Death's Door bs-17

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘That’s how it looks.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll think about it,’ he said, as they reached the attic floor.

  There was a door at the end of the landing, with a glazed panel bearing the logo that they had seen on the plate at street level. Wilding rapped on the frame, then led the way into an office space that seemed to cover the full width of the building. It was open plan, apart from a glass office in the far corner where a woman sat behind a desk. The area was flooded with light from Velux windows. The sergeant glanced around expecting to find the walls filled with posters and pictures of the agency’s clients but, to his surprise, they were bare.

  ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ a young man greeted them brightly. A big, broad lad, in jeans and a Coldplay T-shirt, he was well spoken and looked to be still in his teens; he was the only other person in the room, and judging by its furnishing, High-end Talent’s only other employee.

  ‘Police,’ said Singh, only a little winded by the climb. ‘We’re here to see Hope Dell.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  The big detective constable sighed, then smiled. ‘You didn’t hear me, son. We’re the polis; we don’t do appointments. We want to talk to her about Harry Paul.’

  The boy flushed slightly. ‘Of course. Sorry, gentlemen. Just hold on a minute, please.’

  The woman had looked up; as he walked towards her cubicle, she rose from behind her desk. ‘Mum, it’s the police,’ they heard him say, as he opened the door. She nodded, and beckoned to them, an invitation to join her. She was dark-haired, of medium height, and wore a pale blue suit over a matching polo-neck that had the smoothness of cashmere. Singh’s parents were in the rag trade; he knew quality when he saw it.

  ‘Put the coffee on, Jacky,’ she told her son, as the two men approached. ‘Come in, take a seat.’ She directed them to three designer chairs, grouped round a coffee table.

  Wilding thanked her, then introduced himself and the detective constable. ‘We’ve come about Harry Paul,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes, poor lad, it’s appalling. Tragic for him and for his friends; the door had just opened for them, and they were about to make themselves some serious money.’

  ‘There’s one possible connection,’ the sergeant told her, ‘between Harry and the man who’s our chief suspect at the moment. We’re trying to establish whether there were any others.’ He took the likeness of Padstow from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Is this person familiar to you?’ he asked.

  She took it from him and peered at it. ‘I saw this in today’s Herald,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know who he is, but I can tell you who the artist was. It was Stacey Gavin, wasn’t it?’

  Wilding stared at her. ‘Yes, but how did you . . .?’

  ‘Stacey was a client of mine. When you arrived, I didn’t think you’d just come to talk just about Harry; I thought you’d be asking about all three.’

  ‘Zrinka Boras was a client as well?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused as the young man brought in a tray, holding a jug of filter coffee, milk, a plate of biscuits and three mugs, and laid it on the table. ‘Stay with us, Jacky,’ she told him, then turned back to the detectives. ‘Clearly you don’t know a lot about my agency. High-end Talent has only branched into music fairly recently, since my son left school, and decided that he wanted to work with me and study part-time, rather than go to college. Before that I represented writers and artists exclusively.’

  ‘Isn’t that an unusual spread?’ asked Singh.

  ‘Not really. Multi-talent agencies are quite common, although a business my size tends to concentrate on one discipline. I started my working life as an editor with a Scottish publishing house. I put my career on hold when I had Jacky here, and his sister, but when I was ready to restart I found that the industry was contracting and that there were no openings, not here at any rate. It had occurred to me as an editor that virtually all of the writers whose work was pitched to me were represented by agencies outside Scotland, and when I did some research I discovered that there were few here, worth the name at any rate. So I set myself up, working from home, focusing on general and children’s fiction, and before too long I had a respectable client list.’

  ‘When did art come into it?’

