Head Shot bs-12

by Quintin Jardine

  'Honestly, I think Paula's worrying unnecessarily; once she's had a day or two to get over the shock of seeing her father like that, she'll come to realise it. Somewhere there's a reason for Uncle Beppe's murder, but I can't see it having anything to do with the business.'

  'Have you spoken to your mother?'

  'Not about that; anyhow I don't have to. She'd never have tolerated any nonsense within the trust, and she's too good a businesswoman for Beppe ever to have been able to hide anything from her.'

  40

  Maggie dropped into an armchair. 'This thing seems to have exposed a big gap in my knowledge,' she mused aloud. 'There's a lot of stuff you've never really told me, isn't there, Mario?'

  He looked at her, from beneath raised eyebrows. 'Such as?'

  'Your papa's wil for a start, and your place on the trust in succession to Christina.'

  He shrugged, as if it was no matter. 'I didn't want to think about it myself, I suppose. And you've kept a couple of things from me, remember.'

  She flinched for a second, but ignored his comment. 'Okay, but there's more than that. I have a rough idea of the family's interests but no more than that. Exactly what does this trust control?'

  It was Paula who answered her, as she came back into the room. 'We own a classic mix of Scots-Italian businesses,' she said. 'They're up and down east central Scotland, in strong retail centres. There are ten cafes doing tea and coffee catering, each selling our own-brand ice-cream, which we also supply to co-operative food stores. Then we have five takeaways, two in Edinburgh, one in Dundee, one in St Andrews and one in Falkirk. Originally, they were big chippies, with sitting-in areas, but when fish prices started to rise, we started doing pizzas and roast chickens as wel, and took the seats out. My dad wanted to do kebabs as well, but 158 j-ic. ai-' snui my mum said no, because they'd stink the shops out.

  'There are eight delicatessens in the chain, in Edinburgh, Dundee, St Andrews, Dunfermline, Dalkeith and North Berwick. We specialise in imported Italian food and wines, from suppliers that Papa Viareggio set up years ago.

  'That's all the retail side; alongside it, there's our property holdings.

  We own our own premises, and in several cases the buildings in which they're located, the other shops and the flats above. That's the side of the business that's grown in recent years; Stan's started making investment purchases outside our traditional areas of operations. He's been buying office property around Edinburgh, outside the city bypass, with good solid tenants and the potential for expansion.'

  'Stan?' Maggie asked, surprised.

  'Yes,' said Mario. 'You know; Stan Coia, Viola's husband. He's a surveyor by profession, and he manages the property side.'

  'I thought Uncle Beppe ran everything.'

  'He had overal control, sure, but he had help. Aunt Sophia looks after the cafes, Viola supervises the takeaways, Stan, like I said, handles property, and Paula, although she works in the Stockbridge deli, is general manager of them all. They all reported back to the trustees.'

  She looked at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. 'I knew hardly any of this; I didn't have a clue that Stan and Viola were in the business too. And now you're the senior trustee?'

  'I didn't ask for it, love, honest; nor did I expect that it would happen for a while, possibly not till I was ready to retire from the police force.'

  'And how are you going to handle it?'

  'Maybe by appointing a proxy; I don't know. That's something Paula and I are going to have to sort out between us.'

  'But not tonight, eh?' There was a tired plea in his cousin's voice.

  To the immense relief of Skinner and Doherty, Mrs Lucinda Thorpe came to the door of her small suburban Buffalo home, alive and well, if slightly hysterical. She was a tall, sturdily built, middle-aged black woman, with an imposing presence, and so the white Kleenex with which she dabbed at her pufty eyes seemed entirely out of place.

  'This is not a good time to be cal ing, gentlemen,' she told them in a strong, deep voice.

  'We know, Mrs Thorpe,' said the Scot, 'but it's necessary. I guess you've seen a news bulletin on television.'

  Mrs Thorpe shook her head. 'No, but I had a cal from my husband.

  He's at his golf club, and he saw something there. It really is true? Oh my, poor Mr Wylie. My friend told me that the police are saying that he lit a barbecue on the deck of his cruiser boat and it blew up.'

  'That's all true; but what they still have to prove is that the explosion was actually caused by a spark from the charcoal.'

