Head Shot bs-12

by Quintin Jardine

  Mackenzie laughed. 'Nice one, sir. I'll be in a bit late tomorrow, if Ms Rose wants to talk to me about what the curate said.'

  'Did he mention any specific pubs?'

  'No. But now you mention it, he said the busy pubs; yes, he did say that, the busy ones.'

  'Thanks; that cuts a few out. Good night, Inspector.'

  He hung up, then made a brief note of Mackenzie's information on a pad beside the phone. He had barely finished when it rang again; this time it was Stan Coia on the line. Mario told his cousin's husband, briefly, about Greg Jay's problem. 'Murder investigations are about talking to people and knocking them off one by one as potential suspects.

  That's al Greg wants to do with Essary and Frances, but we can't find either of them. There's no answer at their registered address, and no trace anywhere else. Have you got a contact for them?'

  'I've got the address on the lease, but I don't remember having any other details.'

  'I can guess what the address is. How did you set the tenancy up? Can you remember?'

  'Ella Frances phoned me; she said that she and her partner were starting an import business, and they needed to show Customs and Excise that they had the facility to bond stock in the UK. She asked if we rented out space; I said yes we did, she asked how much per square metre, I told her and she said "Fine", and asked to lease some for a year, with an option for a further twelve months.

  'I sent her a standard draft agreement, and told her we'd want payment in advance.

  'She called me back a couple of days later; I said that I'd draw up the official document, and fixed a date for us to meet them to sign it. I insisted that both of them had to sign it, in person, on the premises. She huffed a bit, but eventual y they met Beppe at the warehouse; they did the business there and they paid up.'

  'So you've got bank details?'

  'Cash, Mario. They paid in cash. I remember Beppe bringing this wadge of money back to my office, and asking me to bank it in the property account.'

  'When did al this happen?'

  'Last September.'

  'And when did Beppe write to them about terminating the lease?'

  'A couple of weeks ago.'

  'Mmm.'

  He stood with the phone in his hand, aware vaguely of the living-room door opening. 'Is this significant, Mario?' asked Coia. 'Could those two have been behind Beppe's murder?'

  'I can't say yes, Stan,' he answered, 'and I can't say no. Al I can tell you is that Greg Jay and I want very much indeed to speak to Mr Magnus Essary, and his partner.'

  From behind him, there came a crash as a chicken Madras takeaway, still in its carrier bag, hit the floor.

  'What did you say?'

  He turned and surveyed the scene, incredulous. 'Is that our dinner on the floor?' he asked, irrelevantly.

  'Never mind that. What did you say there? What was that name you used?'

  He realised that he still had the phone in his hand. 'Sorry, Stan,' he said, 'got to go.' He hung up and turned back to face her.

  'Magnus Essary. He and his partner rented space in our bonded warehouse a while back; Beppe wanted to terminate their lease and they were kicking up about it. Greg Jay wants to talk to him but he can't find him.'

  'I'm not surprised,' Maggie exclaimed. 'Magnus Essary was identified as having died of a heart attack, just over a week ago, in a doctor's surgery in Oxgangs.'

  'Ah shit. Greg. can take him off the list then.'

  'Oh no he can't. We're one hundred per cent certain that the man identified as Essary was actual y Father Francis Donovan Green, a parish priest from Holytown in North Lanarkshire.'

  '… Who liked to cruise the Royal Mile pubs looking for friendly ladies with an eye for a new experience, like screwing a priest, so they could tell their pals about it.'

  'How did…'

  He cut her off in mid-exclamation. 'Bandit Mackenzie phoned a few minutes ago. Green's curate told him the whole story. Who certified the death?'

  'A doctor named Amritraj; a locum.'

  'Who's now missing?'

  'Of course; leaving a mountain of debt in his wake. I was late home because I had to dig up a sheriff to give me warrants to search his digs and the surgery.'

  'Where's he from?'

  'Goa, in India.'

  'He won't be Goa-in' back there, then.'

