‘I got that from my mother and my grandparents. My dad was Irish, a lovely man, but one of few words . . . long ones at any rate.’
‘My husband’s grandmother was Italian too. That is something you have in common.’
The big detective glanced at Boras: he looked impatient and irascible. ‘The only thing, I reckon,’ he said gently. ‘Can you tell me anything about Zrinka’s boyfriend, this man?’
‘I never met him. I never came to visit her in Edinburgh after we bought the flat. I spoke to him only once, when I called Zrinka’s mobile and he answered.’
‘How did he sound? Did he have an accent?’
Mrs Boras ran her right hand over her hair. Her reddened eyes creased slightly as she frowned, trying to summon up a memory. ‘He spoke well, as if he was educated: like many of the people we know in London.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Dominic. Dominic Padstow. That’s all I can tell you about him.’
‘Not him, then,’ Steele murmured.
‘What do you mean?’ Keith Barker interrupted.
‘We believe we’ve identified Zrinka’s companion in the tent,’ the inspector replied. ‘We found his belongings last night in the bushes, well away from where the body was hidden. They included a photographic driver’s licence in the name of Harry Paul, of Aberfeldy.’
‘That should be conclusive, shouldn’t it?’
‘No.’ Steele stared at Boras’s assistant, warning him not to take the matter further. ‘It still has to be formalised.’
‘Does that name mean anything to either you?’ asked McGuire, moving on quickly.
Boras shook his head, but his wife nodded hers. ‘Zrinka mentioned him last time we spoke. She described him as her boyfriend of the moment, and that there was a good chance he could turn into more than that. She said he was nice, and seemed safe. Safe,’ she whispered. ‘That’s ironic, isn’t it?’
‘When was that, Mrs Boras? The last time you spoke?’
‘Sunday evening: I called her to ask what she was doing this week.’
It occurred to the head of CID that the mother was becoming stronger the longer the interview lasted, and less reliant on her medication, while, somehow, her husband, when facing personal issues, might be the weaker of the two. ‘Can you remember what she said?’
‘Yes, I remember very well. She told me that she has an appointment,’ her husband twitched at her linguistic slip, but said nothing, ‘in North Berwick the next evening, with a gallery-owner who was interested in putting some of her work on show. She was going to take ten pictures down there, and she hoped he would take them all. She was pleased because his commission on his sales was less than the Edinburgh galleries. Zrinka was annoyed by the amount some of them wanted to charge her.’
‘She sold her work from a stall, I understand,’ said Steele.
‘That’s right. She told me that suppose she sell only one picture a week, the rent of the stall was less than the commission she would have paid to a gallery. If she sell two ...’
Davor Boras seemed to rally. ‘She was my daughter, sir,’ he barked. ‘She knew that the fewer people between her and the buyer, the more she would make.’
‘Was she happy?’ McGuire asked the mother.
‘Yes.’
‘You never sensed anything troubling her, especially recently?’
‘No. My daughter was always happy; she loved Edinburgh, she loved her work.’
‘What was her ambition?’
‘She wanted to be famous in her own right. She loved to paint people caught off-guard in unusual situations. She had her own hero; she wanted to be another Jack Vettriano, with her work on posters all around the world. She signed everything “Zrinka”, with a great flourish, but never with her full name.’
‘Your family owns galleries. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Boras, ‘but the collections there are very serious. They are not places to indulge one’s daughter. Zrinka understood that she could not be hung there until she had come to justify it.’
‘But you have a passion for art, too?’
‘Passion? No it’s strictly business: art is a good investment. If one buys, and then puts the work on public display while it appreciates, that makes sense. My galleries do not offer free admission, and they do not run at a loss.’
‘I think I understand that,’ McGuire conceded. ‘But, if you’ll forgive me, I think you have a greater interest than you’re letting on. No matter, though. We know from her bank records that Zrinka was doing fairly well. Did she have any well-known customers?’
