‘But what?’
‘Salvona and Irene Falcone were both released, on the same day, four weeks ago, and set up home together in an apartment in Queens. They had a scheduled meeting with their parole officer last Wednesday. They failed to appear: officers were sent to collect them but they were not at home. Then yesterday they walked into the parole office, apologised, and said that they had gone on vacation to Florida and had mixed up the date of their meeting.’
‘Can you prove they left the country?’
‘Not a chance. Irene’s brother is still a very large fish; they’d have used fake passports.’
‘But if we can match either of them to the hire of a Land Rover within the last week or so . . .’
‘Yes, Inspector, only this is where it gets complicated. The day Salvona was arrested he was fired from the force. When he was arraigned, it was as a civilian, and his connection with NYPD was covered up. His presence at the Tedesco murder had never been revealed, nor was it announced in court, because of the guilty plea. However wrong it may have been, this was a decision taken to protect the image of the force. If it all becomes public now . . .’
‘The shit flies ten-fold.’ McIlhenney looked at the American. ‘Are you asking me to fold my investigation?’
‘A colleague of yours used the word “discretion” to me this morning, Inspector. I use it now to you.’
The big Scot leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I don’t have any,’ he said. ‘In these circumstances, discretion belongs with DCC Skinner. I think you’d better meet with him.’
72
The policeman and the soldier faced each other across a table in a corner of the big restaurant in Brussels airport’s departure area. They had barely spoken on the journey from Winters’s office, not wanting to say anything that their driver might overhear.
Adam Arrow picked up his knife and fork to attack his gammon steak, saw Skinner staring absently at his salad, and put them down again. ‘So?’
‘Do you need to ask, mate?’
‘Not really. The Belgians are throwing a fookin’ blanket over something, that’s for sure. What you said to my friend Pierre was dead right. He’s not usually such a wanker, by the way. He was reading from someone else’s script.’
‘Can you get to its author?’
Arrow shook his head gloomily. ‘I can do a lot of things, Bob, but this is the business of a sovereign state, one that happens, in addition, to be one of our European partners. I’d need a big wedge to get anywhere; first I’d have to persuade my own secretary of state, and he’d have to talk to his colleagues. Now if you were to tell me that, by withholding information, the Belgians were compromising the safety of the Pope, they’d listen to that.’
‘I can’t tell you that for sure,’ said Skinner, ‘or I’d have told Colonel Winters, straight out. This started as a murder investigation, pure and simple, and it still is, only being denied information by the Belgian military means it isn’t so simple any longer. There’s something in these men’s past that relates to all this. Maybe Malou’s acquaintance with the young John the Twenty-fifth has nothing to do with it, but maybe it has.’
‘Then why not go at it from the other side?’ Arrow could hold himself back no longer from his lunch. He picked up his cutlery and set to work, with Skinner looking at him, frowning.
‘You know,’ said the DCC, ‘you’re bloody right.’ He took out his cell phone and scrolled through his stored numbers until he found one under the name ‘Rossi’, and selected it.
The Italian answered in seconds. ‘Sì.’
‘English, please, Gio; it’s Bob Skinner. I need you to get something for me. I know the Vatican maintains an official biography of the Pope, but is it exhaustive?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry; is it absolutely detailed? Does it cover every step of his career in the priesthood?’
‘They have a long version, Bob, and a short version. I’ll get you the long one. When do you need it?’
‘First thing tomorrow, my office. Oh, and Gio, do you have a number for His Holiness’s private secretary?’
‘Father Collins? He’s with me now. Hold on.’ There was a silence as he handed his phone over.
‘Mr Skinner,’ said the young Scots voice, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘How often do you speak to the Pope?’
‘Every day, even when I’m away on a mission like this: I have to call him this evening.’
‘When you do, will you ask him a question for me?’
He heard Angelo Collins hesitate. ‘I’m not sure. One does not interrogate the Holy Father.’
‘I know, but it’s a simple question. Does the name Auguste Malou mean anything to him? That’s all. It’s necessary, I assure you.’
‘I think I can ask him that. Can you repeat it?’
Skinner did as he asked, then folded his phone and put it away. ‘Let’s hope I get more out of that than I did out of the bloody Belgians.’
73
Something was disturbing the happiness that had enveloped Stevie Steele like a cloud since the previous weekend. It was nothing to do with his home life; he was convinced that getting together with Maggie was the best thing he had ever done. The night before, she had told him that he had liberated her; he had replied that all he had done was pull the stopper and let the genie out of its bottle.
He could still feel her warmth beside him, and hear her laugh in the darkness. ‘In that case, you’d better put it back, so it’s stuck out here for ever.’
No, the disturbance in his karma was purely professional. There was something about the Aurelia Middlemass business that was not yet complete, a question unanswered, because it had not yet formed within him, but one that was lurking there nonetheless.
Officers of his rank had perks; one of his was a computer, with an Internet link. He switched it on and waited while it went online, then entered two words into a search engine. A minute later he had a telephone number for the Dubai Police Department. He called it and identified himself; the operator spoke English, as he had assumed would be the case. He asked for the Traffic section, and found another English speaker on its switchboard.
