‘Okay, I appreciate that, but how’s it going to look to the bosses?’
‘Have you had the chief constable biting your arse?’
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘Not yet.’
‘You may be the senior investigating officer on this case, Lottie, but you are not the only investigating officer.’
‘Granted. Look, Dan, I’m not getting at you. I’m grateful for what you did. The only slight niggle I’ve got is that a civilian took my place. You’re usually the first to point out that Bob Skinner isn’t a police officer any longer.’
He laughed out loud. ‘Aye, right. Then we’re both wrong. Skinner will always be a polis. When he’s on his deathbed and the priest sprinkles holy water on him, he’ll try tae arrest him for assault. But when I got here,’ he added, ‘he made it clear to everyone that I was the ranking officer, without hardly having to say a word. He deferred to me, and everyone could see it. His guys in Edinburgh used to say that when he was chief he was usually there but never in the way. Oh aye, and speaking of Edinburgh . . .’
He reached into a side pocket of his jacket, produced a business card and handed it to her. ‘Oh by the way,’ he murmured, ‘a big bird landed on my shoulder when nobody was looking and gave me that. You’re to call that number, soon as you can.’
She peered at it. ‘What the . . .’
‘Later, later,’ Provan said impatiently. ‘First things first. Before I left last night, I had the young manager show me the footage from the few cameras they have in here. It shows the victim arriving just after four, as she said he did. In the three hours after that, until Skinner arrived, ten people came in. Six of them went to the bar and stayed there. The other four were hotel guests, and they were interviewed last night along with everyone else on the premises, staff and clients. None of them aroused any suspicion and nobody saw a fucking thing.’
‘What about people leaving?’ Mann asked.
‘Half a dozen, but all of them are accounted for. One was a guest and five were bar customers. None of them,’ he added, ‘was carrying a laptop.’
‘So our killer seems to have come and gone undetected. Any ideas on how he might have done that?’
‘I think I know,’ the DS replied. ‘There’s a fire escape, opening on to West George Lane. That’s one way he could have got out, but the door’s solid and can only be opened from the inside. He could have left that way, but how did he get in? That’s the question. My best guess is through the roof. It’s easy done. I had a look on Google Earth last night; it shows that right above us there’s an access hatch that’s probably been there for ever. This building’s joined on to the one next door and that one has an external fire escape. Before you got here, I went up the fire-escape stairs and took a look. The hatch is old, and not secure. Not only that, I’m pretty certain it’s been accessed recently. I’m goin’ tae get the SOCOs up there to take a look. If I’m right, they’ll find traces that’ll match up wi’ some from this room.’
‘How about CCTV outside?’ Mann was alert, excited. ‘If you’re right, with a bit of luck, we’ll get an image of our perpetrator climbing up that escape.’
‘I didnae see any public CCTV in West George Lane itself, but a couple of the buildings have got private coverage. I was planning to get a DC to visit them both, to see what we’ve got and if there’s access. Failing that, there will probably be city public space coverage in West Campbell Street and Blythswood Street. Even if it doesnae cover the lane entrances, if we spot someone who disappears from sight between cameras, that’ll be a start.’
‘Progress!’ The DI beamed. ‘I should leave you on your own more often. Come to think of it,’ she mused, ‘when I was your DC and you were my DS, that’s pretty much how it worked. So, boss,’ she joked, ‘what else have you got planned? What about the press? How do we handle them?’
‘Don’t push it. That’s your shout, as usual.’
‘I have been thinking about that. Subject to the DCC’s approval, I think we should use Allsop again, or one of his deputies, and have a briefing at midday. I know, it’s against policy, but this is a special situation. What we don’t want to do is suggest any link between Moscardinetto’s murder and Leo Speight. The media don’t know he was at the party, and we ourselves don’t know why. There may not be a link; his murder might relate to something else, and someone else.’
‘Aye,’ Provan drawled, ‘and if Skinner had thought that, would he have called me, knowin’ that you and I are up tae our oxters in the Speight case? Mibbe he was wrong, though. Mibbe someone just thought Moscardinetto’s last film was shite.’
‘Keep an open mind, Dan,’ Mann replied. ‘That’s all I’m saying. Are there any other leads from last night that need to be followed up?’
‘Just the one. Big Bob said that the barman in Regina’s, the place in St Vincent Street where he was supposed to meet Moscardinetto, told him he’d seen him in there on Wednesday night, with a young lad. The story was they were talking and the boy got quite upset. That needs to be looked at.’
‘Let’s do it now,’ Mann said. ‘It’s not far. Will it be open, d’you think?’
He drew her a long look. ‘How should Ah know what time a gay bar opens on a Tuesday morning? We can try it,’ he conceded. ‘If it’s shut, then it’s no’ far from the office; we can come back later. By the way, you should talk to the manager downstairs before we go,’ he suggested. ‘He’s crappin’ himself. As soon as I arrived this mornin’, he asked me when we’d be out of here. I told his assistant last night she had to find other accommodation for their guests, until we say they can open again.’
