‘Thank you, I will tell my wife that.’
‘I hope it helps.’
‘It will not, but I will tell her anyway. What progress have you made?’
‘We’re still trawling for witnesses, people who might have been on the beach yesterday, around the time of the murder. So far, we haven’t found any.’
‘Do you expect to?’
‘To be honest? No, I don’t. We believe that we’re confronted by a very resourceful, efficient murderer, someone who takes great care to leave no trace of himself at the scene. That’s not easy, these days, given our forensic resources, but so far he’s succeeded.’
‘Could this be a professional hit, Mr Mackie?’ asked Barker.
‘I thought we’d dealt with that earlier,’ the ACC replied, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘It isn’t, at least not in the sense you mean. The person who shot Zrinka has killed at least one other woman that we know of.’
‘When?’ Boras snapped.
‘Two months ago, on the other side of Edinburgh. Like your daughter, she was killed on the seashore early in the morning.’
‘You’re telling me that you had two months to catch this animal, but you failed. You allowed him to remain at liberty, you allowed him to kill my Zrinka.’ His voice rose, climbing to reach a crescendo of rage.
‘I can’t deny any of that, sir,’ Mackie admitted. ‘Our priority now is to find him before he does it again.’
Twenty-six
‘Seven thirty!’ Alex exclaimed, as she opened the front door. ‘Bloody cops: you’re all the same.’
‘Sorry,’ said Griff Montell, hanging his head like a guilty dog. ‘I did phone; you have to give me that.’
‘Yes,’ she retorted, ‘and I told you that by eight thirty I’d be long gone from here. So what the hell are you doing ringing my doorbell?’
‘Spring said that she hadn’t heard you go out,’ he told her bravely, if a little tentatively. ‘So why the hell are you still here?’
‘Why do you think? Because I’m not so bloody liberated that I like trawling bars and restaurants on my own.’ Finally she relented and allowed him a small smile. ‘Come on in.’
He stepped into the flat. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Nowhere.’ She reached up and rubbed the back of her hand against his chin. ‘Griff, you look knackered, plus you need a shave: I wouldn’t be seen dead with you like that. I’ve cooked something for us . . . against my better judgement, mind you.’
‘How did you know I’d ring your bell, me being so late and all?’
‘I told your sister to send you in when you got back; from what you said she was subtle about it.’ She frowned at him. ‘Before you get any ideas about the two of us around the supper table, I asked her if she’d like to join us, but she’d already eaten.’
‘What sort of ideas would I get?’ he asked, affecting an innocent expression.
‘None that are going to do you any good.’
‘I could go next door and shave, if that would help.’
‘Not in the tiniest,’ she answered sincerely. ‘We’ve had one fling, you and I, and it was very satisfactory, but we agreed afterwards that it was just between friends, and that we weren’t going to let it become a habit. What you can do, though, is come into the kitchen and grab yourself a beer from the fridge, while I finish throwing the salad together.’
Griff winked at her as he followed her out of the living room. ‘That sounds like a decent compromise,’ he conceded. ‘What are we having, apart from the salad? I’m not being presumptuous,’ he added. ‘You did say you’d been cooking.’
‘It’s a chicken casserole, Spanish style, a recipe I picked up from my dad.’
‘He cooks too?’
‘You better believe it; while I was growing up he didn’t have the option. Now he’s a one-parent family again, he has a live-in nanny to do that for the kids, but he still has to fend for himself, and cook for them all at weekends.’
‘How long was he on his own after your mother died?’
‘About fifteen years,’ she told him, ‘and he really was on his own too. If there were any women around, I never knew about them. I was so pleased for him when he took up with Sarah.’
‘I suppose you must have been gutted when they split up.’
‘Only for the three kids. The pair of them had grown well apart by then, so it was for the best. I’m glad that they came to an amicable agreement about parenting, even if it does put most of the responsibility on him.’
‘What if she remarries and wants to change the deal?’ he asked.
‘Then she’ll have to go to court in Scotland,’ Alex replied, ‘and take me on into the bargain. But that won’t happen. Sarah left for her career. Truth is, she’s doctor first, mother second. Damn!’ she exclaimed suddenly, in the act of taking the lid off the casserole dish.
