A Brush With Death

by Quintin Jardine

  They moved on towards the crime scene. As they approached, they saw that the house had a name, emblazoned on a plaque on the wall beside one of the pillars ‘Invincible,’ Provan read aloud. ‘That’s a bit out of the ordinary.’

  They identified themselves to the PC at the gateway and turned in to the driveway. It led to a two-storey mansion, built in red sandstone that had a look of the genuine article about it rather than a facing placed on brick. To its right there was a double garage, and on the left, set back and surrounded by tall trees, another large outbuilding. It was flat roofed, and its walls were mostly of glass, giving the detectives a clear view of the interior.

  ‘It’s a gym,’ Mann murmured. ‘And is that . . . ?’

  Provan nodded. ‘Aye. It’s a boxing ring.’ He frowned. ‘Oh my,’ he whispered. ‘Leo’s place, the boy said.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ the DI asked.

  His reply was forestalled by a cry from the doorway of the house: a female voice. ‘DI Mann! DS Provan! This way.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Bulloch stepped out of the vestibule into the dying evening sunshine, moving past a parked ambulance, and two other vehicles that stood beside it. One was a black Range Rover; it had a distinctive registration, a prefix, then ‘MMG’. Provan raised an eyebrow, jogged Mann’s arm with his elbow and nodded towards it. ‘Serious enough tae bring DCC McGuire from Edinburgh on a Saturday,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good,’ Bulloch said as they reached her. She wore a white crime-scene onesie; a few strands of dark hair had escaped from the hood. Despite the enveloping costume, tension seemed to come from her in waves. ‘I’m pleased you could get here so fast. This is not one for the local CID for a couple of reasons, the main one being that most of them know the victim. I’m guessing you’ll be senior investigating officer, DI Mann.’

  ‘No’ you, ma’am?’ Provan exclaimed. Many years of experience had schooled him in signs of the buck being passed, and that was where his thoughts were heading.

  ‘No, I won’t be, Sergeant,’ Bulloch snapped testily, as if she had read his mind. ‘Not on this one.’

  ‘And who would the victim be, ma’am?’ Mann asked.

  ‘Get yourself suited up, then come and see.’

  She led them indoors, through a vestibule and into a large reception hall. A man stood there, and as they approached, he tossed each of them a packet containing the paper overalls they knew so well. None of his hair was on show, but they knew that it was red.

  ‘Arthur Dorward,’ the DS exclaimed. ‘Do you attend every crime scene in Scotland?’

  ‘The major ones, more or less,’ the scientist replied, ‘now that forensics is a central service. But I wouldn’t have missed this one. Being a fan of the deceased, I wouldn’t entrust it to anyone else.’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine you would,’ Provan conceded.

  ‘You know who it is?’ Mann asked him, as she pulled the hood of the forensic suit over her head and adjusted it.

  ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken. That gym’s a giveaway; that and the name plate on the wall.’

  ‘This way,’ Bulloch said brusquely, once they were both clad. She’s agitated, Mann thought. This is not like the DCI; something’s up.

  She led them out of the hall and through a corridor into a vast dining kitchen, made even bigger by a conservatory that had been added to the rear of the house. Four investigators were working there; a fifth person, a massive figure, stood apart, watching them from the kitchen area.

  ‘Lottie, Dan,’ DCC Mario McGuire exclaimed. ‘Welcome to tomorrow’s front pages.’ He broke off, then looked again at Provan. ‘What happened to the moustache?’

  ‘I left it in Australia, sir.’

  ‘Did you need an anaesthetic?’

  ‘Aye, and paracetamol for a couple of weeks after.’

  ‘And the shirt? What’s with the shirt that I can see peeking out of that paper suit?’

  ‘Blame ma daughter,’ Provan replied. ‘Alternatively, you could think of me as a caterpillar that’s been cocooned in middle age for the last ten years.’

  McGuire grinned. ‘But you’ve shed it and now you’re a butterfly.’

  ‘Moth, more like it.’

  ‘Where’s the victim?’ Mann asked, breaking into their man-chat. ‘And who was he to have a place like this?’