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. 'And let me guess: you don't think it was.'

  She paused. 'Who are you guys anyway? You're cops, but you ain't the local police, that's for sure.'

  'No, we're not. Mr Doherty here is with the FBI.' As he spoke, the American pulled out a laminated identity card from his jacket and held it up for the woman to see. 'Let's cal me a consultant in his investigation; I'm a detective from Scotland. I'm also Leo Grace's son-in-law.'

  'Ah,' said the secretary, flicking through her memory banks, 'the guys Mr Wylie was meeting. So you're Miss Sarah's husband. Yeah, I heard she married an older guy.' Skinner heard Joe Doherty stifle a chuckle. 'But I heard it didn't work out.'

  'It's working fine now, I promise you. Look, can we come in? We need to talk to you.'

  She held the door open for them and ushered them indoors, through the living room and out into a sunny back garden, complete with a smal blue-tiled swimming pool. She pointed to it. 'That was a personal gift from Mr Grace, when he retired. Nice man; what happened to him and 160 his poor wife was just awful. And now, with Mr Wylie…' She paused, as they settled into white plastic chairs, set around a table.

  'Of course,' she murmured. 'You guys think there's a connection.'

  'Let's just say that we're blessed with the cynicism for which the FBI is famous,' Doherty answered.

  Mrs Thorpe looked at him, almost for the first time, her eyes drawn to the gauze that had been taped to the side of his head, over the stitches.

  'What happened to you?' she asked.

  'I got a shade too close to Mr Wylie's boat when it blew up. It was as well I was with this big old guy here; he hauled my ass out of there.'

  'You were actual y there when it happened?'

  'Yup.'

  Her curiosity broke through her shock. 'So what did it look like?'

  'Like the biggest bonfire night you've ever seen,' Skinner answered.

  'Mrs Thorpe,' he continued, over her puzzlement, 'after Agent Kosinski arranged our meeting with Mr Wylie, who would have known about it?'

  'Just about anyone in the firm,' she told him. 'Yesterday, we had our monthly lunch for partners and associates, and Mr Wylie mentioned there that the FBI wanted to talk to him about Mr Grace's murder. There were around thirty-five people present, so he might as well have run an ad on television.'

  Doherty gave a soft moan. 'Superb,' he muttered.

  'Ah, but he didn't say that it had been arranged.'

  The deputy director's face brightened. 'Mrs Thorpe, do you know if Mr Wylie had been in touch with Mr Grace recently?'

  'Depends what you mean by recently. The deer hunting trip was in January, but I'm not aware of their having spoken since then. Of course that doesn't mean that they hadn't. I don't know absolutely everything that my boss did; as wel as his office engagement book, he kept a private diary on that laptop thing he had.'

  'Laptop?' Skinner repeated.

  'Yes, sir. An Apple Mac iBook; he's had it since the beginning of the year. It has a plum-coloured casing, and a built-in modem; everywhere he went, he took that damn thing with him.'

  'Would he have had it with him on the boat today?'

  'For sure.'

  The Scot looked at Doherty. 'Wilkins had a laptop, remember. It was stolen.'

  'I sure do remember.'

  Without another word, the deputy director took out his cellphone and called the FBI lab. 'Alan,' he said, quietly, 'I want you to contact the team
we have heading for Buffalo, and ask them to look specifically for the remains of a laptop computer.'

  As he replaced the pocket phone he turned back to Skinner. 'Did Leo Grace have a laptop?'

  'I wouldn't know.' The DCC paused. 'Sarah used to get e-mails from him; his address is in the book on our computer at home. But there's a desktop in his house, down in his den, so he probably used that. Stil it's possible that he had a laptop as well; it's possible.'

  'Mrs Thorpe,' asked the American. 'The names we mentioned, Wilkins and Garrett; Agent Kosinski told us you were going to look through Mr Grace's files for references to them. Have you done that?'

  'Yes, sir, I did that yesterday afternoon; and I told Mr Kosinski the result. There is no mention of either of those gentlemen in Mr Grace's papers. There's nothing on the firm's computer files either. I ran a check on them at the same time. I even asked Mr Wylie if he had heard of either of them. He just shrugged his shoulders and gave me a blank look.'

