Head Shot bs-12

by Quintin Jardine

  'What did he think of JFK?'

  'I once heard him say that he was shot at the right time, to ensure that he would be sanctified rather than vilified after his death. I think he approved of him. I recall once hearing him say to Jack Wylie that if adultery in office was a ground for impeachment. Congress would have been too busy with that to do any legislating. Make of that what you will.'

  She paused. 'Have you seen Jack since you've been in town?'

  'I was supposed to see him on Saturday, only…' Bob hesitated, then decided to economise with the truth. 'He had an accident, on his boat.'

  'Oh no. Poor Jack, was he badly hurt?'

  'That was something I was going to tell you when we got home. He was killed.'

  She seemed to sag into her seat, as she buried her face in her hands. 'Oh no,' she moaned. 'What next?

  I've known Jack all my life. He was like an uncle to me; and he was as close to my father as Andy is to you.

  What happened?'

  'The gas tank blew up. He was barbecuing on deck.'

  She sighed. 'That was Jack al right. He was at his happiest when he was wearing an apron, or playing around on that boat of his.'

  'Or both.'

  'Yeah, or both.' Suddenly she reached out for the radio controls.

  'Goddamn it, let's have some music in this car; anything to lighten the atmosphere.' She pressed the button, and a heavy classical piece boomed out through the speaker system. 'I don't think so,' she murmured, and changed channel; Wagner was replaced by a nasal Country voice. 'Not you either, Emmy Lou.' She switched again, to hear Jon Bon Jovi going down in a blaze of glory. 'This is a conspiracy,' she shouted. 'Hold on; maybe Dad had some CDs here.'

  She opened the console again, took out the Ray-Bans, laid them on her lap and began to rummage in the deep compartment. She felt around for a few seconds until, in an instant, her expression changed, her frown of irritation replaced by something much deeper. From within the box she withdrew a gun; a dark, metallic, well-oiled automatic pistol.

  'What the hell is this?' she gasped, holding it up for Bob to see.

  He stared at it, oblivious for that moment of the straight road ahead.

  'Jesus,' he murmured. He took it from her, slowing his speed as he did, and looked at it for a few seconds, before handing it back. 'That's no replica, and it is loaded. Now just do what I say. The safety catch should be on the side, at the top of the grip. Check that it's on, then put that thing back where you found it.'

  She did as he had told her, then closed the console lid, slowly and careful y. She looked up at him, at his grim profile as he drove along.

  'Bob, you know my father hated firearms; he wouldn't even watch a Charlton Heston movie, because of his NRA connection. So what was he doing with a loaded automatic in his car? What the hell was he into?'

  He shook his head, slowly. 'I wish I knew, love, I wish I knew; for I'm damn certain that it got him kil ed.'

  48

  Often, during Mario's Special Branch days, he and Maggie would meet for lunch. The venue usual y depended on the weather; sometimes it would be the canteen, on other occasions a restaurant or a pub. But occasional y when the weather was warm and fine, they would buy sandwiches and eat them at a table at the piazza in Princes Street Gardens, watching the children on the roundabout, and talking above the noise of the traffic up in the busy thoroughfare.

  She went there again on his first day in Borders Division, feeling lonely already without him, and tried to remember her life before they met, before they got together on that crazy stake-out in Fife. She had been wary of him at first, of his big, outgoing personality, of his smile, and of his bedroom eyes, al of them so much in contrast to her own make-up. Yet when the time came, it had been she who had made the move.

  She had been a private person until then, showing a reserved and, often, a severe face to those around her. She had had few interests outside the Job, and even fewer friends. Once, she had tried to break the mould by placing an ad in the dating column of a Sunday newspaper. It had led to a few encounters, and eventual y, when she had plucked up the courage, to her first adult sexual experiences, clumsy, fumbling affairs in drab hotel rooms, for she had refused to take her partners home with her, or to go with them to theirs. Quickly she had come to the conclusion that she was very bad at sex, and had given it up, virtually, until her big Irish-Italian detective had come along to stir genuine lust within her, for the first time in her life.