‘May I speak to your senior officer on duty, please?’ he asked, then waited.
‘Hello, this is Captain Sharif. How can I help you?’
‘Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Steele, CID in Edinburgh, Scotland. I’m working on an investigation here and a name’s come up. She was an employee in a Dubai bank and she was a victim in a fatal car accident at the beginning of last year. Aurelia Middlemass, South African.’
‘Excuse me, that name again, please?’
‘Aurelia Middlemass.’
‘I cannot help you on that, Inspector Steele, I am afraid. This department did not investigate that incident. It was handled by someone else.’
‘Can you transfer me to that section, please?’
For a few moments, only light static could be heard, the unmistakable sound of a man considering something very carefully. ‘I do not think so. In the circumstances, I believe it would be better if they called you back.’
‘Sure.’ Steele understood that his identity was being checked; he gave the Torphichen Place switchboard number rather than his direct line. He hung up, and waited, and waited, and . . .
It was almost half an hour before the phone rang. When it did, he snatched it up. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.
‘Ouch!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘Who’s been rattling your cage, Inspector?’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for a call and I’m beginning to think I’ve been pissed about.’
‘Will it keep you late tonight?’
‘I hope not. Why?’
‘I just thought we might do something nice and domestic. Like a food shop.’
He could see her face in his mind’s eye, and he smiled. ‘My favourite hobby. How did you guess? As an alternative, why don’t we go along to Fort Kinnaird, grab a pizza or som
ething Mexican, then go to a movie?’
‘I’ll buy that. Then we can do the food shop afterwards. Asda’s open twenty-four hours, remember.’
‘Okay. By the way, did you have a chance to go down to see Mario today?’
‘No,’ Maggie replied. ‘It wouldn’t have been a good time. They were expecting Americans. I’ll try to do it tomorrow. See you later.’
Suddenly, he was aware of George Regan approaching. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he murmured, and hung up.
‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘The switchboard’s got a soldier on hold for you.’
Barely a second later, the phone rang again. He picked it up. ‘Call for you, sir.’
‘Inspector Steele?’ The voice at the other end was deep, and precise. ‘I am Brigadier General Hanif Aqtab. I am assistant chief of police in Dubai, in charge of the Criminal Investigation section. Your call to our Transport department has been referred to me.’
‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘Because of the name you mentioned, Miss Middlemass, the South African lady. She did indeed die here in a motor-car incident, but I am curious. Why do you ask about her?’
‘I’m investigating a fraud, General, from a bank here in Scotland. The principal suspect is an employee of that bank, and she used the name Aurelia Middlemass. I’ve seen her file and her curriculum vitae, and all the details match the woman who was killed in your country. The suspect here appears to have assumed her identity and tricked the Scottish Farmers Bank into giving her a senior position. Unfortunately she has absconded.’
‘She has what?’
‘I’m sorry. She’s disappeared. We’re trying to trace her, but without success. In view of the identity she stole, I’m going on the assumption that she has a connection with Dubai.’
‘Reasonable,’ the General conceded. ‘Do you have a photograph of this woman?’
‘Yes, I do. She had a security pass at the bank; that vanished with her, but they have a duplicate of her mugshot. I’ll have it scanned and sent to you as an e-mail attachment. I took your central address from your website.’
‘Thorough, Inspector. Use the prefix “genaqtab”: one word.’ He spelled it out.
‘Thanks. But may I ask, sir, if this was a vehicle accident, how did you become involved in its investigation?’
‘Because of the other victim. The unfortunate Miss Middlemass’s death was what our allies are fond of calling, these days, collateral damage. Tell me, Inspector, this suspect of yours, does she have an associate, a partner, someone close to her?’
‘A husband, in fact. He’s gone too.’
‘What do you know of him?’
‘He’s an academic chemist, doing a doctorate.’
‘And his nationality?’
‘He claimed to be Spanish, but she claimed to be Aurelia Middlemass, so who knows?’
‘I see.’ He heard the general’s breathing for a few moments; nothing else. ‘Inspector, I can say no more over the telephone. I will arrange for people to come to see you.’
‘How soon?’
‘As soon as it can be done; it will not be long, I promise. When they do come, you may wish to have your most senior commander present.’
74
Skinner called his office as soon as he stepped from the plane on to the air bridge at Edinburgh. As he expected, Jack McGurk was still there. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Mr Rossi called,’ the sergeant replied, ‘to say the information you requested will be with you first thing tomorrow. DI McIlhenney phoned. He says he needs to see you tonight; he asked me to call him back to confirm as soon as your plane touched down. DCS Pringle rang as well. He said that Stevie Steele’s got an investigation under way that might need your personal involvement, some time soon.’
‘That’s all I need, Jack.’ He groaned. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No, sir; he said it was essential, that’s all.’
‘If he said that, it is. Is there a car waiting for me outside the airport?’
‘There better be. I ordered it.’
‘Okay. Tell Neil six o’clock.’