  ‘After I lost my husband. He was killed in a car crash four years ago, and I was left with two kids to raise and a limited income. I had to make the agency grow, but it wasn’t just a matter of taking on more authors: this business is driven by talent, not volume, so growth is dependent on finding the right clients, and you can’t plan for that. Diversifying into art was my brother-in-law’s idea: he has a passionate interest in it, and he knew that my core degree was in art history. He pointed out that there are many artists who could do much better for themselves if they had commercial representation. I did some more research, and I found that he was right. So I began by running a little strategically placed advertising. Then I produced a leaflet and I circulated it around the Scottish art schools, and the new division began to grow. I don’t sell their work direct to customers, not as a rule, or through galleries, for there would be hardly any money left for the client if I did that. I maintain a database that’s available to interior designers and architects, and to a few private buyers who are registered with me, and I look to develop new markets for them. Currently I’m opening up a website, where people will be able to buy signed and numbered prints on line.’

  ‘I see,’ said Wilding. ‘So how did you meet Stacey and Zrinka?’

  ‘Zrinka approached me a couple of years ago, more or less as soon as she moved here. She was young, but she had a very sharp business brain, inherited, no doubt.’

  ‘You knew her background?’

  ‘She told me. She never tried to hide it; she simply refused to trade on it. She was only ever known as Zrinka on my database. When we met, we had a two-way chat, but nothing was resolved. I’m sure she had me checked out, for it was a few days before she came back and said that she’d like me to represent her.’

  ‘Has she been successful?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If you look into her affairs, you’ll find that she set up a limited company to handle the work she put through me.’

  ‘But she was selling directly as well, from a stall.’

  ‘She was, but that was part of our agreement, and I was happy, as long as she didn’t undervalue her work.’

  ‘And Stacey?’

  ‘Zrinka brought her to me last year, after she had graduated from college, and introduced her. It was a very generous thing for her to do, but she was that sort of woman. Stacey was very talented too, maybe even more than Zrinka.’ She held the print up. ‘I could have landed her some pretty serious portrait commissions, you know, but she insisted that she wasn’t ready for that. Too bad. I hope her parents have an idea of the long-term value of the work they’re holding.’

  ‘What about Harry, and Upload?’ Singh asked her. ‘Why did you go into music?’

  ‘For Jacky.’ She smiled at her son. ‘He wanted to come into the business, and he persuaded me that music would fit naturally into a creative agency. He has a good ear for that sort of stuff. It’s all beyond me, but he got it right with Harry and the boys, when Zrinka brought them along to see us. The contract they had . . . I can’t bear to think of the money we’d all have made.’

  ‘And still can, Mum,’ Jacky told her. ‘Harry can be replaced in the band. He’s dead, but his compositions aren’t.’

  Hope Dell looked at him, surprised. ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Suddenly, the boy was no longer an awkward teenager. Before the detectives’ eyes, he turned into a sharp, fast-talking businessman. ‘We’ve got a guy on our books, Craigie Speirs. Compared to Upload, he’s been doing fuck-all . . . sorry, Mum . . . because it’s a lot harder to push solo acts, but he would slot right in there. If A-Frame and Benjy are up for it, I’m going to talk to him about it.’

  ‘Zrinka introduced Upload too?’ said Wilding, bringing the discussion ba
ck on line.

  ‘Zrinka did everything,’ Jacky told him. ‘Zrinka was pure gold.’

  The sergeant showed him the print of Padstow. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the boy replied grimly, ‘but if he did what you think he did, I know a lot of people who’d like to meet him, me included.’

  Forty-five

  Stevie Steele nodded his way past the officers on duty at the public entrance to the Fettes police headquarters, and headed straight for the Special Branch suite. Once he had entertained hopes that he might succeed Neil McIlhenney in that office, but the job had gone to Inspector Dorothy Shannon.

  His brief disappointment had been ended by his wife, who had persuaded him that he was too gregarious to spend his working life in a regime that was of necessity secretive, and that he would be much happier in mainstream CID, where the breadth of his thinking and his innate popularity with colleagues would be an asset.

