16 - Dead And Buried

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘What’s that?’ McIlhenney asked.

  ‘Raymond is here as a witness, and also, technically, as a complainant. However, what he’s going to tell you will also incriminate him. I want you to promise me that he’ll walk out of here tonight without charge, and with immunity from prosecution.’

  ‘That’s a big promise,’ said McGuire.

  ‘I know, but I’m confident you’ll be able to make it.’

  ‘If you’re that confident, I’ll agree in principle, subject to what Mr Weston has to tell us.’

  Alex looked at her client. ‘Raymond, I’m happy with that.’

  ‘Are you sure? They might still renege.’

  ‘They won’t. They don’t know it yet, but they need you. Take off your glove.’

  Neither detective had noticed that he was wearing a mitten: it was hidden by his long-sleeved raincoat. He removed it and held up his right hand: it was heavily bandaged and the index finger was missing.

  ‘I’m the man you were looking for,’ he said, ‘the man Gary Starr attacked. There never was a robbery.’

  ‘We know that now,’ said McIlhenney.

  ‘I couldn’t come forward at first; I thought I’d be charged with a hold-up.’

  ‘I can see that, but there was another reason for staying in the long grass, Mr Weston, wasn’t there?’

  The tall young man nodded. ‘I’m part-owner of a club in the West End called Secreto. About eighteen months ago, I was approached by a man named Edward Charnwood. He made me a proposition; he said that he had a supply of good-quality cocaine and that he was looking for distributors in nightclubs. He offered me a fifteen per cent cut of everything I sold to my customers.’

  ‘Why did he approach you?’

  ‘I have a history. I was arrested a few years ago and charged with involvement in the manufacture of Ecstasy. My father intervened on my behalf, I made a statement and the charges against me were dropped.’

  ‘You were a Crown witness in the case?’

  ‘It never made court; the other guy pleaded guilty.’

  ‘So you accepted Charnwood’s proposition?’ asked McGuire

  ‘I did. The arrangement was that I’d call in at Gary Starr’s betting shop at eleven sharp every Friday morning, to pick up a supply and to hand over my takings. Starr was Charnwood’s partner in the dealing. They staked me to the first week’s supply and it went on from there. I had to account for all of it, to give them their eighty-five per cent and to show them what I had left if I hadn’t sold out, although most weeks I did.’

  ‘What prompted Starr to attack you?’

  ‘Charnwood put his wife into the club one night to check up on me. I didn’t know who she was, so I sold her a bag like any punter. She analysed it and discovered I’d been cutting the stuff, enough to skim an extra fifteen per cent. Next time I went into the shop, Starr was waiting for me. When I put the money on the counter, he grabbed my hand.’ Weston’s face twisted at the memory. ‘He stabbed me with an enormous knife, and he said, “You cut us, we’ll fucking cut you.” I screamed the place down but there was nobody there to hear me. Starr told me that I was getting off light. Charnwood had been planning to follow me home from the club one night and shoot me. He was still holding my hand: I went mad with the pain and hit him with the other one. He let me go and I ran for it. On the way out I bumped into the guy who worked there: I always had to wait for him to go before I went in. That day I was early, so I was waiting outside when he left. I recognised him: he does the door occasionally at the club.’ He looked at McGuire and McIlhenney, from one to the other. ‘That’s my story. Do I have a deal?’

  The head of CID looked at Alex. ‘Your client, Miss Skinner, is the luckiest bastard in Edinburgh. One, Gary Starr saved his life: if Eddie Charnwood said he was going to shoot him, he’d have done it. Two, you’re right: we need him in the witness box, not the dock.’ He turned back to Weston. ‘I’d like to be able to do Soraya Charnwood too. Did anyone see you sell her the baggie?’

  ‘My partner, Double D.’

  ‘He knew about the coke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he gets the same deal, if he identifies her. If he refuses, he’s in the slammer. Jesus, you guys: I won’t kid you, Weston, I’d really love to be locking you up. Your club’s going to be closed down; you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d guessed as much.’

  ‘Do you appreciate the favour Alex has done you here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, do her one in return. Don’t ever tell anybody of her involvement in this, and don’t ever go near her again. She doesn’t need her career, or her life, sullied by you. There’s a bit of the deal I’m not going for, but you’ll live with it, for I’m not in the mood to take any chances with you. I’m holding you here overnight: in the morning, you’ll be taken to Leith police station where you’ll make a formal statement to Detective Superintendent McIlhenney. After that, you’ll be released on bail. Don’t try and do a runner on us, for you’ll never get far enough away.’

  ‘I won’t.’ When Raymond Weston looked up he had tears in his eyes. ‘Believe it or not, I do want to clean my life up.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it; just hold that thought overnight. Tell us where we can find your partner.’

  ‘He’ll be at the club in a couple of hours; his full name’s Denis Diamond.’

  ‘Okay,’ said McGuire. ‘You sit here while I call a custody officer. Neil, show Alex out, will you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Alex stood, and patted Weston on the shoulder. ‘The bit about not seeing me again, Raymond, that’s not just from him. It comes from me too. I’d appreciate it.’