  Yet, for all that she had developed as a person since her marriage, Maggie knew that many of her work colleagues could still see only her old self. They did not know the social animal she had become; they could see only the severe, strict, senior officer on her way up the ladder.

  She had heard her 'Lots' nickname long before Dan Pringle had let it slip, but she knew that she had another, one she still bore in the eyes of some resentful colleagues. When she had overheard a Special Branch typist ask Ruth McConnel, the DCC's secretary, in the ladies' room at Fettes, 'How are you getting on with Rosa Kleb?', she had known about whom the woman was talking… even if her loyal friend Ruth had ignored the question.

  She threw the wrapping of her sandwich into a bin and walked up the steps and out of the gardens, then along Shandwick Place towards her office. Al the time, her mind was gnawing away at her concern that a few days earlier a probationer constable had actual y been afraid to come into her office. For all the encouragement ofWillie Haggerty and Clan Pringle, she knew that someone with aspirations to chief officer rank should inspire respect, not fear, in their juniors. But the question that Maggie stil had not answered, even in her own mind, was whether she actually had such aspirations.

  Walking briskly in the sunshine, without stopping to window-shop, she reached Torphichen Place in less than fifteen minutes. She had only just hung her jacket in its usual place on the back of her chair when there was a knock; she cal ed and young PC Haddock entered, wearing his diffident expression.

  'Excuse me, ma'am,' he began.

  'Okay, you're excused.' He stopped and stared at her. 'Oh, go on, Sauce,' she exclaimed. 'We don't need the preamble every time.'

  'Very good, ma'am. Well, it's like this…' She sat behind her desk and waited for him to come to the point. 'We've found the undertaker, ma'am; the firm that made the arrangements for Mr Essary. It was the Co-op, up at Fountainbridge.' He paused again. 'The only thing is… the funeral was on Saturday.'

  'Damn,' she hissed. 'That makes it difficult. Where's he buried?'

  'Aye, wel, ma'am, that's the other thing. He was cremated, down at Seafield.'

  'Oh damn!' she snapped. 'Just our bloody luck. Ah, well, that was good work, son, to come up with an answer so quickly. What was the undertaker's name?'

  'Mr Jaap, ma'am; Walter Jaap.' He held out a piece of paper, torn from a notebook. 'That's his number; I thought you might want to talk to him.'

  'You thought right. Thanks. Anything else?'

  'Sergeant Wilding, from the head of CID's office, dropped in an envelope ten minutes ago, ma'am. It's in your tray, there; apart from that, there's nothing else.'

  'Okay, on you go then.'

  As Haddock left, she flattened out his note on her desk and dial ed the number he had written on it. 'Funeral services,' a solemn voice answered.

  'Mr Jaap, please.'

  'This is he. How can I be of assistance?'

  'I want to talk to you about a funeral.'

  'Certainly, madam. Shal I cal on you?'

  'No, that won't be necessary. This is Detective Superintendent Rose, Edinburgh CID. The funeral I want to ask you about took place on Saturday, in Seafield Crematorium; the guest of honour was a Mr Magnus Essary.'

  'Yes,' Jaap replied. 'I attended that one myself.' He paused. 'But everything was in order, I assure you. The body was released from the mortuary with a cremation certificate, issued by medical staff at the Royal Infirmary.'

  'I'm sure it was. I'm not questioning your procedures, sir. I'm interested in the funer
al itself. For example, I'd like to know who was there; how many mourners, the names of the pal -bearers, anything else you can tell me.'

  'Ahh,' came a sigh. 'But that's the pity of it. The poor man had no one to see him on his way.'

  'No one?'

  'Not a soul, other than myself, and my staff.'

  'But who instructed you?'

  'A lady; a Miss Ella Frances. She phoned me and asked me to collect the deceased from the mortuary and bring him to our chapel of rest, here at our salon. I did so that very day, and next morning she came to see me.

  She showed me al the necessary paperwork, by which I mean the cremation certificate and the death certificate itself. She told me that the late Mr Essary was her business partner, and that he had no relatives.

  She asked me to book a cremation; I did it there and then; she chose a simple coffin and reserved a hearse. I asked her if she wished me to place an intimation in the press, but she declined.'

