Dead And Buried bs-16

by Quintin Jardine

‘Very good, Detective Inspector, I’m pleased to hear it. Now, tell me what you have in your diary for the next fortnight or so.’

  Shannon thought for two seconds. ‘Nothing I can’t cancel, sir.’

  ‘Good. Cancel the lot then, for you’re coming to London with me, to play with the big boys. If today’s been a surprise to you, Dottie, you have no idea what next week’s going to be like.’

  Seven

  ‘It’s been a funny old Friday,’ Sammy Pye mused.

  ‘Maybe so,’ Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding said, ‘but it’s been on the cards. Your gaffer was always going to take over from Dan Pringle: it was only a matter of when.’

  ‘What about you, Ray? Are you not pissed off at being moved out?’

  ‘Not a bit. I don’t know Mr McGuire and he doesn’t know me, so I didn’t expect to stay on when he was appointed. Actually I’m pleased to be back on the operational side: being the head of CID’s assistant might look good on your record, but it gets boring after a while . . . at least it did with Dan Pringle.’

  ‘I wonder what he’ll do now.’

  ‘He might drink himself to death, I fear. He’s got no interests outside the job, as far as I could see, other than the Masons.’

  ‘Have you seen him since he chucked it?’

  ‘No. He didn’t even come in to clear his desk: he just called and asked me to have all his stuff sent to the house. The DCC told me to organise a whip-round, and I’ve done that. You’ll find the money locked in the filing cabinet in your office.’ Wilding handed Pye an envelope. ‘These are the keys. There’ll be some more dough to come in from Borders and West Lothian. Mr Skinner said that once it’s all gathered, you should touch base with big Jack McGurk, in his office, to organise a farewell do and presentation.’ Wilding looked around the office. ‘So this is Leith, eh? You know what? I’ve been in the job for nine years, and I’ve never been in here before. Do you know anything about my new boss?’

  ‘DCI Mackenzie? Only that he’s got a reputation for being a bit flash, and for sailing a bit close to the wind at times.’

  ‘How will that go down with your man?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Pye, ‘as long as he stays off the rocks and gets results. But we won’t see much of him: he reports to Neil McIlhenney, remember, not Mr McGuire.’

  ‘Of course. It’s funny,’ Wilding mused. ‘When I joined the force those two were a bit of a legend, great mates, liked a pint, wild boys. Now here they are, running CID and pillars of the force establishment. Your boss might not have changed that much, but you’d barely recognise McIlhenney from what he was then.’

  ‘A lot of people have underestimated big Neil in their time. Many of them are still locked up. Mind you, from the hints I’ve picked up, he underestimated himself too. Not any more, though.’

  ‘Should I watch out for him?’

  ‘No, he’s a good bloke. You watch out for Mackenzie, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now, what about this hand-over we’re supposed to be doing? I hear a story about a body being found in a van in Newcraighall the other day. Is that one of yours?’

  ‘This office attended, but Dottie Shannon told me it was a suicide, so you won’t find a file on that.’

  Wilding scratched his chin. ‘Dottie Shannon. I’m sorry she’s going; I’ve fancied her since she was a probationer. Of course, back then she was going with . . .’

  ‘Don’t have any wet dreams over Dottie: she’s paired off. Besides, she’s too old for you.’ Pye picked up the top folder from the small pile on his in-tray. ‘She and I were out on an investigation this morning. The story’s all in here.’ He described the attempted robbery at the Evesham Street bookmaker’s, and its grisly outcome.

  ‘Did you get a match on the print?’

  ‘No, God damn it, we did not. They’re working on DNA comparisons, but I don’t see us doing any better there: if they don’t have fingerprints on file, they’re unlikely to have that either. That means that the robber is a first offender, not known to the police. He hasn’t shown up at any hospital as yet, and our telephone trawl of health centres has come up with nothing. My next step was going to be to ask all officers to keep an eye open, on and off duty, for a tall young man with a bandaged hand, but that’s as far as I can take it.’

