‘I’m serious,’ Skinner insisted. ‘Everything I’ve heard about Speight tells me that he had something that women couldn’t resist. I’m not asking if you wanted to have sex with him in the car park. All I want is a woman’s-eye view of the guy.’
‘You could always ask your ex,’ she suggested.
‘That wouldn’t work; Aileen’s not a reliable witness. Men always come second to her, after politics.’
‘What?’ Mia laughed. ‘She’s in a relationship with Joey Morocco, Bob.’
‘Joey’s a fucking handbag,’ he retorted, ‘a required accessory at posh events. So was I, until I figured it out. Come on, what did you think of Leo?’
‘If you insist.’ She winked at her husband. ‘It’s okay, Cameron, I won’t shock you. I didn’t “fancy” Leo as such, not least because he was a bit too young for me, but if I was in the market, I would have, no question. He was very attractive, obviously a he-man because of what he did, with an air of sheer invincibility about him. You could have bottled his sweat, called it “Charisma”, and it would have outsold Chanel. That’s what you saw from a distance, but when you met him there was something else more important and more alluring than all that. He was a very kind, caring man, and when you spoke to him, you felt . . . as if all your worries had disappeared, that nothing could touch you, and that you were utterly safe with him.’ She reached across and squeezed McCullough’s arm. ‘You’re the only other man who ever made me feel that way,’ a smile flickered, ‘and you are definitely not too young for me.’ She looked at Skinner. ‘You, on the other hand: yes, when I was much younger I fancied you . . . had you too . . . but you made me feel positively unsafe. You were scary.’
The two men gazed at each other in a silence that was eventually broken by Cameron McCullough. ‘Now there’s a thing,’ he murmured. ‘For all those years, your colleagues in the police came after me like I was the devil incarnate, and all along there he was, in plain sight.’
‘That might be taking it a little far,’ Mia laughed. ‘You didn’t mean to scare me, Bob, but I did know some unsavoury people in those days, and you definitely made them shit their pants.’
He shuddered slightly. ‘I wish now that I’d never asked you that question, but the first part of the answer was useful. It ties in with the impression that Rae Letts gave me when I spoke to her yesterday.’
‘Rae Letts?’
‘Leo’s lady in Las Vegas, mother of a wee girl that you might have seen at the party. He looked after her, and from what she said, when he was with her he was very happy. And so was she, because she understood what you just said: that she was safe with him and that he’d always look after her.’
‘As long as she looked after him? Wasn’t he in court with another former partner?’
‘That’s true. I don’t know whether she was greedy or just didn’t trust him the way that Rae did.’
‘It’s all academic now,’ McCullough observed. ‘He’s dead and the vultures are flying in circles over the estate.’
‘They’ll find it’s all neatly apportioned,’ Skinner told him. ‘My police colleagues have a copy of the will. They won’t all like what it says, but even Speight couldn’t keep all the people happy all of the time.’
He finished his coffee and put the mug back on the tray. ‘Thanks for that; the caffeine and the information.’
‘No problem,’ Mia replied as they rose to their feet. ‘Nothing else?’
He nodded as one more question occurred to him. ‘Yeah, while I’m here. Did either of you encounter a man called Moscardinetto at the party?’
‘Yes,’ McCullough exclaimed. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. A wee Italian geezer; bats for the other team, unless I’m much mistaken. I spoke to him when we were having drinks before the meal or, more accurately, he spoke to me. He came up and introduced himself. I had the impression that he expected me to know who he was, but I hadn’t a clue. A peculiar little man, pushy too. He must have done some research on me, for he started asking me all sorts of questions about how the money was carved up after a fight promotion and how big a skim the Russian Mafia took. I told him that I wouldn’t know, on account of I wasn’t a boxing promoter and I wasn’t a Russian mafioso. He looked down his nose at me and minced off.’
‘I saw him later on,’ Mia added. ‘He was talking to Augusta Cambridge, and peering over her shoulder as she was working. He couldn’t have been very complimentary; she didn’t look too pleased. Why are you interested in him?’