He ended the call then dialled Aileen de Marco’s number. ‘Hello,’ she exclaimed breezily. ‘You are calling to tell me you’re going to make it this time, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s okay. I’ll pick you up at seven fifteen as arranged, yes?’
‘No, just go straight to the club. I’ll be ready to leave in half an hour so I’ll take a taxi, and wait for you there, away from the phones.’
‘Fine. See you there.’
Two constables and a Traffic car were waiting outside as he walked through the main door into the cold November evening. They came to something approaching attention as they saw him. He waved them into the car and slid into the back seat, then checked the time: five thirty-five. ‘Blue-light it if you have to,’ he said. ‘I must be in my office before six.’
He made it to Fettes with ten minutes to spare, and was in his chair, looking out of the window, as Neil McIlhenney’s car rolled up the driveway. His eyebrows rose slightly when he saw that there was a man in the passenger seat.
He was waiting in the corridor when McIlhenney led the crew-cut stranger upstairs; as he ushered them into his room, he asked the inspector, quietly, ‘Do we need anyone else?’
‘Absolutely not,’ his friend replied.
Leaving his visitors for a moment, Skinner went along to his assistant’s office and told him that he could go home. When he returned to his office McIlhenney and the other man were standing in front of his desk.
‘Boss,’ the DI began, ‘this is Lieutenant Eli Huggins, from NYPD Internal Affairs Bureau. He’s got a story that nobody else needs to hear.’
The DCC looked at him; he seemed wound up tight. He smiled at him then reached out and shook his hand. ‘You can tell it sitting down, then, Eli. How long have you been in Scotland?’
‘Since eight thirty, sir.’
‘And in all that time has anyone offered you a beer?’
‘No, sir, they have not.’
‘Bloody disgraceful,’ Skinner muttered. He stepped round to his fridge and took out a bottle of Becks and two Cokes, all uncapped. ‘I’m driving, so I won’t. Neil used to be a fat bastard, so he won’t. But you get outside that, and tell me all about it.’
Huggins’s bottle was empty half-way through his story: the DCC stopped him and fetched him another, then listened until he was finished.
‘Let me be clear on this,’ he asked. ‘Your police commissioner wants me to close down this inquiry to avoid opening a can of worms and having them crawl all over his office. Is that it?’
‘I’m not allowed to ask you to do that, sir. My instruction is to explain the situation to you, to try to make you see how much damage might be done to the reputation of NYPD, and then to ask how far your discretion extends.’
Skinner looked at him. ‘I can see the problem,’ he said. ‘If all our skeletons came out the cupboard we’d all be fucked. However, my problem is that a murder has been committed on my patch, and I am legally bound to pursue it to a conclusion. I’m also under media scrutiny, and that is something which, clearly, you understand.’
Huggins nodded, grim-faced; he looked ready to empty Skinner’s fridge.
‘So this is what I’ll do. You’ve given me information that tells me who Colin Mawhinney’s murderers may have been. Do you have recent photographs of these people?’
‘I have them with me, sir.’
‘Then please let Neil have them. The game is easier if we’re looking for a hired Land Rover; there are damn few of them around. We will show these photographs around the rental companies and the airports. If we can identify Salvona and Falcone, and show definitely that they were here, and had such a vehicle, then even if we never discover where Mawhinney was killed, we’ll have a basis for prosecution.’
Skinner smiled. ‘What we won’t have are Salvona and Falcone locked up. Extradition of a non-US citizen from the States to t
his country is pretty easy. Extradition of a US citizen is not. So if we get to that point, to save our public purse the cost of long-drawn out hearings . . . which would be reported and which might prove prejudicial to an eventual Scottish trial . . . just to get them over here, I’d be prepared to recommend to our prosecutors that they turn the evidence over to you. In other words, Eli, if those circumstances arose, I’d be prepared to pass the buck. There would be one proviso: if your DA did pluck up the courage to put them on trial, there could be no death sentence. We couldn’t have that. Does that sound like a deal?’
A smile of pure relief spread over the lieutenant’s face. ‘It does, sir.’
‘That’s good,’ said Skinner. ‘I want to help, but it’s as far as I could go.’ He laughed as he rose to his feet. ‘Of course, if it turns out that Bonnie and fucking Clyde were in Florida after all, you will let us know, won’t you?’
‘That’s a deal also, sir.’
The DCC walked them to the door and, as it closed behind them, glanced at his watch. It showed five minutes to seven. He ran his hand over his stubbled chin, then, decision made, went through to his bathroom. Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed in the last of the supply of fresh clothes that he always kept in the office, he headed downstairs to his car.
The worst of the evening traffic was over; there were no hold-ups on his way to the West End, and when he had made the complicated turn past the Caledonian Hotel, he found a parking space without difficulty. He was standing in the hallway of the Scottish Arts Club, an unostentatious terraced house on the north side of the quiet, leafy Rutland Square, when he realised that he had not called Sarah since the night before. He was reaching into his pocket, when Aileen de Marco, blonde hair immaculate, her white blouse looking as fresh as his shirt, came through a doorway to his left. He withdrew his hand and shook hers instead.
‘Almost right on time, Bob,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Only twenty-four hours late.’
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