A Brush With Death

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘He didn’t talk about it much, maybe because I never asked. It was the source of his wealth, he did say once, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He liked the older Stoddart, I do know that. He told me that his father had respected him and that was enough for Leo. I think he was wary of the younger one.’

  ‘Bryce? Why?’

  ‘How did he put it? “Bryce has no idea of the future,” he told me. “When I’m gone from boxing,” he said, “my business life really starts. Bryce will struggle to hold on to his, because he’s been too reliant on me for too long.” I never met Bryce, but my assessment was that Leo was a lot brighter than him.’

  ‘His business life, you said. Was that the new mixed martial arts thing he spoke about at his party?’

  Sandra laughed. ‘He had no intention of following through with that,’ she exclaimed. ‘I helped him work on what he was going to say, so I know. “It’s a good idea in principle,” he told me. “I’ve done the groundwork, including bringing Billy Swords in on it as the frontman, but no fucking way will I actually do it myself. Having created the blueprint, I’ll hand it over to Stoddart Promotions as a farewell gift if Bryce wants it. It’ll be interesting to see how they react . . . especially the old bat.” The old bat was a woman called Alderney. She had something to do with the Stoddarts, and she was one of only two people I know he ever actively disliked, the other being Trudi Pollock’s father. His real business? That was property; he had big, big plans for that. The hotels, the offices, the Bahamas; that was just the story so far. When I asked him what he was going to do, he laughed and said, “Keep on growing, ethically. Maybe I’ll run for president one day.” He’d have made a damn good one.’

  She held up the photocopy. ‘My brain’s not working yet, sir. What does this mean, bottom line?’

  ‘It means,’ Skinner replied, ‘that after specified bequests have been met and inheritance duty paid, you and Leo’s kids inherit the residue of his estate, in the way that he lays down.’

  ‘What about the property?’

  The way I read it, Gordon gets the hotels, and the rest’s shared among the five of you.’

  ‘Three of them are children and Gordon’s not much more. I can’t look after all that!’

  ‘You won’t have to. There’s a man in Edinburgh, Charles Baxter.’

  She nodded. ‘Leo mentioned him; he said he was the key man on his property side. In fact he said that if Bryce Stoddart had his brains, he’d be running all the big shows in Las Vegas, not hanging on in Britain, relying on him for the big paydays.’

  ‘He wasn’t kidding. Baxter’s an executor and he’ll be trustee for the children. If you want my advice, go to him and ask him to manage your interest in the portfolio as he did for Leo. That shouldn’t be a problem for him.’

  ‘It might if it means I have to deal with my sister.’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘As I understand it, you won’t. Leo took her out of play altogether.’

  ‘I don’t know whether that’s good news or bad. She’s a dangerous woman.’ Her mouth gaped as the implications of what she had said came home to her. ‘You don’t suppose . . .’ she gasped.

  ‘I don’t suppose anything, nor should you, until the Gartcosh lab finally unplugs its finger and completes the analysis that Mann and Provan are waiting on.’

  ‘If you say so, but it’ll be difficult.’

  ‘Then get yourself out of it, Sandra, as far away as you can. If I were you, I’d take that leave, I’d go and see the lawyer and Baxter, get the keys to the house you will own in the Bahamas, and bugger off there as you and Leo intended. While you’re there, do some life planning. You may prove me wrong, but I don’t see you coming back to the police service, not with the sort of wealth you’re going to have. That kind of money needs managing, and it’s not the sort of job you want to delegate too far.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ she conceded, ‘but how can I go with the investigation under way? You realise, don’t you, that the will makes me a person of interest. Nobody had more to gain than me from Leo’s death, sir.’

  ‘Somebody did, or thought they did, but not necessarily in material terms. If you’d done more time as a homicide detective, you’d realise that only a small minority of murders are about money.’

  He stood, almost jumping to his feet. ‘Get out of here,’ he said, an order, not a suggestion. ‘Go now. I’ll square everything with Maggie and Mario.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘I will, if only to escape Faye. Do you know when the will’s going to be read, or whatever it is they do with wills in Scotland?’

  ‘Ask the lawyer. Her contact details were in the envelope. ‘Oh,’ he exclaimed. ‘One more question before you leave. Did Leo ever mention a man named Aldorino Moscardinetto?’

  ‘The murdered Italian? No, he didn’t, not by name, but now you ask, something comes back to me. A couple of weeks ago, he stayed over at my place. He had gone to the toilet, and left his phone on the bedside table. It rang so I picked it up and answered it. The voice on the other end said, “Who are you?” with no pretence at being polite, but just then Leo came back and I handed the phone over. When he was done, I asked him who that rude bugger was. He laughed and said, “Sorry, that was him being his normal self. He’s a guy I’m involved in a project with; you could say it’s a public service.” I’d forgotten about it, and until now I didn’t make any connection, but the caller name on the phone was Aldo.’ She stared at Skinner. ‘That was him, and now he’s dead too?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Which makes me even more curious: what the hell was that project?’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘Yes, sir, I hear you. I’m not happy but I hear you . . . Yes, sir. Can I have a formal statement from her, for the record? . . . Aw, come on, sir! Let us be the judges of that . . . No. No. No, sir, I do not want to be replaced. I’ll live without her statement, if that’s what you and the chief constable are ordering. Can I have that order in writing, for the file? . . . She is? . . . I am? . . . I am. Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  Lottie Mann pocketed her phone and leaned back against her car. It was parked alongside a van with police markings, in front of the house in which Leo Speight had died. She was aware that Provan had been watching her throughout the exchange, but it had shaken her and she chose not to return his gaze, not until she had absorbed what she had just been told, and recovered from its impact. For his part, the detective sergeant understood that he was not being shut out. The concern that showed on his face was for her and her alone.

