‘She is.’
‘Damn shame. She’s a special girl, once you get past the voice. Leo really liked her. That said, he’d never have married her; I don’t think he’d ever have married anyone, but he was very, very fond of her. Those were his own words.’
‘Yes, I spoke to her today and got that impression myself. What about the Ayrshire end? Do you know how he felt about her?’
‘Not really,’ Morocco confessed. ‘I only met her at the party. He did say once that he respected her, but that he was wary of her.’
‘I can guess why: Faye Bulloch called herself Mrs Speight, and she’d even hired a lawyer to try to make that official.’
‘I didn’t know that. How will his death affect it?’
‘I’ve no idea. It could depend on the will. It’ll be a problem for the executors; I’m told that probably means Gino Butler, his manager. Leaving that aside,’ Skinner continued, ‘do you know how Leo came into contact with Moscardinetto?’
‘Oh yes,’ the actor replied. ‘It was through me. Leo asked me if I could put him in touch with Aldorino. He didn’t say why and I didn’t ask. If he’d wanted me to know, he’d have told me; that’s the way he was.’
‘I thought you said that you and the Italian weren’t pals.’
‘We’re not. He’s a humourless little shit and he was a bully on the set with most of the cast, especially the women. I do have his mobile number, though. I gave that to Leo and left him to it.’
‘Would you give it to me?’
‘Sure,’ the actor said. ‘It’s in my contacts; I’ll text it to you once we’re done.’
‘Which we are. Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure.’ There was a pregnant hesitation. ‘And Bob, I’m sorry, about . . . well, about things that happened in the past.’
Skinner chuckled. ‘Like you shagging my wife, you mean? I appreciate that, but there’s no need. Things have worked out well for everyone: I’m happy, Aileen’s happy, and you’ve still got that classic profile. Cheers, Joey.’
Sixteen
‘What’s Mrs Herbert’s next step?’ Skinner asked, glancing around the room that Mann and Provan shared. The block-wide brick edifice in Pitt Street had been the headquarters of Strathclyde Police, the service that he had headed in the final months of his career. For years he had declared that he would never move to Glasgow, but circumstances had put him in a position where he had found it impossible to refuse.
The place was still in use, but in its last week of service, before the last of its staff transferred to a new building in Dalmarnock, on the east side of the city. Physically it was unchanged, but the energy that Skinner had felt every time he walked through its doorway had dissipated. There was no buzz to it; for all the excitement it generated it might as well have been a council office.
‘She’s going to meet with Gino Butler this morning,’ Mann replied, ‘and show him the contents of the will. Then, she said, she’ll take his instructions on the parts that concern him, since he’s an executor.’
‘That was how she put it,’ Provan added. ‘In practice, she’ll give him hers. All the beneficiaries will have to be advised. By letter, she said. Then it’ll be a matter of dividing the spoils.’
‘After tax,’ Skinner pointed out. ‘Who’s going to make that calculation?’
‘One of her associates is a tax specialist,’ the DI told him, ‘but the estate will be so complicated that she expects she’ll have to bring in one of the big accountancy firms.’
‘How is it distributed?’
‘Most of it will go to his children. Gordon Pollock’s share is adjusted because he gets the hotel businesses; the three young ones inherit equally.’
‘How about his women?’
‘Trudi Pollock gets some, Rae Letts gets a lot, but Faye Bulloch’s share is dependent on her behaving herself. Not just that; she was removed as a trustee for her children and replaced by Mrs Herbert. She shouldn’t have gone legal on him, that’s for sure.’
‘All this is provisional, of course,’ Provan pointed out. ‘The lawyer woman seemed to be saying that Leo could have altered the will without her knowing about it.’
‘Informal writings,’ Skinner said.
‘You know about that?’
‘Of course. It’s a device that lets you adjust a will without having to go to a lawyer or redraft the whole thing. I used it myself a few months ago, after my new daughter was born. If Mrs Herbert volunteered that – is that what you’re saying, Dan? – does she believe that he had?’
