Dead And Buried bs-16

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Maybe not, but I can handle it.’

  ‘I saw Sarah last night,’ Alex blurted out.

  ‘You did?’ Bob sounded surprised.

  ‘She invited me out for a chat. On reflection, it was a good idea: we’re fine now.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Anxious to be off, I’d say. Pops, it must be awkward for the two of you living in the same house. I was wondering, when you come back, would you like to move into my spare room?’

  ‘I dunno. I’d like the kids to have as much time as they can with their parents together.’

  ‘But you’re not together,’ she pointed out. ‘You may be under the same roof, but you’ve separated.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll think about it. If I do, maybe those calls will stop.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So you’re still having them!’ he exclaimed.

  She cursed herself for letting her guard slip. ‘There was another,’ she admitted.

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘Well, two.’

  ‘Right, in that case the intercept goes back on, and no arguments.’

  Suddenly, Alex felt too weary to argue. Besides, there was that bloody cat: that had been more than annoying, it had been scary. ‘Okay, if you say so,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll phone Neil.’

  Seventy-nine

  James Proud sat in his armchair and closed his eyes. In his mind he went over every step of his investigation looking for a loose end that had not been tied off. He had been thinking about it for most of the afternoon, and now, well into the evening.

  As he did, a feeling grew within him, a sense that there was something he was overlooking, something glaringly obvious, that a real detective would have picked up in an instant. A real detective, sure, not a pen-pusher cop like him. He made pictures of every scene, every meeting, every phone call, but nothing stood out; he could follow Bothwell’s trail to bloody Kirkliston, but no further; nobody knew where he and Montserrat had lived in Edinburgh after that. Nobody.

  He sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘You bloody fool, Proud!’ he roared, as he sprang to his feet. ‘Chrissie, I’m going out for a while,’ he told his wife, as he paced out into the hall, not realising that she was in the kitchen and could not hear a word he said.

  Snatching his coat from its hook he rushed out of the front door, without looking back, and stepped into his car. He knew where he was going; he knew exactly where he was going, and why the hell had it taken him so long to work it out? He swore that he would never criticise a detective officer again.

  It was a long trip, across the city; the consolation was that when he arrived at his destination there were few cars parked in the narrow street, and so he was able to pull up immediately outside. He strode up the path to the front door and pressed the bell, hard. It took a while for the man inside to answer, but Proud had expected that: he was very old.

  ‘James,’ he said, as he saw him standing there. ‘How good to see you again.’

  ‘I’m glad I caught you in, Mr Goddard. I was afraid that you’d be out on your bike.’

  ‘The road’s a little too slippery for that, and anyway, I tend not to cycle after dark. You can’t trust drivers these days, you know. Come on in. Will you have tea?’

  The chief constable followed his one-time teacher into his comfortable old house. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, I’m afraid,’ he replied. ‘There’s something I need to ask you about old Adolf.’

  Goddard’s eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed! I’ve been reading about him in the newspapers. What a remarkable turn of events. To think that he was on my staff for all those years, and instructing children, after doing that: it’s appalling. And you think he killed both his other wives as well?’

  ‘We’re certain. It’s about Montserrat that I need to ask you. When we spoke last, you told me that you went to look for him after he failed to return to school.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember where? The only address we have for him in Edinburgh is out of date.’

  ‘That’s easy. He lived in the very next street. In fact he lived in the very same house that awful man was killed in, number twenty-two Swansea Street.’

  Eighty

  The ability to sleep on board aircraft had eluded Skinner all his life. He had envied Shannon as she dozed in the next seat, while he fidgeted, locked into the in-flight entertainment system as a means of passing the time, but ultimately switching off a movie that even James Andrew would have found puerile.

  Nonetheless the flight had allowed him valuable thinking time, away from the distractions of the previous week. The one thing from which he could not escape was the worry over his daughter’s telephone persecutor, but he took comfort in the fact that she was not too far from the ferocious protection of McGuire and McIlhenney, and also in her ability to handle herself in most situations.