  ‘He’s over there,’ the DCC replied, serious in an instant, leading them towards the conservatory. They followed, and as they entered, they saw a right arm hanging down the side of a high-backed cane chair, the fingers touching the tiled floor, the back of the hand brushing against a cardboard carton that lay on its side.

  ‘To answer your other question, Lottie, his name was Leo Speight, he turned thirty-seven years old last Tuesday, and until he retired last month he was the undefeated, undisputed middleweight champion of the world.’

  The DI’s eyes widened as she looked down at the lifeless form.

  ‘You’ve heard of him then,’ Provan observed, noting her reaction.

  ‘Of course; the boxer. The world’s other most famous Scottish sportsman, alongside the tennis player . . . but the pronunciation . . .’

  ‘The DCC got it right,’ Bulloch snapped. ‘Speight . . .’ she spelled the name letter by letter, ‘pronounced “Spite” rather than the usual way, “Spate”, like he was called until he turned pro. It was his promoter’s idea, so that he wouldn’t need a nickname, unlike most boxers.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘His manager,’ she replied. ‘His name’s Gino Butler; he called it in just after two o’clock. He’s still on site; I told Inspector Grady, the senior uniform here, to put him in the gymnasium. You’ll have seen that on your way in.’

  Provan nodded. ‘Time of death?’

  ‘The early hours of the morning, that’s the guesstimate. Between one and four o’clock.’

  ‘What’s that blue smear on his neck?’ he asked. ‘Ointment?’

  Bulloch knelt and looked at it. ‘Whatever it is, it isn’t that,’ she murmured absently.

  ‘Do we have a cause?’ Mann asked. Speight had been of mixed race; in death, his skin looked yellowish. His head was supported by the chair’s thick soft cushion, and angled slightly to the left. To the casual observer he might simply have been asleep. The giveaways were the blueness of his lips and the foam at the corners of his mouth.

  The DCI made to reply, but faltered.

  ‘The pathologist . . . Professor Bell from Glasgow,’ DCC McGuire said, answering the question for her, ‘wouldn’t commit himself; he said there was a possibility of anaphylactic shock, from an undetected allergy, but he’s looking at poisoning . . . non-accidental.’

  ‘So it’s a homicide?’

  ‘Subject to confirmation, yes,’ McGuire declared.

  ‘The guy had forty-four professional fights,’ Provan pointed out, ‘plus God knows how many rounds of serious sparring. Could it have been a holdover, an undetected injury from his career?’

  ‘It can’t be ruled out yet, but that’s not what Professor Bell thinks.’

  ‘No history of ill-health, recent or further back?’

  ‘None,’ Sandra Bulloch said. Her tone was adamant.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ the DS quizzed her.

  ‘I’m sure, Sergeant, because Leo Speight was my brother-in-law.’

  Three

  ‘That’s a bit of a bugger,’ Chief Constable Margaret Rose Steele exclaimed.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ McGuire agreed. In the background he could hear music, and high-pitched, excited sounds. ‘Is this a bad time?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Stephanie’s watching Chuggington on Amazon. It’s our pre-bed routine.’

  ‘Are the two of you on your own?’ he asked the woman who was his only superior in Scotland’s police service,
and also his former wife.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie replied, ‘my sister’s out on the razzle. So,’ she said, ‘what do you propose to do about the situation?’

  ‘It’ll be your decision; this one’s above even my pay grade. But . . .’ he paused, ‘we’re both agreed that Bulloch can’t possibly be the SIO, not with a family connection to the victim. DI Mann’s the ranking inspector in the unit; she’s here already with wee Dan Provan, straight off the plane from Australia, wearing the loudest shirt I’ve ever seen. In the normal course of events, Lottie would take charge, but this is far from normal.’

  ‘Has it leaked to the media?’

  ‘They know that there’s been an incident, but none of the detail yet. They’re being contained at either end of the street. Lottie said there was only one guy there when she arrived, but I took a look out a minute ago; there must be close on a dozen of them already.’

  ‘If we bring someone else in to take charge,’ she said, ‘who would it be? Detective Chief Superintendent Payne is national head of Serious Crimes; he’s the obvious choice, I suppose.’

  ‘Lowell Payne’s in Madeira on holiday. This thing justifies an ACC in command, but that would be Sandra Strong, and frankly, she was not one of your predecessor’s better appointments.’

