A Brush With Death

by Quintin Jardine

  Stoddart smiled, and shook his head. ‘I don’t see that, Mr Skinner. Brezinski always knew that the payments would end one day, but he couldn’t have known about the new venture. Nobody did, apart from me, Leo, Gino and Gene, and it wasn’t announced until a few hours before he died. Suppose Yevgeny did decide to get rid of Leo before he became competition – and to be honest, I wouldn’t put it past someone like him; he couldn’t have done it within hours of its being announced for the first time, at a private party.’

  ‘You’re sure that nobody else knew? There’s no crossover between your business and Zirka?’

  ‘Crossover?’

  ‘Business link; someone with a foot in both camps?’

  ‘There’s Billy Swords, I suppose. Our ring announcer,’ he explained. ‘He does stuff for Zirka. Leo knew that, though; even then he was happy to let him in on the project.’

  ‘Good,’ Skinner declared, rising to his feet. ‘That covers some of the bases as far as my clients are concerned. From what you’ve told me, there seem to be no suspects in Leo Speight’s business life. As for his private life, anyone who did claim for full payment of the special clause would immediately make themselves a suspect, so I don’t see my clients having to pay out.’

  ‘Not my business,’ Stoddart said. As they moved towards the door, he glanced out of the window. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he murmured.

  They stepped back into the reception hall just as a man came through the entrance door carrying a bundle under his arm. He was stocky, of middle age and middle height, and he seemed to bounce rather than walk.

  ‘Hello, Billy,’ the promoter greeted him. ‘Mr Skinner, this is Billy Swords, our official master of ceremonies.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Skinner extended a hand. ‘You’re back?’

  Swords stared at him, bewildered, as they shook. ‘If you say so,’ he retorted, and bounced on towards the stairs.

  Twenty-One

  ‘Toxicology will take longer than I’d hoped, Lottie,’ Professor Graeme Bell reported. ‘There’s a backlog in the Crime Campus lab at Gartcosh and they refuse to prioritise. I’ve spoken to DCC McGuire, but he either can’t or won’t play favourites. The only thing they’ve been able to tell me to date is that the blue substance I found on Mr Speight’s neck was oil paint. There was a single very fine hair adhering to it – not one of the victim’s; it was synthetic. My guess is it was from a brush.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing, Graeme,’ the DI replied. ‘Would it speed the process if the lab sent the results directly to me?’

  ‘It might, but it would be against protocol. I work for the Crown Office, not the police, and I have to report on the basis of all the available facts. I need to consider the tox results in context before I can do that.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she sighed. ‘You’re not changing your view that he was poisoned, though?’

  ‘Hell, no, that’s bloody obvious. Do you have any suspects yet?’

  ‘There are a couple who’ll benefit from his death, and one who maybe thought she would but might not, according to the will. Is there any way he could have been poisoned at the party but not died until he got home?’

  ‘Not in my experience,’ Bell declared firmly. ‘Cyanide tends to kill you very quickly, plus . . . There is something that will be in my report but I can share it with you now. Not long before he died, Mr Speight had been sweating. You were in the house, at the crime scene, as was I. Will you agree with me that the temperature was not excessive?’

  ‘The climate control for the area where he died was set at twenty-one degrees Celsius,’ she told him. ‘We checked. In the bedrooms it was eighteen.’

  ‘Not enough to make you break out in a sweat, unless you were feverish, which he wasn’t.’

  ‘No, and he went home from the party on his motorbike; that was hardly going to heat him up.’

  ‘He died wearing a tracksuit. Lottie, it appears that shortly before he died, Mr Speight engaged in some significant physical exercise. I didn’t go over the whole place, but I saw that there was a gym in an annexe building. What I suggest to you is that when he got home from his party he was still wide awake. He probably still had adrenaline in his system from his big gathering and from the bike ride, so he went into the gym and ran, or cross-trained, or cycled a few miles to burn it off.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Mann conceded, ‘but is it significant?’

