16 - Dead And Buried

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘No problem: I’m doing nothing else today.’

  They walked on until they reached the shop. Padlocked steel shutters covered the windows and door, but Charnwood produced a bunch of keys from his pocket, and within a minute they were standing inside. It was gloomy, but the clerk found a switch, flooding the room with white neon light. ‘The safe’s in the back office,’ he said.

  It faced them as they opened the door, built into the wall: there was no lock, only a dial mechanism. Charnwood moved round behind Starr’s desk and spun the wheel four times. After the fourth, it opened with a click and he eased it open.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he gasped.

  The detective stepped alongside him, and took an involuntary breath himself. The strongbox was packed with money, wads of used notes held together with broad elastic bands, and with packs of white powder, wrapped in plastic. He took a pair of clear plastic gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and eased one of the packages out.

  ‘What is it?’ Charnwood asked.

  ‘It’s not fucking talcum,’ said Mackenzie, ‘that’s for sure. Eddie, I’m afraid we’re going to need to have a much longer talk than I’d reckoned with you and with Big Ming. You say that Starr didn’t have any associates other than you two and Poole. In that case, who put this lot there?’

  Twenty-nine

  For all that there was a December chill in the air, and Princes Street was damp and grey, Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk was appreciating his day out. He would never have said that he found his job boring . . . being executive assistant to Bob Skinner could never be dull . . . and after a difficult beginning he and his boss had developed a good working relationship, but it did tie him to the office. McGurk had always been an outdoors copper: he had enjoyed his days on the beat, and the brief spell he had spent with Dan Pringle in the Borders on CID duty had been among the highlights of his career, despite the crisis it had caused in his marriage. That had all been sorted out when he had been offered the post with the DCC: he was grateful to Skinner for that, and yet it was good to be seeing the heart of Edinburgh again, rather than just the view from his window at Fettes.

  He turned off the great thoroughfare, glancing to his right at Wellington’s equestrian statue, as he always did when he passed it, and walked up the slight incline that led to New Register House.

  He identified himself to a receptionist at the desk in the entrance hall. ‘Ah, yes, Sergeant, I was told you’d be arriving. If you’d just go up one floor,’ the man pointed to a staircase behind him, ‘turn left and take the second door, someone will be along to see you.’

  McGurk followed the directions, and found himself in a small meeting room, with a window that looked down on to the Café Royal, and the Guildford Bar next door. His dad had worked in the post office, when it had been in the big building across the road, and the Guildford had been his favourite hang-out.

  He had been thinking of the past for five minutes when the door opened and a woman entered. She wore a high-necked sweater and black slacks, and she held a yellow folder in her right hand. ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvia Thorpe; we spoke on the phone earlier. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all. I was enjoying the view.’

  ‘The view?’ Her eyebrows rose and then she laughed. ‘Ah, across the way, you mean: yes, there’s always plenty going on over there.’ She sat at the small round table in the centre of the room: McGurk joined her, settling his long body awkwardly into the standard civil-service-issue chair. ‘It’s been a while since we had a call from the police,’ she said. ‘In fact, I don’t think we’ve had one since my old boss Jim Glossop retired.’

  The detective glanced at her ringless fingers. ‘I hope it isn’t an inconvenience, Ms Thorpe.’

  ‘Not a bit. “Miss” will do perfectly well, by the way: the political correctness of the eighties and nineties passed me by. But “Sylvia” will do even better.’

  ‘Okay, Sylvia: do you have something for me? I’m sorry I didn’t have anything more than the name and year of birth for you to go on.’

  ‘That was quite enough. There weren’t a hell of a lot of “Claude” registrations in Scotland, not even back at the end of the twenties, when the man you’re after was born. I have to say, I can see why you’re asking about him, even if it is a right few years too late.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s had a very interesting life, so far.’

  ‘So he’s still alive.’

  ‘Let me put it this way: we have no record of him being dead. He could be six feet under in some foreign land, but if he is, word hasn’t filtered back to us.’

