Head Shot bs-12

by Quintin Jardine

  'If that was the case, it would have been reported to the education authority at once. No, I'm not trying to tell you anything. But, to come back to your earlier question, I'l come off the fence; yes, you should find another janitor, because I'm going to make absolutely certain that George Rosewell never works in this or any other school again, under that or any other name.'

  The teacher nodded, and drank more of her coffee. 'I won't ask how you're going to do that,' she said. 'I'l just report his unexplained absence to the directorate, and insist that he be replaced. I've been here for a while; that will happen automatically. He isn't a union member either, so that won't be a problem.'

  McGuire glanced into his mug; his Italian blood rebelled against finishing what was in it. He raised himself from his low chair. 'Thanks for your confidence,' he murmured.

  'Thanks for yours. Don't worry, none of this leaves this room.'

  'If I was worried about that, none of it would have come into it.'

  'What wil you do?' she asked. 'Go to see him at home?'

  'Yes, first chance I get, although that won't be today. Listen, if he does turn up for work in the morning, would you give me a cal? That's my direct line number. If I'm not there, you can leave a message with Inspector Mcllhenney or PC Cowan.' He handed her a business card.

  'I'll do that.'

  20

  She opened the door for him, and accompanied him along the corridor.

  As they reached the display panel he stopped and looked at the photographs. There, on the bottom row, he saw him; looking a good deal younger than his years, clean-shaven, his face and bald head heavily tanned, gazing out at him with eyes that were chilling in their familiarity.

  He would have known him even without the name printed below.

  'Can I have that?' he asked.

  'You might as well,' she said. 'It's no use to me now. It's a good likeness.' Careful y, she prised it from the board and handed it to him.

  'There. Wil you show that to your wife?'

  'Good question, Mrs Dewberry; good question.'

  Bob Skinner stood at the foot of the driveway and looked up at the big house on Stanford Avenue. It was white-painted, two-storey, with a pillared front and a terrace, which seemed to run all round the house at the level of the upper floor. 'Neo-colonial,' his father-in-law had called it. 'Flashy,' had been Skinner's description.

  He shuddered at the thought of Leo and Susannah in that small-town morgue, he with those terrible bulging eyes, she with a towel draped over her savaged neck by a considerate attendant, although his police man's training had forced him to remove it, to see for himself what had been done to her.

  He had been very fond of Leopold Grace and his wife. They had never treated him with anything other than affection, even when he and Sarah had gone through their estrangement and when he had gone to the States to visit his son, and to see whether there was any ground on which they might build a renewal. His father-in-law's legal career had made him tolerant and non-judgemental, and while their conversations at that time had been frank, he had never come away from one without feeling at least understood.

  The representative of the security company, which monitored the alarm system, was waiting for him at the front door as he approached, with the dutiful Brand and Kosinski at his heels. She was tal and long legged, around the thirty mark, and dressed in a pale blue business suit.

  With her shoulder-length auburn hair, she looked vaguely like Sarah.

  'Mr Skinner?' she asked, her hand outstretched. He nodded and shook it.

  'I'm Kel y Lance. Do you have the court order?'

  'Yes.' He took an envelope from his jacket pocket; it held confirmation from a probate judge of the district court that he and Sarah were joint executors of Leo's will. 'You'd better have a look at it,' he said.

  She glanced at the official stamp on the outside. 'That's okay.' She undipped a slim leather case and looked inside, eventual y producing a thick, folded document.

  Setting the case at her feet, she unfolded the sheet and held it out for 70 him to see. 'This is a plan of the alarm system. It's wired into the nearest police precinct; they guarantee two-minute response if it lights up.'

  'Have they had any incidents in the last couple of days?' Skinner asked.

  'No; at least none they've told us about, and they would have, since we hold the keys to the property.'

  'So where's the control box?'

  'In the usual place, just inside the front door. The first sensor has a programmed delay, so that once the owner unlocks he has thirty seconds to key in the code number and disable the system. Shal we go in?'

  He nodded. 'Yes; let's get on with it. What's the code?'

