Death's Door bs-17

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘And a man came into the car?’

  He stared in his astonishment at the accuracy of the boy’s recollection. ‘That’s right. That was Stevie.’

  James Andrew’s face grew solemn, as he tried to contemplate the end of the existence of someone he could picture in his mind. ‘That’s sad,’ he said, squeezing Bob’s fingers again. ‘We can stop watching the game if you like.’

  ‘No, no, it’s important.’

  ‘But you’d your eyes shut.’

  ‘I know. I wasn’t concentrating on it. I was thinking about something else, about Stevie. His death, Jazz, was a crime. You know what that is, somebody doing something that’s against the law.’

  ‘And it’s your job to catch him.’

  ‘Yup, and I like to think I’m good at it.’

  ‘You are,’ said a warm voice. Aileen had come into the room, unseen by either of them, She stood behind Bob’s chair, put her hands on his shoulders and began to knead them gently, her slim fingers rippling his flesh. ‘Go on,’ she insisted, ‘don’t let me interrupt.’

  ‘Okay. What I was about to say was that I believe that it’s essential for a detective to have a picture in his mind of that crime, of how it looked as it was committed, from start to finish.’

  ‘Like a film?’ James Andrew suggested.

  ‘Exactly. He has to be able to look at it, to play it back inside his head, and to see everything that happened, to understand every part of it. That’s what I was doing when my eyes were closed.’

  ‘And could you see everything?’

  ‘Yes. I could see it all, as it was explained by the people who were there at the time, and as I saw it afterwards when I went there. It all fits together, every bit of it.’

  ‘And now you know who the bad man is.’

  Bob looked at his magic son and raised his eyebrows. ‘This is the bit you might not understand,’ he told him. ‘Sometimes you look at a film in your head, and even though everything does fit, and everything’s in place, leading you straight to the answer, and to the bad guy . . . you know that it isn’t, quite, how it was.

  ‘You can’t see anything wrong, because there’s nothing to see, but you know, you feel that there’s more, there’s something you haven’t been shown yet, but it’s there. It’s what we call instinct. Can you grasp that?’

  From the back of his ever-expanding mind, Jazz produced a word, one that he had heard his dad use in the past, one that he had filed away for the day when it would mean something to him. ‘Yes,’ he announced, ‘you’ve had a hunch.’

  Sixty-seven

  ‘Where’s Jack McGurk?’ Skinner asked Ruth Pye, his secretary.

  ‘He’s on a temporary posting to Torphichen Place,’ she replied. ‘Mr McGuire needed someone there: they’re short-handed in CID with Superintendent Chambers filling in for Maggie.’

  ‘Fair enough. He could hardly have anticipated that I’d be back ahead of schedule.’ He smiled. ‘I can always borrow your husband from him, if need be.’

  ‘Maybe not. Sammy was expecting to be sent down to Leith to help out there.’

  ‘Somebody will need to go there, that’s for sure. What’s the latest on DCI Mackenzie?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. We received another medical report last Monday, but those are confidential, so it went to ACC Mackie unopened.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask him, or Mario.’

  ‘Ask me what, boss?’ said the head of CID from the doorway.

  ‘I could begin with the whereabouts of my exec,’ Skinner replied, ‘but Ruthie’s filled me in on that. Come along to my office and tell me what the medics are saying about the Bandit.’

  They walked along the corridor and into the DCC’s room, overlooking the driveway that led up to the building. ‘He’s been signed off for another month,’ said McGuire, as he closed the door, ‘by Kevin O’Malley, no less. Severe post-traumatic depression, he calls it.’

  ‘Prognosis?’

  ‘Not good. I called Kevin after Brian showed me the report. He says that he’s more or less collapsed in on himself. If he’s ever ready to return to duty, it won’t be to CID but to a no-hassle desk job. He’s not far off recommending that we retire him on health grounds. I admit that I was sceptical about him for a while, but not any more. I’m convinced that he’s genuinely sick.’

  ‘That’s two empty chairs down in Leith, then.’

  ‘Sammy Pye’s down there now sitting in one of them as acting DI, taking over from Stevie. If you agree I’ve got a mind to make it permanent.’

