‘How did she and Harry meet?’
‘In a bar, where his band was playing. You’ll know that he was a full-time musician; I told the officer who called to ask me about him for your press conference. That’s happened now, I suppose, from the evidence of the reptiles turning up to gawp and film the house.’
‘You didn’t watch it on television?’ said Martin.
‘No, we couldn’t bring ourselves to. I gather that Zrinka’s father was there. At least, that’s what your colleague told me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ McGuire grunted. ‘He was there all right. He’s offered a reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer.’
‘Good for him. I might just pitch in myself. How much has he put up?’
‘A million.’
‘A mi—! Good heavens! Out of my league, I’m afraid. I’ll contribute if he asks, of course, but . . .’
‘He won’t. He was making a point to the murderer.’
‘The point being?’
‘The same one I made to him: that he has nowhere to hide that’ll keep us away from him for long. Davor Boras made it more dramatically, that’s all.’
‘Davor Boras? Ah, but I’ve heard of him. What Financial Times reader hasn’t? He’s Zrinka’s father, is he? Maybe I should have guessed, but I never made the connection. All she said about him was that he owned a couple of galleries. I assumed he was a shopkeeper. As, indeed, I suppose he is, on a very large scale.’
‘You could say that. But let’s go back to Harry, sir. He and Zrinka met in a bar, you said.’
‘It was more of a dancehall, from the way he described it. He was playing and she was there for a drink, with a friend.’
‘I don’t suppose you know the friend’s name?’
‘Zrinka called her Amy, but that’s all.’
‘That’s fine; we should be able to find her. Harry’s band: they’re full-time?’
‘More or less. They’re called Upload, a three-piece, but he was very much the leader. He was the lead guitarist, and singer, and composer, and arranger, and programmer of their various machines. He was beginning to get excited about them. They’ve made one album, so far, on their own initiative, but their manager told them she’d arranged a distribution deal with a major record company. They were going back into the studio next week, to re-record one of the tracks as a single, to break them into the national market.’
Paul looked at the police officers. ‘Are you surprised that I’m up with the technology?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘I suppose it’s a case of once a businessman always a businessman. It was the career my son wanted and so I took an interest in it, and had him explain to me what it was all about. Harry wasn’t just a dreamer, you know. He graduated from Heriot-Watt University last year with a first in computer science, and did some lecturing there, part-time, to supplement his band earnings. He was a very bright young man, and music was a legitimate way of putting his skills to work.’
‘Who managed them?’
‘An agency called High-end Talent, but from what Harry said that was just a trading name for a woman called Hope Dell.’
‘Where’s she based?’
‘Edinburgh. She has an office on King George IV Bridge. I’ve been there; went with Harry and his chums when they were thinking of signing on with her. He asked me to sit in on their meeting, to see if it felt right.’
‘Obviously it did.’
Paul nodded. ‘Yes. I was very impressed by her. She interviewed them rather than the other way around. She told them about all the pitfalls, and she left them in no doubt, to borrow a phrase she used on the day, that for every Oasis there are thousands of mirages with the metaphorical bones of the deluded scattered all around. When she was finished, Harry and the boys looked at me, I nodded and they shook hands on it.’
‘The other band members?’ McGuire asked. ‘What are their names and where can we find them?’
‘Buddy and A-Frame; that’s all I ever knew them as. You’ll be able to contact them through Hope. They won’t be suspects, I’m sure. All their dreams of riches have gone up in smoke.’
‘A-Frame?’ Martin exclaimed. ‘As in initial and surname?’
Colonel Travers Paul smiled, sadly. ‘No, as in a fat boy with sloping shoulders and a pointy head; that’s what Harry christened him. Among his other fine qualities, my son had quite a sense of humour.’
Thirty-five
‘This comes out of a throwaway remark made during our conversation with Harry Paul’s dad,’ said Mario McGuire, ‘but let’s check it out anyway. I seem to remember from the file that Stacey Gavin had a website. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Then let’s check out whether Zrinka had as well.’