  ‘So, putting it as delicately as I can, Sammy,’ Wilding grinned, ‘you’re leaving me fuck all to go on.’

  ‘Not quite. You’ve got the weird Mr Smith’s vague recollection of having seen the suspect before. Against that, you’ve got a conflict between him and Starr over his age. I haven’t made up my mind how reliable either of them are.’

  ‘Is it worth much more effort, do you think? I mean, the robbery failed and the perpetrator’s been punished pretty effectively. What would you do if you were staying here?’

  ‘I’d probably dump it in my boss’s lap,’ Pye answered, ‘and tell him to decide. You’re right, Ray: there’s been justice done, of a sort. My only niggle is a personal one. I really don’t like that bastard Starr. I’ve had this mad scenario in my head, where we arrest the robber, he gets a soft judge to give him probation, and he gets legal aid to sue Starr in the civil court.’

  ‘And probably gets one pound compensation from the jury for the loss of his finger.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pye sighed. ‘I told you it was a mad idea. Ah, you know what really bugs me, Ray? It’s the idea of my last investigation in this place being written off as unsolved.’

  Wilding patted him on the shoulder. ‘Take it on the chin, Sammy. When you’re head of CID in ten years’ time, nobody will remember a thing about it.’

  ‘The man with the missing finger will. And that little bastard Starr will probably still be telling the story at dinner parties!’f’

  Eight

  ’Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Funny,’ said Sarah Grace Skinner to her husband. ‘I was going to ask you exactly the same thing.’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’ve spent a lot of time lately asking myself why we got married in the first place, and I haven’t come up with the answer.’

  ‘We thought we were in love.’

  ‘I reckon it was more a case of us hoping that we were.’

  ‘Maybe we should have thought more about the age difference.’

  ‘That’s never been a factor, not as far as I’m concerned at any rate. No, Bob, we both brought baggage with us. You were still fixated with your dead wife; I was trying to forget Ron Neidholm. I’d tried in vain to forget him with a few men in New York before I came to Scotland. With you, I thought I’d succeeded. I suppose that was it; that was why I said “yes” when you asked me.’

  ‘When did the memory come back?’

  ‘The first time I fell pregnant. I found myself thinking, This could have been Ron and me, if I hadn’t dug my heels in over the conflict between my career and his. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret having your kids, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that the yearning was still there. Our marriage was over the moment that I met Ron again in Buffalo. I know that now. The fact that he died, that’s changed nothing. It could never be the same between us. That’s why I’m sure. How about you?’

  ‘You’ve said it all, really. Baggage, mine just as much as yours.’

  ‘Suppose I did change my mind, and said I wanted us to carry on?’

  ‘I think you know I’d never leave you and the kids.’

  ‘Yes, I do. That’s why I have to go.’

  ‘Okay, let’s call Mitch Laidlaw back in and sign this thing.’

  Bob rose and left the meeting room, returning a few minutes later with a fresh-faced, heavily built man, and a woman in her thirties. ‘I’m glad you could do this for us, Mitchell,’ said Sarah, as the solicitor took a seat opposite her at the oak table.

  ‘Not at all. It’s the least I could do for friends in these circumstances: even though your divorce will be on grounds of irretrievable breakdown, the court must still be satisfied
that the children’s interests are being looked after, and it’s required to approve the custody arrangements. The fact that I’m acting for both of you in drafting this agreement will impress them. If you’re ready to sign, please do so where indicated. My secretary will witness both signatures.’ He watched as both Skinners put their names to the document, which set out the division of their property, and the arrangements for the care and upbringing of their children.

  When it was done, Bob pushed the paper across to the secretary, who added her name. ‘What about the divorce?’ he asked.

  Laidlaw waited until his secretary had left the room. ‘Once you’ve been separated for two years, you can apply for divorce in Scotland. I’m not an expert in US law, but I believe that the situation would be the same in New York State, as Sarah, even though she’s an American citizen, would have to establish a period of residency there before she could file.’