  A cold wind was blowing off the Firth of Clyde, under grey skies, and neither officer was dressed to resist it, but they ignored its bite.

  Eventually the DI stood to her full height and turned towards her colleague. ‘How much of that did you get?’ she asked him.

  ‘The phrase “I’m not happy” struck a chord,’ he told her, ‘but I’d be guessing at the rest.’

  ‘Then this is it, Dan. In the context of this investigation, Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Bulloch does not exist; there is to be no mention of her in the record, or in the report to the procurator fiscal. We are not to approach her directly. If we need her input on anything that might arise from now on, we have to tell the DCC and he’ll do what’s necessary. We don’t need to interview her because it’s been done already, at a higher level. Chief Constable Steele and the DCC are happy that she didn’t set out to hamper the inquiry, and that she has no knowledge that’s relevant to it.’

  ‘Are we no’ supposed to make that call?’ Provan retorted.

  ‘They’re the masters, Daniel, we’re the servants. That’s how it is.’

  ‘So next time we see her, be it in Pitt Street or at the new glass palace in Dalmarnock, we just forget all about her shagging the victim in a murder investigation and pretend that it never happened?’

  ‘No, because that isn’t going to happe
n either, not in the foreseeable future, and if I read the DCC right, probably not ever. He’s just told me that Sandra’s gone on compassionate leave, and that I’m to stand in for her as acting head of Serious Crimes, Western Area.’

  The DS smiled. ‘Suddenly my day’s got a lot brighter,’ he said. Then he shivered theatrically. ‘Still fuckin’ freezing out here, though. Will we go and see if Dorward’s folk have finished in the kitchen?’

  Mann nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  They headed for the villa, where crime-scene tape still hung from one side of the entrance door. Provan brushed it aside and opened it, leading the way inside.

  They were confronted in the hall by a familiar figure, red haired, bushy eyebrows bristling as he tore off his sterile tunic.

  ‘Arthur,’ Mann exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here. I was expecting one of those wee yellow things with one eye; you know, a minion.’

  ‘You want a job doing right,’ Dorward retorted sharply, ‘sometimes you’ve got to do it yourself. I don’t like it when my unit’s asked a question that we’re supposed to be able to answer but can’t, as someone found out this morning.’

  ‘Can you answer it now?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve found something that was missed before, a hair wedged inside the fridge door’s rubber seal. Nothing else, just that hair, but it should have been found first time round. It’s got a follicle, so I’ll be able to create a DNA profile of the owner. But you know as well as me, that’ll be the easy part. Matching it’s the tricky bit, if there’s nothing on the database.’

  ‘Is it male or female?’ Provan asked.

  ‘Going by the length, it could be either, and that’s all I’ve got to go on at this stage. I’ll let you know, soon as I can. Here,’ he said as he handed the keys of the property to Mann, ‘you’ll need these to lock up when you’re finished whatever it is you’re here to do.’ He picked up a small case, fished a car fob from his pocket and made for the door.

  ‘What if it’s Sandra’s?’ Provan murmured as it closed on them, leaving them alone. ‘They’ve already got her DNA on the database, so they’ll match it quick enough if it is hers.’

  ‘I’m wondering the same thing,’ Mann admitted. ‘If it is, I’m bouncing it straight back to Stirling. “Hands off”, that’s the order. If she needs to be hauled back off leave, DCC McGuire can do it. But that’s another issue,’ she continued. ‘Let’s do what we came for. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘I’ll do downstairs, you do upstairs?’

  ‘Fair enough, but we’d better wear crime-scene gloves since we’ll be handling stuff. If Arthur has to come back here again and we’ve compromised anything, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘I take it you brought some.’ Her face fell; he smiled. ‘But you know I always carry them anyway, so it doesnae matter.’

  Suitably gloved, the DI headed for the staircase, her low heels snagging occasionally in the thick carpet. As she climbed, her mind went back to her conversation with the DCC. She liked McGuire and had always found him amiable. She had never doubted that there was another side to him, but the gulf between them in rank had led her to imagine that she would never experience it.

  When she had called him to ask permission to haul Sandra Bulloch in for interview, in the light of what she and Provan had learned about her relationship with the dead man, not forgetting her failure to provide the written statement she had promised, she had met the other McGuire full on. He had been abrupt, not quite to the point of rudeness but not far short of it.

  ‘Under no circumstances do you have permission to interview DCI Bulloch, DI Mann. She has been seen already in this office and we are satisfied that she has no part to play in your inquiry.’