‘If he had a CCTV system that showed us who went into this room,’ the DI hit the door frame with the flat of her hand, ‘it could have been a bloody sight sooner. The way it is, though, he’s shut until the fiscal says otherwise. We have to preserve the scene, in case of an early arrest and the possible needs of the defence. Show me where his office is and I’ll tell him that.’
They turned and headed for the lift. They were waiting for it to arrive, in polite conversation with the guardian constable, when the DI’s ringtone sounded.
‘Detective Inspector Mann?’ She recognised the voice almost immediately. ‘Joy Herbert speaking. I have just had a recorded delivery letter arrive in my office. It was posted last week, and only the Royal Mail can explain why it’s taken so long to get to me. However, now that it has, I believe it’s something that you might want to see. Can you get to my office, fairly quickly? I have a meeting in half an hour that I can’t postpone.’
‘I can be there in ten,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way now.’
‘Where?’ Provan asked as she returned her phone to her pocket.
‘George Square. The lawyer has something she thinks I need to see. Talk to the manager for me, Dan; keep him as happy as you can. Then take a look into Regina’s if it’s open. I’ll see you back at Pitt Street.’
‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he called after her as she left, ‘what’s amyl nitrite for?’
She paused, almost in mid stride, and stared back at him over her shoulder. ‘Jesus!’ she whispered, then kept on moving.
Twenty-Five
Keeping the manager of the Stadium Hotel happy proved to be a task beyond the outer limits of the diplomatic skills of the detective sergeant. Eventually he gave up on the task and reverted to his normal everyday bluntness.
‘Mr Welch,’ he said, ‘I appreciate that every day you’re closed you’re losing money, and I promise you that we’re no’ doing it on purpose. But look at it this way. Would you rather have an unsolved murder hanging over this place indefinitely, or one that’s wrapped up quickly then forgotten about?’
‘Try telling that to Mr Mustard, my owner!’ the manager shouted. ‘He’s got a lot of money wrapped up in this place. And he knows people,’ he added. ‘If you don’t get us opened in the next couple of
days, you’ll hear about it, I promise you.’
‘Is that right?’ Provan retorted. ‘Ah know people too. One of them’s in the security business, putting systems into commercial buildings. If your owner had gone to somebody like him and spent a wee bit more money, we might have had a sight of whoever it was broke into one of your rooms with a credit card in the lock, and then throttled one of your guests with a curtain cord. So please don’t waste your time moaning at me. You’d be better off talking to your insurers about covering your closure, and about how they’re going to react when Mr Moscardinetto’s family come after you for compensation for putting him at risk.’ He kicked the cheap nylon carpet, wondering whether static electricity could ever be strong enough to start a fire. ‘Or is your owner so tight that he doesnae have proper insurance either?’
He walked out, ignoring the man’s continued protests as he called after the detective, and also the bellowed questions from the small group of journalists gathered outside, held back by two more uniforms. All they had been told by the press office was that there had been an incident in the hotel, but most of them knew who and what Mann and Provan were. Conclusions had been drawn, but there had been no morning speculation of a link to the Speight investigation.
Won’t be long, though, he told himself.
As soon as he was clear of the building, he called the procurator fiscal’s office and asked for D. C. Thomson, the deputy who was handling the Italian’s murder. ‘Beano,’ he began as he was connected, ‘I need more forensics on West Campbell Street, up on the roof. There’s a dodgy hatch there I think our intruder used. As well as that, I need to access all the city TV footage of the block around the hotel between three yesterday afternoon and seven thirty, lookin’ for a face that might fit. Finally, see if ye can get Fire and Rescue to do an inspection of the place. It looks to me like an insurance claim waiting tae happen.’
The public prosecutor laughed. ‘Who’s got up your nose, Dan? Management not best pleased, are they?’
‘If my guess is right, you’ll find that out for yourself as soon as we’re finished wi’ this call.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ Thomson said. ‘I’ll attend to those matters right away . . . all three of them. Cheers.’
Provan was smiling with grim satisfaction as he turned the corner and walked lightly up St Vincent Street. He was looking forward to a gym session later, having negotiated a deal with dreadlocked Max, on the basis that having a cop on the premises was never bad for business.
As he approached Regina’s, he was pleased to see that the neon sign above the cellar bar door was shining. He jogged down the steps and went inside.
There was little or no natural light and not much more of the artificial kind, but enough for him to see that the place was empty apart from a young man behind the bar, in a white shirt and a maroon waistcoat with a shiny back. As he approached, the custodian turned towards him and the DS saw that he was sporting a pair of decidedly dodgy ear studs.
He showed his warrant card and identified himself. ‘Oh yes?’ the barman said. ‘Two in two days. There was a big bloke in here last night. He said he wasn’t CID, but it was written all over him. Are you after the Italian bloke as well?’
Provan shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Ah’m after the bloke that killed him.’
Even in the gloom, he could see the colour leave the man’s face. ‘My God,’ he gasped. ‘When did that happen?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, we think.’
‘That explains the crowd outside the Stadium when I passed earlier on. What happened?’
‘He died. That’s all you need to know. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Aidan Briggs.’
‘Right, Aidan, you told my, er, colleague yesterday that the victim was in here on Wednesday evening with a younger man.’