  Kelly Lance glanced at the plan. 'Eight, nine, two, and seven,' she read. Fine security, he thought. Leo s birthday.

  She handed him the keys, as they stepped up to the big, solid, white painted door, indicating which two from the bunch he would need. One was a simple Yale, but the other was for a five-lever, double-locking mortise. He unlocked them both and opened the door, seeing the sensor light flick on as he did so. He saw the smal control panel at once, and flipped back the lid covering the number pad. He looked at the indicators, then at Kelly Lance.

  'This isn't active, is it?'

  She shook her head. 'No. If it was there would have been an audible signal as soon as the sensor picked you up.'

  Skinner frowned as he stepped into the big, familiar house, in which his wife had grown up, in which he had spent happier times himself.

  'How long had they been away?' he asked the woman.

  'They advised us last Saturday week that they were driving up to the Adirondacks for a month. We have their telephone number at the lake on our files, for use in the event of an incident.'

  'But you haven't had one.'

  'No. Everything's been silent since then. But it would have been, wouldn't it, since Mr Grace didn't set the alarm.'

  'I know they have a cleaning woman. Is it possible that she could have been in and forgot to reset the pad when she left?'

  'That's possible, but unlikely. We require our clients to give us the names of all key-holders, even those who might only have access for a few days. There's no one on their list other than Mr and Mrs Grace themselves, and Dr Sarah Grace Skinner, their daughter.'

  '… Who has definitely not been here in the last ten days.' He looked over his shoulder and cal ed to the FBI agents, who were waiting outside.

  'Come on in, lads.'

  Kosinski stepped into the entrance call, with Brand close behind.

  'Everything okay, sir?' he asked.

  Skinner shook his head. 'No. My brain's not working very well. Have you got a number for Lieutenant Schultz?'

  'Yes, sir.' He dipped two fingers into the breast pocket of his jacket and drew out a business card.

  The Scot's cellphone was in his hand as he took it from him. He glanced at it to make sure that he was tuned into a network, and dial ed the number shown. 'New York State Police, Loudonville,' drawled a nasal operator.

  Schultz was in his office. 'Deputy Chief Skinner,' he said. 'What can I do for you?'

  'You can find the guy who kil ed Leo and Susannah. Failing that, tell me something. Before I got there yesterday, were there any personal effects removed from the house? Specifical y, I mean keys.'

  'No, sir, none at all. That was in accordance with your request.

  However, since your visit we have removed certain valuable or sensitive items; the books, for example. And keys will be among those; let me check, please. This may take a moment. Would you like me to cal you back?'

  'No, I'l hold.'

  As it happened, Schultz was gone for less than a minute. 'I have them here, sir. I'm looking at al the keys that were recovered from the cabin.'

  'Okay. I'm looking for a brass five-pointed key, with no manufacturer's name, and for aYale-type latchkey, again without a manufacturer's name.'

  'They were supplied by my company,' Kelly Lance w
hispered to him.

  'As part of our security they are unmarked in any way.'

  'No, sir,' Schultz replied, in a slow, deliberate tone, after a few seconds' perusal. 'I have nothing like that here. I two Chubb keys, and two mailbox keys, and that's al.' He paused. 'Can I ask what this is about, sir? Do you have a problem in Buffalo?'

  'I think we might have. In fact, I think your investigation's just moved about three hundred miles west.'

  'We'd better get there, in that case. I'll clear it with my boss.'

  'Put a hold on that for a bit,' said Skinner. 'I'l have a look around here; after that we'll get back to you.' He ended the call and turned to the two special agents. 'Leo Grace might have been over seventy,' he told them, 'but he was as meticulous a man as I ever met. No way did he call

  Ms Lance's office to report that he was leaving town, then forget to set his alarm.

  'Somebody's been in here.'

  'Impossible,' Kelly Lance protested.

  'No it isn't,' snapped Skinner. 'Nothing's perfect, nothing's foolproof.

  How do you keep your records?'

  'On computer.'

  'All of them?'

  'Yes.'

  'And if someone hacked into it, would you know?'

  'Yes, we'd know straight away…' She hesitated. '…Ifthe system was in use.'