  'In that case, that completes our business. Thank you for your time, and our condolences over your loss.' He stood, with a sideways glance at Skinner. 'Bob.'

  'Yes. But there's just one thing. You mentioned a hunting trip earlier.'

  She smiled, and her pleasant ebony face seemed to light up. 'Sure, the deer hunt. That was back in January, like I said. Mr Grace and Mr Wylie decided to take themselves off down to the Appalachians for a week, blowing the hell out of those poor animals. Didn't your father-in-law mention it to you?'

  'I can't say that he did. Never mind. Thanks anyway.'

  She showed them out, and down the path to their car. As they stood on the sidewalk, Doherty took out his cellphone, and dialled in a number.

  'Zak? Good; something I need to know. Was there a note on the Garrett inventory of a missing computer? A laptop. There was? Excellent.

  Thanks.'

  He ended the cal and nodded to Skinner. 'The kid confirmed it.

  Garrett had one too.'

  As he closed the passenger door of the saloon, the Scot turned to his friend. 'Joe, there's something wrong with Mrs Thorpe's story. Leo Grace was a Korean War hero; he saw a lot of action. It affected him so much that after he got back, he never picked up a gun for the rest of his life. He detested the National Rifle Association, and I never met anyone who was more strongly opposed to blood sports.

  'No nicking way did he go shooting deer in the Appalachians or anywhere else.'

  'So I wonder what he did in that backwoods week? Maybe Sarah'l know when she gets here Monday.'

  'Maybe. Rol on the day.'

  Doherty smiled. 'Do I take it from that, that you're not looking forward to a quiet Sunday in Buffalo?'

  'You take it right.'

  'Well, that's good, because I have another day trip planned for you. We are heading, my friend, for the show that never ends, Our Nation's Capital.

  It's time we took a look at the politics of this thing.'

  The gathering was sombre; even Ryan and David were subdued, although they were barely old enough to comprehend the meaning of death.

  Maggie wondered if they were simply behaving as instructed, or if their mother's near-paralysing grief had scared them into silence.

  She asked their father as much, as they stood together in the conservatory, salad plates in hand, looking out on to the McGuires' neat and orderly garden.

  Stan Coia sighed. 'It's a bit of both really; they were well warned not to upset their grandma, or Nana or anyone else, by screaming and shouting like they usual y do. But the way Viola's taken it… Aye, you're right; the poor wee guys are frightened. She's excitable at the best of times, but this… I'd to get the doctor to her, you know. The emergency call-out service, I'd to get them out in the middle of the night, after Mario came by to tel me what had happened. The poor lass, she was hyperventilating; I thought she was having an asthma attack, and you can die from them.'

  'How is she now?' Maggie looked back into the living room, where Viola stood, black-eyed, white-faced, beside her Aunt Christina.

  'Doped up to the eyebal s, if you real y want to know. It was touch and go whether she came today, but I managed to persuade her that her mother and her nana needed her.' His eyes flicked quickly around the room.

  'The Viareggio women are a funny lot, you know. You must see that too, as an in-law like me. There's old Nana, at the top of the tree … if you leave out old Auntie Josefina, who doesn't know whether it's breakfast time or Easter, and never did, from what Beppe said. Then look at Aunt Christina, and at Paula; they're just like her, the pair of them, big, attractive women, very feminine, both of them, but as tough as teak underneath.

  'On the other hand, there's Viola and her mother, complete contrasts to the other three, nice and good-hearted, but soft-centred where the others are hard.

  'You could explain it away as coming from Sophia's side. The Rossis are a funny lot; her father was a lapsed Catholic, a real outcast, apparently.

  Only you can't, because it's not just the women that are mixed up. I mean, God rest poor Beppe's soul, but where the hel did he come from?

  'I never knew Papa Viareggio; he was dead years before I met Viola.

  But from everything I've heard he was some man. Yet he and Nana managed to produce Beppe as well as Christina. I mean, he wasn't a bad man, and he didn't squander the family fortunes; but he was weak and if he hadn't had Paula and me and Aunt Christina around him, he might have. As it was, that business with the franchising, when he cancel ed it after his father died, that was a fiasco.