  ‘What if the ground was adultery?’ The question made Bob turn almost involuntarily and look at his wife.

  ‘If it was, you could proceed straight away,’ the solicitor replied. ‘Are you saying that is a possibility?’

  ‘Yes. I’d be prepared to admit to it.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Sarah,’ Bob exclaimed. ‘That isn’t necessary. I’m not pushing for a quick divorce.’

  ‘Maybe I am, though,’ she countered. ‘In a few weeks I’m going to be living in New York, alone. I want to put this marriage to bed so I can be free, completely free, as soon as I can. Do you have anything against that?’

  ‘No, but . . . Mitch, could there be publicity? Wouldn’t it have to go to court?’

  ‘If it’s uncontested, it would be done by affidavit. Nobody would have to give evidence under oath or anything like that.’

  ‘See?’ Sarah said. ‘In that case, Mitch, we’ll take that option. I’ll give you all the information you need. Let’s get it over with as soon as we can.’

  Nine

  In the rooftop restaurant, Paula Viareggio gazed across the table at the two men opposite. ‘When I look back at you characters fifteen years ago,’ she said, ‘I see the two widest wide boys I’ll ever see in my life. Honest to God, Lou, they were known in every bar and disco in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Known and loved,’ Neil McIlhenney interjected. ‘The owners smiled when we went in their places, and the bouncers breathed that bit easier, because they knew there wouldn’t be any trouble that night.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mario McGuire added, ‘and how do you come to remember all that way back? Let me remind you: it’s because you were tagging along with us, more often than not, playing the little Italian princess with her two minders.’

  ‘I was not!’ Paula protested. ‘My heart used to sink every time I was in a place and you came in. The number of times you ruined my chances of getting off with someone . . .’

  ‘Rubbish! The number of times you ruined mine by turning up at my elbow just as I was about to score.’

  She grinned, her silver hair shimmering in the candle-light. ‘I only ever did that when I thought you were about to make a serious mistake. I knew who the slags were, you didn’t: I saved you from countless erotic diseases.’

  ‘Don’t you mean exotic diseases?’

  ‘Same thing, I guess.’

  ‘Remember that night with the Spanish girl, in that pub in Rose Street?’ Neil chuckled.

  ‘What was that?’ Louise McIlhenney asked.

  ‘Mario was doing really well with this lass, a real wee stunner, she was, and Paula moved in to do her thing. She thought that she was being real clever, speaking Italian as she tells Mario what a slag the girl was. But Italian and Spanish aren’t all that far apart as languages, so she understood most of it. She went ballistic, and Mario had to separate the two of them. The lass threw her drink over him, kicked him in the shins, and stormed out into the night. It took us months to live that down.’

  ‘Why did you catch the flak for it? You weren’t involved.’

  ‘If someone threw paint at either of us, the other one got splashed too. That’s the way it was. Paula was something else, though. She was there the night I met Olive: I was dead scared she’d come over and do her trick with me. She did once or twice, you know.’

  ‘What trick?’

  Mario looked at his friend’s wife. ‘The same as she did with the Spanish girl. She’d walk up to me, just as I was about to seal the deal, and speak to me in Italian. If it was Neil, she’d take him aside and whisper in his ear in English. Everywhere we went, she claimed to know the personal history of just about every woman in the place, and she’d relate it in some detail. I always tried to ignore her, but she was really good at it: she always said enough to put me off the woman.’

  ‘She was only looking out for you, Mario.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t, Lou,’ said Paula, ‘not entirely. I have to confess that I fancied him myself, even then, but I was too wrapped up in my shawl of Italian guilt about kissing cousins and all that to come out and tell him. When I did get round to it, I found that he had the same hang-ups. Then he went and married someone else. It’s taken us half a lifetime to get together.’

  ‘And now you are, you’re happy.’

  ‘Blissfully. We will never marry, we will never have children, we will carry on as we are for the rest of our lives. That’s how we see it,’ she winked at Mario, ‘isn’t it?’

  He smiled back at her and nodded his head.