  He had forced her situation to one side and thought about his own. There was no mystery any more: Piers Frame’s answer to his question had simply confirmed what he had known already. In London nobody was under threat, other than those who deserved to be.

  In the US the situation was slightly different: people in a corner were unpredictable, often dangerously so, and especially if they saw a way out. He looked at Shannon again, and reached a decision.

  The flight had touched down just before midday at Dulles International. The diplomatic passports that had exempted them from security at Heathrow worked their magic again at US Immigration. He had just finished calling Alex when they were approached by a bright-eyed young man in a Brooks Brothers suit that was pure Ivy League, made, almost certainly, in the Far East. ‘My name’s Ryan,’ he announced. ‘I’m from the embassy.’

  The twenty-five-mile drive from the airport into the capital proved to be a guided tour, but Skinner was happy to let their escort do the talking, and he in turn was sufficiently experienced not to ask any questions. When they reached 3100 Massachusetts Avenue, they were handed over to another sharp suit. From the breadth of the shoulders that it enclosed, the Scot guessed that the wearer was not the cultural attaché.

  ‘I’m Lee Ferry,’ he told them, as he led them into a small office behind Reception, ‘head of security for the building.’

  ‘Has my package arrived?’ asked Skinner.

  ‘Yes.’ Ferry unlocked a desk drawer, removed it, and handed it over.

  The DCC ripped off the brown-paper wrapping to reveal a box. He opened it and took out the pistol that he had found on board the Bulrush; it had been fitted with a significant addition . . . a silencer. He ejected the magazine from the butt, checked its contents and replaced it with a satisfied nod. He was unaware that Shannon was staring at him.

  ‘You have a destination?’ the security chief asked.

  ‘Yes, and a route. All I need is a car.’

  ‘With diplomatic plates?’

  ‘Preferably.’

  ‘No problem. When do you want to leave?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘You don’t have time to meet the ambassador?’

  Skinner smiled. ‘I doubt if he would want to meet me, Mr Ferry.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ the security chief conceded. ‘Sir, I’m not asking what you’re doing here, but if you wish, I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I’m going alone.’ He turned to his companion. ‘I’m afraid I mean that, Inspector. You’ve done a fine job, and I’m sorry to cut you out at the end of the road, but there are a few ways this could turn out and none of them are pretty. I need total freedom of action and don’t ask what I mean. We’re booked into the Jefferson Hotel; check in, do some sightseeing while there’s daylight left, and I’ll see you when I get back.’

  She frowned. ‘You do mean “when”, boss, don’t you, not “if”?’

  ‘Of course I do. Don’t read too much into the gun: it’s a precaution, that’s all. Lee, where’s the car?’

  ‘Out back, sir.’ Ferry hesitated. ‘Can I ask you one thing?’

 
‘Sure, but I don’t promise to answer.’

  ‘Does anyone in this city have any knowledge of what you’re doing here?’

  ‘Yes. The National Security adviser has; she may have told the President, or she may not. That’s her call. In her shoes, I wouldn’t. Now get me on the road, please.’

  Eighty-one

  Edinburgh is a city of seasons. It is most famous for its summer festivals, which span the month of August, but when Christmas approaches it takes on a special atmosphere. As night falls it seems to come alive, its centre taking on a funfair atmosphere, with its Ferris wheel, skating rink and attractions, which seem to grow in number every year.

  As the CAJ party spilled out of the Dome into the brightly decorated George Street, it was caught up in the Saturday-night mêlée, and swept towards Princes Street. Pippa had appointed herself entertainments convener, and had determined that they would head for a nightclub in Market Street, on the other side of Waverley Bridge. Alex tagged along, although she had rarely felt less like celebrating: several times during the meal she had found herself staring into space, hearing that creepy voice in her head . . . ‘I hate cats too’ . . . or picturing herself dropping the dead animal over the terrace rail. She had spent much of the evening working out how it had got there, and had decided that it must have been thrown from the walkway on the other side of the river. There could be no other answer.

