‘Of his own accord?’
‘Whit?’
‘Nobody forced him?’
‘Naw. He jist got in, and the motor drove off.’
‘Do you remember what sort of car it was?’
‘Aye, it was a Land Rover.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Course Ah’m sure. Ah ken whit a fuckin’ Land Rover looks like.’
‘Registration number?’ McGuire asked in hope, not in expectation.
‘Ah wisnae close enough. Ah think it wis wan o’ the new sort.’
‘Did you see anybody else around?’
‘Naw, no’ a soul. It’s quiet doon there on a Sunday.’
McGuire looked at him, sizing him up, trying to gauge his honesty . . . questionable, going by his name . . . and what he would have to gain by making up a story . . . nothing, unless Gladsmuir had wanted CID off his back.
‘Did you put him up to this, Malky?’ he asked.
‘No. I promise you I didn’t. The manager of the Pheasant’s a pal of mine. I asked him if he’d heard anything, and he remembered that Spoons had left his place around the time you were asking about.’
‘Okay. I think I believe you both. I’ll need a formal statement from you.’
‘Aw, naw, come on,’ the man pleaded. ‘The word’s oot that this was a hit; Ah don’t want any o’ that.’
‘Have you ever heard of Bilbo Baggins?’ Spoons stared at him as if he had been asked to recite Einstein’s theory of relativity. ‘No, maybe you haven’t. What he said was true, though. Every time you step out your own front door you never know the trouble that might be waiting for you on the road. Come on, pal; you and I are going to Queen Charlotte Street, and you’re going to tell all that to a tape-recorder.’
66
For a hotel in the centre of Brussels, even a five-star, Royal Windsor was a very strange name, Bob Skinner told himself as he blew his grey hair dry with the device in his bathroom. However, there was nothing strange about the establishment itself; its facilities, its furnishings and its fittings were all of the highest quality.
His musing was interrupted when a sudden thought elbowed its way in and hit him. He picked up the phone, found an outside line and dialled home. He was pleased when Sarah answered, rather than Trish. ‘Hi, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be a bit late tonight.’
‘How late?’
‘Maybe twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight; I don’t know for sure. I’m in Brussels.’
‘Brussels!’
‘Yeah, the Royal Windsor Hotel. The Belgian thing’s grown some wrinkles, and I’m trying to smooth them out.’
‘Now you tell me!’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s been a trying day.’
‘Bob, this is not good.’
‘Please, love, don’t give me hassle. I have an important meeting very soon, and I need to focus on it.’
‘Yes, and you have an important family, and you need to focus on it too.’ He slammed the phone down, but she had beaten him to it.
When Adam Arrow knocked on his door, Skinner was ready, shaven for the second time that day, and wearing a fresh shirt. ‘Smart,’ said the major. ‘It’s as well, for this is posh.’
He led the way down to Les Quatre Saisons, the hotel’s premier restaurant, and through its wide-open doors. The head waiter seemed to glide over to them. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’
‘We’re dining with Lieutenant Colonel Winters,’ Arrow told him, in the formal accent that he could don like a well-fitting jacket.
‘Ah yes, he is here.’
They were led across to a booth in the furthest corner of the restaurant, set well apart from the nearest table. As they approached, a tall man rose to greet them. ‘Adam,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s good to see you.’
‘I’ll bet it is,’ the Englishman replied. ‘You always like an excuse to entertain here.’
‘It’s the nearest thing we have to one of your London clubs.’
‘This is a bit upmarket from the best of them. Pierre, this is my friend Bob Skinner.’
The two shook hands, as the waiter fussed around, anxious to help if any of them had difficulty pulling his chair into the table. Lieutenant Colonel Winters frowned at him and he withdrew, returning a moment later with three menus and a thick wine list, which he handed to the Belgian.
‘We eat, then we talk business, agreed?’ Skinner and Arrow nodded in unison.