  'Can you give me an address and telephone number for Miss Frances?'

  Jaap sighed again. 'Alas no, superintendent. She gave me neither.'

  'But what about payment?' Rose asked. 'How are you going to invoice her?'

  'I don't have to. She asked me what the bill would be. I told her that her requirements would cost just under nine hundred pounds, and she paid me there and then, in cash; she gave me one thousand pounds, the balance being a gratuity for my staff.'

  'And then she didn't turn up for the funeral? Is that what you're saying?'

  'That's right. She told me to proceed as instructed; she said that the late Mr Essary had been a humanist, and had wished no formal ceremony.

  She also told me at that time that she would be unable to attend herself, as she had to be in France, unavoidably, on business. She did lead me to expect that there would be mourners from Mr Essary's circle of friends, but on the day, there were none.'

  'This stinks!' the detective exclaimed.

  'I agree,' said the undertaker. 'I must admit I was concerned by the circumstances; I had it in mind to discuss it with my chief executive. I have an appointment to see him this evening, and I intended to tel him about it then; your call has anticipated that.'

  'Give me a description of this El a Frances woman.'

  'She was smal, in her twenties, I'd have said, but I'd hate to put an age to her. She was dressed in mourning black… nothing unusual in that, given the circumstances… with a wide-brimmed black hat and heavily tinted glasses which she never removed during our meeting.'

  'Voice? Accent?'

  'She was quietly spoken; I can't recall whether she had a particular accent of any sort. But people often sound strained when I meet them, so it can be hard to tell.'

  'Okay.' Rose paused, thinking. 'Thank you for that, Mr Jaap. Listen, if by any chance Miss Frances should contact you again, get a number for her. I may have to speak to you again, but for now, that's al.'

  She hung up and pulled the Essary folder across to her. Charlie Johnston's note was all right, as far as it went, but it stopped well short of being comprehensive. She snatched up her phone once more and dialled Haddock. 'Sauce, I want you to get someone for me. He's a doctor, DrAmritraj, and he practises up at the health centre in Oxgangs.

  Find him, and make an appointment for me to cal on him.'

  Maggie was aware of a long, awkward silence. 'This is not a personal matter,' she added, heavily. 'I want to talk to him about a death he certified… but do not tell him that.'

  She sat back and waited, and as she did her eye fell upon an envelope on the top of the pile in her in-tray, with her name scrawled across it; Dan Pringle's package, she guessed. She picked it up and tore it open.

  Inside there was a two-page Missing Person report, circulated by Strathclyde Police: the man Pringle had thought looked like her father.

  She looked at the name on the heading, reading it aloud. 'Father Francis 200

  Donovan Green. A turbulent priest, I wonder… probably done a runner with a married parishioner.'

  She scanned the report. Father Green was a fifty-one-year-old parish priest, in the appropriately named district ofHolytown, in Lanarkshire.

  Ten days earlier he had gone off on a weekend's leave, to visit his spinster sister in Crieff. Maggie was struck by the adjective. Spinster, eh.

  I could have been one of those, she thought. She read on; the priest had been due back on the fol owing Monday, ready to take confession, but he had not reappeared. On the fol owing morning, his curate had telephoned his sister, who had told him that she had not seen her brother since Christmas, and certainly had not expected him that weekend.

  The police had been informed; the curate and housekeeper had been interviewed, but Father Green had given no hint as to where he might really have been headed.

  'Mid-life crisis, maybe,' the superintendent mused. And then she turned to the second sheet of the report.

  The photograph seemed to become almost holographic as it jumped off the page at her. 'Jesus,' she shouted, involuntarily. She laid it on the desk, grabbed the Polaroid of Magnus Essary, and laid the two side by side. This time she had no doubt; what she needed was confirmation.

  She snatched up her phone once more and dialled Haddock. 'Sauce,' she barked, 'have you got that doctor yet?'

  'Sorry, ma'am,' he answered, fearful y. 'I'm having trouble finding the right number.'