Sanda Boras smiled for the first time since they had come into the room; for the first time, Steele guessed, since the chief super from the Met had driven up to her door. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘She sold a picture to a footballer once; she was very pleased about that, although none of his team-mates followed his example, as far as I know. The most excited I remember her was a few months ago, early this year. She said that a man and his family had come to the stall, and that one of them, a woman, the man’s daughter, although the rest of them were children, had bought a picture for him, an expensive picture. She told me that she recognised him from his picture in the papers, and that he was a very important man in Edinburgh.’
‘Can you remember his name?’
‘No. I don’t think she say his name. I had to go before she could.’
McGuire turned back to Boras. ‘Your son, sir: does he know of his sister’s death?’
’Not from me,’ he replied. ‘Dražen and I do not speak very often, either. I have not seen him in almost a year. Nor has his mother, I believe . . .’ he paused ‘. . . although maybe I am wrong about that.’
‘No,’ said his wife, quietly, subdued once more.
‘You didn’t give him a little help?’ the head of CID asked her.
‘He wouldn’t ask, or accept it.’
‘My son has done well enough for himself,’ Boras exclaimed curtly.
‘Doing what, sir?’
‘Trying to prove that he is a better man than his father. Three years ago, once I had seen him through LSE and Harvard Business School, he turned his back on Continental IT, which he would have been running before he was thirty, and set up on his own, in direct competition to me, only his company runs entirely through a website. I wouldn’t have minded, but there was no original thinking in it at all. Everything he did, he copied from me. The last time we spoke I told him as much. He replied that I couldn’t expect to have all the market, and I should be happy with what he had left me. Hah! A website!’
What’s it called? DraženBoras dot com?’
‘My son doesn’t use his family name any more. He anglicised it when he went to Harvard. Now he calls himself David Barnes. His company is called Fishheads dot Com. A nonsensical title.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ McGuire admitted. ‘Nonsense maybe, but it’s not a name you’d forget. It supplies our family business with bulk stationery and consumables. Paula, my partner, swears by it.’
‘Mr Boras is more inclined to swear at it,’ said Barker. The beginnings of a smile at his small joke appeared on his face, but vanished under his employer’s glare.
‘It’s doing well, then?’ Boras said nothing. ‘I’ll take that as yes,’ the head of CID continued. ‘Don’t you think you should contact your son, though? This is going to go public very shortly.’
‘I told you. We have no contact with him. My son betrayed me; he is a stranger to me and to his mother, God damn him.’
‘I’ve tried to reach him.’ Camilla Britto’s voice came across the room, from a chair beside the window. ‘I have a home number for him. He called me one day, and gave it to me, for use only in case of extreme family crisis. I called it this morning, while Sanda was asleep, but it was on answer mode. I left a voice message, telling him where we are, and asking him to call his parents urgently.’
Boras twisted powerfully in his chair. ‘Did you not hear what I just said? You interfere
in my family affairs, woman? As soon as we get back to London, you’re fired.’
‘No, she’s not, Davor,’ his wife told him calmly. ‘Camilla works for me, not you. If there’s any firing to be done I’ll do it, and I wouldn’t start with her. She’s handled this exactly the right way, as you’ll see when your anger lets you think logically again.’
Twenty-nine
Maggie Rose looked around her dingy office. When she had moved in there, into a senior command position, she had not given a second’s thought to the end of her police career. If by some chance she had imagined that day, she would never have foreseen that it would have come there, or then.
She smiled at the prospect, simultaneously amused and amazed that she had reached her decision.
Overnight, she had managed to put her meeting with Aldred Fine into perspective. She had done some Internet research and had seen that there were many potential explanations for her ovarian shadow. The one that she favoured was that it was a simple mistake, a misleading shading caused by the technology that had spotted it. She was confident that everything would soon be clarified and the worry removed, without Stevie ever having to learn of it. She was pleased, oddly, that her decision to leave the force had not been influenced in any way by what might be or, much more likely, might not be wrong with her.