  She groaned at his bad joke. They both became aware at the same moment of the odour of spil ed Madras. She bent to pick up the bag, and carried it into the kitchen. Mario watched her as she scooped the curry into a Pyrex bowl, then transferred it to two plates, laying a naan bread on each one. He pulled up two stools and they ate, hungrily, at the breakfast bar.

  'What do you think al this business is about, Mario?' she asked.

  He smiled, his cheek bulged out with a chunk of sauce-dipped bread.

  'Money,' he answered, when he could. 'Two people go through al the motions of setting up a company; they register, they take commercial space, they have a business address. But they never use the space, and they can only be contacted by mail, through the address.'

  'A rented house near where Amritraj worked,' she interposed.

  'Why would they do al that?'

  'As a front, of course. Smuggling?'

  He frowned at her. 'How about insurance? We've got an Essary, dead, only he isn't real y.'

  'And who, it turned out, never existed in the first place… not as Essary, anyway.'

  'But what if there's a bloody great policy on his life, the kind smal companies take out to cover the death of directors, so that their shares can be bought in?'

  Maggie nodded. 'What if, indeed.'

  'Where's the body?'

  'Up the chimney at Seafield; it was claimed by the partner of the so called deceased.'

  'Ella Frances?'

  'The same. She had him cremated on Saturday.'

  Mario laughed out loud. 'First thing tomorrow, love, you'd better check with al the main corporate insurers.'

  'A day in the rank,' she snorted, 'and you're telling me how to do my job?'

  'Funny, Greg Jay said much the same to me today. Here, that's a point.

  Whose investigation is this anyway, yours or his?'

  'It's Dan Pringle's. And you know what? I'm going to see him, right now.

  He looked at her, his frown back in place. 'You do that,' he murmured, 'and while you do, I'm off to visit our Paula. No one else but Beppe has seen Essary, that I know of at any rate; but she was close to her old man.

  You never know, maybe she can shed some light.'

  56

  'I made that call to lan,' said Sarah.

  'I told you. I don't want to know anything about it.'

  'Okay, I just thought…'

  'Don't start thinking about this at this stage,' Bob snapped. 'You'l only confuse yourself.'

  She looked at him across the bedroom, angered and hurt by his retort.

  He softened at once and moved towards her. 'Hey, I'm sorry, love,' he said, wrapping his arms around her in a great bear-hug. 'You do what you have to do. It's just that this is going to be a difficult week for you as it is; I'm not sure you need this added complication.'

  'You ain't kidding there,' she murmured, her voice muffled by his chest. 'But I have to deal with it, if I'm ever going to feel right about that time. I won't mention it again, I promise.'

  'Fine. The main thing for you, for us both, indeed, is to get through Friday.'

  'I know. The meeting at the law firm, whenever it happens, is going to be tough too. And there's something else I have to do before that.'

  'What's that?'

  'I have to see them, Bob. I have to say my goodbyes. I cal ed the mortician and arranged it for this evening.'

  'Now I do understand that, love. Do you want me to come with you?'

  She looked up at him, her eyes glazed. 'Take me there, please, but give me some time on my own.'

  'Sure.'

  The phone beside the bed began to ring, softly at first, then growin
g in volume. 'You'd better take that,' said Bob. 'Just in case it's your Reverend pal cal ing you back.'

  She nodded and went to answer the call. He was on his way into the en-suite bathroom when he heard her speak. 'Joe. Hi, how are you?

  That's good. Yes. He's here. Hold on.'

  He was already by her side. 'Hello, mate,' he said as he took the phone. 'What you got?'

  'You want the interesting news or the really interesting news?' Doherty answered.

  'Work me up to really.'

  'Okay. I'll begin in New York; Troy Kosinski, large as life, called me half an hour ago from the Bureau office there. He reported on his meeting with Wilkins and he told me about the floppy he took from him.

  I told him to send it to me by courier, pronto.'

  'Did he know Wilkins was dead?'

  'When I told him he whistled and went "Wow". Read into that what you will.'

  'Have you recovered the bullet yet?'

