‘No,’ Stevie Steele replied. ‘I never really thought he was in the first place, and now I’m entirely convinced that he’s innocent. I didn’t go easy on him: I made him give us his jacket and shirt for gunshot-residue testing, and I dropped them off at the lab on the way back into town.’
‘What about testing him?’
‘I thought about that too, but that would have been unnecessarily high-profile. His wife might have made a fuss, the thing could have gone public and got very messy. It would have been a waste of time too. Do you think he’d have been dumb enough not to wash his hands?’
‘Or change his clothes?’
‘No opportunity. If he did shoot Amy, we’re more likely to find evidence on his garments than on him.’
‘He’s an engineer, isn’t he?’ McGuire asked.
‘Yes, and I know what you’re going to say next. In any trial, the defence would be bound to say that mineral traces could have been acquired in a variety of ways. It won’t come to that, though, because before I came to see you Griff and I paid a call on Mrs Dell. She wasn’t too pleased to see us, having been interviewed by Ray and Tarvil this morning, but I got her attention pretty quickly.’
‘That must have been nice for her.’
‘Actually she wasn’t bothered. I told her that as a matter of routine we were checking the whereabouts on Monday night and Tuesday morning of every male remotely connected with the three victims. She told us straight away that on Monday evening she and Gavin were at a show in the Playhouse, that afterwards they had a late supper and went back to her place, where he stayed the night. He left for work from there next morning just after eight. No way he did it.’
‘Could she have been lying to protect him?’
‘No,’ said the inspector, emphatically. ‘Her son, Jacky, confirmed what she said. He works with her and still lives at home. He said that he gave Gavin his muesli and coffee.’
‘Very domestic. And the Dell woman wasn’t embarrassed by all this coming out?’
‘Not a bit. She takes the view that if he’s not happy at home, then Doreen has only herself to blame if he has a bit on the side. The arrangement suits her, she said, her kids don’t mind, and that’s all she cares about.’
‘Why has it taken us all this time to find out that Stacey had an agent?’
‘Because she doesn’t mention the fact on her website, and because her father didn’t volunteer the information.’
‘And I can see why not. Did the boy give the impression that he didn’t mind about the two of them?’
‘Not a bit. He was cut up when he heard that Amy Noone was dead. He knew her, since she was going with one of the lads in Harry Paul’s band. But he didn’t seem perturbed by Gavin giving his mum a seeing-to, not a bit. Jacky’s an ambitious boy, with other things on his mind. He reckons that Upload . . . that’s the band . . . could be the start of a big-time career for him in music management, and he’s concentrating on keeping them going without Harry.’
‘Good luck to him. I think Harry’s folks would like that. They’d see it as a memorial to their son. His dad certainly would: he was totally behind the boy’s career.’
‘I know. Jacky said that he’s been in touch with him, to get his permission to bring someone else in to replace Harry in the band.’
‘Jesus, that’s a bit fucking callous. It’s less than two days since the colonel found out his kid was dead.’
‘I agree, but according to Jacky, he gave him his blessing straight away.’
The head of CID shuddered slightly. ‘I never cease to be amazed by the different ways people react to grief. The mother could barely speak to us; I don’t think she’ll ever be the same. With the colonel, it’s as if . . . I don’t know.’
‘Denial?’ Steele suggested.
‘Maybe. Maybe his enthusiasm for the band is his way of keeping the truth at bay. Some people are still adamant that Elvis is alive.’
‘Yes, and that the lining of his coffin is all scratched to hell. Well, I know that Harry isn’t. I saw the pathologist open him up yesterday morning, straight after breakfast.’
‘Thanks for sharing that . . .’ McGuire paused ‘. . . and, incidentally, for taking the time to come and see me. I appreciate it, for I was going to come looking for you.