  ‘I’ve got no problem with that; I’ll attend to the formalities. What about Mackenzie’s post?’

  ‘Maybe we don’t fill it. We can’t bump Sammy up to DCI straight away, but he’s a good operator, and capable of running the division, with Neil overseeing him.’

  ‘Will Wilding be pissed off at being passed over?’

  ‘If he is, he’ll get over it, but I didn’t get any hint of that when I called him to tell him that Sammy was on his way. He sounded relieved, if anything. He’s still very upset. He thinks he should have been there, and that if he had he’d have held Stevie back.’

  ‘Like hell he would,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘He’d have been through that door half a second after him and we’d have two dead officers. Mario, I think you and I should take a run down to Queen Charlotte Street, pay a visit on them.’

  ‘Let them see we care, you mean, boss?’

  ‘Exactly. But more than that, I want to run my eye over the investigation, to see if anything jumps out at me. Come on, we’ll take my car.’

  The DCC slipped on his jacket and led the way downstairs. He drove smoothly out into Carrington Road, turning left at the end to avoid as much of the Monday-morning traffic as he could. They had cleared the second set of lights on Ferry Road when it occurred to him that McGuire had not spoken since they left Fettes. He glanced across at him. ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you know. Maggie.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not good, is it? Not the sort of thing you ever need, but right now . . . But she’ll get through it, Mario. You have to believe that, and let her see that you do.’

  ‘Sure, and I will. It doesn’t stop me being scared, though.’

  ‘Me neither. But she isn’t: as always she’s positive, and ready to tackle it as soon as she can.’

  ‘I know, but she’s realistic too. Yesterday morning, before she made us leave, she took me to one side and said that if she doesn’t make it, she wants Paula and me to raise the baby. She didn’t tell you that, did she?’

  ‘No,’ Skinner admitted, ‘she didn’t; but that’s just her being practical, dealing with the situation up front so that she has nothing to take her mind off her recovery. What did you say?’

  ‘I told her that we would.’

  ‘And Paula?’ Skinner murmured.

  ‘To be honest with you, we would both love a kid. Maggie knew that before she asked us.’

  There was no more to be said, and so the rest of the short journey was spent in silence, until they drew up in the car park behind the old Leith police station, where they startled a middle-aged constable who was taking a cigarette break. At once, he crushed it underfoot, saluted and opened the back door for them.

  They made their way unannounced to the CID suite. Pye was seated at the desk that had been Stevie Steele’s; he stood as Skinner and McGuire entered. Wilding, Montell and Singh all followed suit, but the DCC waved them down. ‘Relax, gentlemen,’ he told them. ‘This is an informal visit, to assure you of our support, and to make an announcement. Sammy’s here as acting DI at the moment, but I can tell you all now that he will be confirmed in post very soon.’ He looked at the new inspector. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘More or less, sir,’ Pye replied. ‘Ray’s put a report on the file of his visit to London, and of the interview with the man Barker. The ballistics people have run tests on the gun recovered at Ballester’s cottage, and confirmed it as the murder weapon. Wh
en I reported that to the fiscal, he said that’s all he needs to wind up the investigation and make a recommendation to the Lord Advocate that he set up an FAI into the four shootings. The only thing I don’t have yet is Ballester’s computer. There was a small war over that, but a truce has been called.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked McGuire.

  ‘Instead of taking it to their lab, the Northumbria technicians did the job on site, and left it there. When our procurator fiscal visited the scene, he picked it up and brought it back to Edinburgh with him. When the coroner in Berwick heard, he screamed bloody murder and said he had first call on it, and that we couldn’t have it until he was finished.’

  ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

  ‘He’s got a point, though.’

  ‘So has Gregor Broughton. The coroner was entitled to hold it for fingerprint comparison, but once that was done it should be passed it to us.’

  ‘But the coroner says that he’ll need to produce it for the jury at his inquest, so that they can actually see the suicide message.’

  ‘So what’s the solution?’

