Death's Door
( Bob Skinner - 17 )
Quintin Jardine
When two young female artists are murdered in what looks like ritualistic killings, the pressure is on to find a highly professional murderer. What is the link with the art world? Is the killer a disgruntled art critic? A twice-jilted lover? The arrival of the father of one of the victims, millionaire businessman Davor Boras, brings in the big guns of the Home Office, MI5 and the CIA. It's not long before Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner gets called back to the frontline. With an estranged son, a dubious assistant and connections in very high places, what is more important to Boras: business or family? There's too much at stake - there's going to be bloodshed - and Skinner's men are at risk of getting caught in the crossfire...
DEATH'S DOOR
QUINTIN JARDINE
Copyright © 2007 Portador Ltd
Quintin Jardine gave up the life of a political spin doctor for the more morally acceptable world of murder and mayhem. Happily married, he hides from critics and creditors in secret locations in Scotland and Spain, but can be tracked down through his website: www.quintinjardine.com.
Praise for previous Quintin Jardine novels;
‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian
‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer
‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’ The Australian
‘Perfect plotting and convincing characterisation . . . Jardine manages to combine the picturesque with the thrilling and the dream-like with the coldly rational’ The Times
‘There is a whole world here, the tense narratives all come to the boil at the same time in a spectacular climax’ Shots magazine
‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald
‘Remarkably assured . . . a tour de force’ New York Times
‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News
Ten years ago, on a Saturday afternoon, May 3, the world
became a smaller, lesser place, when Irene, my first wife,
drew her last breath. Her special light wasn’t extinguished,
though. It will shine on, until the last person who ever
knew her is gone, and beyond, I hope, through these
words, on whatever library shelves they may come
eventually to gather dust.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to
The inestimable Mira Kolar Brown, for setting me on the road with a batch of names and with a piece of S-H slang.
Frank Mansfield and Jenny Pollock, my in-laws, for rebuilding their house so that it can no longer be mistaken for one in this book.
Martin Fletcher, Jo Matthews and Hazel Orme, for their invaluable roles in making sure that this work got from me to you.
One
‘If there are such things as angels,’ the big detective whispered, ‘that’s what they look like.’
Detective Inspector Stevie Steele said nothing. He was not given to pondering spiritual concepts, and especially not when he was standing at a crime scene.
He glanced at the head of CID: not so long ago, such a remark would have taken him by surprise, but over the past few months he had come to know Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire much better, through close contact on the job, and through small things that his new wife, Maggie, had let slip about her first husband. It was his Italian blood, Steele supposed, from which the closet romantic within him flowed, just as the Irish strain that he had inherited from his father marked him out as uncompromising, and on occasion fearsome.
Steele looked at the girl. ‘Girl?’ he pondered silently. ‘Maybe that’s all she is, maybe not. People always look younger when they’re dead.’
She lay on her back on the yellow sand, her face serene, framed by blonde hair, her pale lips set in what might almost have been a smile. She wore open-toed sandals, bare-legged; her arms were by her side, palms down and her long white dress was spread out, fan-like. Her eyes were open and gazed up at the clear blue afternoon sky. May was only just into its second week, but the weather was more than comfortably warm: summer often comes early in Scotland, although it can leave just as suddenly as it arrives.
‘She looks almost transparent, doesn’t she?’ said McGuire, absent-mindedly, still musing somewhere.
‘Has anyone touched her?’ Steele asked.
‘The local doctor’s certified death, but that’s all. The officers who were first on the scene had more sense than to disturb anything. They reported directly to Graham Leggatt, as the divisional CID commander, and he called me; all strictly by the book when it comes to a suspicious death. The locals’ first thought was that it was an overdose, some poor sad kid finding a quiet spot to end it all. That’s happened out here before and, of course, we’ve heard it elsewhere too. But when Graham described the scene, I thought I’d better take a look for myself, and that you should see it too. You agree with me, do you, that it’s just like the other one?’
The detective inspector nodded. ‘Absolutely. The way the body’s arranged, the fact that it’s a female, the age group, it all matches. She’s dressed differently, and her hair colour is different, but otherwise it’s identical.’ He glanced around. ‘Has the area been disturbed at all?’
‘I’m assured that it hasn’t; not since she was found, at any rate.’
‘Well, that knocks the supposition of suicide on the head. There’s no sort of paraphernalia around, no pill containers, no syringe, no booze bottles, no blades.’
‘And no blood, just like the South Queensferry murder. It looks as if she died instantly.’
‘You reckon she might have been killed somewhere else and brought here?’ asked Steele.
‘That’s a possibility, I suppose, but look around you, look at the sand: it’s unremarkably flat around the body. If she’d been dragged, it would show. If somebody had carried her here, surely his feet would have dug deep under the weight, and we’d still see the tracks. There’s been no wind to smooth them over; at least, that’s what the local officers told me. It just looks as if she was walking on the beach when someone came up behind her and . . . whap!’