‘This is not good, Stevie. If we didn’t have a public panic before, the Amy Noone killing’s going to start one. Word’s leaked out already, and the media have made the connection. A neighbour told them her name, and sent them to her work. A near-hysterical hair stylist told them all the rest. Have you contacted her parents?’
‘Singh has. They divorced six years ago. The mother remarried and now lives in Gateshead. She and her husband will be on the way up by now. Dad was a drunk, who left them; he’s currently in prison in England for credit-card fraud.’
‘Okay. I can’t wait till she gets here before I speak to the media. Royston’s called them back in here for four o’clock.’
‘I’ll sit in with you, sir.’
McGuire frowned. ‘In other circumstances, I’d be saying, “Too bloody right you will,” but you actually found the body, so you and Montell are major first-hand witnesses. The press know that already, again from the neighbours; Alan Royston’s been asked to confirm it.’
‘Did he?’
‘He said that the body was discovered by police officers, unnamed, who called at the address in the course of enquiries into the three earlier deaths. There was no point in being evasive about something we all know to be true.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Since then, I’ve spoken to Gregor Broughton, and he agrees that you should stay out of it. Otherwise you’ll spend the whole briefing saying, “No comment,” to some very specific questions. So you brief me instead. Is there anything about the investigation that I’m not aware of? For example, your run-in with Dottie Shannon?’
Steele raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you find out about that?’
‘You were seen heading for her office this morning with what was described as “a face full of hell”. I should tell you, Stevie, that nothing happens in this building that doesn’t feed back to me, either through Sammy Pye or Jack McGurk.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, not that I was planning to keep it from you. It was something I had to sort out with Dottie, that’s all. She jumped on one of my guys and I wasn’t having it.’
‘It’s all sorted, is it?’
‘Yes.’
McGuire looked across his desk at the inspector. ‘That’s good. You see, I know that you have a history with her, and I wouldn’t want it getting in the way of anything important.’
‘It won’t, but how the fuck did Pye find that out? It was a while ago, and it didn’t cut across the job in any way.’
‘He didn’t find out, I did. She’s Special Branch, so she was vetted, thoroughly, by Neil McIlhenney. Your name came up, so I got told. You used to be a legend for the women, Stevie, till you settled down: a pure legend.’
Steele ignored the jibe; his brow furrowed. ‘Did . . .’ he began.
‘Yes,’ said the head of CID, anticipating the question. ‘George’s name did come up, but I had it removed from the file.’
‘That was good of you: you didn’t need to do that.’
‘I have my moments. So why did Shannon dig up Montell?’
‘How did you know it was Montell?’ Steele shot back.
McGuire sighed. ‘Stevie.’
The DI grinned. ‘Okay, you have your sources,’ he said. ‘He was checking the e-mails on Zrinka’s computer. When he tried to run down one particular address it got referred all the way back to Thames House, and Dottie had a midnight phone call. I took exception to the way she reacted, so she and I had a wee discussion this morning.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yes. I knew whose address it was anyway: it was the DDC’s.’
McGuire’s eyes widened, and his manner changed. ‘How did you find that out?’ he asked sharply.
<
br /> Steele smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Actually I was only ninety per cent certain, but you’ve just confirmed it. The e-mail screen-name was “robertmorgan”, all one word. When the big man was awarded the Queen’s Police Medal, his name was published in full in the citation: Robert Morgan Skinner.’
‘You sneaky bastard; you set me up there.’
‘I’m learning from my senior officers. And you can talk, sir. You knew exactly why I went to see Dottie. You were trying to find out how much I knew, that’s all.’
‘So you caught me. You’ve kept that information to yourself, yes?’
‘Too fucking right I have.’
‘Good man.’
‘I wasn’t too surprised, though: the boss has one of Zrinka’s pictures, and one of Stacey’s.’
‘Come again?’
‘It’s a fact: Montell told me. He’s pally with Alex, but you probably know that too. She has a Stacey Gavin original in her flat, a present from her dad. She told Griff that he has one himself, and that she bought him a Zrinka from off her stall. The e-mail was him asking Zrinka about buying a piece for Alex’s next birthday.’