‘Will do,’ Stevie Steele replied. ‘I take it your thinking is that maybe the killer sourced them as targets at random, through a search engine.’
‘Something along those lines, yes.’
‘If she had one, that would be a possibility. It might even throw up a few more potential targets in this area. We’ll be better able to get on to it when we get into Zrinka’s flat. At the moment the crime-scene technicians are giving it a thorough going-over.’
‘What progress have you made since the press briefing?’
‘We’ve established one thing that might be significant. Three of Zrinka’s pictures are missing; we know that she took twelve pieces out to North Berwick on Monday, to an art gallery called the Westgate. The owner bought one for his private collection and took eight for stock, as many as he thought he could handle at one time, especially since they were unframed. Zrinka told him that she rarely sold work framed. She believed that it was better that the buyer decided how a work should be displayed, and that most artists did themselves no favours by using cheap or inappropriate framing.’
‘Maybe she left the other three somewhere else.’
‘No. We’ve established that. She went straight from the shop to the restaurant and straight from there to the bus. Her art bag was empty when we found it yesterday. The killer’s taken them as trophies, just as he probably took Stacey’s sketch pad.’
‘I’ll go with that. Anything else?’
Steele chuckled. ‘Oh, yes, and with respect, sir, it’s of a lot more immediate use than websites: we can put a face to Dominic Padstow. Stacey knew him, all right, and intimately too. He must have moved on to her from Zrinka. Tarvil’s just back from South Queensferry with a near life-size nude portrait of him that she painted. Russ Gavin’s met him and he reckons it’s just about as good as a photograph, so I’m going to have the face scanned and printed out. If we haven’t turned up an address for him soon, I’m going to be looking for the okay to release it to the media. Meantime, I’m going to ask Gregor Broughton, the fiscal, to declare him a potential suspect, so that we can set aside the Data Protection Act and pull his details from public agency sources.’
‘You know this picture is Padstow? For sure?’
‘Yes. Mr Gavin had the presence of mind to show Tarvil his daughter’s catalogue. She listed every work she ever did, by subject name and number. That includes the portraits that she did occasionally for family and friends. He appears there, by name, in the entry for portrait number nine.’
McGuire whistled down the phone. ‘You’re sending a happy man back to Edinburgh, Stevie,’ he declared. ‘So Padstow didn’t just know both women, he was intimate with them both. Finally we’ve got ourselves a prime suspect.’
‘A suspect, yes, but that’s all he is for now. We need more on him, from both victims’ friends. Griff’s been through Zrinka’s palmtop and found some names there. Not many, though: she wasn’t part of a student crowd, like Stacey.’
‘Is there an Amy among them?’
‘Yes, Amy Noone, seven Blinkbonny Vennel, Comely Bank.’
‘I suggest you start with her. She was there the night Zrinka met Harry, so she may have known Padstow too.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘You’ll look up Hope Dell too,
for contact details for the other band members?’
‘I will, but she’ll have to wait till tomorrow.’
‘Sure,’ McGuire agreed. ‘You’re running things on the ground; you set your own priorities.’
Steele was about to hang up, when he spoke again: ‘Hey, Andy tells me that he’s got a DI vacancy in this division, and no obvious candidates. It has to be one of the great numbers of all time. If I didn’t need you myself I’d have put your name in for it. Too bad: it’s fucking beautiful up here; Maggie would just love it.’
Thirty-six
Maggie Rose had been conscientious throughout her police career. She had never taken time off duty without reporting the fact to a supervisor, and so it was second nature to her to pick up the phone at three o’clock and call Brian Mackie.
‘Hi, Mags,’ he said, as he answered, with warmth in his voice, ‘how’s your day going? Is Mary Chambers up to speed on everything that’s coming up in the division?’
‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m surprised by the way that people have been coming up to me privately and wishing me good luck. I never knew they felt that way about me. It’s really touching. As for Mary, she’ll be fine; you won’t regret accepting my recommendation, I promise you.