  'Exactly. But if it wasn't you'd have to check back to know that it had been accessed. Do that; cal your office and have them do it now.'

  His eyes flashed back to the FBI men. 'Whose bloody jurisdiction are we in now, out here in the suburbs?'

  'This stil belongs to the Erie County Police Department,' Brand answered.

  'Okay. I want them here, now. I'm not going to see Sheriff Dekker; in the circumstances I think it's better that he comes to me.'

  'Ah bet you thought I'd have cotton wool stuffed in my cheeks.' Beppe Viareggio's voice boomed around the room, drawing sharp glances from his mother and sisters. The look that Maggie gave him was a mixture of genuine bewilderment and forced tolerance. From the moment he had stuffed an envelope ful of cash into her hand at their wedding reception, she had never cared for Beppe.

  Hopefully he looked at her, eager for the slightest sign that she understood his joke. 'Marion Brando, ken?' he offered, final y giving in.

  'In The Godfather That's how he was able to mumble like that; he had his cheeks stuffed with cotton wool.'

  Mario laid a hand on his uncle's shoulder. 'Okay, Don Beppe,' he said quietly, with a grin and a mock Italian accent. 'I come to you and I ask you humbly for your aid. I ask you to do me a smal favour, as my godfather and as my friend. Please to knock off the Mafia patter. You know it real y annoys my nana, and my mum looks none too happy either.'

  Beppe shrugged his shoulders. 'Okay, my boy,' he mumbled. 'I wil do you this favour; but one day I may ask you to do me a smal service in return.'

  The policeman shook his head as he ambled away, before casting his eye around the living room of Beppe's penthouse, the biggest flat in a new development looking across the water to the offices of the civil servants who served the Scottish Executive. There were ten members of the clan at the party in addition to Maggie and himself. His gaze took them all in: his nana, his mother, his Uncle Beppe and Aunt Sophia, his unmarried cousin Paula, her younger sister Viola, with her husband, Stanley Coia, and their children, Ryan and David… Stan was a Manchester United fan… and finally the venerable Auntie Josefina, Papa--reggio's ninety-four-year-old sister. Brought by Beppe from her nursing home, she sat in a chair by the window, sipping from a glass of dark Amarone, having forgotten at least half an hour before where she was or why she was there.

  Taking his wife's arm, Mario led her over to his grandmother. 'Honest to God,' the old lady muttered glowering across at her son. 'Sometimes I wonder how that one manages to get up in the morning, wi' the little brain he's got. If your papa had heard him talk that nonsense.'

  She looked at Maggie. 'I'm sorry, lassie. We don't get together enough as a family, but I can hardly blame the two of you for steering clear of that son of mine.'

  Nana Viareggio may have been eighty-seven years old, but her back was stil ramrod straight, and she carried herself with the air of a woman in her seventies. She was tal and slim, with piercing brown eyes and silver hair, which was always bound tight in a bun, and she dressed predominantly in black. From Mario's earliest memory of her, she had never seemed to change; indeed, there were moments when he fancied that she was growing younger. Her Christian name was Maria, he knew, but he had never heard anyone other than his grandfather address her by it; she was 'Mama' to Beppe and Sophia, and to Christina, his own mother, and 'Nana' to everyone else. She and her only grandson had been close before Papa Viareggio's death and they had grown closer since. He and Maggie saw more of her than of Christina, and visited her for lunch on the first Sunday of every month.

  She frowned at Beppe once more. 'Listen to him,' she muttered. 'You know, son, for al that big bog-Irish father of yours… God rest his generous soul… you're more Italian than your uncle ever was or ever wil be. When they named you after your papa, I think much of him passed into you. You understood him, and you stil value the things he did. Like your dad, he died too soon, or a lot of things might have been different.'

  She put a strong hand on his elbow and drew him into a corner.

  'That's what we want to talk to you about, your mother and I,' she said, quietly.