‘Yeah. That’s what we reckon in the other one too, but we’ve never been able to say for sure.’
‘No: because it’s still unsolved.’
The inspector winced. ‘We’ve done everything we can, boss. But every lead we’ve followed has wound up taking us precisely nowhere.’
‘Hey, I’m not knocking your investigation, Stevie,’ McGuire assured him, ‘just stating a fact. You couldn’t have been more thorough; whoever shot Stacey Gavin was either very clever, or very bloody lucky. Normally I would expect the latter, but if this is a repeat performance, Christ, it looks ominous.’
‘Might it be a copycat?’
‘How? You know as well as I do that all our press statements were cleared through Neil McIlhenney, and the crime scene was never described in any of them. No, we begin with the assumption that it’s . . .’
The head of CID stopped in mid-sentence. ‘No, we don’t. If our deputy chief constable was here he’d kick my arse . . . and an arse-kicking by Bob Skinner is something to be avoided. We begin by following proper procedure. Let’s allow the doc in for a more thorough examination, and an estimate of time of death.’ He turned and lifted the flap of the enclosing screen that had been erected all around the body, holding it up for his colleague as they stepped out on to the beach.
Aidan Brown, the pathologist, was waiting a few yards away, clad i
n the same crime-scene tunic as the detectives. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties: he had been on the scene for a few years and was known to both of them. ‘Sorry to keep you, Doc,’ said McGuire, as he approached. ‘I wanted to let DI Steele see things exactly as they were found. You can go in now and take a look at the body.’
‘I suppose you want my thoughts on cause of death, as well as time?’ His accent was light, Irish.
The head of CID nodded. ‘I do, but I suggest that you begin by taking a look at the base of her skull.’
The medical examiner frowned. ‘Have you . . .?’
‘We didn’t lay a finger on her. There’s a tenner on it if you fancy a bet on the cause, though.’
Brown chuckled. ‘That’ll be the day. I’m a scientist, man: I don’t indulge in such frivolities.’
‘You mean you’re a tight bastard.’
‘It’s in our Irish blood, Mario,’ the pathologist shot back. ‘You should know that.’
Steele glanced at them: McGuire had switched from tender to hard-boiled mode in a few minutes. Yet he knew that it was forced, the copper’s defence mechanism against the realities of the job. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering about his unborn child, his and Maggie’s: a daughter, as they knew already. How would her personality be moulded . . . blessed or cursed . . . with two police officers for parents?
‘How’s Mags?’
The question, thrown from out of nowhere as he watched Brown move off towards the tented area, took the inspector completely off-guard. ‘She’s fine,’ he replied, a little abruptly. ‘How’s Paula?’ At once he regretted his impetuosity. McGuire’s new partner, Paula Viareggio, had been, briefly, a figure in his past, but that was not something the two men had ever discussed.
But the big man simply shrugged. ‘She’s good. Busy as ever; maybe busier, now that the family business is a public limited company. She’s got more legal stuff to look after, and she spends more time talking to the accountants.’
Silence fell between them for a few seconds, until McGuire broke it awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Stevie,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I’m prying, please. But Maggie and I were . . . Shit, you know what I mean. Her being pregnant, it’s so . . .’
‘Unexpected?’
‘Well, yeah. Tell me if I’m wrong, tell me the two of you planned it, but I’d guess it came as a hell of a surprise to you both. If that’s so, it hasn’t exactly happened at the best time for her career.’
Steele looked out to sea. They stood in the middle of a wide bay, bitten out of the coastline by nature and defined by a semicircle of sand dunes, which formed a natural bridge to the bents above. The tide was at its highest and the water was millpond-calm, so flat that the sound of the engines of a distant tanker carried all the way to shore. ‘You’re not wrong, Mario,’ he replied. ‘And I hear what you’re saying about timing. But does she want a career any longer, assuming that everything goes all right with the baby? That’s the question you really should be asking.’
‘You’re kidding me!’ McGuire exclaimed. ‘Maggie’s thinking about packing the job in? She’s one of the most career-minded people I’ve ever met.’
‘She’s mentioned the possibility; that’s all I’ll say for now. That’s strictly between you and me, by the way. Understood?’
‘Of course. So she hasn’t discussed it with anyone else? The DCC, for example, or Brian Mackie, now that she reports to him?’
‘She hasn’t had the opportunity to discuss it with Mr Skinner, even if she was inclined to. Remember: he’s been on sabbatical since the end of January. As for our new assistant chief constable, they may have known each other for a while, but she’s not ready to discuss careers with him.’
‘Why not?’
The inspector frowned. ‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think she trusts him enough.’
‘Brian Mackie? Why wouldn’t she trust him?’
‘Because he’s new in post: people change when they go into the Command Corridor. I reckon she has a concern . . . I’ll put it no stronger . . . that if she went into a meeting with him to discuss career options, she might come out without any. No, let everyone assume what they will, I reckon she’ll say nothing about her future until after the baby’s born and maybe not till she’s getting close to the end of her maternity leave.’