  ‘If he’d been carrying a small but lethal dose of cyanide in his system, he wouldn’t have been able to do that. He’d probably have died on whatever machine he was using. But he didn’t. Instead he went into the house, drank his carton of almond-flavoured soya milk and expired in his chair, counted out by the celestial referee.’

  On the screen of her tablet, he was beaming. ‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’ she said.

  ‘Moderately,’ he agreed.

  ‘Then I’m pleased for you too, but only because I like to see a man who’s happy in his work. It doesn’t advance my investigation by one inch. You’ve told me what I knew already, but with knobs on. Whether he died in his trainers or his biker boots, same difference.’

  Bell winked at the camera on whatever device he had used to take her Skype call. ‘I’ll enjoy telling the court as well, as soon as you catch your poisoner. So long.’

  As her screen went blank, she looked up at Dan Provan, who had come into her room halfway through the call. ‘Did you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘The gist of it. How about the toxicology?’

  ‘Logjam at Gartcosh.’

  ‘Can’t we jump the queue?’

  ‘The DCC says no. The only new information I have is that Speight had paint on his neck.’

  ‘To be thorough, I suppose we better find out how it got there,’ the DS said, ‘although I have a fair idea. The artist woman, Cambridge, she was working at the party.’ He checked his watch. ‘Our next visitor should be able to confirm that, assuming she turns up.’

  ‘Trudi Pollock? She’s here already. I told them to hold her at reception until we were ready for her.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her.’

  ‘Thanks. By the way,’ Mann added, ‘just before I spoke to Graeme, I had a call from Jakey. Vanessa picked him up from school, and she said he’s happy as Larry.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder who he was?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The original Larry? The one people are as happy as.’

  Provan smiled. ‘He was an Australian boxer, or so one of my Gold Coast friends told me. I’m glad the wee one’s sorted.’

  ‘Me too,’ she agreed. ‘The other side of the coin is that I had a call from Moss Lee.’

  ‘Him? Don’t tell me, Faye’s going to confess but he wants a plea bargain?’

  ‘We should be so lucky. No, he rang to tell me that Scott’s being released on Wednesday, two days from now, and that he’s going to press for an immediate custody hearing. As further evidence of my neglect, he said, he’s going to cite my refusal to accept a generous offer to help with my child’s education, against his father’s wishes. Dan,’ she confessed, ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t too,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be all right. Ah’ll go and get the Trudi woman.’

  He left her and jogged down the staircase to the Pitt Street reception area. Three women were waiting there, but from the description he had been given he picked out their visitor without hesitation. She was short and almost square in build, but pretty, with an undefinable quality that made him want to smile.

  Instead, he greeted her formally. ‘Ms Pollock? DS Provan. Sorry to have kept you. If you’d like to come with me.’

  He would have taken the lift, but she led the way, making for the stairs from which he had arrived, moving more nimbly than her build suggested she might. He took her into a small interview room on the first floor, where Mann
was waiting. The visitor looked at the table as the DI offered her a seat. ‘Is there no recorder?’ she asked, in a clipped Glasgow accent. ‘There always is on the telly.’

  ‘You’re no’ under caution, so we don’t need one,’ Provan explained. ‘We’ll just take notes.’ He smiled. ‘That means I will; she’s the boss.’

  ‘Okay. How can I help you?’

  ‘Just tell us what you know about Mr Speight,’ Mann suggested. ‘We need all the information we can get about him: who were his friends, who were his enemies, was anything worrying him. Of all the people on our interview list, you’ve known him longer than anyone else, save for Mr Butler.’

  ‘For longer,’ Trudi corrected her. ‘Leo and I started primary school on the same day. We never met Gino until we went to the high school.’

  ‘What was Leo like as a child?’

  ‘Quiet. He was always quiet.’

  ‘Was he always a fighter?’ Provan asked.

