ‘Now!’ he barked.

  ‘Very well. Follow me. My client’s in the leisure club lounge. There’s no one else there just now.’ He led them through the hall, out of the building by a back door and across the lawn towards a glass annexe, built to enclose a swimming pool. They followed Murtagh inside, then through it, past the pool and into the area beyond, a gym, with exits marked ‘Spa’ and ‘Relaxation Room’. Their escort opened the door of the second, and ushered them through.

  As he looked at Cameron McCullough, Bob Skinner had a very strange reaction. For the first time, he felt every one of his fifty years, a birthday he had decreed would pass by with no recognition by anyone other than his wife and older daughter. He knew that the man was eight years older than him, and yet he realised that anyone walking in on them would take him for his junior. He had a full head of silver hair, and skin that although tanned was smooth and shining with health. He wore a black tracksuit, narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, and he stood with his thumbs tucked into the pockets of the trousers.

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ he said, in a voice that seemed to have no accent, and certainly no hint of Dundonian. ‘I understand you want to see me.’

  Skinner nodded, then pointed at Murtagh. ‘He leaves.’

  ‘Oh no I don’t,’ the man retorted.

  The chief ignored him, looking McCullough in the eye. ‘In that case, we do. I’ve seen you; job done.’

  McCullough smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Tommy, excuse us, please.’

  ‘But Cameron . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll pull the panic alarm cord if they get rough with me. Go on, now.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll take it as read that you’ve searched them for hidden microphones.’

  Murtagh’s face flushed; he left the room, avoiding the police officers’ eyes as he passed them.

  ‘He tries,’ McCullough chuckled, as the door closed. ‘I’m sorry about all that crap about recordings; I like him to think I take his advice seriously. He’s useful to me. By the way,’ he added, ‘this room isn’t bugged.’

  ‘He’s got no influence in politics any more,’ Skinner murmured. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t, nationally, but he’s still got some sort of name on Tayside. He knows the councillors, so it’s worth having him on the payroll. I’ve got other political consultants, of course, but they like to stay in the background.’ He picked up a fruit bowl from a table in the centre of the room and offered it. ‘Would you like an apple? Or there’s smoothies in that fridge in the corner if you’d prefer.’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks. We had lunch in Perth on the way up.’

  ‘You could have lunched with me, if you’d said.’ The smile again. ‘But maybe not. You know why Tommy was so keen to stay, don’t you? He’s worried you’ll tell me about catching him with my sister.’

  ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Please, Mr Skinner! Surely you know what’s going on in your family?’

  ‘I don’t have any sisters, my kids are all youngsters, apart from my adult daughter, and she’d kill me if she caught me spying on her.’

  ‘Your daughter’s a bright girl, I hear. A coming force in Edinburgh legal circles.’

  Skinner felt his eyes narrowing, and realised that it was obvious when McCullough raised a hand. As the same time, he sensed Martin stirring beside him.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen; please, no,’ their host exclaimed. ‘I’m a businessman, and I keep myself abreast of what’s happening in Scotland, and beyond. I like to know who the top talent is, in case I ever need to add to my team of advisers. I promise you I haven’t been checking up on the young lady specifically.’

  ‘You’d better mean that,’ Martin murmured.

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘My friend has this fixation,’ said Skinner. ‘He dreams about putting you in jail. He thought he had you too, only you managed to walk away from it.’

  ‘There were no witnesses to the alleged murder.’ He grinned. ‘There wasn’t even an alleged body. And the police couldn’t produce the alleged drugs that they alleged were mine.’

  ‘No, they couldn’t, could they. But there were witnesses. They couldn’t be produced because they’d vanished, but they existed. Their bones probably still do, unless you had them fed to pigs too.’

  ‘Here,’ McCullough protested ‘if you’re going to start that, maybe this should be formal, and maybe I should have Susannah Himes here.’ He relaxed once more. ‘But no, let’s keep this as a quiet chat. I’ll say this, just the once: you’ll never find anything, never, that links me to any enterprise other than those that I own and of which I’m a director.’