‘To be honest,’ Skinner admitted, ‘I don’t know. He’s an anomaly, that’s all, and I don’t like them. Thanks again.’
‘Pleasure. Tell our son that his mum’s expecting a weekend visit from him sometime soon.’
‘I will, but don’t push the career advice too hard. So long, both.’
Behind the wheel of his car, Skinner found that he was still thinking about Aldorino Moscardinetto, the party guest that nobody knew, the itch that wouldn’t go away.
He decided to scratch it. He checked his incoming messages and found one from Joey Morocco, who had kept his promise. There was no text, only a mobile number with an Italian country code. He selected it and placed a call.
‘Aldorino. Chi parla?’ a voice responded aggressively.
‘My name is Bob Skinner, Signor Moscardinetto. I have a role in the investigation into the death of Leo Speight. I know you were at his retirement party on Friday, and I’d like to speak to you about that.’
‘This is important?’
Skinner was irked, by the question and by the man’s dismissive tone. ‘A man is dead, signore; of course it’s important. I’d like to keep our discussion informal, but if that’s not possible, we can do it the other way.’
‘Okay, okay,’ the Italian sighed.
‘Where are you? Can we meet?’
‘I am in Glasgow, so yes, we can meet. There’s a place near my hotel, it’s called Regina’s, in San Vincenzo Street. It’s quiet, I see you there. Tonight, seven. Be there; I leave tomorrow.’
Nineteen
Dan Provan eyed the equipment in Max’s Gymnasium, looking through a glass panel in the door from the reception area. ‘No’ bad,’ he murmured. ‘They’ve got a good range of gear in there, same stuff as they had in the Aussie gym. Ah’ll mibbe ask about membership while I’m here. You never know, Lottie, they might have a special rate for polis.’
‘Wherever you do join,’ she said, ‘I promise you I’ll be there to see for myself. The thought of you on a treadmill still fills me with horror.’ She turned to the manager, who was standing behind a small curved counter, and showed him her warrant card, as did Provan. He studied them both with the caution of someone who took no chances.
‘We’re looking for Gordon Pollock,’ she continued, ‘one of your members. We were told he was here.’
The man met her gaze calmly, with neither deference nor suspicion. He was black and bulky, with grizzled hair, long dreadlocks tied back by a band.
‘Young Gordon? He’s here.’ He glanced at a monitor screen. ‘Looks like he’s taking what happened to his dad out on the cross-trainer. Damn shame, that; a tragedy.’
‘Did Leo Speight ever come in here?’ Provan asked.
‘He wasn’t a member himself, but he brought Gordon along here a couple of years ago and signed him up. Hell, he didn’t need to be a member; the champ would have been welcome here any time. If you wait, I’ll go tell Gordon you’re here.’
‘It’s okay,’ the DS said. ‘We’ll just go in. It doesnae look too busy.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ the manager told him. ‘It is quiet, but there are some people in there, and a couple of them are likely to make you as cops. The kid doesn’t need that.’
‘No,’ Mann conceded, ‘you’re right. We’ll wait here.’
He pointed towards a door on the other side of the reception area. ‘Tha
t’s my office; you go on in there and I’ll bring him.’
The room was small, remarkably so given the size of its occupant. The detectives stood as they waited; five minutes ticked by. Provan was on the point of going to look for their subject when the door opened and a young man was ushered in to join them. He was wearing a black tracksuit with white zigzag flashes on the chest and legs, his dark hair was damp and ruffled and he was barefoot.
‘Gordon,’ his escort said, ‘these are Detective Inspector Mann and her colleague Detective Sergeant Provan. Sorry for the delay, officers; I thought he should towel down before meeting you. Even at that, you might want to open the window.’
‘I played junior football in the nineteen eighties,’ Provan snorted. ‘I’ve smelt a bloody sight worse than him.’
‘Maybe you have, Detective Sergeant,’ the man replied, ‘but this is my office, not a changing room.’
‘Of course,’ Mann said, as she released the upper section of the window and swung it open. ‘Take a seat please, Gordon,’ she murmured as the door closed on the manager.