The restaurant, the Scot had to admit as they finished, was pretty damn good, although he had a niggling worry about the garlic in the pâté. The older he grew, the less tolerant of it he was becoming. ‘And so,’ said Winters finally, as the wine waiter removed the Armagnac decanter, ‘what brings you to Belgium?’
‘Death,’ Skinner told him.
‘Hanno and Lebeau?’ asked the Belgian.
‘You know about them?’
‘I read the newspapers. Two of the Bastogne Drummers die in unfortunate accidents and it makes the press here. The military notice too.’
‘I thought the Drummers were a civilian group.’
‘They are, but since Colonel Malou took them over, they have been operating under a degree of army patronage. We provide their uniforms and their equipment, and we give them a very small grant. We didn’t before, but old Auguste pulled a couple of strings.’
‘I see,’ said Skinner. ‘I notice that you described the deaths as accidents. Is that how they were reported here?’
‘Yes, it was. The first one, Hanno, certainly. Lebeau’s death was said to have been the work of some madman poisoning toothpaste.’
‘We don’t think he was that mad. My colleagues in England don’t think Hanno was killed by accident either, and I tend to agree with them.’
‘So how can I help you?’
‘I’ve spoken to Colonel Malou; I understand that the two dead men served under him in the Belgian Army, that they were all members of the band of the First Guides Regiment.’
Winters laughed. ‘That is something of an exaggeration. The band is very important, world famous we like to think; it is more of an orchestra, actually. If you have the idea that it is anything like the Bastogne Drummers, forget it. And as for Malou, Hanno and Lebeau being members, forget that also. I pulled their files when I knew you were coming. The band has an administration and a support team . . . I think the word in modern music is “roadies” . . . who are serving soldiers. That’s where those three spent their careers.’
‘All of their careers?’
‘We all do basic training, even those who are non-combatants, but they all spent the best part of thirty years with the band. When Malou retired, he was its senior administrator.’
‘When they were serving, were there any suspicions about any of them; of improper behaviour in any way?’
‘Absolutely not. The band is pristine; its reputation is above reproach and the same is true of anyone involved with it.’
‘If there was anything in civilian life that might have got them into trouble, would you know about it?’
Winters smiled. ‘Not necessarily, but I could find out. As Major Arrow is your friend, so I have contacts in our civil police. I will do so. If you come and see me tomorrow, at my office, I will tell you anything there is to tell. Eleven should be time enough, if Adam will bring you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Skinner. ‘There’s something else I need to pin down, about Malou. You know why the Drummers are in Edinburgh, I take it?’
‘Yes, to play for the Pope. We Belgians regard it as a great honour, I don’t mind telling you; it goes back to his time as a young curate in the Cathedral of St Michael, or Saint-Gudule, as we call it.’
‘It may be more personal than that. Did you know that Auguste Malou and the young Gilbert White were close friends?’
Winters’s eyes seemed to narrow, very slightly. ‘You must not believe everything Malou tells you, Bob.’
‘I believe this, though. It’s true and I know it. But I don’t know how that friendship began, and I need to. Two
men have been killed; they form a line of acquaintance and personal history that leads to the colonel. Now I find that the line extends to connect with the Pope himself. Malou didn’t boast of this; he wouldn’t have told me of it at all, but for a slip of the tongue. Once he had, he refused to discuss it. You can see, can’t you, that if he’s keeping a secret and Hanno and Lebeau were a part of it, then I need to know about it?’
‘I can see that,’ the Belgian acknowledged. ‘Again, I will see what I can do. When you visit me tomorrow, I may be able to tell you more.’ He rose. ‘I must go. There is an excellent piano bar in this hotel, gentlemen; you may care to end the evening there. It’s called the Waterloo. The French hate it; I can’t imagine why.’
67
Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bandit’ Mackenzie was glad that he was one of nature’s early birds. So was his wife; when the kids in their turn were very young and woke with the dawn, screaming to be changed or fed, in whatever order, David would always attend to them without complaint, leaving her to grab the extra hour or so of sleep that she needed to get her through the rest of the day.