  He had wondered for a while whether he might not have been considered tough enough for the job, but Maggie had disabused him of that notion very quickly. ‘They might like you within the ranks, my love,’ she had told him, ‘but they know you’re up there with Mario and Neil as someone not to be messed with.’

  As he headed for Shannon’s office, he had an inkling of why people might feel that way about him.

  He opened the door of the SB suite and marched in. Alice Cowan, the inspector’s sidekick and general watchdog, was at her post as usual. ‘Is she in?’ he asked, nodding towards the inner office door and barely breaking his stride.

  ‘Yes,’ Cowan replied, ‘but you . . .’ He ignored her, thrusting open the inner office door and stepping inside.

  Dottie Shannon was standing beside a corner table, scanning that morning’s Times. ‘Alice, why don’t you ever . . .?’ She looked round impatiently as she spoke, her admonitory question ending abruptly. ‘Oh, DI Steele,’ she said. ‘It’s you, is it?’

  ‘Reporting as ordered, Detective Inspector Shannon.’

  ‘Now, Stevie . . .’

  He stared back at her, his eyes like ice. ‘Don’t Stevie me,’ he growled. ‘What the fuck do you think you were up to barging into my office in the middle of the bloody night and haranguing one of my officers? That was out of order of itself, but to instruct him to have me come to see you . . . Inspector, you have let your new job go to your head.’

  ‘And so have you, by the sound of things, Acting DCI. Or are you still holding a grudge?’

  Steele gasped, then laughed out loud. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Dottie; I washed you out of my hair the day I chucked you. I never had a grudge to hold. If you remember, you and I had a thing that I thought was serious; then I found out you were banging George Regan on the side. So I pulled the plug on you.’

  ‘Very sensitive, weren’t you?’ she retorted. ‘We were both free and single.’

  ‘Which is more than George was. Apart from being my mate, he’s married, and I like Jen very much.’

  ‘So much that you threatened to tell her about George and me.’

  ‘Wrong. I’d never hurt her like that. All I did was tell George that you were a slag and, if he hadn’t noticed, a mediocre lay, and that if he didn’t straighten his act up he was in danger of losing both his wife and his pal.’

  ‘Jesus, you really aren’t Sir Galahad, are you?’

  ‘I can put the boot in when I have to.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ Her squared shoulders relaxed, just a little. ‘Look, Stevie, that’s all in the past.’

  ‘You were the one who brought it up.’

  ‘I know and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry I tore up your DC last night. By the book I should have called you, but I live just round the corner from your office, plus I didn’t fancy waking up a pregnant chief superintendent as well as you, so I went round and dealt with it myself. If I laid into the guy more than I should it was because I don’t appreciate being yelled at myself by my higher-ups.’

  ‘Who yelled at you? Mario McGuire? Brian Mackie? The chief?’

  ‘No, the higher-ups in Special Branch, specifically the security service. Some of them don’t love me, I have to tell you, for reasons of their own.’

  ‘I see,’ Steele murmured. ‘But where exactly do MI5 get off, interfering in a multiple-murder investigation?’

  ‘They go off the deep end when you start making blanket enquiries about someone who, as they put it to me in a loud voice, couldn’t have had anything to do with the situation and who is security cleared right up to God.’

  ‘Did they give you the name?’

  ‘Are you kidding? They gave me five minutes to shut your guy down or they’d ask Bob Skinner to do it.’

  ‘Okay. I can see that you were under pressure; I’ll explain that to Montell and give him your apologies.’

  She glowered at him, then her eyes softened. ‘All right, you can tell him I’m sorry. But explain to him that sometimes enquiries about specific people get them nervous. They didn’t just want me to stop Montell, they wanted me to check that it was really him looking for the information.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’ve done what they want, now let’s see if they’ll do us a favour in return.’

  Shannon snorted. ‘MI5 aren’t famous for doing favours for local cops.’