  ‘A simple one at the end of the day, thanks to the DCC down there; he wound up refereeing. The entire contents are being copied on to another hard disk. I’m keeping that and the original’s going back down to England.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for sensible old Les Cairns,’ said Skinner. ‘Sometimes these coroners think they’re more important than anybody else in the whole wide world.’

  He looked at the detective sergeant. ‘Ray, how are you?’

  ‘I’m all right, sir,’ Wilding replied, ‘but thanks for asking. I appreciate it.’

  ‘That’s good. No guilt, do you hear me? There’s nothing you could have done, and there’s nothing you can do that’ll bring him back, so don’t dwell on what might have happened.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Who was she anyway?’

  The sergeant blinked. ‘How did you . . .?’ He glared at Singh. ‘Tarvil,’ he began.

  ‘DC Singh is innocent.’ Skinner laughed. ‘Maggie’s guess was right on the money, that’s all.’

  ‘DI Stallings, sir, Becky; she was our escort down there. She and I sort of made a date for afterwards, and Stevie let me keep it.’

  ‘When did you get back, Ray?’ Griff Montell asked.

  ‘I caught the last plane out of Stansted on Saturday night. Becky got me on it.’

  The South African smiled, and pointed a finger at Singh, who glowered back at him.

  ‘She’s going to be in demand,’ said Pye, ignoring the exchange.

  Wilding stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said, there’s going to be a formal inquest into Stevie’s death,’ the acting DI replied. ‘It’s English law. DI Stallings is a witness to the events that led up to it. She’ll be called. Apart from that, though, there’ll be our standard internal investigation into an officer fatality. For that she’ll need to be interviewed, formally, and so will you.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right,’ McGuire confirmed. ‘And I’m not sending two officers down to London when I can bring one person up here.’

  ‘Call her,’ Skinner told Wilding, ‘and explain the situation, although she may have worked it out for herself. Tell her I’ll be requesting that she be seconded to us for a period to help us prepare for both inquiries.’

  ‘She wants to come to the funeral.’

  ‘I’ll make sure that her secondment covers it.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me: it’s necessary. It isn’t about you: it’s about proper procedure.’

  He looked up as the door opened, and Detective Inspector Arthur Dorward stepped into the office, holding a bag in one hand and a big brown envelope in the other. His red eyebrows rose when he saw the DCC and the head of CID. ‘Morning, gentlemen,’ he exclaimed, as he crossed the room.

  ‘Hello, Arthur,’ McGuire called out in reply. ‘Has the lab caught fire? I can’t remember the last time I saw you in a proper police office.’

  ‘They’re usually too messy for me. I do all my work in sterile conditions, remember.’

  ‘So what brings you to this smelly old rat-pit?’

  ‘Two things.’ He laid the bag down on Pye’s desk. ‘Those are Stevie’s effects; his watch, his wallet, some change, his keys, his warrant card, and a minidisk that I found in his pocket.’

  ‘That’s the interview of Keith Barker,’ said Wilding. He glanced at Montell and Singh. ‘You guys should listen to it: it’s a masterclass in how to sort out an awkward witness.’

  ‘I don’t know if I could,’ said the South African.

  ‘You’ll have to,’ Skinner told him sharply. ‘It’s relevant to your investigation.’ He looked back at Dorward. ‘What else?’

  The inspector held up the envelope. ‘A copy of my report on Hathaway House. I’ve submitted another to Mr Cairns, down in Newcastle.’ He handed the document to Skinner.

  ‘You should really give it to Sammy,’ the DCC told him. ‘He’s the senior officer in this division, as of this morning.’

  ‘If you say so, sir, but can I have a word with you first, in private?’

  From out of nowhere, Skinner felt a tingle run down his spine. ‘All right.’ He led the way into the room that had been Bandit Mackenzie’s. ‘What is it, Arthur?’ he said, when they were alone.

  ‘It’s something I want to talk through with you, before making an arse of myself in front of that lot. Can I have the report back for a minute?’ Skinner nodded and returned the envelope to him, then watched as he opened it.

  ‘I won’t go through it all,’ the technician said. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. Apart from Stevie’s, on the front-door handle, and those left by the officers who went to his aid, the only prints in that house belonged to Daniel Ballester. They were everywhere, including, as you’d expect, on the laptop where he typed his suicide note.