The Bandit was proud of his nickname. He liked to claim that he had acquired it by locking up his own brother, but there was more to it than that. Throughout his CID career, his clear-up figures had spoken for themselves, but he had given the impression, through his relentlessly cocky demeanour, that they might have been achieved by cutting the odd corner, and sometimes the even one as well.
This was not true: in fact, he was guilty of nothing less orthodox than backing his own judgement and of relying on instinct first in pursuing a suspect, knowing that the necessary evidence would fall into place later. Almost invariably he had been right.
One of his few failures, however, had brought him briefly into conflict with Bob Skinner. He had been shown, forcefully, the error of his ways, but then, to his surprise, had found himself being taken under the wing of the Edinburgh DCC, whose legend as Scotland’s hardest copper was well enshrined in the west, from which he had sprung.
Still, he had been surprised when his former boss, Mary Chambers, had whispered word in his ear that her job would be falling vacant and that it might be worth his while applying for it. He had been pleased too, because he had guessed that the hint had come indirectly from Skinner, who had actually cut far more corners in his time than Bandit would ever have dared.
He had been interviewed privately for the job by a panel that had included Skinner himself, Dan Pringle, and the formidable iron-drawered Maggie Rose, the most intimidating woman officer he had ever met. All his answers must have been right, for he had found himself transferred, on promotion, from the delights of Cumbernauld into a new office in Edinburgh.
He picked out the two Americans at once, watching through the one-way glass, as the queue from the Newark flight began to form at the non-EU passport check-point . . . big guys, hair cut too short and dressed too soberly to be anything but cops. So did the immigration officers, who had been briefed to speed them through.
‘Inspector Nolan Donegan.’ The older of the two, early forties as opposed to his companion’s thirty-something, moved to shake his hand as they were ushered into the small room. ‘This is my colleague, Lieutenant Eli Huggins, from our Internal Affairs Bureau.’
‘Chief Inspector David Mackenzie. I’m going to drive you through to Edinburgh. We’ll get moving as soon as your hold baggage is picked out from the rest.’
Donegan looked surprised. ‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Don’t be over-impressed.’ Bandit grinned. ‘I live a few miles from here, that’s all. It made more sense for me to collect you than for us to send a man and a car from Edinburgh.’
They were under way in a few minutes. Rather than join the Wednesday morning snarl-up on the Kingston Bridge, Mackenzie merged into the shorter queue through the Clyde Tunnel, the alternative crossing, and plotted a route through Broomhill and Hyndland that brought them on to the M8 at the point where the bottleneck began to thin out. ‘Local knowledge, ’ he said to the Americans, as he picked up speed and headed for Edinburgh.
‘What other knowledge have you guys been picking up?’ asked Huggins. The Scot glanced at him in his rear-view mirror. The lieutenant was unsmiling; in fact, he looked as if, at some point in his career, he had forgotten how to smile.
Just the sort of cop you’d want to set on other cops, Bandit thought. He made eye contact, frowning back. ‘Explain,’ he said.
‘Have you hit on anyone with a connection to Inspector Mawhinney?’
‘I’m not involved in the investigation, but as far as I know, we haven’t.’
‘We hold you responsible, you know. Our man was in your country, now he’s dead. We don’t take that lightly, sir.’
The Bandit was riled. ‘So what have you got?’ he shot back. ‘You’re Internal Affairs; you’re not here on escort duty. We need leads from you.’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘What makes you think you’re at liberty to ask, then? I gave you an answer as best I could. Now it’s your turn.’
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Huggins repeated.
‘So that means you have got something relevant to this inquiry. Or are guys like you just so used to questioning other police officers that you’ve forgotten how to answer them?’
‘Any information I have is exclusive to NYPD, only to be released at my discretion.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Inspector Donegan. He turned in the front passenger seat and looked over his shoulder at his compatriot. ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Let’s maintain some decorum here.’