‘I’m fine as I am, thanks,’ he retorted. There was a barely suppressed rage in his voice, but the officers realised that it was not directed at them.
‘First off,’ the DI began, ‘we are very sorry for your loss.’
‘Aye, fine,’ Gordon Pollock muttered, settling himself on a corner of the manager’s desk.
Looking at him, she saw a facial resemblance to his father, but his build was different: squatter, more stocky. He was shorter, too. She knew from the autopsy that Leo Speight had been five feet ten inches tall. His son was no more than five eight.
‘Were you close to your father?’ she asked.
His eyes flared angrily. ‘What do you mean? He was my dad.’
‘She means did you see a lot of him?’ Provan said quietly. ‘We know that he and your mother were never married, never even lived together. So if you didn’t, we’d understand.’
The boy gazed briefly at the DS and nodded. ‘Aye, sorry.’
‘How did you find out about his death?’
‘Gino told my mother. Gino Butler, my dad’s manager.’
‘We know Mr Butler; he told us where we’d find you.’
‘Ah. Gino’s all right. My mother likes him; he was more than my dad’s manager. He was his best pal too, from when they were kids.’
‘And how about you and your dad?’ Provan persisted gently. Sensing that Gordon empathised more with the sergeant, Mann leaned back against the wall of the cramped office and let him continue.
‘We got on fine. He was great. Mind, I never saw him much until I was five or six; my Grandpa Pollock never got on with him. He wouldn’t have him in the house, he wouldn’t let my mum go near him, and he’d never let him see me. Once he died, though, it was okay.’
‘What was your grandpa like?’ Provan asked.
The young man winced. ‘Fierce,’ he replied grimly. ‘He used to leather me if I did anything wrong. He gave my mum a slap or two as well, I remember. My granny was scared of him. I was only wee at the time, but I realise it now.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He’d a heart attack. They found him in the River Cart, in Paisley.’ A memory stirred in the DS but he let Gordon continue. ‘After that, it was okay. My granny let my dad come and see me, and I got to know him. He’d made a few quid by then; we lived in a council house and he bought it. We all live there still; my granny and my mum don’t want to move.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m fine there too. It suits. I’m at uni, and I can get the train in every morning. Some weekends I stay at the Blacksmith. It’s got bungalows and I can use one when I’m there. It’s my dad’s hotel and I work there part-time.’
It’s your hotel now, Mann thought.
‘What are you doing at uni?’ Provan asked.
‘Hospitality and catering management. It was my dad’s idea; it’s good, I like it. He had plans for me, my dad did. He had all sorts of property; he had a plan to build a resort hotel in the Bahamas and he talked about me managing it once I got my degree and some experience.’
He shifted his position on the desk. ‘You asked if I was close to my dad. Yes, I was. Did I see a lot of him? Yes, when he was here I did. Once or twice he took me with him, too. Two years ago, when he was training for a fight in America, he took me to Las Vegas. We stayed with his girlfriend Rae and my wee sister Raeleen – she was tiny then – in the big house on the lake just outside the city. I thought it was fantastic, but it was just another place to him, another piece of property. Nothing ever went to my dad’s head. Everywhere I went with him folk were all over him, wanting autographs, wanting selfies. I thought they were fucking rude, a lot of them, but none of them ever pissed him off, and he never turned one of them down. I never once saw him refuse an autograph, or be too busy to stop and have a selfie taken.’
‘If he was like that with strangers, how was he with people he knew?’
Gordon considered the DS’s question for a few seconds before replying. ‘Just the same. He always had time for everybody. He treated my mum like she was made out of china, even though she looks Clyde-built these days. Leonard and Jolene, he was all over them, same with Rae and Raeleen.’
‘And Faye Bulloch?’
‘Faye too, until she started that thing with the lawyer.’
‘Did that make him angry?’
‘My dad never got angry, not ever.’
‘Not even when he was fighting?’ Mann asked, intervening. ‘I’ve done a bit of boxing, usually against men, and it was anger that fuelled me.’