‘When does she go off?’
‘In three days. She finishes on Friday.’
‘How long can she take?’
‘A full year from then, if she wants; and just between you and me again, that’s her present intention.’
‘Jesus! She’ll be bored stiff after a month.’
‘Maybe, but a month after that she won’t, not with the baby on her hands.’
‘I suppose you’ll be going off then too. Bloody paternity leave,’ he grumbled. ‘Losing Neil McIlhenney is something I did not need.’
‘You’re complaining about that?’ Steele laughed. ‘I thought you were going to be his new son’s godfather.’
‘Louis? That I am. I’m his big brother Spencer’s too, but Neil didn’t get swanning off for a fortnight when he was born.’
‘Times change, sir.’
‘I don’t know what you’re grinning about,’ McGuire retorted. ‘With Bandit Mackenzie off on extended sick leave, you’re running your subdivision, and with Neil away . . .’ He broke off, as Dr Brown re-emerged from the green enclosure. ‘Well, Doc?’
‘I’m glad I didn’t take the bet.’ The Irishman grimaced. ‘It looks as if death was caused by a single gunshot fired directly into the brain, upwards through the second spinal vertebra. It wasn’t a contact wound, but the muzzle was close enough to singe the surrounding hair. As you’ve seen, the bullet hasn’t exited, which, given the range, would indicate something like a point two-two or nine-millimetre weapon. You’ll know when we recover the thing, if it’s not too misshapen from rattling about inside her skull. Time of death? Six to eight hours ago, I’d say.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That would make it, neatly, between six and eight a.m.
‘Obviously I can’t carry out a complete examination here, but I could see no other signs of violence on the body, save one, and it hardly qualifies. There is very slight bruising on the left shoulder; it could be the print of a hand, possibly indicating that the woman was gripped from behind and shot. There’s no indication of any resistance whatsoever, so chances are, she never knew a thing, just the lights going out.’ He paused. ‘Any of that significant?’
‘All of it, worse luck,’ McGuire growled. ‘Thanks, Aidan. When can you do the post-mortem?’
‘As soon as I can round up someone to assist, or find someone more eminent than me to take the lead.’
‘I don’t want to wait for the professor for this one: I’d like to get my hands on the bullet as soon as possible.’
The doctor’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘For comparison with another case?’
McGuire winked at him. ‘Come on now, Doc, you know we always run ballistic comparisons.’
‘But maybe not as a matter of urgency.’
‘Bugger off . . . with respect to your professional status, of course.’
Brown smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Get her to the city mortuary as soon as you can. I’ll be ready, even if it means working this evening, so you’d better have your witnesses in place too. If I’m breaking my back over this I don’t want you lot holding me up.’
As soon as the Irishman headed for his car, McGuire beckoned to a red-haired figure who stood waiting, amid a group of tunic-clad officers. ‘DI Dorward,’ he called out. ‘Your team can get to work now.’
‘Are we looking for anything in particular?’ the man asked, as he approached.
‘The day I tell you how to do your job, Arthur,’ the head of CID replied, ‘mine will really have gone to my head.’
‘Come on, boss, give us a clue.’
‘Well, first of all, we’d like to know who she is, so you should make identification a priority. Also, if you find a spen
t cartridge casing, that would be very nice.’
‘That’s assuming that the uniforms haven’t ground it into the sand . . . or you, for that matter.’
‘Give us credit for a wee bit of professionalism.’
‘Not after being in this job for the time I have.’ He glanced around. ‘Will this be a media-free zone?’
‘As free as we can make it. We can keep the beach clear, but anybody with the wit to hire a boat from North Berwick and run it along here will have a clear view.’
‘And they’ll do that too,’ Dorward muttered. ‘We’d better get cracking, in that case.’ He turned, signalling to his team to join him on the beach.
‘So where do we go from here, sir?’ Steele asked; the question was loaded.
‘I go back to Fettes,’ the detective chief superintendent replied, ‘back to Headquarters. You take charge of this investigation.’
‘It’s outside my area,’ the inspector pointed out. ‘It’s in East Lothian.’
McGuire sighed. ‘How did I know you were going to say that? I don’t care where the fuck it is. This murder is identical in every respect to the Stacey Gavin killing two months ago, and you’re carrying the ball on that one. I’m not having two teams chasing the same person, you must realise that.’
‘I do, but will DCI Leggatt understand? He’s the divisional commander here.’
‘Of course he will.’
‘Are you sure, sir? He’s relatively new in his position; put yourself in his place and you might fancy a nice high-profile murder, especially in a rural area. A quick result would make your name.’
McGuire glanced sideways at his colleague. ‘Forgive me, Stevie, if I sound political, but this isn’t any old rural area. We are just outside the village of Gullane. Who lives here?’ He looked to the west. ‘Not a mile away, as the fly crows, or whatever.’
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