  ‘Not at first, until he had to be. His mum was a teacher; when we got to Primary Four, there were a couple of big boys used to pick on him because of it. He got beat up a couple of times, two on one. But one day one of them tried it on his own. Leo knocked two of his front teeth out; his second teeth they were too. I never thought he could fight. The other boy’s mother kicked up a stink, but the headmaster knew what had happened. He told her that her son had only got what he’d been asking for. He told Leo’s dad about it, though. He’d been a professional boxer himself, Mr Speight. I don’t think he ever wanted that for Leo, but he must have given in to the inevitable, for he took him in hand and started to train him.’

  ‘What happened to the boy with the missing teeth?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Barlinnie happened to him, eventually. Last I heard he was still there. He never did learn his lesson.’

  ‘Some never do,’ Mann observed. ‘Was Leo a loner as a youngster, or did he run with a gang when he got to the high school?’

  ‘There weren’t really any gangs in our school. But he wasn’t a loner; he had plenty of pals. Gino was the best, though; he was the only boy that Leo was close to.’

  ‘And you and him?’

  ‘We were just . . . We hung around together. Leo had a bad time when we were both fourteen; his mother developed pre-senile dementia. She lost her mind, literally, and had to be put away. It was just him and his dad after that, until he was killed at work. Leo would be early twenties at the time.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ the DI asked.

  ‘It was awful,’ the woman replied. ‘Mr Speight worked on the railways, in a freight yard. One day he got caught between two trucks and was crushed to death. Before that, though, he worked all hours when Mrs Speight took ill, making extra money for Leo’s training expenses and his travel costs to amateur tournaments. When he was at work, Leo spent most of the time with me. Well, we were growing up, and after a while we started . . .’ she paused for a second, ‘you know.’ She flushed, shyly and attractively, and Provan saw the pretty girl that she had been. ‘Not until we were sixteen, mind,’ she added. ‘We were still too young, though, too young to be careful enough.’

  ‘Mr Butler told us what happened when your father found out you were pregnant. He said that he threatened Leo, and that Leo flattened him.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s what Gino told me, too. Leo never spoke to me about it.’

  The DS paused his note-taking and looked at her. ‘You weren’t there?’

  ‘I was upstairs in my room,’ she told him, ‘with make-up on the black eye my dad gave me. I had to stay away from Leo until it was better. I was afraid of what he might have done to my dad if he’d found out.’

  ‘What do you think he might have done?’

  ‘I didn’t want to know that. Leo was the best amateur boxer in Britain. He had an aura about him even then. If you believe in those things, and I do, you’ll understand when I say that his was huge. It was like a great big tree. My father’s was like a scrubby wee bush. He made out that he was a gangster. He wasn’t. He was just a big loudmouth in the pub and a big bully at home. I was glad when he died. I didn’t even go to the funeral.’

  ‘Do you think someone put him in the river?’ Mann asked.

  Trudi raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been doing your homework. Frankly I don’t care whether somebody did or whether he just had a heart attack and fell in like they said. Either way, my mother, Gordon and I were well rid of him. With him gone, Leo was able to help with Gordon.’

  ‘Did you and he ever rekindle your old relationship?’

  ‘No. We never even thought about it, to be honest. I was still a Paisley girl, but even by that time Leo was from somewhere else. Mind you, he did offer to adopt Gordon formally, so that he could use his name. My bastard of a father never filled in that part on the certificate when he registered the birth,’ she added in explanation. ‘He left it as “Unknown”, even though it made me out to be a tramp. I said no, that Gordon would know who his dad was and that was enough for me. Leo said he understood, and that’s why none of his other kids are called Speight either . . . whatever that woman Faye might write on their bloody lunch boxes.’

  Her sudden venom took both officers by surprise.

  ‘You and Ms Bulloch don’t get on,’ Provan observed.

  ‘We don’t have to, because our paths don’t cross. That stupid legal action of hers: while Leo was alive it was a waste of time and money. I hope nothing comes of it now he’s dead.’