  ‘Will you live together?’

  ‘We’ll always have two homes,’ Mario replied. ‘But in the future one might be in Edinburgh and another somewhere else.’

  ‘Like Bob and Sarah,’ said Louise. ‘They have property all over the place, between them. I was going to call Sarah to invite them to join us tonight . . . Bob’s the man who gave us the reason for this promotion celebration, after all . . . but Oloroso only had a table for four left at this notice.’ She saw a change in her husband’s expression. ‘No? Why not?’

  Neil said nothing, but drew his right index finger across his throat.

  ‘You mean they’re . . . ?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, they are, but I don’t want to talk about it here.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with . . . ?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with anyone else: it’s been brewing for a while. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it himself when he’s ready, after he gets back from London.’

  ‘What a shame.’ Louise sighed. ‘London,’ she said. ‘That’s something else I have to thank him for: the fact that you don’t have to go there.’

  ‘Me too, I suppose. Although when he told me, I thought that O’Malley had advised him to bench me.’

  ‘He did,’ said Mario. ‘The boss told me that after you and Dottie Shannon had left this afternoon. He was right, too. When you’re involved in something like you were, you need a recovery period, whoever you are . . . even Bob Skinner, although there’s nobody brave enough to tell him that, now that Andy Martin’s gone. There’s Alex, maybe, but she thinks he’s immortal.’

  ‘Sarah tried.’

  ‘Then she should have known better. This London job: what’s it all about anyway?’

  ‘I can’t talk about it.’

  ‘You’re right: this isn’t the place.’

  ‘No, I can’t talk about it at all, even though you are my new gaffer.’

  Mario picked the last petit four from its paper casing. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘That, by itself, probably tells me all I need to know.’

  Ten

  For all his years in office, Sir James Proud still found a way to travel around his city relatively incognito. He was seen so often in uniform that when he discarded it in favour of grey trousers and a Daks sports jacket, with a grey fedora in place of his silver-braided cap, he could have been any middle-aged man on a Saturday shopping expedition.

  In fact, he was: Lady Proud’s birthday was only a week away, with Christmas not long after that. He was pleased with the cashmere stole and leather handbag that he had found in
Jenners, so pleased that he was still smiling as he walked towards the Balmoral Hotel, on the stroke of midday.

  The doorman was one of the few who would recognise him in any guise, but he was also discreet and confined his greeting to a murmured ‘Good morning, sir,’ as he ushered him into the foyer.

  The chief constable nodded acknowledgement and strode through the Victorian hallway to the Palm Court, which lay beyond. Not unexpectedly on a Saturday, it was full: equally predictably, almost all of the customers were ladies, many of them with Jenners bags like his own.

  ‘Mrs Friend’s table, please,’ he asked the young waitress, who approached him as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘Certainly, sir. She’s over there in the corner.’

  As Proud followed her pointing finger, he saw that he had been spotted. Trudi Friend was on her feet, looking towards him, smiling, a little uncertainly. He judged her to be around fifty; she was tall, tanned and attractive, if a little busty, in her close-fitting jacket. He thanked the girl and made his way across between the busy tables, hardly drawing a glance.

  ‘Sir James?’

  ‘Yes, sit down, please, Mrs Friend.’ A lock of lustrous brown hair fell across her forehead as they shook hands. She smoothed it carefully back into place as she resumed her seat. As he looked at her, he realised that her skin tone was natural, rather than acquired on a Caribbean holiday or on a sunbed. The waitress had followed him over. ‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I was only going to have coffee.’

  He tried to pinpoint her accent, but failed. ‘That will be fine for me too,’ he told the server, ‘and some shortbread as well, I think.’

  ‘That’s automatic, sir,’ she replied, then turned and headed for the kitchen doorway, next to the bar.

  ‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ said Trudi Friend.

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ he told her. ‘You’ve pushed a curiosity button that I’d forgotten I had. People who phone me normally want me to approve things. They rarely ask me things, and they never bring me mysteries.’