  On reflection, she was glad that she had allowed her father to persuade her to reinstate the telephone tap. What had been a nuisance before had been raised to a new level. She was not afraid, as such, but deeply unsettled, and it was reassuring to know that Stevie Steele and his team were watching over her, even if it was from a distance. She had considered giving the evening out a miss, and staying locked up in the fortress of her flat, the one place she felt truly safe. When she had bought the place she had doubted whether the monitored alarm system that came with it, first year free of charge, was really necessary in an apartment block, but it had proved itself. Nonetheless she had been so freaked out earlier that she had actually phoned Guy Luscomb. With her father on his American assignment, he was the closest thing to a man in her life. She had called his London number, and had actually been pleased when he had answered.

  ‘Hello, Alexandra, lovey,’ he had gushed. ‘What a surprise, and what a coincidence: I was just thinking of you. To what do I owe this sublime pleasure?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really: I picked up your call on my answering system, and, well, I just thought I’d return it.’

  ‘Missing me, eh?’

  ‘You could say that,’ she had lied. ‘I’m feeling a bit lonely, that’s all. I suppose I needed to hear a familiar voice.’

  ‘Any time, darling. Catch a flight and you can see its owner, face to face.’

  ‘I’m not that lonely,’ she had said, and had regretted it immediately. It was unnecessary: it wasn’t Guy’s fault that he was a prat.

  It had rolled off him, though. ‘Any time you are, then.’

  ‘Thanks. Got to go now.’

  ‘Big night out, what? Who’s the lucky chap?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. ’Bye.’

  At one point during the evening, she had actually considered picking up a guy in the Dome who had given her the eye all through the meal, but that would have been the stuff of which office gossip was made, and so she had put the notion aside.

  She was still thinking about him when she felt an arm link through hers, and someone move into step alongside her. ‘Alex, boss,’ said Pippa, ‘all your colleagues, me included, have reached a conclusion. You are working too damned hard. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s turning you into a really wet blanket. So here’s what we’re going to do about it. When we get to this club, we’re going to get you rat-arsed. Are you up for that?’

  She looked down at the pert face. ‘You know, Pipster,’ she said, ‘I rather think I am.’

  Eighty-two

  The embassy car was a blue Chevrolet Corvette, with a six-litre engine: ‘In case you have to be somewhere else in a hurry,’ as Lee Ferry put it. It was equipped with a DVD-driven navigation system, rendering Skinner’s route map unnecessary. He switched it on, fed in his destination, and let it guide him out of the centre of the city and on to US Highway 50, heading east. He knew that the diplomatic plates made him virtually immune to speed cops, but he set the cruise control at only seventy-five, more or less the average speed on the Interstate road.

  He had been travelling for just over forty-five minutes when the mighty Chesapeake Bay Bridge came into sight and with it a toll station. He cut his speed, chose a booth and rolled slowly towards it. He was almost there when a red Plymouth overtook him on the run-in and screeched to a halt. As it cut in front of him, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in profile, the most fleeting of glimpses, but it was enough for recognition. He was astonished, but only by the odds against his seeing that one face among so many.

  He watched the car as it overshot the toll booth. For a moment Skinner thought that the driver would not stop, but he reversed back and thrust a bill out of the window at the attendant, who took it, checked it carefully, then handed over change. The driver snatched at it, so hastily that a note dropped to the ground, but instead of opening the door to pick it up, he floored the throttle and roared off.

  As the Scot approached, the toll collector left his booth and picked up the discarded banknote. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said, as he climbed back on to his perch, ‘absolutely unbelievable. Guy’s in so much of hurry he almost didn’t pay, and then when he did he threw his money away. You can go through, buddy, he’s taken care of it for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Skinner, ‘but let me tell you something. In this world, absolutely nothing is unbelievable: that’s something of which I’ve just been reminded.’