  ‘Which leaves you.’

  ‘Precisely,’ McGuire sighed.

  ‘You sound as if you have a problem with that,’ Steele observed.

  ‘Don’t you? I’m your designated deputy, the number two in the national police service. If I’m seen to be taking command of this investigation, what kind of a signal will that send to the media and the public? It’ll either be seen as a lack of confidence in the criminal investigation division, or they’ll say that we’re prioritising, that Leo Speight’s death is being given special treatment because of who he is . . . or was.’

  He was left listening to the background sounds of Chuggington, and Stephanie’s laughter, as the chief constable considered his analysis. He smiled, thinking of his own child, Eamon, who was rationed to fifteen daily minutes of In the Night Garden.

  ‘Agreed,’ she declared, interrupting his musing. ‘That’s how they’ll present it, and damn it, Mario, they’ll be right. DI Mann has to be the senior investigating officer. She is up to it, isn’t she?’ she asked, a little anxiously. ‘You know her a lot better than I do.’

  ‘Oh yes, she is.’

  ‘And Provan?’

  McGuire laughed quietly. ‘Even more so, but he can’t be allowed within a mile of the media.’

  ‘If that’s your main worry, exposing them to the press, then it’s time for Perry Allsop to earn his corn. Yes, I know,’ she added, ‘my stated policy is that police officers rather than civilian PR staff should be our public face, but that’s not set in stone. He’s the communications director, so he can do some communicating. Get him down there, soonest.’

  ‘Will do. I’ll stay hands-on, but out of sight.’

  ‘Not too hands-on,’ Steele advised. ‘You don’t want to undermine the woman.’

  ‘I know; I’ll be careful.’ He sighed. ‘You know what I’d really like to do, Mags?’

  If they had been on FaceTime, he would have seen her smile. ‘I think I do, but we can’t. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Legally, there’s nothing to stop us. Perry Allsop and his people are civilian advisers. So why not another?’

  ‘They’re full-time, on the payroll,’ she countered.

  ‘There are plenty of areas where we use consultants.’

  ‘But not this one, and you know it, Mario.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I’m thinking wishfully, that’s all. Still, in an ideal world, bringing in Bob Skinner as an observer, adviser, counsellor, mentor, call him what you like, would be the obvious thing to do.’

  ‘Even in that ideal world,’ Steele said, ‘he would probably tell us to piss off. His media job’s using up all the time he can spare from helping Sarah out with the new baby, and getting to know Ignacio, the son he never knew he had until the boy was eighteen years old and needed his help.’

  ‘Hah!’ McGuire laughed. ‘You say that, but this is the same man who took his boy James Andrew along with him on a stake-out when the kid was three years old. The first time I ever met Bob was at a murder scene. That same night, the first job he ever gave me was to look after his daughter; she was thirteen at the time and he’d brought her along.’

  ‘That was then and this is now,’ the chief constable said. ‘Nostalgia time’s over; you’d better go and brief your SIO.’

  Four

  ‘A poisoned chalice?’ Lottie Mann murmured, as Deputy Chief Constable McGuire headed along the corridor, bound for his car and Edinburgh.

  ‘What?’ Dan Provan grunted, blinking hard, and fighting harder against an urge to yawn. ‘A poisoned what? It’s a carton – almond-flavoured soya milk – but we cannae be sure that’s what poisoned him, no’ until the scientists have run their tests.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she retorted. ‘I was being metaphorical. The boss has made me the SIO; that might look good on my CV, but it could be a curse.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you have the faintest idea what a metaphor is, Dan?’

  ‘Aye, it’s much the same as a simile, but what’s a chalice when it’s at home?’

  ‘A drinking vessel.’

  ‘There you are then,’ he declared. ‘Like I said, we cannae be sure.’

  The DI shook her head. ‘I give up,’ she sighed. ‘Come on, let’s interview the guy who found the body.’

  ‘We’ll have to interview Sandra as well, won’t we? Formally, I mean.’

  Mann frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ she admitted, ‘but you’re right. She’s family, so she might have relevant information about the deceased and his relationships.’

  ‘If Speight was her brother-in-law, and she’s single, as we know she is, he must have been married to her sister.’

  ‘Wow! We’ll make a detective of you yet, Bruce.’