There was a soft knock on the door. She looked up and called, ‘Enter.’ It opened and a young man stepped into the room, with a hesitancy that was unusual for him.
‘Yes, Sauce,’ Chief Superintendent Margaret Rose said cheerfully, on her last day in command. ‘What can I do for you?’
Police Constable Harold Haddock stood stiffly before her. He had changed since the day she had appointed him as her unofficial leg-man, when first she had taken temporary command of the division. The gawky lad she had seen then had grown an inch or so and had filled out. From seeming to be composed almost entirely of elbows, he had become broad-shouldered and thick-chested, someone not to be messed with in a bundle, as he had proved on street patrol on more than one occasion. Maggie was not known to play favourites, but if she had been so inclined, young Sauce Haddock would have been one of them.
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being presumptuous, but I’m going to do it anyway. I know we’re having a goin’-away do for you tomorrow afternoon, and I’m coming in for it, but I’m off from lunchtime today. While I’ve the chance I’d like to thank you, just myself, for doing so much for me.’
She swallowed, completely taken aback and uncharacteristically touched. She looked at him, masking her feelings with a straight face. ‘I haven’t done anything for you, Constable. Everything you’ve achieved so far you’ve done on your own merits.’
‘If that’s so, ma’am,’ he insisted, ‘it’s because of your encouragement. I just want to wish you luck, and I look forward to seeing you back here when you’re ready.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sauce, and I don’t think it’s presumptuous at all.’ She smiled. ‘What I just said about not doing anything for you: that’s not quite true.’
‘I ken, ma’am.’
‘No, you don’t get me. I was going to tell you this later, but I might as well spill it now. You know that our CID’s been flying one short since my husband stole DC Montell? By the way, he swears he didn’t but he’s getting the blame. Well, I’ve had a word with my ex-husband and with Detective Superintendent Chambers, and they’re both agreed. You are the replacement.’
The young constable’s face widened. ‘Are you serious, ma’am?’ he exclaimed. ‘I reckoned I wouldn’t have a chance of CID for at least another couple of years.’
‘Normally you wouldn’t, but this force has a recent history of picking out people with potential and giving them a chance to fulfil it. Initially you’ll be working with Detective Sergeant Regan; report to him on Monday morning. Make sure you learn as much as you can from him: he’s a pretty good teacher.’
‘I will do, ma’am. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘You’ll have thanked me when you’re sitting behind this desk or one like it.’ Her phone rang. ‘On you go now,’ she said, as she picked it up. ‘Rose,’ she exclaimed, as the door closed behind him.
‘Maggie,’ a woman’s voice replied, ‘it’s Sylvia Thorpe here. I’ve got some information for you. I’m putting it in the post as we agreed, but I thought I should give you a run-down.’
There was something in her tone that punctured Maggie’s good humour. ‘Go ahead then.’
‘I’ve found both the registrations you were after. Your grandmother’s cause of death is given as uterine cancer, that’s all. Your aunt Euphemia’s is more specific: she died of pneumonia.’
Maggie whistled. ‘Terrible thing to say but that’s a relief.’
‘Maybe yes, maybe not: the underlying cause was ovarian and stomach cancer.’
The butterfly that she had fluttered the day before seemed to have evolved overnight into a rending carrion bird.
‘I’m sorry, Maggie,’ said Thorpe. ‘But if I read the reason for your request correctly, you should share this information with your consultant.’
‘I plan to do that.’
‘And with your husband.’
‘That I will not do, until it’s absolutely necessary, or unavoidable.’ She drew a breath. ‘Sylvia, you wouldn’t do anything silly, would you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t, I promise. But, please, think about talking to Stevie.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Maggie replied. ‘Be sure I’ll think about it. But that’s not my priority: our child is. She’s more important than anyone else.’
Thirty
‘Is this going to be the norm?’ Alan Royston whispered.