  'That's okay. Put a hold on that for now, anyway. I want you to get me someone else; PC Charlie Johnston. He's stationed up at Oxgangs, too. I don't care what shift he's on: suppose he's stil on nights, and in the Land of Nod. Find him and tell him to be in my office inside an hour.'

  49

  Bob handed the keys of her parents' house to his wife. 'You do it, love,' he said. She took them from him, and unlocked the big front door, then stepped, slightly hesitantly, into the hal. The heat of the day was building up in the morning sunshine, but inside it was stil cool.

  Sarah looked around the familiar entrance; Bob had done as much as he could to clean up after the technicians, but she could see that the rest was a job for the professionals. Much of the panel ing on the walls, and the woodwork on the stairway, were stil streaked with their powder.

  Once more it got to her: she knew that there would be many such moments over the next few days, but it was comforting to know that with her husband at hand, she enjoyed the luxury of being able to yield to them, from time to time.

  'Excuse me,' she whispered, and walked upstairs into the bedroom that had been hers as a girl, and in which she guessed that Bob had slept the night before. The sound of her crying carried down to him in the hal way; for a moment he thought of going up to her, but instead, he left the suitcase at the foot of the stairs and walked back out to the drive. He found a cloth in the Jaguar's glove compartment and used it to wrap the pistol, which he retrieved from its hiding place, and carried into the Graces' spacious reception room. Indoors, he was able to give the weapon a thorough examination. He recognised it at once as the double of several owned by his own police force, not his own firearm of choice, but one which was popular with his colleagues, because of its reliability: a 9mm Glock 19, compact model. He slid the fifteen shot magazine from its housing in the butt, and saw that, indeed, it was fully loaded.

  He laid pistol and ammunition on a side table, then reached into a pocket of the cotton jacket he had bought a few days before, and took out a small notebook, searching through it until he found the number he needed. He sat in his father-in-law's armchair, picked up the phone and dialled.

  'Schultz,' a strong voice answered.

  'Lieutenant, good morning, it's Bob Skinner here. I hope I'm not interrupting anything.'

  'No, sir, I have this morning off. I've just been running and I'm about to step into the shower, but otherwise, I'm clear. How can I help you?'

  'Leo and Susannah's car,' the Scot began. 'The Ford Explorer they had up at the lake; where is it now?'

  'We have it in the park at my office. Would you like it deli
vered back to Buffalo? I could have Toby drive it down, with a patrolman fol owing to bring him back. No big deal.'

  'Thanks; maybe I'l take you up on that. But first, there's something I have to ask you. Have you searched it? The Explorer, that is.'

  'No, sir.'

  'Okay, I'd like you to do that, first chance you get. I haven't had a chance to check my copy of the inventory you took at the cabin, but I don't recal seeing any mention of any firearms being found there.'

  'You're correct; there were none.'

  'In that case, I'd like you to look in the car; in the glove compartment, central storage box, under the seats. My wife and I have just found a loaded Glock in his Buffalo car. If Leo was carrying a gun, it was unusual behaviour for him; so if he had one in Buffalo, it stands to reason…' He paused. 'There isn't another in the house here; the Bureau have been al over it, and they'd have found it for sure. So search the car, please. I'd just like to know.'

  'Sure, sir,' Schultz responded. 'I'll go in soon as I'm showered. Apart from anything else, we have occasional thefts from cars, even in the police park. If Mr Grace had a second gun, it should be under lock and key in my desk, for safety's sake. I'll get back to you.'

  'Thanks.' Skinner hung up, and leaned back in the comfortable chair, thinking. After a few minutes he picked up the phone again and called Joe Doherty's Washington number.

  'Tell me about the registration of firearms in the US,' he began, when final y he was put through to the deputy director.

  'You won't be here long enough,' his friend replied, tersely. 'Be specific.'

  'My father-in-law had a gun, maybe two. Would there be a record of where and when he bought them?'

  'For sure,' said Doherty, quickly. 'Federal law requires all dealers to be registered, and also it requires them to keep a record of every sale made. But if someone buys two guns, the dealer has to report their sale to the ATF… that's the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.'

  'I know what the ATF is.'