  ‘Now, take a look at this.’ He took out the document and riffled through the pages until he found the one he sought, then held it out for Skinner to see. ‘This is a photograph of the wire that pulled the pin on the grenade,’ he said. ‘You can see how it leads from the door handle, up through these wee steel eyelet things, and along the ceiling to where the grenade was taped.’

  The DCC nodded. The area was blackened, and ripped by fragments, but despite the blast the tiny round conduits were still in place, two in the wood of the door and two in the ceiling. ‘Yes, very efficient. So what’s your point?’

  ‘There are no prints on them. They’re clean, all four of them, absolutely. The things are so small you wouldn’t expect to lift anything usable from them, but at the very least, there should be smudges on them. There aren’t, though. There’s nothing. They were put in place by somebody wearing gloves.’

  ‘And you’re wondering why Ballester would bother to wear gloves if he was about to top himself?’

  ‘You said it, sir. But he couldn’t have, even if he’d been so inclined. We went through that house like a dose of Andrews: there was no sign of a pair of gloves anywhere.’

  ‘Could he have used a handkerchief? To gain purchase on the things, maybe.’

  ‘In theory, but he didn’t have one of them either. There was hardly anything in the place: shirt, socks, shoes, underwear, a second pair of jeans and an outdoor jacket. That was all.’

  A thin smile creased Skinner’s face. ‘Let me get this right, DI Dorward. You’re suggesting, on the basis of no concrete evidence, indeed on the basis of a complete lack of such, that Daniel Ballester’s apparent suicide was staged, and that the person who killed him then rigged the grenade that Stevie walked into. Does that sum it up?’

  ‘Either that’s what happened or, rather less likely in my opinion, especially in view of what was said in the suicide message on the laptop, somebody went into the place after he had strung himself up and did it. Now maybe you see why I wanted to bounce it off you before trying it on the rest of them out there.’

  ‘You’r
e crackers, Arthur,’ Skinner declared. ‘You’re the conspiracy theorist to end them all . . .’ he laughed ‘. . . or you would be if I didn’t exist, because I’ll go along with what you’re saying. There’s just one drawback, though. How did this person wire up the grenade from the outside?’

  ‘He didn’t, not completely. He ran the wire through the keepers, then he closed the door, reached through the letterbox and hooked it round the handle.’

  ‘The letterbox is big enough?’

  ‘Just. I did it myself, and if I could . . .’ The inspector held out a ham-sized right hand. ‘In the process, I scratched myself on a rough bit on the brass frame. I took a wee piece of skin off. But you’ll never guess: when I looked for it, with a magnifying-glass, I found two pieces there.’ He took two small clear plastic cases from his pocket and held them up. ‘One of these is mine. The other isn’t. I don’t know which is which, but DNA comparison will tell us soon enough. If you can find this bloke, sir, he might just have signed his name for us.’

  For the first time in almost two full days, Skinner was beaming as he stepped back into the main office. He laid the report on Pye’s desk. ‘Read that, all of you,’ he said. ‘Read it and learn from the mad genius Dorward. Sammy, have we taken steps to acquire the autopsy report on Ballester?’

  ‘I’ve got it, sir,’ Wilding volunteered, ‘and the one on Stevie. I had them e-mailed to me an hour ago. There’s the Ballester printout.’ He handed over a folder. ‘It’s straightforward: death by strangulation.’

  ‘Sure, but . . .’ Holding the document in his left hand he flipped it open and scanned through it. ‘Obvious suicide,’ he murmured, ‘so how thorough was the pathologist?’ Suddenly his right index finger stabbed at a paragraph. ‘Very thorough,’ he exclaimed, then began to read aloud: ‘One other injury was apparent on the body, a depressed fracture of the left zygomatic and temporal bones. This was peculiar in that it was certainly sustained post mortem. I can only speculate that it was caused by the body being dropped by the officers who cut it down . . . Sorry, lads . . . Within this area there were two small marks on the surface of the skin, seven and a half centimetres apart, which appear to be burns. It is not possible to say whether these were inflicted before or after death.’