‘Did she reply?’
‘She couldn’t, by e-mail. She could have phoned him, but we wouldn’t know that without checking her phone records, and I don’t plan to do that.’
‘You sure don’t,’ McGuire confirmed. ‘Has Montell figured out who the e-mail’s from?’
‘I don’t think so. If he has he’ll keep well quiet about it, unless he wants Alex to terminate their friendship on the spot.’
‘Good. We’re agreed, are we, Stevie, that we keep this entirely to ourselves as well?’
‘Who else knows about the e-mail check and the run-in with MI5?’
‘The chief and Brian Mackie, that’s all, and they’re both looking very hard in the other direction.’
‘What e-mail?’ said Steele.
‘Fine. So, when I face the media to confirm the Noone girl’s murder, what do I say?’
‘That we’re in no doubt about a link to the other two, and that we’re in pursuit of the man known as Padstow, who is at this moment our only suspect. You could also say that we don’t believe that there is a general risk to the public, as long as nobody does anything silly if they think they spot him. If you want to be controversial, you might add that Boras’s million would be no fucking good to anyone if they were dead.’
‘I might just do that. But what if I’m pressed on Padstow?’
‘Tell them that we hope to identify him very soon.’
‘Is that true, though? I’m telling them no porkies.’
‘Yes, but I’ll need to go back and see Dottie to chase it up.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Get along there.’
‘I will, but there’s something else you should know, something I heard from Ray Wilding before I came in here. Somebody else has been trying to trace Padstow through the passport service, a guy from the Home Office.’
‘Why? Do we know?’
‘My best guess is that he’s in the pay of a newspaper, but hopefully Dottie will be able to shed some light on that too.’
McGuire pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Then find out, preferably before that newspaper asks me questions at four o’clock.’
Steele nodded. He walked out of the head of CID’s room, with a nod to Sammy Pye in the outer office, and headed for the Special Branch suite.
‘She’s on the phone, sir,’ said Alice Cowan, as he entered.
‘This time I’ll wait,’ he told her, with a smile, but as he did, the young officer glanced at an indicator on her desk.
‘It’s okay, that’s her finished: but I’ll let her know you’re here.’
He allowed Cowan to observe proper practice and waited until she nodded for him to go on.
This time, Dottie Shannon was ready for him. ‘Stevie, good; saves me looking for you. I’ve got some feedback from down south.’
‘On Padstow?’
‘No, not yet. They’re making progress on that front, they’ve got a few possibilities, and they’re looking into them before they give us the final verdict. But I have had a response to Wilding’s request. Has he told you about it yet?’
‘Yes. The Home Office guy: what’s his story? Is he on a bung from someone in the media?’
‘He’s on a bung, but not from that source. MI5 reported him to the Home Office security people, and they pulled him in for interview, there and then. He spat it out straight away, looking to save his job, no doubt.
‘When he was at the DTI, he was suborned by a man to provide what he described as “business intelligence”, on a regular basis. He began to get nervous about it, but he found that he was in over his head, and that the only way he could extricate himself was by moving out of the department altogether.
‘That’s why he applied for a transfer to the Home Office. He thought he was free and clear, so it came as a hell of a shock to him when he was contacted late yesterday afternoon by his old benefactor and asked to get information on Dominic Padstow.’
‘Yesterday afternoon?’ Steele exclaimed. ‘Before we went public with Padstow’s name?’
‘That struck me as peculiar too.’
‘Did he give them a name?’
‘Oh, yes, he gave them everything, all the detail, what he did, how much he was paid, and by whom. His paymaster was a man called Keith Barker.’
A broad grin spread across Steele’s face. ‘Mario McGuire will love that.’ He chuckled. ‘As far as he’s concerned nothing that happens to that man will be too bad. He’s Davor Boras’s fixer.’