  'Fast work, but yes I have. I commissioned a trusted pathologist in Chicago, rather than send someone in. It was a nine millimetre; could have come from a Glock, but it'll take specialist testing to prove that. It didn't come from Kosinski's standard issue piece; that's for sure.'

  'Okay, but if he didn't do it, and Wilkins' office was bugged, how come he was allowed to get back to New York with that disk?'

  'Good question; maybe we'l find out when it arrives at my home this evening.'

  Skinner frowned. 'Joe, your daughter lives with you. If that thing is hot…'

  'Not a problem; Phil's out of town with the airline.' Skinner had forgotten that Philippa Doherty was a flight attendant. 'She won't be back for a couple of days.

  'Anyway,' the deputy director continued, 'you wanna hear what's real y interesting?'

  'Okay'

  'You know, Bob, I'm always amazed by how open our so-called Secret Service really is. Goddammit, it even has a website, with the director's resume on it and every detail of its operation. It has several functions, but the one everyone knows about is presidential protection.

  'This openness doesn't extend to its personnel records, though; they are not for public consumption. Still, I have some clever researchers here, and sometimes I don't ask how they go about their work. They tell me that Wylie, Garrett and Wilkins were indeed all on the presidential security team during 1963. But the real y interesting thing about them is that November twenty-second of that year was the only day on which they were all off duty at the same time.

  'What do you make of that?'

  There was a long silence. 'Nothing,' said Skinner, at last. 'I don't think I want to make anything out of it. And at this point, I don't think you should either, Joe.'

  'Too late to stop me now, as Van the Man used to say. Hey, you got me started on this thing, buddy. Come on, look at the circumstances; the only day of the year, Bob, the only day of the year when these three guys were off duty at the same time, was the day when their man, the president, was shot. Now, nearly forty years later, they all get together in secret; and a few months later they're al dead. Now come on, copper; do you believe in that kind of coincidence?'

  'No,' sighed Skinner. 'No, I don't.'

  'That's good; don't want you going coy on me when it's starting to light up, my friend, 'cos there's a twist. My very clever researcher took things a little further; he looked deeper into the careers of these three guys. They were all still in the Service five years later; but they were no longer on the president's team. No, on the fifth of June, 1968, when Bobby was shot, Wylie and Garrett were working out of the Los Angeles office, and Wilkins was in San Francisco.'

  'You going to tell me they were off duty that day too, or were they guarding him when that guy walked up to him and shot him?'

  'The Secret Service didn't start to protect candidates until after Bobby was hit, so it doesn't matter whether they were on duty or not; but two out of the three were based in LA where it happened. And, Bob, there have always been conspiracy theories around that shooting, just like the other one. Come on, man, don't tell me your detective's pulse isn't racing at the very thought of uncovering them.'

  Skinner took a deep breath, as he pondered what Doherty had told him, then let it out in another long sigh.

  'Joe, my friend,' he said, 'I'm more than just a detective; as you. know.

  Back home I have connections to a national organisation that deals in secrets, and I know the steps we're prepared to take to protect them, when they're important enough. But this isn't back home; this is your country, and I don't know what your people are capable of in the same circumstances.

  'What I do know is this; if we have stumbled on to what you're suggesting, then six people have died so far because of it. As for my pulse, it isn't racing. As a matter of fact, it's beating nice and steady, and I want it to stay that way. I can see what's happening, and I can also see that it could have been sanctioned very far up your national chain of command.'

  'But it's a crime, Bob,' Doherty protested. 'And I'm sworn to fight crime and uphold the federal law.'

  'Sure, I know that. So listen; I got involved in something like this a few years back, and I ended up kil ing someone. I shot him in cold blood… well no, that's not quite true; actually, I was fucking angry with him at the time. That was covered up too, and so was he, very quickly. Nasty things happen in the dark, Joe; sometimes it's better to leave the light off so you can't see them. Hear what I'm saying?'

  'Loud and clear.'

  'So what are you going to do with that floppy when you get it?'

  'If it turns out to contain what I think it does, I'm going to print it and take it to my director.'