  'What do you mean?' As he spoke, he realised that Maggie was no longer by his side; Aunt Sophia had taken her off to meet the two boys, who were dressed, inevitably, in Manchester United shirts. As he glanced across at them, his mother moved towards him, as if answering a private summons by Nana. Christina McGuire was tal and handsome, like her mother, and like her she was a one-man woman, who regarded her widowhood as a period not of mourning, but of waiting.

  'I mean,' Nana continued, reclaiming his attention, 'that there's family business to be talked about.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as your part in it,' his mother answered, pausing for a moment to let her words sink in.

  'I've made a decision, Mario; I'm retiring. I'm selling my share of the business to Rachel and Bert.'

  Christina McGuire was an Edinburgh player in her own right; she had trained as a personnel manager after leaving university, and had worked in industry, until, two years after Mario's birth, and with backing from her father, she had set up a recruitment consultancy. She had begun by specialising in finding staff for the financial services industry, and she had shared in its success and expansion. Over the years the scope of her business had broadened, taking in new sectors, including law and accountancy, and adding on a training division. Christina had refused several offers for the company, preferring to control her own destiny with the support of the two partners who had joined her in the eighties, Rachel Dawson and Robert Ironside.

  Her son stared at her in surprise; through all of his life, her consultancy had been part of her. When his father, big Eamon, had died of cancer ten years earlier, it, more than anything or anyone else, had helped her deal with the tragedy.

  'You serious?' he exclaimed.

  'Never more so,' she assured him.

  'You realise that as soon as you're gone those two'll sell out?'

  'Good luck to them if they do. I'm happy with my deal.'

  He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. 'In that case, good for you. Mum. If it's what you want to do, I couldn't be more pleased for you.' He frowned, suddenly. 'But what the hell's it got to do with me?'

  'I'm not just retiring from the consultancy, son,' Christina answered.

  'I'm going away. I've bought a house in Florence, and I'm going to live there. I want to study fine art, I want to paint, and I want to listen to music till my head's completely filled with it. I'm selling my flat in Northumberland Street; whenever I come back I'l stay with Mama or with you and Maggie.'

  He blew out his cheeks. 'You're taking my breath away;
but again, if this is what you really want, then go for it.'

  Christina had never been a demonstrative woman, but she pul ed her son to her, and hugged him. 'I'm so glad you feel that way, all things considered.'

  Gradual y, the rest of the truth began to dawn on him, and he understood the real reason for the family gathering. 'Wait a minute. ..' he exclaimed. On either side of him, the two women smiled.

  'You've got it,' said his mother. 'I'm retiring from all my business, including the family trust. And in that event, my place as a trustee passes to you.'

  'Oh bloody hell. Mum,' he protested. 'I can't take that on, not now.

  I've just been given a division to run. Surely to Christ, you can still do that from Italy.'

  'No,' she answered, adamantly. 'I want my life back, Mario. I'm sixty two years old, and I stil have things to do. I've been a trustee since Papa died, and I've run my own business at the same time. Now it's your turn.'

  'But… Come on, the paperwork can be couriered out to you, you can fly back for trustee meetings.'

  'No!' Nana Viareggio snapped. It was the first time she had spoken sharply to him in thirty years. 'Your mother has made her decision,' the old woman declared, in a judicial tone. 'You've always known this day would come, lad. Just you be thankful it hasn't been forced on you by Him upstairs. And anyway, I know quite well that you've been keeping an eye on things al along. I told you, you've got your papa's blood in you.

  'He needs you, I need you; it's time.'

  Backed into a corner, Mario looked from one to the other. 'What the hell is this?' he grunted. 'There might be only two witches here, but I still feel like bloody Macbeth!'

  'You can't avoid what's for you,' said his grandmother. 'Besides, there's a job needs doing that only you can do; it's beyond Beppe. He's not a bad man; but he's a fool to himself and he's not up to this on his own.'

  'What's that?'

  The old lady nodded, almost imperceptibly, across the room. Maggie and Aunt Sophia had been joined by another striking Viareggio woman; she was only an inch or two shy of six feet tall, olive-skinned, with dark eyes and lustrous hair which had turned silver, prematurely. She wore it undisguised, with pride, and to some it made her look around forty, although in fact she was only thirty-two.