  For a moment he thought of gunning the Corvette and pursuing the much slower Plymouth, but he decided against it. Instead, he blended in with the traffic and drove sedately over the enormous waterway crossing.

  There was no rush: he knew where the driver was headed, and he knew more than that. He knew that he was expected as he drove steadily down the Interstate, smiling as it turned into country roads winding across flatlands taking him east, with the afternoon sun shining behind him, thinking, as he closed on his destination, of nothing but his mission, and hoping that his judgement had been sound.

  Eighty-three

  It was late in the afternoon, but the scene-of-crime team had set up floodlights. Proud, McIlhenney and DI Arthur Dorward stood in the back door of Gary Starr’s villa, watching the technician as he swept the garden with a ground-penetrating radar sensor. Twice, they had produced readings that led officers to dig; the first excavation had unearthed a paint can, the second a two-pound coin. ‘Our difficulty,’ said Dorward, ‘is that there is no sensor that’ll detect bones. We have to look for metal, jewellery, belt buckles and such, or for disturbed earth, which is probably a non-runner after forty years.’

  As he spoke the technician stopped and turned towards him. ‘That’s it, sir,’ he called out. ‘That’s as much as I can do; I’ve been over the lot and there’s nothing detectable here.’

  Proud stepped out into the garden, with McIlhenney following, and strode across to a greenhouse that stood in the corner of the garden that was most exposed to the sun. ‘You haven’t covered this,’ he said.

  ‘The sensor can’t penetrate concrete, sir,’ the man replied.

  ‘And this is a modern structure, Chief,’ McIlhenney added. ‘From the looks of it, it’s only been here for a few years.’

  ‘Perhaps, Neil, but was that concrete base used for something else before it?’ He looked over his shoulder at Dorward. ‘Arthur, I want this dismantled and the base broken up.’

  The three senior officers retreated inside the house, watching through the kitchen window as the greenhouse was emptied of the chilli plants, which had been, apparently, its late owner’s hobby, and as its sections were unbolted and laid f
lat on the grass. Then, just as their Strathclyde counterparts had done, the team set to work breaking up its solid floor, attacking it methodically until it was in pieces small enough for them to pick it apart with their gloved hands.

  Almost all of the broken lumps had been removed, when the workers stepped back, as if at a command; one of them turned towards the house and beckoned. Again, the chief constable led the way outside. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Take a look, sir,’ said the officer who had waved them over, as his colleagues backed off, clearing the area of their shadows.

  Proud crouched beside the fresh earth, and saw . . . the edge of a rolled carpet protruding through it. He knelt and began to scoop out the soil until enough of the fabric had been freed for him to grab a corner and yank it away, revealing, unmistakably, the skeleton of a human foot.

  Eighty-four

  Dover, the capital of Delaware, first state in the Union, presented a complete contrast to its English namesake, as Skinner swung the Corvette off the Dupont Highway into East Lookerman Street. There were no white cliffs in sight. The buildings were all low-rise; they were old and seemed to be built either of wood or brick. A few hundred yards down, he obeyed the navigation system and turned left, driving past the Legislative Hall, and on until he reached the long and tree-shaded Duke of Melbourne Street.

  The house he sought was at the end of the avenue, two-storeyed, wooden-faced, with a veranda extending across its full width. He knew it before he reached it; there was a red Plymouth parked outside.

  He drew to a halt a hundred yards away, looking up and down as he stepped out into the cool December afternoon. The street was deserted; and there were no signs of any watchers behind curtains. He smiled: it was perfect, so perfect. What could spoil it? he asked himself. The answer was obvious: if the wrong man was waiting in the house, that might put a considerable damper on his day. The people he was dealing with were experienced, and demonstrably dangerous. Walking up to the front door and ringing the bell would not be the wisest thing he had ever done.