‘That’s right, they were in the corner booth. Vodka martini, hold the olive, for the Italian, and a Malibu sunset, hold the rum, for the boy.’
‘You said the kid appeared upset at one point. In what way?’
‘I couldn’t hear what was said,’ Briggs confessed, ‘but I could tell from his tone that he was bitching about something. The way it was, it was like the Italian was asking him stuff, and he was answering.’
‘You mean like an interview?’
The barman nodded. ‘That’s what it was, I’m sure. The Italian set up an iPhone on a tripod, and I’m sure he was filming. You can record video on those things in practically no light at all.’
‘How long were they here?’ Provan asked.
‘About an hour. Long enough for two drinks; the Italian bought both rounds.’
‘Can you describe the lad for me in more detail?’
Aidan Briggs grinned, in the way someone does when he is very pleased with himself. ‘I can do better than that,’ he said. ‘Given his age, I asked him for ID as soon as he stepped through the door. He showed me his driving licence; he’d just turned eighteen. I photocopied it in the back office in case he came back in here again without it. Hold on.’
He turned his back on the detective, opened a drawer below the cash register, then took out a box and rummaged through its contents.
‘There you are,’ he exclaimed, waving a sheet of paper, then slamming it on the bar for Provan’s inspection. ‘That’s him: Pollock, Gordon Pollock.’
Twenty-Six
Without realising that she was rushing, Lottie Mann reached the solicitor’s office in George Square six minutes after leaving the Stadium. She was out of breath as she climbed the stairs, and had to wait on the landing for a moment or two to compose herself.
When she was ready, she pushed the door open, reaching for her warrant card as she stepped into the public area, where a woman in her forties sat behind a desk. It was unnecessary.
‘Detective Inspector Mann?’ she asked. ‘Please go straight in, Mrs Herbert’s ready for you. It’s the door facing you.’
She nodded and kept walking. Joy Herbert looked up as she knocked and entered, half rising from her chair as she indicated that the detective should take a seat at her desk. She checked her watch and smiled. ‘You must have been close by,’ she remarked.
‘I was at a crime scene in West Campbell Street,’ Mann replied. ‘Before we begin, can I ask you something? Did Leo Speight ever mention the name Aldorino Moscardinetto to you?’
Mrs Herbert smiled. ‘No, and you can be sure that if he had, I would have remembered a name like that. Who is he?’
‘Who was he,’ the DI corrected her. ‘He was the victim at my crime scene, found dead in his hotel room yesterday afternoon. He was an Italian film director, quite famous, and he was a guest at Leo’s party last Friday evening. So now I have two mysteries on my hands. The first is, why was he there, and the second is who killed him?’
‘Do you believe it was the same person who killed my client?’
‘The law of averages alone, never mind my experience, suggests to me that two murders within three days, from the same group of people, are likely to be related.’
A gimlet eye fastened on her. ‘That is the first time I’ve heard that word used in reference to my client’s death. It’s official, is it?’
‘That’s how I’m treating it. The lab people are taking their bloody time with the “I”s and the “T”s, but the pathologist has ruled out natural causes. There’s absolutely no doubt about the second one; somebody garrotted him.’
‘How very nasty! Do you have any, er, leads? In either case?’
‘We have lines of enquiry, that’s all I can say at the moment. The forensic trail in the second killing should be pretty clear. It’s a matter of following it to an individual. To be honest, we’ve got a better chance of an early result with the Italian. His death was up close and personal. Leo’s was at a distance. Now,’ she exclaimed, ‘we’re both busy women, so what do you have for m
e?’
‘A surprise,’ Mrs Herbert replied. ‘It seems that Mr Speight was about to break the habit of a lifetime. On Sunday, I told you that the will could be amended or overridden by very simple means, and that this had been done in a couple of instances. The letter I received this morning, signed and witnessed, advised me of further significant changes. Gordon Pollock is now to inherit his father’s London dwelling and all of his hotel properties, in addition to the Blacksmith and his ten per cent of the residue. However, he will no longer inherit the house in Ayr. That, together with Leo’s home in the Bahamas, his personal possessions, a bequest of five million pounds and thirty per cent of the residue, to be funded by a ten-per-cent diminution of the shares bequeathed to the three minor children . . . Are you with me so far?’
Intrigued, Mann nodded.
‘In accordance with the letter, that apportionment goes to a lady whom Mr Speight described as his fiancée.’
‘Eh? Who the hell’s she?’ the DI gasped. ‘And where did she come from?’
‘See for yourself.’
Herbert pushed the letter across to her. She picked it up, stared, blinked, stared again, then dropped it.
‘Bloody hell fire!’
Twenty-Seven
Dan Provan was buzzing as he walked into the Pitt Street building. Its frontage may have been red brick, incongruous and ugly, but he loved it for its city-centre location, and he was dreading the fast-approaching day when he and Lottie would be relocated to Dalmarnock, even though that meant a shorter commute for him.
A uniformed woman behind the reception desk called out to him as he bustled past her. ‘Hey, Dan, there’s . . .’ but his mind was still in Regina’s and he did no more than wave to her in passing as he headed for the stairway.
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