  ‘And would it?’

  ‘That would depend on where and how he died.’

  ‘So what records do you have?’

  ‘I have his birth certificate: registration took place in Perth.’ She opened the folder, took it from the pile of documents it contained then placed it to one side. ‘And,’ she said, ‘I have his marriage certificates.’

  ‘Certificates?’ McGurk exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Bothwell was a serial husband.’ She spread the rest of the documents out on the desk in a fan shape. ‘He married three times. The first marriage was to Ethel Margaret Ward, in Wishaw, when he was twenty-three. The second took place four years later, in Glasgow: the bride’s name was Primrose Jardine. And the third was four years after that, in Edinburgh, to Montserrat Rivera Jiminez of Torroella de Montgri, Spain.’

  ‘Regular as clockwork, eh? Our Mr Bothwell must be a meticulous man.’

  ‘In all but one respect.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Before his second and third marriages he neglected to get divorced. I’ve checked with the courts: he didn’t, and that’s certain.’

  ‘Maybe he was unlucky; maybe he was widowed twice.’

  ‘By the time he was thirty-two? No, Sergeant: according to our records, all three Mrs Bothwells are still alive, and the second and third have some bad news coming to them.’

  So Bob Skinner’s tip to the chief had been spot-on. McGurk chuckled. ‘Not nearly as bad as the news that’s coming to him, once I catch up with the polygamous old sod, wherever he is.’

  Thirty

  There had been little or no conversation as they left London and none on the drive down the A3: Skinner had been locked away with his thoughts, Shannon had been looking at the view from the back seat, as a means of keeping her nerves under control, and Amanda Dennis had been concentrating on the road, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel.

  They had turned off the main road, heading for a place called Churt, and had just driven past an inn called the Pride of the Valley when the inspector broke the silence. ‘Wasn’t that Lloyd George on that hotel sign?’ she remarked.

  ‘He lived in Churt,’ said Dennis, ‘towards the end of his life. I believe that when he finally married his secretary, Frances Stevenson, it was here they settled.’

  ‘That sounds like a happy ending.’

  ‘Yes. I wish there were more of them.’ Her voice was so sad that Skinner reached across and put a hand on her shoulder. She gave it a quick squeeze of acknowledgement and, he supposed, thanks, then focused on the tree-lined road once again. The entrance came almost immediately: she indicated, then swung the car sharply to the left, halfway round a long bend. There had been no signpost, just a gap in the trees.

  She drove for half a mile up a narrow avenue, until she came to a barrier. Before it, on the right, was a metal post, with a key-pad mounted on it. Dennis stopped, rolled down her window and punched in a code, then drove slowly through the gate as it opened. ‘They’ll know in the house that we’re on the way. There are cameras that will track us all the way to the door.’

  The roadway started to climb steeply: after a couple of hundred yards the forest came to an abrupt end, and they found themselves in open country. On the top of the hill that they were climbing, Skinner saw a two-storey house, in Tudor style complete
with thatched roof. ‘I take it that there’s a fence,’ he said. ‘I looked at the gate, but couldn’t see it.’

  ‘It’s not easy to spot,’ Dennis told him, ‘but it’s there.’

  ‘Electrified, I take it.’

  ‘Yes. The first time you touch it, you won’t get much more than a tickle, but if that and the razor wire don’t put you off and you try to climb it, the charge gets stronger, until it’s approaching lethal. Every so often we go round and clear away the dead cats and foxes.’

  ‘How long has it belonged to the service?’

  ‘It was acquired about fifty years ago, at the height of the Cold War. Officially, it was purchased as a staff college; occasionally the DG and department heads do use it for away-day meetings, but most of the time you wouldn’t want to come to the kind of course that’s held here. The trees around it were all cleared away long ago, so that all the approaches are clear. It’s as secure as we can make it: there’s even a bunker deep underneath, although we don’t use it now.’

  They wound round the long driveway until finally they reached the crest of the hill. Dennis parked the car at the side of the house, then led the two visitors round to the front.