‘Ours not to reason, mate,’ Mario McGuire replied.
They were standing in the office of Chief Constable Sir James Proud, by a side door and far enough away not to be overheard as the head of the force extended welcoming hospitality to Davor Boras and Keith Barker. ‘I do not like these affairs,’ the media manager continued. ‘Why did you agree to it? Having parents at our press conferences, getting emotional and so on; I always feel uncomfortable.’
‘You’re a control freak, Alan, that’s your problem.’
‘Too fucking right I am, especially when we’re briefing on a very difficult homicide, with nothing positive to say.’
‘Hey, come on. Stevie and I got new lines of enquiry from our interview with the parents, and I’m going to tell the media as much.’
‘Why did the mother not come? Is she flaky, or half comatose with Valium?’
‘No, she’s together, but she’s a background player in this family. He’s the main man, or has to be seen to be at any rate.’
‘Okay, but what’s that smarmy bastard Barker doing sticking his nose in? This is the first time I’ve ever had to clear a press release with someone outside the official circle.’
‘The ACC says that’s the way they wanted it, and that he saw no good reason to interfere. Did you moan to him about it?’
‘No,’ Royston confessed.
‘Would you have moaned to big Bob if he was here, and had given it the okay?’
‘No.’
‘So why the fuck are you moaning to me?’
‘Sorry, Mario. It strikes me as unprofessional, that’s all. It has a showbiz feel about it.’
‘Now you’re getting to the heart of it. Brian Mackie didn’t say as much, but Boras’s presence isn’t about the girl. It’s about business. It’s about the stock-market analysts, letting them see that whatever happens in his private life, he’s still very much in control.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Royston hissed. ‘His daughter’s been murdered and he’s more concerned about his fucking company?’
‘That’s the way it looks to me.’
‘I’ve seen it all now.’
‘I used to think that too, but I know I never will.’ McGuire checked his watch. ‘That’s it. Twelve on the dot. Time to go downstairs and
get the event under way.’
Barker caught the gesture, rose from his seat and crossed the room towards them. ‘You’re clear about how this is going to run?’ he murmured to Royston. ‘You introduce Mr McGuire, he reads the announcement for the camera, then I introduce Mr Boras and he makes a personal statement.’
‘No,’ said the head of CID, firmly. ‘It’ll just be me and your boss at the top table.’
‘But your assistant chief promised me . . .’
‘I doubt that he was that precise and, anyway, he’s far too shrewd to be here. I’m running this thing, and I’m telling you how it will be.’
Barker’s sandy hair seemed to quiver. ‘I’ll ask Sir James to override you,’ he hissed.
The big detective smiled at him. ‘You try that and two things will happen: one, the chief will tell you very politely to fuck off; and two, I’ll take it personally. Trust me, both of those events would be unfortunate for you.’ He patted the aide on the shoulder, as if in consolation. ‘Mr Boras,’ he called out, ‘if you’re ready . . .’
‘Yes.’ The man stood, and shook hands with the chief constable, who wished him luck, then followed McGuire out into the command corridor. An unfeasibly tall figure waited outside the door, Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk, Bob Skinner’s executive assistant. ‘I’ve just had word from Dr Brown at the mortuary, boss,’ he said. ‘We’ve confirmed the identification of Harry Paul. It seems he had a steel plate put in his right leg after a motorbike accident when he was eighteen. They took an X-ray of the body, and found it.’
‘Okay.’ He looked up. ‘You ready for Monday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about Monday?’ asked Royston, as the party moved on.
‘I’m sending Jack to CID at Torphichen Place, working under George Regan as acting DI. Mary Chambers needs reinforcements while she’s covering for Maggie. I did think about sending my guy, Sammy Pye, but my needs are greater than the DCC’s at this moment.’
The quartet walked downstairs and took a left turn along another corridor, which led them directly into the briefing room. ‘Mr Boras,’ said McGuire, ‘if you’ll accompany me, we’ll begin.’
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