‘Actually, it’s a good time for her to be taking over: the next couple of months will be as quiet as it ever gets. The football season’s over, so she won’t have the fortnightly turnout at Tynecastle to police. That’s the most consistently stressful part of the job, especially when the big teams visit, and Hibs.’
‘I agree with that, for sure. But don’t you go off worrying about Mary either. She will have my full and active support, I promise you, until the moment she gets fed up with me hanging around and asks me respectfully to go away. Even then, she’ll have it, if from a greater distance.’ He paused. ‘You don’t have any plans to bugger off sharp tomorrow, I hope. You’re not leaving without ceremony, I promise you that . . . even if it is only a temporary absence.’
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll be a good girl. I hope nobody’s expecting a riotous assembly, though. Willie Haggerty’s leaving do may have turned into a right session, but in my condition that would not be appropriate.’
‘No, no.’ Mackie laughed reassuringly. ‘It won’t be ambulances at midnight, I promise. Besides, you’ll have Stevie there to look out for you.’
‘If his investigation allows, I will. I wonder how it’s going. I haven’t spoken to him since breakfast.’
‘Positively, from what I hear. I’ve just had a call from Mario, on the road back from Perthshire. They’ve got a suspect, a guy who seems to have been involved with both of the victims.’
‘An ex-boyfriend? That’s a break. It’ll surprise Stevie too: he’s convinced that these killings are ritual, that the women were selected more or less at random and that there’s something behind them, a sort of purpose.’
‘Is he indeed? Stevie’s a damn good analyst. Still, he could be right in part: ritualistic killings but with sexual jealousy as the motive.’
‘He won’t be worried about his theory being right or wrong as long as he gets a result. Nor will my ex; even less so, I reckon. Have they traced this man, this lover they had in common?’
‘Not yet, but they’ve got a scent and they’re after it.’
‘In that case I may be eating alone again tonight.’ Suddenly she realised how hungry she was, having missed lunch at Aldred Fine’s request. ‘Brian,’ she said, ‘I didn’t just call you up to pass the time of day but to check out of the office for a while. I have a hospital appointment in half an hour.’
‘That’s very formal and proper of you,’ he replied. ‘You’ll never bloody learn, will you? Divisional commanders are their own bosses in these things. Anyway, your kid’s a hell of a lot more important than the job. I’ll see you tomorrow; get on your way.’
Maggie hung up, picked up her bag, took her coat from its hook and left her office. She looked in briefly on Mary Chambers, then headed for the car park.
The mid-afternoon traffic was relatively light, and so she arrived at the Royal Infirmary five minutes early for her three-thirty appointment. When she entered the MRI scan reception area, she was surprised to find Aldred Fine waiting there.
‘I didn’t expect you to be here,’ she told him.
‘All part of the service,’ he replied, as jocularly as his appearance allowed.
As she looked at him, all the experience that she had amassed during her years in the police service told her, beyond reasonable doubt, that he was lying.
Thirty-seven
Stevie Steele looked out of the window. ‘Mrs Boras wasn’t kidding,’ he said. ‘It is a nice view.’
He was standing in the living room of Zrinka Boras’s apartment in Castle Street, looking out of the window across Princes Street and its gardens. The great grey castle, on its rock, was bathed in the light of late afternoon as the sun made its way west.
‘Must be worth a fortune too,’ Griff Montell murmured. ‘A duplex in the heart of this city is a rich girl’s home.’
‘Yes, but we knew that already.’ He looked across the room to the desk at which the South African was sitting. Like the rest of the house it was tidy, with pens and paper-clips all in their proper containers, with a pile of grey business cards placed in front of the flat-screen monitor, and with a phone to the right corner, within easy reach. ‘Are you into her files yet?’ he asked.
‘Sure, boss, no problem. She’d never heard of computer security, or so it seems. I can answer your website question: she had one. There’s a folder here.’