  It was Skinner’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh Christ, I know that. We never will, and not least because there’s been a disease that’s taken all the witnesses out. Tomas Zaliukas, Ken Green, the Gerulaitis couple. You know what? I think Valdas would have died in that fire anyway, even if Tomas hadn’t pulled his trick of leaving his shares in your offshore company to his nasty wife.’

  ‘There you go again,’ McCullough sighed.

  ‘Yes I do,’ the chief retorted, as he lowered himself into a chair, ‘because this is a private meeting like you wanted, and we’re going to talk. I’m going to tell you what we know, and you’re going to listen.’

  The man shrugged. ‘OK.’ He took a seat beside the window as Martin walked across to the fridge and chose a soft drink. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’ve been known to, but not today. That’s not something your people are much into either, not recently at any rate. They’ve used other methods. I want to show you some stuff. Andy, have you got that netbook?’

  ‘Yes, it’s here.’ Martin opened his attaché case and produced a small computer. He hit the space key and it awoke from slumber.

  Skinner took it as he rose and crossed to sit beside McCullough. ‘Let me show you some photos, Cameron.’ He clicked a folder and a grotesque image appeared on screen, naked flesh, gore, bone. ‘That’s Tomas Zaliukas on the mortuary slab . . . before they started to carve him up, but after he had done what he was compelled to do to save the lives of his wife and children.’ He clicked again and a slide show began. ‘That’s a man called Linas Jankauskas, after your brother-in-law broke his neck.’ Pause. ‘That’s Valdas Gerulaitis, after the fire.’ Pause. ‘That’s his wife.’ Pause. ‘That’s Ken Green, dead in his car, after Henry and Dudley had finished with him. We know they were in the cottage, by the way; we’d have them if they were alive.’ Pause. ‘Only they’re not. This is them as they were found, on Monday night, after Jonas Zaliukas had finished with them.’ Skinner held the photograph and zoomed in on it. As he looked at it, McCullough gave a short gasp, his first reaction. ‘See those things on the ground?’ the chief asked. ‘Jonas played a game before he killed them. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home, and so on. He played it four times, once with each foot, and then he put them away. Did he tell you he was going to do that when he came to see you, Cameron?’

  The man’s eyes locked on to Skinner’s. ‘What do you mean, came to see m
e?’ he snapped, but a second too late. ‘Pure fucking fantasy.’

  ‘Fantastic but true. Jonas paid you a surprise visit, at home, on Monday. You had no idea he existed, did you, or what he was. You and he had a chat, just like this one, and after that, probably in exchange for him agreeing to stop at the two of them, you set up your brother-in-law, and Dudley. You’re a seriously hard man, I know, but so’s Jonas. And you’re both realists, so you did a deal, the two of you. Why do I say this? Because Goldie told us that Henry took the call that sent him to the barn on his mobile, his shop-bought pay-as-you-go, no contract, anonymous mobile, the same as Dudley had, and the same as you’ve got so that we can never trace certain calls you might not want us to. Your privacy means everything to you, Cameron; you kill to protect it. Henry took your call, he put his phone in his pocket, he took a gun . . . he must have sensed something was off, or you slipped him a signal in your instructions . . . and he went to his death. How do I know that’s what happened? Because we never found their fucking phones, man, and we know for sure that Henry had his on him. Jonas took them away from the scene, and destroyed them, along with the legally held shotgun he took from his brother’s house and the shears he took from his garden shed. That was part of your agreement, no doubt. But no, Jonas never told you about his plans for their toes, did he, and he didn’t tell you about this.’

  He closed the netbook, laid it aside and took a cellphone from his pocket. ‘This was Tomas’s.’ He found the video folder, hit the ‘play’ key and held it close to McCullough’s face. Neither he nor Martin could see the movie, although they had before, and they had heard the sound, the strange, unintelligible words, and then the endless, endless scream. As it continued the man seemed to press himself further and further back into his chair, his eyes becoming smaller and smaller as they screwed up tight. ‘I would like to believe,’ said Skinner when it was over, ‘that you didn’t order Dudley to do that. Otherwise I will have to consider very seriously letting Jonas know that you did, and then not giving a fuck when he comes back for you. If that happens, I doubt if he’ll stop at toes.’