  He nodded. ‘I promise; and thanks. I do know what you’ve done for me here.’

  She had stepped into the corridor when McIlhenney turned in the doorway. ‘One more thing, Raymond: who treated your hand?’

  The young man looked round at him. ‘My father. He’s a surgeon. Didn’t you know?’

  Ninety-two

  Nolan Weston made no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘This is very inconvenient, Chief Superintendent,’ he snapped, as McGuire was shown into his room. ‘I was due in theatre at this precise moment, ten o’clock. I’ve had to reschedule and there will be a knock-on effect right through the day. They’re not ingrowing toe-nails either: all of my patients have cancer.’

  McGuire looked at him; even though he was seated behind his desk he could tell that the man was as tall as his son. ‘I’m sorry about that, Professor,’ he said, ‘but if I’d had you brought down to my office in Fettes, you’d have been even more inconvenienced.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Last night a colleague and I interviewed your son, Raymond. He was brought to see us by a solicitor. He no longer lives with you, I guess.’

  ‘Why do you guess that?’

  ‘Because you’d probably have noticed his absence. He was held in custody overnight. This morning he’s making a formal statement at the Queen Charlotte Street office in which he’ll admit his involvement in the distribution of cocaine in his nightclub. I believe that you intervened on his behalf last time he was involved in a drugs situation. I’m here to warn you not to upset the apple-cart by trying that again. I’ve made enquiries; I know that you were at school with the Crown Agent and talked him into cutting Raymond a deal. I tell you, the Mafia could learn a lot from Edinburgh Academy when it comes to old-boy networking. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do. But if you think that you can bully me out of using everything at my disposal to help my son, you’re underestimating me.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I’ll do, Professor. You don’t need to pull strings this time anyway. Raymond’s agreed to be a Crown witness in the trial of his supplier, Edward Charnwood. His partner in the club has also agreed to co-operate. As a result neither of them can be prosecuted. So you stay out of this, sir, please.’ Suddenly, McGuire grinned. ‘If y
ou do decide to stick your oar in, be warned: I’ve advised my chief constable of the circumstances of the case and the earlier one. I believe that he was head boy at the school when you were in first year. I think you’ll find that he still has the power to give you lines, or worse.’

  The ceiling light reflected for a moment on Weston’s bald head as he leaned forward, staring frostily back at the detective. ‘If you assure me that Raymond is in no jeopardy, I will stay my hand.’

  McGuire’s good humour vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘Who or what do you think you are, Professor?’ he snapped. ‘Your son’s the luckiest boy in town. Gary Starr may have maimed him but Eddie Charnwood was planning to put a bullet in his fucking head. And why? Because he couldn’t be content with the money he was making feeding the habits of his club members; no, he had to wring out even more by adulterating the supply he was given. He’s a criminal, and if he wasn’t of use to me at this moment he’d be going away for seven years minimum, and neither you nor any of your pals could prevent it.’

  ‘Do you have any children, Chief Superintendent?’ Weston shot back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if you had, perhaps you wouldn’t be so judgemental. If you think I would stand by and let him be victimised by the police or brutalised by a thug . . .’ He stopped, abruptly.

  ‘He isn’t a victim, he’s a fucking predator. He preys on impressionable kids and turns them into addicts. You know, last night he was crying in my office, promising to go straight from now on. I’d love to believe him, but I’ve heard too many people say that to take it at face value. If you want to help him, be more involved with him, help him point his life in the right direction.’

  He paused. ‘But you’ve helped him already in this one, haven’t you? You operated on him after Starr cut off his finger, you closed the stump off properly, and you dressed it, and you kept him hidden in your home, while we were looking all over bloody Edinburgh for him.’

  ‘And what would you have done, in my shoes?’

  ‘Given your skills,’ McGuire replied, ‘probably the same thing. But I’ll tell you what I wouldn’t have done. I wouldn’t have operated on Gary Starr as well.’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean.’

  ‘Raymond told you what had happened; he admitted that last night. He said that he told you why Starr had done it too. And he said that you went absolutely crazy.’

  ‘And wouldn’t you?’ Weston shouted. ‘That boy is my flesh, my blood, my bone, and I love him whatever he does. To see him hurt, violated in that way by a pitiless animal like that little creep . . . What would you have done?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, man to man. I’d have gone to see him and I’d have beaten the living shit out of him, beaten him to within a centimetre of his life. But what I wouldn’t have done is drugged him, tied him to his kitchen table, cut off his hands before his eyes with the carving knife that’s missing from the set in his kitchen, then let the poor bastard watch his own death flow out of his veins. What sort of a pitiless animal does that? And how the hell, Professor,’ McGuire’s voice rose, ‘did you know that Starr was a little man?’

  The surgeon thrust himself to his feet, towering over the still-seated detective. ‘Chief Superintendent,’ he hissed, ‘if you had a shred of evidence to back up that allegation, you would not have come here alone. We both know that. This interview is over.’ He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Ninety-three

  Bob Skinner stood against the boundary wall of the small churchyard, listening as the priest intoned the words of committal, watching as the oaken coffin was lowered into the grave. There were few mourners; most were people in their thirties dressed in traditional black. No one present wore any other type of uniform. As they dispersed, they filed respectfully past the bereaved family, shaking hands with the weeping mother, and with the sister, brother-in-law and two young nephews.