‘I have the answer already.’ Steele showed him a business card that he had picked up. ‘It’s there,’ he said.
‘Want me to look at it?’
‘Not right now.’
‘I can access her e-mail if you like; the password’s memorised to let me in with one click.’
‘Do that later too. First I want you to look for a list of contacts. We didn’t find anything for Dominic Padstow on her PDA, but maybe she kept an entry on him here.’
‘She kept fuck all on her PDA, apart from a few notes of sales made, and a couple of phone numbers, for example Harry Paul’s and Amy Noone’s. I suspect that it was a Christmas gift she never really got round to using. Give me a minute and we’ll see what’s here.’
Steele stood back and watched as the detective constable opened the program menu, found an office package and opened it. ‘Nothing here,’ he declared, after a minute spent searching. ‘There is a calendar, though, and she has appointments on it.’
‘How far back does it go?’
‘Let me see.’ He began to click on an arrow, moving the display back month by month. ‘A couple of years,’ he announced eventually. ‘This computer’s newer than that, I’d say, so I guess she transferred files from an earlier model. There are regular entries, and quite a few of them involve the letter D, as in our man.’ He chose one at random and clicked on it, watching as it opened into an extended note. ‘Right; this one’s for November the second, the year before last, and it says, “Four p.m., Dom, Harry Potter and the Giblet of Fire”. I guess they went to the movies.’
‘You mean “goblet”,’ said the inspector. ‘As in “and the Goblet of Fire”.’
‘No, I don’t; that’s what’s here. Either Zrinka couldn’t type or she had a wry sense of humour.’
‘Can you check every entry and print them out?’
‘Sure, but I’d rather do it back at the office.’ He produced a small blue plastic object from his pocket. ‘I could copy all the files I need on to my flash drive.’
‘If that’s the easiest way, fair enough. Too bad about the lack of an address book, though. There’s no trace of anything anywhere. For an outgoing girl, as she’d been described, she seems to have had hardly any friends.’
‘I’m not done yet, though,’ said Montell. ‘She didn’t have to use a specialist program. Many people don’t; they just
make an ordinary list.’ He opened the computer’s search facility, entered ‘address’, and waited. ‘There you are,’ he said triumphantly, as a single entry appeared in a window. ‘Zrinka’s documents, in a folder called “House”, a document called “Addresses”. And if we open that . . .’ he clicked on the link and watched as the screen changed ‘. . . we have a list. There you are, boss: names, addresses and phone numbers, in alphabetical order.’
Steele slapped him on the shoulder as he leaned over to look at the monitor screen. ‘Good lad, Griff. Scroll down and let’s take a look at the P entries.’ He watched as the DC spun the wheel on the mouse, pulling down pages of the file, slowing down as he reached O and coming to a halt as he arrived at the first P listings.
‘HP,’ Montell murmured, to himself. ‘That’s Harry’s address and number in Edinburgh. The next one’s Paul, T and M, his mum and dad, up in Aberfeldy. But no more Ps; the next entry’s RG, with a mobile number, no address.’
‘Maybe that’s out of place.’
‘No, the one after that’s an S. Bloody hell! “Skinner, Alex”, and with her office address and phone number. What’s she doing there?’
‘She bought one of Zrinka’s pictures for her father,’ Steele reminded him. ‘I guess she kept details of her buyers wherever she could. These aren’t just personal numbers: she’s built herself a mailing list. That’s why there are so many of them, compared to the very few numbers in her PDA.’
‘But no Dominic Padstow, even though he’s mentioned in her appointments calendar.’
‘If he lived with her . . .’
‘... she wouldn’t need his bloody number. True, or maybe she just washed him right out of her hair when he moved on.’ Montell’s finger twitched on the wheel and more entries appeared. ‘Hey, look at this,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s one for Stacey!’
Steele peered at the screen. ‘All it says is “S” and a mobile number. How do you know it’s her?’
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