  'What if he tells you to bum it?'

  'Then I'l resign and give it to the Washington Post.'

  'And what if your floppy turns out to have nothing on it? IfKosinski is clean, and he stil had the thing when he got it back to New York, what's the betting that before it gets to you, someone manages to run a strong magnet over it and wipe it?'

  'Then, my friend, I'll still have my ace in the hole. This is the rest of it. Two days before he went off to meet up with Leo Grace, Jack Wylie, and Bart Wilkins in a small lodge in Altoona, Pennsylvania, Sander Garrett went into a computer store in Vegas and purchased four identical Apple Mac iBooks; he used MasterCard, incidentally. We know that his and Wilkins' computers were stolen by their killer, and we can assume that the same happened to Leo Grace's.

  'I have no doubt that those machines were used to make four copies of a declaration, a confession, it may be, of their knowledge of the Dallas assassination… and maybe Los Angeles as wel. I'd guess it may cover how they were recruited to the plot, what the plan and layout was, how the patsy, Oswald, was put in place, and also, most important of all, who gave them their orders.'

  'Why was Leo there?'

  'You said that yourself; to legitimise the whole deal; as an independent witness, a person of standing who was around at the time and who could verify, in the event of official denial, that these guys were who they said they were.' Doherty paused; Skinner thought he heard a chuckle.

  'So back to those computers; three were stolen, like I said. The fourth went up in the explosion on Wylie's boat. Only…' This time there was no doubting the laugh. 'Those boys at Apple Mac make a damn fine computer, you know. It's amazing what it… or at least, its central core, the hard disk… can withstand. Today we recovered what was left of Jack Wylie's iBook; my technicians reckon that, with care, they can recover the data that's stored on it.

  'One way or another, Bob, the floppy or the hard disk, I've got it.'

  The big Scot sighed, as Doherty finished. 'Cowboy,' he exclaimed,

  'have you any idea how far this shit's going to fly off the fan?'

  'Have I ever!'

  'What about your career? Do you think you're going to get a medal for this?'

  'Maybe; unless the director decides to grab all the glory for himself when I tell him.'

  'If I were you, pal,' said Skinner, heavily,
'I would let him.'

  57

  'You don't need to ask me how close to my father I was, Mario. You know quite well. I inherited his pushy gene, while our Viola takes after my mother all the way. They're both classic types; keep outa ma kitchen,' she mimicked in harsh Scots Italian, 'but keep me outa the rest of the world.'

  He looked at his beautiful cousin; her silver hair glinted in the flickering light of the candles arranged around the spacious apartment.

  She was seated in a deep armchair, barefoot, her long legs tucked up under her, with a goblet of red wine warming in her hands.

  'You know something else? I've never asked my mother about it, mind you, but I think their marriage was arranged, by Papa or Nana, or maybe even both of them.'

  Mario laughed, quietly. 'Sure, kid, I know that; I've known it since I was fifteen years old. Papa Viareggio told me himself. He said that when Beppe was a lad they didn't trust him an inch, and even less when it came to fixing himself up with a wife. So the two old devils looked around for a nice quiet girl from a suitable Italian family… in other words, one with no money, folk who would just be grateful for the match and wouldn't try and influence the family business… and they found Auntie Sophia, from the Belmontes in Dunfermline. Nana knew your other granny as a girl; she made the approach and a meeting was set up between your dad and mum.

  'They both knew the score; plus, your mother was a very attractive girl… as she still is.'

  Her mouth gaped open. 'Is that right?' she exclaimed.

  'That's what our grandfather told me. You know, Paulie, it's a shame that you never real y got to know the old man, but you were just too young for him to take you under his wing, the way he took me. Plus, of course, you're a girl. That's why the trust was set up as it was; with Beppe in ultimate control, then me.'

  She smiled; in the candle-glow, she looked devastatingly beautiful.

  'So Papa was an old chauvinist, was he?'

  'Yes, but no more than your father was. They were both wary of women with ambition… which is ironic, since Papa was ruled by the most ambitious woman I've ever met.'