  ‘They’ve got a serious-crime function, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Three shootings is pretty serious in my book.’ He took a computer disk from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘That holds an image of the man we know as Dominic Padstow. We’ve drawn a total blank on him. I’d like you to send it down to them to see if it matches anyone on their files. If they’re iffy about it, you can remind them that we know Bob Skinner too, and a lot better than they do.’

  ‘All right, I’ll ask them. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, one way or another.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He turned to leave, then paused. ‘Hey,’ he asked, ‘does the name Robert Morgan mean anything to you?’

  She shook her head.

  He was about to open the door when she called after him. ‘Stevie!’ He glanced back at her. ‘A mediocre lay?’

  ‘I had to get through to George somehow.’

  ‘Slag?’

  ‘You decide.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘I knew he was married. How are you doing these days anyway?’

  ‘Happy. You? Are you in a relationship?’

  ‘In this job?’ she replied. ‘You have to be kidding.’

  Forty-six

  Mario McGuire was beginning to feel more human, although he still looked with a degree of suspicion at the coffee that, eventually, he had allowed Pye to bring him. He was looking through reports on outstanding investigations from the divisional CID commanders when there was a quiet knock on his door and Brian Mackie stepped into the room.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Stevie Steele this morning?’ the ACC asked.

  ‘No,’ the head of CID replied bluntly, ‘and I don’t expect to until he’s found this man Padstow.’

  ‘Has Dottie Shannon spoken to you?’

  ‘No, but she wouldn’t: she reports direct to the DCC, remember. In his absence she’d go straight to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mackie. ‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’

  McGuire leaned back in his chair. ‘Come on, Brian, out with it.’

  ‘I’ve just been in to see the chief. He’s just had a call from Amanda Dennis, the acting director general of MI5, telling him that her duty officer had occasion to phone Shannon late last night to complain about one of our people, not in Special Branch, making enquiries about an e-mail address and a mobile number that are on a sensitive list.’

  ‘Do we know what she did about it?’

  ‘Not from her, but Mrs Dennis told Jimmy that she called back shortly afterwards to say that it had been taken care of.’

  ‘I can see why you’re asking about Steele. His investigation is the only thing we’ve got live at the
moment that would trigger that sort of incident. So why did Dennis call the chief?’

  ‘I think she just wanted to make sure that it had been put to bed, because of the individual involved, the person whose identity MI5 were protecting. She told the chief, and this mustn’t leave this room, that it was Bob Skinner.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ the head of CID exploded. ‘It must have been Montell doing the digging,’ he continued. ‘Stevie told me that he was going through Zrinka Boras’s computer records to see if they threw up any recent contacts. I’d guess he was checking her incoming e-mails, and found one from him.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  The chief superintendent chuckled. ‘Hey, Brian, you’re the man from the Command Corridor. You tell me.’

  Mackie ran his hand over his bald dome in a trademark gesture. ‘No, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to order you to do anything. This is a major investigation, and if you think this information will have any bearing on it, you’re at liberty to advise Steele, and have him show you the content of the e-mail. If the pair of you feel it necessary, you’re authorised to visit Bob, to tell him about it.’

  ‘You mean interview him, as in eliminate him from our enquiries? Thanks, pal, for dropping this one in my lap.’

  ‘What’s your thinking?’

  McGuire gazed at him, hard. ‘My thinking, Brian, sir, is that I can spot the buck being passed a mile off, especially when it’s aimed at me. Well, I’m not catching it. I’m saying fuck-all to Steele, and I’m going to pretend that you haven’t been here. Can you imagine, for one second, what would happen if we did what you’re hinting at? No, if we even discussed it, and one hint of that conversation found its way to the media?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Brian, do some joined-up thinking here. Why do you think that the security service keeps an eye on big Bob’s private e-mail and mobile numbers? I know he’s a heavy and everything else, and that he’s been well involved with them over the years, but it’s more than that. You and I both know that he’s not just the DCC any more, he’s the partner of Aileen de Marco, this country’s First Minister.’