‘You couldn’t have been very good then,’ the young Pollock retorted. ‘When my dad was in the ring, he’d look just as he did outside, calm, except he seemed to have this invisible, unbreakable shield around him. You couldn’t see it, but it was there and nobody could ever break through it. That’s why he never lost a professional fight, only that one in the Olympics where he was robbed by bent judges; that’s why he was unbeatable. Did you ever see him fight, Mr Provan?’
‘Aye, a few times, and I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Right. If someone upset him, got on the wrong side of him, that’s how he’d be. If you were the other person, you couldn’t tell. He’d react to you in the usual way, but you wouldn’t be able to reach him. I went to Faye’s with him a few weeks ago, when he went to visit the kids – he wanted us all to know each other as brothers and sisters – and that’s how he was. Perfectly pleasant, I never once heard him raise his voice, but he could have been a fucking hologram as far as she was concerned.’
‘Suppose her lawyer had been there,’ Provan said. ‘How would he have reacted? We’ve met the gentleman. Let’s just say he might have been provocative.’
‘I can’t imagine that. Dad’s last fight, the guy Fonsecco tried to provoke him at the weigh-in, got right in his face, threatened him, swore at him, his spit flying in my dad’s face. He never batted an eyelid, just stood there and took it. Fine, but I saw a few of his fights, and I tell you, I never saw him hit anyone as hard as he hit Fonsecco. The guy spent the night in hospital, under observation. You ask me what he’d have done to anyone who provoked him that badly outside the ring? I just don’t know. I’m not talking about Faye, mind,’ he added hurriedly. ‘With her he was just sad it had got to that stage.’
‘If he was such a calm guy, how could somebody get on the wrong side of him?
‘By not doing it his way. I don’t know how to put it, but he was used to people agreeing with him. If you didn’t, he . . .’ Gordon stopped, frustrated, rendered inarticulate by his youth and lack of experience of the subtlety of relationships.
The eyes blazed again, taking both detectives by surprise. ‘But so fucking what?’ he blurted out. ‘He was my dad and someone fucking killed him! Gino saw him. It was him that found him. He tol
d me what he looked like. So what are you lot going to do about it?’
‘We’re going to find the person who did it,’ Mann replied calmly. She had heard the same furious question upwards of a dozen times from the families of murder victims.
‘Find him before me, then.’ She had heard that retort almost as many times.
‘You just leave it to us, son,’ she admonished him quietly. ‘On you go now, and thanks for your help.’
They stood silently even after the door closed, waiting until they were sure he had gone.
‘Did any bells ring with you during that interview?’ Provan asked.
‘Should they have?’ Mann countered.
‘One did wi’ me. Shane Pollock, the boy’s grandpa. When he had his heart attack, they found him in the river. Remember what Gino Butler said?’
‘By God, I do!’ she exclaimed. ‘When Leo flattened him, that’s where he told him he’d wind up. Maybe we should ask for the file on his death. It was bound to have been reported to the fiscal.’
‘And maybe we shouldnae bother,’ the DS told her firmly. ‘So we investigate and find that he did it? Leo’s dead; we cannae charge him. Even an investigation, if it leaked – and it would – would leave a scar on his memory. Besides, from the sound of things, Big Shane belonged in the effin’ river.’
Twenty
‘You’d better be paying me mileage for this job,’ Bob Skinner grumbled.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Amanda Dennis laughed, ‘although you’ll need to claim it on the official form. We are civil servants, don’t forget. Where have you been?’
‘You name it. Today started in Glasgow, then I went up to Perthshire. Now I’m sitting outside a swanky hotel over-looking Loch Lomond, where I’m about to meet Bryce Stoddart, Leo Speight’s promoter. After that, I’m back to Glasgow to link up with an Italian film-maker, in the hope that he’ll tell me what the hell he was doing at Leo’s party. Nobody else seems to know.’
‘How does it look from your side of the investigation? In terms of the brief I gave you, that is. I know perfectly well that you won’t stick to it,’ she added.
A Brush With Death Page 14