  ‘Bruce?’ His face twisted into a bewildered grimace.

  ‘I thought all Aussies are called Bruce,’ she chuckled. ‘And you’ve gone native, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I’ll revert soon enough; is she still here, the DCI?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lottie admitted as she stepped out of her tunic in the doorway of the dining kitchen. ‘I—’

  She was interrupted by a shout from the hall, at the other end of the corridor. ‘DI Mann!’

  ‘Question answered,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she called out as the two investigators walked towards their boss.

  ‘Are you clear about your instructions?’ Bulloch asked as they reached her.

  ‘Crystal,’ Mann replied. ‘I’m leading the investigation, reporting to DCC McGuire.’

  ‘Yes, he told me, and I’m in agreement with that call. You will keep me in the loop, though.’

  ‘Was that a question?’

  The DCI stared at Provan, her eyes like steel. ‘It was a request,’ she replied. ‘One colleague to another. But it wasn’t addressed to you, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘Ah want to know, though,’ he insisted, standing his ground. ‘Are you asking us or ordering us?’

  ‘Whichever it takes,’ Bulloch snapped. ‘I don’t react well to insubordination, Dan,’ she warned.

  ‘And I don’t react well to intimidation, ma’am.’ Mann laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Sorry, Lottie, we need to deal wi’ this. Our orders from the DCC were very clear and very specific. DI Mann is the lead investigator and she reports to him: directly, he said. That means, Sandra, that you’re no’ in the loop, and that we shouldnae share information with you. No,’ he corrected himself, ‘it’s not that we shouldn’t, it’s that we can’t.’

  ‘Dan’s right, ma’am,’ the DI said.
‘You must know that too. If you don’t agree with it, you might catch DCC McGuire before he leaves, but honestly, I don’t recommend it.’

  Sandra Bulloch drew a deep breath and frowned. She glanced through the open front door in the direction of McGuire, who had stopped halfway to his Range Rover to talk with a uniformed inspector, as if she was ready to chase after him. Finally she sighed, and shook her head.

  ‘I had hoped for a little professional courtesy,’ she said, ‘but if that’s how you two see it, I can’t argue with you. I’ll let you get on with it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mann murmured. ‘In that case, we might as well start with you.’

  ‘Interview me, you mean?’ Bulloch exclaimed.

  ‘Of course. The victim’s connected to a member of your family, and we both know the stats. Even with a male victim, a significant number of homicides are domestic.’

  ‘Can we keep it informal?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘Up to a point,’ her colleague conceded. ‘I’m happy for you to prepare your own statement, sign it and let me have it, but it would help us if you could give us a run-down on the relationship between Speight and your sister. For openers, what’s her name?’

  ‘Faye; but,’ she added, ‘they’re separated, and have been for a couple of years.’

  ‘Still legally married, though?’ Provan asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Actually, no, Sergeant; they never have been. But Faye regards herself as Leo’s wife under Scottish common law. I called him my brother-in-law, but it’s informal. Faye’s got a court case running trying to establish her status as his wife, his widow now, I suppose. Leo was defending it; the lawyers have been sparring for a while, but the real fight was due in the Court of Session pretty soon.’

  ‘Do they have any kids?’

  ‘Two. My nephew Leonard, he’s eight, and my niece Jolene, she’s six.’

  ‘What caused the break-up?’

  Bulloch frowned. ‘Since they were never formally a couple, there was never a formal separation either. Looking at it from Faye’s position, I suppose you’d say infidelity: his. Leo would be away for long periods at a time before his fights, in Las Vegas with his trainer. There’s this notion that fighters are celibate when they’re in training camp, and that’s why they train well away from home. That might be true for some, but it wasn’t for Leo. Faye was wise to him from fairly early on in their relationship. Ach, the truth is that Leo never saw Faye and the kids as his family unit, even if he never admitted it. She lived with that for a while, but a couple of years ago, she found out that he’d fathered a child in America with a nightclub dancer called Rae Letts, and was maintaining a home for the two of them just like he did for her. That’s when she started the legal action, to protect herself, as she put it. She’ll be three now, the wee lass,’ she added. ‘They called her Raeleen. If you look in the kitchen, you’ll see her photo on the fridge.’