Mann frowned. It was the first sign of concern she had shown; to Skinner she appeared more focused than she had the day before. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘she didn’t say that for certain; she just flagged it up as a possibility. What she did say was that Leo had told her he was going to change the disposition of the house in Ayr, without saying how he was going to do it. Could that be significant?’
‘It could give you a motive for murder,’ Skinner suggested. ‘If I were you two, first chance I got I’d have another look at Speight’s house, and anywhere else he might have conducted personal business, and search for any documents that he might have left behind him. Not just that, I’d be looking for any notes he might have left, handwritten or on a computer, that indicated what change he was going to make. However,’ he added, ‘it’s just as likely he hadn’t done anything, as he had no thought of dying.’
‘I’ll do that,’ the DI said, with a wry grin, ‘soon as I have the manpower. I’ll do anything, to be honest. I’ve never had any investigation like this before. Homicides in Glasgow are usually pretty straightforward. They’re usually domestic, and the perpetrator’s still at the scene, or occasionally they’re gang related. With those, you’ve got a ready-made shortlist of three or four people, and all you have to do is pick the likeliest and prove it. With this one, we have a man who lived alone and died alone, apparently after drinking something he bought by the crate-load from the manufacturer.’
‘You know that much already?’
‘Yes. It seems that Leo didn’t go to supermarkets, not in Scotland. My team have established that he shopped on line. The almond soya milk was a special item, purchased at source, and the barcode on the one we found beside him confirms that it was part of his last bulk order.’
‘He bought it by the crate?’
‘Apparently so.’ She sighed. ‘And it was public knowledge. About year ago, BBC telly did a feature on him when he was training in London. The reporter asked him if he had any rituals, and he volunteered that one.’
‘Ouch! That doesn’t exactly narrow the list of suspects. Have you ever had to deal with a poisoning before, Lottie?’ Skinner asked.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I never have.’
‘I’ve investigated a couple, and they’re nasty. They’re also very difficult to solve, because a hell of a lot of premeditation goes into them. They’re very well planned. While you might have an obvious suspect, proving that the poison wasn’t self-administered is difficult, as is gathering enough evidence to bring a charge. I’m talking about cases, too, where there’s a very short list of suspects.’
‘How many people would have wanted to kill Leo Speight?’ Provan challenged.
‘That’s for you to determine. At the moment, I’m focused on whether his death might have had any links to his business life, possibly to the new venture he announced at his party.’
‘Suppose it did. Would folk like that be likely tae poison him?’
‘Rule nothing out,’ Skinner said.
‘We never do,’ Provan said dismissively. ‘Now, what have you been doing and what’s on your list? Come on, share and share alike, Bob. We don’t want to be trippin’ over each other.’
‘No,’ he conceded, ‘or people might talk. Yesterday, I had a very useful chat with Rae Letts. I think we can agree she’s unlikely to make the sh
ortlist of suspects, since she only arrived on Thursday afternoon.’
‘She could still have been in the house,’ the DS suggested. ‘Leo would want to see his wee lass, surely.’
‘He did. He picked her up from Glasgow Airport in his Bentley and took them straight to the Blacksmith. I found that out from the duty manager after I’d talked to her. They never left the hotel on Friday. They had room service, breakfast at eight thirty, lunch at twelve thirty.’
‘If that’s all you found out, how was your chat useful?’ Mann asked.
‘She told me who Aldo Mosca is; his full name is Aldorino Moscardinetto.’
‘The film director?’ Provan exclaimed, taking both of his companions by surprise.
‘I don’t imagine there’s two of them,’ Skinner retorted. ‘She didn’t know why he was there, but she told me she’d met him before, when Leo brought him to her house. Thanks to a film-star friend of mine, I have a contact number for him. I have to see someone else this morning, but I can talk to him after that. Or you can if you’d prefer; it’s your choice, Lottie.’