‘By all means,’ said Mackenzie, ‘but I’ll tell you something, Lieutenant. If you try to hold that line when you meet my colleague who’s in charge of this investigation, eventually you will be introduced to our boss. Then, I promise, you will come to believe that discretion is the better part of valour.’
68
Neil McIlhenney could have run the Mawhinney inquiry from his office at the Fettes building, but he had chosen to set up the murder room at the coastal-division headquarters in Queen Charlotte Street, to have immediate access to its manpower. He could also have excluded Mario McGuire from the investigation completely, but he had more sense than to try.
However, the superintendent knew that being seen to report to a junior officer only three days into his command would do nothing for his future authority, and so he had the sense in his turn to keep well clear. He was in his office when the door opened and McIlhenney came in.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said. ‘That was bloody good work, bringing that guy Hughie Geller in last night. His statement’s the only sniff of a lead we’ve got.’
‘Has word got out that I was involved in it?’
‘No. The statement’s countersigned by the duty sergeant who took it, and that’s all.’
‘That’s good. I told him I’d have his balls if my name was mentioned at all, or Malky Gladsmuir. That’s a spin-off benefit. Gladsmuir’s mine now, and I want to protect him.’
‘I thought he was Jay’s before.’
‘He had Jay in his fucking pocket: life’s changed for him.’ He looked up at his friend. ‘Where are we going with the Land Rover?’
‘We’ve got the biggest magnet we can find, but it’s still quite a task.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Needle in a haystack, but I’ve got George Grogan working on it. He’s been back to the witness and he’s showed him Land Rover vehicle types. The best he could do was narrow it down to either a Range Rover or a Discovery, but that helps a bit. Total annual production’s about a hundred thousand, and both models are big export sellers. We’ll get accurate figures from the DVLA but I reckon we’re looking at over fifty thousand new UK registrations every year. It’s a new-style registration so we’re going back three years maximum; that takes us up to a hundred and fifty thousand Range Rovers and Discos. We’re trying to find one out of that lot.’
‘
You’ll start with local, though.’
‘Of course. That’s George’s priority.’
‘Good. It means we . . . sorry, you’ll have something to show the Americans when they get here.’
‘Aye. And you never know; maybe they’ll have something to show me.’
69
‘Did you manage to do your homework last night?’ asked Mary Chambers.
Stevie Steele looked up from his desk. ‘No. I didn’t get either report in until this morning. The SFB data controller was very nervous and waited for their solicitors to give her the go-ahead, and the Heriot-Watt office couldn’t get a bike last night. They’re both here now, though. The Middlemass folder arrived two minutes ago.’
The superintendent pulled up a chair and sat alongside him. ‘What does it say, then? Let’s have a look.’
Steele opened the yellow folder; it contained only three documents. ‘Jesus, all that fuss over so little.’
‘That’s the Data Protection Act for you,’ Chambers muttered. ‘Another bloody barrier across the pathway to justice. What have you got there?’
The inspector picked up the top paper. ‘A letter of application,’ he announced, ‘for the position of senior director of Commercial Banking, written on personalised stationery from an address in Dubai.’ He laid it down. ‘Next, a formal application on the bank’s official form. Name, Aurelia Middlemass, age thirty-five, place of birth Cape Town, South Africa, educated St Mary’s School, Durban, and University of South Africa, graduated B.Comm. with honours in financial management, married earlier that year to Jose-Maria Alsina. For career see separate document.’ He took it from the folder and read quickly. ‘Vacation jobs in various law offices and banks, first full-time appointment as trainee in Federated National Bank of Zimbabwe, moved on to become a business account manager in the Commercial Bank of Namibia, then account manager with Friedman’s, a merchant bank in Johannesburg, and finally director of High-Tech Investments, with the Jazeer Independent Bank of Dubai. Attached there’s a letter of commendation from Nasser Alali, the bank’s general manager, with a contact number.’ He glanced at the superintendent. ‘I think I’ll call him.’
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