‘What’s up?’
‘I left my apron in my bedroom. Be a honey and get it for me, will you? I’ve got my hands full here, and this may splash when I stir it.’
‘Sure. I remember where your bedroom is . . . even if it is off limits now.’ He laid his beer on the breakfast bar and headed off on his errand.
Alex replaced the lid and waited for him, easing off her oven glove so that she would be able to tie on the apron when it arrived. He was gone for longer than she expected. She assumed that he had gone into the bathroom en route, until she heard him call to her. ‘Come through here, will you, please?’
‘Griff,’ she called back, ‘what is it? If you’re thinking of chancing your arm, you’ll be wearing this bloody supper.’
‘I’m serious. I need to talk to you.’
Puzzled by his sudden change of mood, she did as he asked. She found him standing at the foot of her bed, staring at a picture set on the wall above the headboard. ‘Has that always been there?’ he asked.
‘It’s been there since I got it. You’ve seen it before; it was there when we did our thing. Obviously you were too preoccupied to notice it at the time. Why? What’s so special about it?’
‘This morning I found myself looking at a houseful of work by the same artist. You know who did this?’
‘I confess that I don’t.’
‘Stacey Gavin, the girl who was murdered in South Queensferry two months ago, killed we now know by the same man who shot Zrinka Boras. Where did you get it?’
‘My dad gave it to me,’ she replied. ‘It was my Christmas present. He’s a bit of a closet connoisseur, my old man. He said I should look after it, that it was an investment. He’s got one himself, out in Gullane. The picture I bought him, by the poor Boras girl, was partly to thank him. God, that’s weird, isn’t it? My father has work by two murdered artists hanging on his walls.’
Twenty-seven
There had been a period in his career, when he had been Bob Skinner’s executive officer, when Brian Mackie had been a regular visitor to the Edinburgh procurator fiscal’s office. But times had changed, and the promotion ladder had taken him back into uniform, so he felt almost a stranger as he stepped into the Chambers Street building.
The fiscal had moved on too since those days, into a grand new home, cheek by jowl with that of the Lord Advocate, of whose department he was a functionary. The assistant chief constable looked around with a slightly cynical eye. He was not comfortable with opulence in government offices: having seen his mother die in a shabby, badly painted room in an outdated, overcrowded hospital, his preference was for more spartan conditions for civil servants ... and he counted himself among their number . . . and maximum investment in areas of greatest need.
Inevitably some detectives are antipathetic towards fiscals, seeing them as nit-picking barriers to the clearing up of a crime, rather than as players on the same team, but in his CID days, Mackie had always done his best to understand their position and the needs of the court in terms of evidence. However, from time to time, he too had found himself frustrated.
Gregor Broughton had been no roadblock,
though: he and the ACC had worked together on several occasions over the years and the police officer had always found him to be constructive and co-operative. ‘Hello, Brian,’ he said warmly, rising from his swivel chair as Mackie was shown into his office. ‘It’s good to see you again, even if it is a surprise. I can’t remember the last time a cop in uniform walked through that door. I was quite taken aback when my secretary said you wanted to see me. Have a seat, man, have a seat. Would you like a coffee?’
Mackie shook his head. ‘No thanks, Gregor. I ration those, and it’s not that long since breakfast.’
‘Welcome to the world of regular office hours.’ The big lawyer chuckled. ‘How’s Sheila?’
‘She’s fine. How’s Phyl? I’m presuming that we’re still on first-name terms since her elevation to the bench.’
‘I’m not even sure I can do that, mate. Lady Broughton is very well, thank you, although it can be a bit of a bugger when she’s on circuit, sitting in the High Court in places like Airdrie, Inverness and, next week, bloody Wick.’
‘All new Supreme Court judges have to go through that, though, don’t they?’
‘Yes, it’s part of the breaking-in process. It doesn’t matter that we have two sons at secondary school. Mind you, it’s never mattered for her male colleagues, so why should it for her? It’s a part of the changing world we live in. In the old days, in the unlikely event of a woman being appointed to the bench, she’d have been a grandparent by the time it happened. The judicial appointments board has swept all that away, for better or worse. Now, when a vacancy comes up, applications are invited, and recommendations are made to the First Minister on the basis of ability and experience; there are no barriers on grounds of age or gender.’