‘I’d be happy if you did,’ she replied. ‘As it is, it’s going to take Dan and me an age to get through that guest list and interview or eliminate everyone.’ She glanced at the clock on her desk. ‘In fact we should be going. We’re seeing Faye Bulloch in an hour.’
‘Will her sister be there?’
‘She’d better not be!’ the DI snorted.
‘I’d take a bet that her lawyer will be, since she knows you’re coming to interview her.’
An ear-to-ear grin lit up Provan’s remodelled countenance. ‘If he is,’ he chuckled, ‘that will make my day. It may ruin his, though.’
Seventeen
‘You may have seen too many TV dramas, Mr Lee,’ Lottie Mann said icily. ‘Ms Bulloch isn’t being interviewed under caution, nor is she a suspect in Mr Speight’s death. Whatever you cost, it’s a waste of her money.’
‘Ask your father-in-law what I cost,’ Moss Lee replied, grinning. ‘Whatever that is, my clients always get value for it. And by the way, it’s Mrs Speight, not Ms Bulloch, as I’m sure your senior officer, the detective chief inspector, would be quick to tell you if she was here.’
‘I want Mr Lee here,’ Faye Bulloch declared. If her lips had been any tighter, they could have been invisible. ‘I’m a bereaved woman; I’ve lost my husband and I need all the support I can get.’
Provan gazed at her, trying to spot a resemblance to her sister but seeing very little. Where Sandra’s hair was short, thick and well cut, Faye’s was dyed, a pale blond shade, and it was so fine that even though it had been carefully arranged, strands flew wildly from the mass. He was sure that if he touched her he would feel the crackle of static electricity. She was dressed in black, trousers with a silken top; her eyes were red, her mascara smudged, and she held a clump of tissues in her right hand.
He turned his gaze to her solicitor. Lee, who was thirty-eight according to newspaper reports, gave the impression of someone who spent much of his time in the gym, but the sergeant suspected that was false, and that the width of his shoulders owed more to his tailor than to the weight he could press. His closely shaven face shone with moisturiser. Provan found it distasteful, but he had to concede that the man’s black moustache, trimmed to the same width as his eyebrows, was impressive. He had spent thirty years of his life trying to achieve that effect, but had never come close.
‘Okay,’ Mann conceded, ‘but he stays as a courtesy.’ She looked Lee in the eye. ‘That means you don’t get to interrupt, or even open your mouth without my consent.’
‘Do I have to put my hand up if I want to go to the bathroom?’ he drawled.
She ignored him. ‘First and foremost, Ms Bulloch,’ she continued, ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman replied, relaxing a little and dabbing at her eyes with the tissues. ‘If you’re not going to call me Mrs Speight, then call me Faye. I feel as if I know you anyway. My sister’s talked about you. She likes you.’ She glanced at the DS. ‘She’s talked about you too, Mr Provan, but you look nothing like the way she described you.’
He gave her a brief nod of acknowledgement. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Faye turned back to the DI. ‘How did Leo die? I saw the man on TV yesterday and I read the papers today. “Suspicious death”, they all said, but what does that mean?’
Hasn’t your sister told you? Provan wondered silently.
‘It means that indications are he didn’t die of natural causes,’ Mann replied. ‘Until the autopsy findings are confirmed by lab analysis, we can only tell the media what we know for certain; we can’t speculate.’
‘Police-speak,’ Moss Lee muttered. ‘She’s saying he was murdered, Mrs Speight.’
The DI flashed him a glare. ‘No, I am not,’ she countered. ‘I can’t be more specific than that.’
‘If it’s suspicious, what do you suspect?’ Faye persisted.
Mann sighed. ‘Ms Bulloch, we both know that you have a source in the police. You mentioned her already. Neither she nor I are allowed to give you confidential information from within the investigation. If I did that and it got back to her, or made its way to the media through other sources,’ she glanced at Lee again, ‘I’m in the shit. So let’s stick with convention, where I ask the questions and you answer them if you can. Agreed?’