  He waited until they were gone, and until Esther Craig caught his eye. She said a few words to her husband; he glanced in the Scot’s direction, but did not follow as she walked towards him.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming, and for helping us do this for Moses.’

  ‘Please give my condolences to your family,’ he replied. ‘Whether you tell them what I have to say to you now, well, that’s your choice to make.’

  She looked at him, and saw his hesitancy. ‘What is it?’ she asked him quietly.

  ‘There’s something I held back from you when I saw you last, something you have a right to know. I told you that Moses died on an operation, in a fire-fight.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was true, but there were facts I left out, important facts. The situation, the thing that happened, well, through his beliefs, Moses found himself on what most people would regard as the wrong side.’

  ‘Was Titus involved?’

  The question took him by surprise. ‘Yes, but why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because my stepfather is a very mysterious man, and because he and Moses were thick as thieves. Where Titus led, he would follow.’

  ‘In this case, I’m not sure who followed whom; in truth I think they were both manipulated by someone else. But the most important thing I have to tell you is that I was involved in that operation, on the other side.’

  ‘But you’re a policeman, not a soldier?’

  ‘Nonetheless, I was.’ As he spoke he saw something in her eyes, and he knew that she was remembering the sensational news coverage from a time not long past, and details that he would rather had been kept secret.

  ‘That thing,’ she whispered. ‘Your name; I remember now.’

  ‘That thing,’ he repeated.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lots of things happened, and very fast. It was dark and we couldn’t see the faces of the people we were shooting at, but we knew that we had to. When it was all over, I found that I’d shot my friend Adam, your brother Moses.’

  She looked at him for moments that seemed to stretch out, as if a scream, a denunciation was building up within her. But when it broke, it was quiet, a question. ‘Are you saying it was a mistake?’

  ‘Friendly fire? No, not in the sense you mean. Your brother made a choice he believed to be right for his country. Unfortunately, it brought him into conflict with me. I will live the rest of my life regretting that it happened, but it did. The way I rationalise it is that I believe, as he did, that it was something I had to do.’

  ‘I understand that,’ the woman told him. ‘I sense the same strength in you that was in Moses, although you’re very different men. But there’s one more thing I have to know, Bob. Why have you chosen to tell me this, when you didn’t have to? I think I realise that it’s not the sort of thing that’s ever going to be made public. So why have you come?’

  He shrugged his shoulders, then straightened them, as if he had thought the gesture might convey indifference. ‘Because it would have been cowardly not to,’ he replied, ‘and also because, if things had been the other way round, it’s what my friend would have found a way to do.’

  Ninety-four

  ‘I’m sorry to call you up here again, James,’ said Russell Goddard.

  ‘Rector,’ Proud replied sincerely, ‘I wish I’d come up here more often over the years. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can ease my conscience, James.’

  ‘About Claude Bothwell? You don’t have any need to reproach yourself there. You were the key to finding him.’

  ‘No, it’s not about Adolf, damn the swine. This is something else; it has to do with the murder of that awful man Starr.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Proud gazed at him, taken completely aback.

  ‘There’s something I should have told you before, but I couldn’t believe that it was relevant. I was sure that there must be some explanation other than the most terrible one. Also, I was expecting to be asked about it by one of your people, but none of them ever called on me.’ The chief constable thoug
ht that he detected a note of criticism.

  ‘I’m an old man, James,’ Mr Goddard continued, ‘but I’ve retained most of my faculties. My vision is sharp, with glasses, and I’m remarkably fit for a man of my age. One of the ways I’ve achieved that is by remaining active. I go out on my bike during the day and sometimes I’ll even go out for a walk at night, when the television starts to bore me. I did so on the night of Starr’s death, at around ten thirty. I put on my coat and hat and I went out of the back door, for convenience. It’s easier to lock and unlock and not so heavy. I was just stepping into the lane when I saw a man. He was opening the door to Starr’s back garden. He didn’t see me at all, but I got a good look at him, and in the moonlight, I recognised him. I knew him because we were reacquainted at a school reunion last Easter . . . one that you missed, incidentally.’ The rector smiled.

  ‘Who was it?’ Proud asked, as eager as a schoolboy.

  ‘It was young Nolan Weston, the surgeon.’

  Ninety-five

  For once, the Scotsman, the Herald and the red-tops were united in their view on what was the lead story of the day. Their headlines trumpeted the appointment of Aileen de Marco, newly elected leader of the Labour Party in Scotland, as the country’s First Minister, the youngest person to hold the office, and the first woman. Their reporters reviewed her meteoric career, praising her skill and her courage; the few who referred to her private life reached the conclusion that it was exactly that. Their leader writers decreed, again with unprecedented unanimity, that her accession signalled the start of a new era for the country, in which the old stagnant political attitudes and structures would be swept aside.