  His formality had taken her by surprise, but she had stood her ground, initially. ‘Sir, she’s a person of interest. She’s the major beneficiary in Leo Speight’s new will. He signed it, and a couple of days later he was dead. If you were leading this investigation you’d want to talk to her, at the very least to put this new information to her.’

  ‘Come into the real world for a minute, Mann. I am leading this investigation. The only reason I’m not front and centre is because the chief and I agreed that we didn’t want anyone to think we didn’t have confidence in you. We were aware of the forensic evidence before you were, and we decided to act upon it at our level. That’s happened, and a decision was taken, on evidential grounds, that there should be no further investigation of DCI Bulloch. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I hear you. I’m not happy but I hear you.’

  ‘Your happiness is not my immediate concern, Detective Inspector. Are you in a position to proceed with your investigation?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can I have a formal statement from her, for the record?’

  ‘There will be no formal statement because she has nothing to say that is relevant to your inquiry.’

  ‘Aw, come on, sir! Let us be the judges of that.’

  ‘Are you questioning my orders, Lottie? Don’t you understand them? There will be no statement. Look, do you want me to replace you as SIO? I can have DCI Pye and DS Haddock across from Edinburgh inside two hours.’

  ‘No. No. No, sir, I do not want to be replaced. I’ll live without her statement, if that’s what you and the chief constable are ordering. Can I have that order in writing, for the file?’

  ‘No you bloody can’t! Let me spell something out for you. If this leaks, if Sandra Bulloch’s involvement with Speight leaks, before your investigation is over, or before the will becomes public – and it’s been agreed with the lawyer that no other beneficiaries will be advised before it’s lodged in the sheriff court – someone’s career will end. Make sure it isn’t yours or Provan’s. Now be quiet and listen to me. DCI Bulloch is going on leave.’

  ‘She is?’

  ‘Yes, on compassionate leave; consider that word, Lottie, compassionate. I don’t know when she’ll return, so I will need to address that situation. You’re her temporary replacement.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes, you are, Acting DCI, and that awkward wee bastard you work with is acting DI, whether he likes it or not. It’s up to you whether you share that with him before he sees his next salary advice, because he’s been acting like a DI for years. Are you on side with that, and are you ready to carry on, DCI Mann?’

  ‘I am. Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  Her head was still buzzing, marvelling that confrontation had turned into affirmation in a matter of seconds. She smiled in anticipation of Dan Provan’s reaction when she told him of his temporary promotion. His first instinct would be to reject it, but she knew that he would realise that if he did that, they would be separated, and that was something he would not allow.

  She was under no illusion that either step-up would be made permanent. She was too new to DI rank, too low in the pecking order to be a serious candidate, just as Dan was too old. She would enjoy it for as long as it lasted, though, and so would he, whether he liked it or not.

  Yet there was something else that had stayed with her from that discussion, something about McGuire’s manner, his formality, the brusqueness of his voice and even of his choice of words.

  . . . a decision was taken, on evidential grounds, that there should be no further investigation of DCI Bulloch. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?

  She had heard, but had she heard it all?

  . . . a decision was taken . . .

  Was it possible that he had disagreed with it? Was that what she was supposed to hear?

  ‘Fuck it,’ she whispered as she walked into Speight’s bedroom. ‘Let the high heid yins play their games.’

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Are you happy?’ Mario McGuire asked his former wife.

  ‘Personally or professionally?’ Maggie Steele countered. ‘At home I have a lovely wee
girl, and a sister who can combine her work with looking after her when I’m not there. Every day that passes is another day of Stevie being dead, but it is what it is. I can call that happiness.’ She glanced around her room. ‘Professionally, I’d like to be in more salubrious surroundings, but I enjoy the work I do, and don’t find it unbearably stressful.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Mags,’ he said. ‘Are you happy with the way the situation with Bulloch was resolved? Has Big Bob run rings round us yet again?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that it started with us asking him to do a specific job for us, one that could have been handled entirely in-house, but we decided would be better tackled by someone outside the disciplinary chain.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and I still think that was right.’

  ‘But did we ask the right person? Look what happened. Bob made the rules; it wasn’t going to be formal, not under caution, just a one-on-one chat, with him to make the judgement on how to proceed after that. We did it his way, and next thing we know, Sandra’s on her way back to Glasgow and you’re told to rubber-stamp a request for indefinite leave that you never heard her make.’

  ‘What was the alternative?’ the chief constable challenged. ‘That we take a grieving woman who’s committed a technical sin of omission but hasn’t actually hampered the investigation, put her through the whole disciplinary process, and formally suspend her? We couldn’t have done that privately; we’d have been required to grant her representation. Her name would have got out, she’d have been cast as a suspect by the media, and our force’s reputation would have taken yet another kick in the genitalia, one which it seriously does not need.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ her deputy conceded, ‘but don’t you think we’d have worked that out for ourselves?’

  ‘Mmm. Yes, I think we probably would have . . . but how much damage would we have done to Bulloch in the process? The sympathetic approach was the right one, and to come back to your question, yes, I do believe we asked the right man. In fact I can only think of one other person I’d trust to take the job on . . . and that is me.’