‘Boras?’ Shannon repeated. ‘The dead girl’s father? The millionaire?’
‘The one and only. Not that he’ll get sucked into this. Unless I’m very wrong about him, Barker will be deniable; there will be no paper that links him to his boss. What’s going to happen about him?’
‘To him, you mean: when it comes to corrupting the civil service, there’s zero tolerance. The man Dailey has agreed to be a Crown witness, not to protect himself from prosecution, because they will do him, but to keep himself out of jail, and to hang on to his pension rights.’
‘Will that be enough to charge Barker?’
‘They think so: most of the payments are in cash, but they think they’ll be able to establish a link between the two men through phone calls. They also hope to recover photocopied documents from Barker’s office.’
‘Unless he has time to destroy them.’
‘He won’t. Very soon, if it hasn’t happened already, he’ll be arrested by Met detectives and held in custody while his office and home are searched under warrant.’
‘Is this likely to go public?’
‘Do we want it to?’
‘If charges are laid, we won’t have a say, but right now? To be selfish, the headlines about this investigation are about to get bigger than ever. If something that might or might not relate to the case happened to divert some of them, I wouldn’t mind a bit.’
Fifty-two
‘You’ve had three murders in four days,’ said a woman in the second row, ‘and you’re telling the public not to panic.’ She was new to Fettes briefings, a London journalist parachuted into Edinburgh in the wake of the sensation caused by Zrinka Boras’s murder and her father’s million-pound reward.
The chief superintendent looked at her as if he was trying to decide whether she deserved scorn or pity. ‘Would you like me to?’ he retorted, stone-faced. ‘Would your readers prefer me to declare a state of emergency and to advise people not to go out unless they have to?’
She shrugged, a gesture that annoyed the detective even more. ‘I’m only asking a question. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, love,’ he replied (he knew that Paula would kill him for using the term, if she saw the exchange on television, but he could not have stopped himself, even if he had tried), ‘you didn’t ask a question, you made a statement, designed no doubt to fit somewhere
into a knocking piece you’re planning to write. I’m not going to play your game.
‘For the benefit of the serious people here, I’ll repeat for the avoidance of doubt that, on the basis of what we know at this moment, we do not believe that any of these three killings, or the earlier, related, murder of Stacey Gavin, took place at random. All four victims knew each other; that’s fact. Obviously they each had a wider circle of friends and family. I don’t believe the threat extends to them, but they’ve all been given advice on personal security, and offered police surveillance if they want it.’
‘Is anybody under police protection?’ asked John Hunter, from his usual front-row seat.
The question did not surprise McGuire; he and Alan Royston had agreed that it might be asked, and had agreed that there was no point in deflecting it. ‘Yes,’ he told the old reporter, ‘but purely as a precaution . . . and don’t bother asking me who it is.’
‘Chief Superintendent,’ came a voice from the back row. It belonged to Grace Pretty, a Scotsman reporter with whom Royston was on particularly good terms. ‘I’ve just been advised by my London office,’ McGuire glanced at the media manager, seated by his side, and saw him wince slightly at the lie, ‘that Keith Barker, who sat in on yesterday’s press briefing with Mr Davor Boras, has been arrested by the Metropolitan Police. Are you aware of that?’
The head of CID held on to his deadpan expression. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us whether it has anything at all to do with this investigation?’
He looked at her over the heads of the people between them. ‘Grace, you know me, and you know that I like to give straight answers whenever I can.’
‘Yes.’
‘No comment.’
He waited until the buzz subsided.
‘You’re not saying that Keith Barker is a suspect, are you?’ the woman in the front row demanded.
‘Is there anything about “no comment” that you find hard to understand?’ he replied. ‘Any other questions?’ As he spoke, he saw that Alice Cowan was approaching his table; he paused as she slid a note in front of him, then scanned it quickly. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as she left, looking up once more at his audience. ‘Yes?’
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