  The entrance door was open when they reached it. A bulky, dark-skinned man stood, waiting to greet them: his jacket hung loose, exposing a pistol in a shoulder holster. ‘Hello, Big W,’ said Dennis. ‘This is Winston Chalmers,’ she told Skinner and Shannon. ‘He’s the housemaster here. Winston, these are the visitors you were told about.’

  ‘How many staff do you have here?’ Skinner asked.

  The minder looked at Dennis. She nodded. ‘There are six of us,’ he replied, ‘working twelve-hour shifts, three at a time.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘There’s a basement level at the back of the house. The hospitality suite is down there.’

  The sound of rock music forced its way through from another part of the house. Skinner thought he recognised the Pat Travers Band. He smiled at Winston. ‘Have you run out of Status Quo?’

  The ‘housemaster’ laughed. ‘There is such a thing as a balanced diet. Do you want to see them both together?’

  ‘Hell, no, one at a time. Who would you say is the stronger of the two?’

  ‘Rudy Sewell, no doubt about that. He used to be my boss: I know how hard a bastard he is.’

  ‘Is that right? You’re making him sound like something of a challenge. Let’s warm up on Hassett, in that case. What’s he been on?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Has he been drugged?’

  ‘No, sir. He hasn’t had any more than two hours’ sleep at a stretch since he’s been here. That’s as effective as any sedative for keeping people under control.’

  ‘He’s been given a normal diet?’

  ‘He’s been eating the same as us.’

  ‘Clothing?’

  Chalmers smiled. ‘We don’t want him to feel special, sir. He’s still wearing the clothes he arrived with, and he hasn’t washed since then.’

  ‘It’s time he did. Get him showered, shaved and into some fresh clothes, then we’ll talk to him.’

  ‘Will do.’ He picked up a phone from a hall table, pushed a button and spoke quietly into it.

  ‘I take it that Hassett and Sewell aren’t able to communicate.’

  ‘No, they can’t.’

  ‘Are they close enough together to hear activity around the other’s room?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Do they have windows?’

  ‘Shatterproof mirror glass: it doesn’t admit any light.’

  ‘In that case, tell your people to switch off the music and make plenty of noise moving Hassett, but not to tell him where he’s going. Once he’s out of there, stay silent. Go on, catch them before they start.’

  He waited while Chalmers phoned again. When he was finished, he said, ‘Come on, big fella, let’s go for a stroll.’ He turned to Shannon. ‘Dottie, come with us; learn some more.’

  Leaving Dennis in the hallway, the trio walked out of the front door. ‘How do we get down to the lower level?’ asked Skinner.

  ‘Over here.’ Chalmers led them along a path and down a flight of stone steps, which opened out into a sunken garden area, enclosed by a six-foot-high stone wall.

  The DCC looked around and nodded. ‘Which is Sewell’s room?’

  The big man pointed to a double window about twenty feet away.

  ‘Fine,’ he murmured. ‘Dottie, don’t ask questions, and don’t say anything.’ He took her by the arm and rushed her along the gravel that led past the cell, Winston following, heavy-footed, behind them as they turned into the garden, then stopped. ‘Okay, this’ll do,’ he said, slightly louder than was necessary. ‘Gun,’ he whispered to Chalmers, holding out his hand.

  The other man grinned, as he understood what was happening. He took out his pistol and handed it to Skinner. ‘Kneel!’ he barked. Shannon stared at him, then jumped as the DCC fired two shots into the grass, by their feet. The two men retraced their steps along the gravel, past Sewell’s window: Shannon walked beside them but silently, on the grass, as Skinner directed.

  It was only when they were back on the upper level that Skinner realised she was trembling. ‘Welcome to the dark side, Dottie,’ he said. ‘I don’t care how hard Sewell is, that’ll have got him thinking. With any luck Hassett heard as well: we’ll find out when they’ve got him ready to talk to us, although it may take them a bit longer after that.’