  ‘That’ll be for the Court of Session, I’m afraid. Moving on,’ Mann continued, ‘there may be something you can clear up for us. During the party last Friday, we’re told there was an artist at work.’

  ‘That’s right: Augusta Cambridge. I made the arrangements. You know I’m Gino’s secretary?’ Mann nodded. ‘Leo wanted everyone to have a memento of the night, but something special, more than just a photograph. All the guests were going to get a print of her painting.’

  ‘Did you notice the two of them talking that night?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh yes. She was sat up on a kind of dais with her easel, and he went and stood behind her, to see what she was doing. They knew each other quite well,’ she volunteered. ‘I heard Leo say to her, “Hey, Gus, are you never going to paint me?” She had her brush in her hand and she dabbed him with it, right there,’ she touched the left side of her throat, ‘and said, “There you are, an Augusta original.” He said, “I’ll never wash it off,” and they both laughed.’

  ‘As it turned out, he didn’t,’ Provan murmured grimly. ‘It was an anomaly we had to clear up, so thank you.’

  ‘Did you speak to Leo yourself at the party?’ Mann asked.

  ‘No, I was going to, to thank him for a great night, but he’d left when I went looking for him.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke?’

  Trudi Pollock shifted in her seat, resting her thick forearms on the table. ‘Last week. Let me see, what day was it? Yes, Tuesday. He came into Gino’s wee office in Glasgow, where I work. It’s an accommodation address as much as anything else. Gino spent most of his time with Leo, wherever he was.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that anything was weighing on his mind?’

  ‘Other than the party, no, and by then all the arrangements were made and we were able to go firm on the guest list. No, he was fine, the usual Leo. He wasn’t there long. He did a bit of business, and when he left, he kissed me on the forehead, said, “You always were a wee treasure, Trudi,” and he left. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.’

  Twenty-Two

  Bob Skinner was not best pleased, but slightly more than Sarah had been when he had called her to say that he was going to be late for his son Mark’s appearance on a television computer science programme that had been recorded a few weeks ago and was due to be screened that evening.

  ‘Tell him I am sorry,’ he had sai
d. ‘Record it and tell him we’ll all watch it together as soon as we can.’

  ‘Will that be tonight?’

  ‘It depends how quickly I can get shot of this Italian that I have to see. I’d postpone him, but he says he’s leaving tomorrow, and I need to talk to him before he goes.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stop him from leaving before you’re ready to interview him?’

  ‘A couple of years ago, when I was still a chief constable, I could have. I don’t have the authority to do that any more.’

  ‘What about DI Mann?’ she had suggested.

  ‘Lottie doesn’t have the rank, and she doesn’t have grounds either. She has no reason to regard him as a suspect. I hate it, babe, but it’s best all round if I see the bugger at the time and place he specified.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sarah had sighed. ‘I’ll tell Mark you’re on a secret mission. That’ll keep him happy.’

  ‘You’re not wrong on this occasion.’

  He was still fretting over Mark’s potential disappointment as he nursed a mineral water in the dimly lit Regina’s. It was quiet, as Moscardinetto had said, possibly because its prices were eye-wateringly high even by central Glasgow standards. To compound his annoyance, the Italian was late. To read his watch Skinner had to hold it in the single shaft of downlight that played on his corner booth. It showed ten past seven, and he had never been a man to let unpunctuality go unremarked upon.

  He glowered at the door for three more minutes before the last thin shred of his patience snapped. He took out his phone, found the film-maker’s number and called it. To his annoyance, it went to voicemail. He waited for two minutes then tried again, with the same result.

  ‘Bastard thinks he can ignore me, does he?’ he growled. ‘We’ll see about that.’ He eased himself out of the narrow booth and walked across to the bar.

  ‘Fizzy water not to your liking?’ its uniformed minder asked him. ‘I can do you a nice non-alcoholic cocktail if you like.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, but I suspect I’d have to cash a fucking ISA to pay for it. I’m supposed to be meeting a guy here; he’s Italian and he’s been here before, because he knew about it and suggested it.’