  'It's funny; isn't it,' Stan mused, unknowingly giving voice to Maggie's own thoughts. 'The Viareggio clan's a real matriarchy, and yet it's set up so that ultimately there's always a man in control. It's a real Italian thing, isn't it. There was Papa, then there was Beppe and now there's Mario, who's a throwback to his old grandfather, so they say.'

  He grinned at Maggie, his eyes distorted by the thick lenses of his spectacles. 'Genetics, eh; a load of crap.'

  She smiled with him, looking over at her husband, who was instal ing Ryan and David in front of the television set, in the far corner of the living room. 'What about you, Stan?' she asked him. 'Do you see yourself as part of the family, or stil as an outsider, as I do for all that Mario's done to make me feel like one of them?'

  'I'm a wage slave, pure and simple,' he answered at once. 'I don't know if I'd even be that, if Nana hadn't insisted on it. Okay, I've got my chartered surveying practice, and the Viareggio Trust is my most important long-term client, but that's it. More than that, when I'm ready to chuck it, that's al my boys wil have… assuming that they're interested in coming into my business. The way that Ryan talks about his Uncle Mario and his Aunt Maggie, I think he's halfway to being a detective already.

  'I resent that a bit, I have to confess. Not about him being a policeman,' he added quickly, 'but I resent the fact that the way the old man's inheritance was set up, my lads will miss out. Who are the beneficiaries of the Trust? Nana, Christina, Beppe and Sophia and their children; there's no right of succession after that. For all that he was a very clever and successful man, old Papa didn't, or couldn't, think more than two generations ahead.'

  'I see what you mean,' Maggie conceded, 'but it would have been very difficult for him to do more. As I see it, he trusted Beppe, overseen by Christina, to carry the business on for a bit, until Mario and Paula were ready to take over. They were his real heirs, those two; and you're right, the Italian in him made sure that there would be a man in overall control.

  'They're the future of the business, those two, and there are no restrictions on them, other than looking after Nana and Aunt Josefina.

  They can consolidate, they can expand, or if they choose they can liquidate, sell the bloody lot and distribute the proceeds. I'll promise you this though, Stan. Whatever happens, Mario wil take his nephews' interests into account, and I'm sure Paula will go along with that too.

  41

  She has no kids yet, and neither do we… nor will we, unles
s we adopt… so your boys could have quite a rosy future.'

  'That's good to know; thanks. Mind you that assumes that any of us have a future. I saw the Sunday Mail front page today. What is this Mafia stuff, Maggie? I know that Uncle Beppe used to joke about it all the time, but should we take it seriously?'

  'No more than Beppe used to take it himself; it was always a joke with him, even if it did wear thin from time to time. There is no organised crime in Edinburgh, not any more. We final y broke that a couple of years ago, when the last of the big drugs barons got sent down for most of the rest of his life. Even when it did exist, it wasn't Italian.'

  'What if this came from outside Edinburgh? The deli side of the business has all sorts of Italian suppliers.'

  'No it doesn't. We went over this with Paula last night. The deli suppliers are all wholesalers, and most of them are public companies, or part of public groups. The business deals with them and nobody else; it doesn't pay off middlemen and it never has. There are no supply problems just now, and no arguments with anyone over prices. Like most businesses, the biggest threat comes from the VAT man.'

  'So who kil ed old Beppe then, if it wasn't gangsters?'

  'We'd have told you if we knew. Now stop fantasising; off you go and watch the game with the rest of the boys.' She glanced at the women gathered around the table. 'I've got to stop Nana from pouring any more Chianti into your wife. God knows how it'l mix with the sedatives.'

  As it transpired, the combination proved as effective as any sleeping pill. Viola was put to bed by her mother and slept solidly until seven thirty, when Stan decreed that the boys had to go home. The others decided to leave at the same time, Sophia and Christina going back to Murrayfield with Nana, and Paula, her courage restored, returning to her warehouse apartment in Leith, uttering threats against the person of any journalist who might be lying in wait for her.

  As soon as they had gone, Mario began to clear away the debris left over from the extended lunch. He had just loaded the last of the crockery into the dishwasher, and selected a programme, when he noticed, through the open kitchen door, that his wife was seated at the dining table, making her way through a stack of papers.