  Dennis was waiting for them inside, not in the hall but in a big lounge that looked out on to the upper garden. ‘He won’t fall for it, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no?’ Skinner replied. ‘The seed’s been planted. Winston, when we’ve finished with Hassett, make sure that he doesn’t get anywhere near Sewell. I want to keep that one isolated until I’m ready to talk to him. I may even delay it till tomorrow, to let him live with the uncertainty overnight.’ He saw the frown on Shannon’s face. ‘What is it, Dottie?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s just,’ she began hesitantly, ‘what you said in London about physical persuasion, and what you’ve just done . . .’

  ‘Remember what I said about Galileo,’ he told her. ‘They only had to show him the rack. Sewell’s been trained to withstand this sort of stuff, but every little helps.’

  Thirty-one

  ‘How long did you work for Starr, Mr Smith?’ asked Ray Wilding. ‘Ten years, did you say? And in all that time you saw nothing happening there that wasn’t related to the bookmaking business. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Aye,’ Big Ming replied, ‘that’s whit Ah’m telling yis.’

  ‘So is Eddie Charnwood.’

  ‘So why do yis believe him and no’ me?’

  ‘I’m not saying that’s the case, but you worked longer hours than Mr Charnwood. He had keys, but so have you. In your earlier statement you told us that you opened the shop in the morning to pin up the day’s race cards, and you locked up at night after you cleaned up.’

  ‘Most nights. Sometimes Gary wid stay on late and Ah’d tidy up the next morning.’

  ‘So you’re changing your statement?’ Mackenzie snapped.

  ‘Ah’m telling yis what happened.’

  ‘And how often did it happen? How often did Mr Starr let you go early?’

  ‘Ah don’t know, maybe once or twice a month.’

  ‘Every two weeks or every four weeks? That’s quite a significant difference. Come on, Mr Smith, stretch your big brain, how often was it?’

  The witness glared across the interview-room table at the chief inspector. ‘All right, it was every other week, sometimes more than that.’

  ‘Very good; that’s us gone from once a month to once a week. Listen, chum, you’ll be out of here a lot sooner if you give us precise answers, not guesses and approximations.’

  Wilding picked up a sheet of paper from the table. ‘You’re a man of hidden depths, James, aren’t you?’

&nbs
p; ‘Ah dinna ken whit yis mean.’

  ‘When you were interviewed by my colleague DS Pye, after the incident in the shop on Friday, you came out with something about Pamplona bulls. He told me you almost took his breath away. When the hell did you hear about them?’

  Big Ming shifted in his chair, as if something sharp had dug into him. ‘Ah dinna ken,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Look at me,’ said Wilding. He waited until the man caught his gaze. ‘You, with your overpowering intellect, tell me that you don’t know when you first heard of the Pamplona bull run, and you expect me to believe you. As my colleague said, don’t piss us about. The rules here are simple: we ask questions, you give us honest answers. Come on, now, try again: how did you first hear of the Pamplona bull run?’

  ‘Ah’ve seen it,’ Big Ming replied, grudgingly, yet with a touch of pride. ‘Ah’ve been there.’

  ‘Do you go to Spain often?’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘There you go again. Answers only, please.’

  ‘Naw,’ Smith mumbled. ‘Ah’ve only been there a couple o’ times.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two or three.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘And which parts of Spain did you visit? Remember,’ Wilding added, ‘we can check.’

  Big Ming swallowed the enormous lie, hook, line and sinker. ‘Pamplona,’ he murmured, ‘just Pamplona.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The last three years, in July, when they wis runnin’ the bulls.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Mackenzie exclaimed.

  ‘Naw, it’s no’,’ the witness protested. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘And why, with respect,’ asked Wilding, ‘would a Leither like you develop a sudden love for Fiesta de San Fermín and for the capital of Navarre? It’s not your usual holiday. It’s hardly the Costa Brava, Mr Smith, is it?’

  ‘It’s good there.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s about a hundred kilometres away from the nearest beach, and I’ll bet you can’t get Belhaven Best. Why did you go there?’