‘This is Mrs Speight’s husband’s death we’re discussing,’ the solicitor blustered.
‘Her marital status is between her and the civil court,’ Provan snapped. ‘Agreed, Ms Bulloch?’
She nodded, dabbing at her eyes once again. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Fine,’ the DI said. ‘Let’s leave it there for the rest of this interview. When did you last see Leo?’ she asked.
‘At the party. Last Friday evening.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘He was fine, the same old Leo, calm, quiet, friendly.’
‘Did you speak much?’
‘Not much. He asked me how Jolene was getting on at school. She’s not long started, and she’s been having trouble with her numbers. I told him I’d been working on it at home and that Leonard’s been helping her too. He’s a very bright wee boy,’ she added. ‘He takes after his father. They stayed up for the meal and the speeches. After that, Leo took them to the bungalow where we were staying and we put them to bed together.’
It occurred to Provan that everything she said gave an air of settled domesticity to their relationship. Give it to Lee, he thought, he’s coached her well. I can imagine him doing the same with Nana fucking Mann.
‘You left them on their own?’ he exclaimed.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Faye Bulloch protested. ‘Every one of those bungalows has a baby-monitoring system built into it. There are alerts at hotel reception and all the parents are given speakers when they’re in the dining room or the bar.’
‘That’s good to know,’ Mann said. ‘Before the party, when was the last time you saw your . . .’ She stopped herself just in time from throwing Lee a bone that he might have gnawed on in court. ‘Leo?’
‘Last Tuesday. He came to see the children as always. Normally he’d come twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, to see the kids and to have a family meal with us.’
‘How did he seem then? Was he quiet and friendly then, with no strangers around?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘He didn’t have any problems that he mentioned to you, or that you might have heard of from anyone else?’
‘What sort of problems?’ Faye asked.
‘Any sort,’ the DI replied. ‘Anything that might have distracted him and made him less friendly than usual.’
‘No, none at all. He was always friendly; we had a good relationship, my husband and I.’
‘In spite of the facts,’
Provan growled, ‘that he wasn’t your husband, that he didnae live with you, that he never had done on a permanent basis and that you were suin’ him for a financial settlement. By all accounts he was a nice fella, but he wasn’t a saint. Nor was he giving in to your lawyer’s demands. Far from it; he’d retained senior counsel to defend the action. You’re not going to tell us, Ms Bulloch, that wi’ that background everything was sweetness and light between you. Of course he had things on his mind; you were one of them. So please don’t tell us your life was all rose petals and soft toilet paper!’
‘Mr Provan!’ Moss Lee protested. ‘I must—’
‘You must shut the hell up,’ the DS snarled, ‘or I’ll march you out of here by the scruff of your neck and charge you with obstruction.’
‘My sister will hear about this,’ Faye Bulloch murmured.
Provan smiled. ‘You must be confusing me with somebody who gives a toss.’ As he spoke, he picked up in his peripheral vision a movement of the solicitor’s head, a glance towards the coffee table, on which lay a mobile phone. He leaned across and snatched it up.
‘Look at this, Lottie,’ he said. ‘The man’s here on sufferance, and he’s recording the meeting without our okay.’
‘I don’t need your okay,’ Lee countered. ‘And don’t think about erasing it either. My phone, my property.’
Mann reached out a hand. ‘Gimme, Dan. The man’s right; he doesn’t need our permission.’
Reluctantly the DS handed her the mobile. She peered at it, stopped the recording, clicked the dustbin icon in the corner of the screen and handed it back to Lee. ‘Sue me,’ she told him. ‘Complain to the chief constable if you like. But do it quietly and do it somewhere else; otherwise we’re going to start wondering why you’re trying to disrupt this interview and whether your client has something to hide.’
‘I don’t,’ Faye Bulloch exclaimed. ‘Okay, if you insist, Leo and I have had very little to say to each other since I started my action for a property settlement.’
A Brush With Death Page 12