‘Which do you think, better or worse?’
‘Privately? A bit of both. The principle is okay, but the practice isn’t. I don’t know a single lawyer who agrees with the present make-up of the board, half lay members and half professional, with a lay chair having the casting vote. Lawyers will always know better than lay people who will make a good judge.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Of course, my disapproval is tempered by the fact that they chose to recommend my wife.’
‘Of course,’ said the ACC, with a smile. ‘You must be very proud of her, Gregor.’
‘Pleased as Punch, my friend, and so are the boys. The thing that gives us all the biggest kick, is that she chose to use her married name as her judicial title, could have called herself Lady Anything-she-bloody-liked-within-reason, or used her maiden name. Frankly that’s what I expected, since she practised as Phyllis Davidson QC. I was delighted when she told me what she’d decided.’
‘There won’t be any conflict of interest, will there, with you being in criminal prosecution and her being a judge?’
‘None that haven’t been thought of; Phyl will never try a case where I’ve been involved, even if it’s only in the earliest stages. I’m a district fiscal: my appearances are limited to the Sheriff Court, so there’s no chance of me ever appearing before her as a prosecutor.’
‘You have appeared in the same court, though, haven’t you?’
Broughton laughed. ‘You remember that, do you? Yes, once when I had a merchant banker in the dock pleading not guilty to his third drunk-driving offence. He’d retained senior counsel who came down with appendicitis on the eve of the trial, and the dean of the Faculty of Advocates, mischievous bugger that he was, parachuted Phyl in as a replacement. She gave me a hell of a time; Sheriff Boone was most amused, and let her get away with murder . . . not that her client got away with anything at the end of the day.’ He slapped his desk. ‘Now, Brian, to business, since we’re both busy men: what can I do for you?’
‘A favour. You’ve got the Boras investigation on your desk, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ve just been looking at the post-mortem report, in fact. It doesn’t make pretty reading, especially with the Gavin investigation still open. But that’s not in your court any longer, is it? McGuire’s overseeing that in Bob Skinner’s absence, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but . . . the victim’s parents are in Edinburgh, and I’ve been looking after them.’
‘Ahh. The very wealthy Mr Boras. Is he making waves?’
‘Not so far, but I have a feeling that he could if he tried.’
‘Would it cut any ice with you if he did?’
‘Not a single cube. No, Gregor, that isn’t why I’m here. The man wants to take his daughter’s body with him when he goes back to London. You can authorise that.’
The fiscal frowned. ‘Just forty-eight hours into the investigation?’ he murmured. ‘It would be unusual.’
‘Sure, but not unprecedented.’
‘What about the defence interests?’
‘There’s no guarantee of there being any defence . . . not in the near future at any rate. It’s two months down the road in the Gavin inquiry and we don’t have a single suspect.’
‘No, but you’ll be looking for cross-overs between the two, won’t you?’
‘Sure, but McGuire and Steele tell me that this isn’t an ordinary criminal. His tracks may be well covered. But leaving all that aside, there are no unresolved issues relating to the cause of death in either case. You released Stacey Gavin’s body after eight days.’
‘True. When’s the man going back?’
‘He wants to leave today, after he’s faced the press.’
Broughton looked surprised. ‘You’re putting him through that ordeal, are you?’
‘He’s insisting on it. He has his media guru with him. They have an eye on the London Stock Exchange.’
‘Jesus,’ the fiscal gasped, ‘some people! You know, Brian, the longer I live the more cynical I get. Let me get this clear, you said you want me to do this as a favour.’
‘Yes, but not for him: I’m asking for me and for the guys in the investigation. I don’t want to give Boras any reason to hang around Edinburgh. I want him out of town as quickly and as neatly as can be managed.’
‘In that case, I’ll do it. But I’ll release the body only for burial: no cremation certificate will be issued. I must keep my arse covered to some degree, lest at some time in the future it winds up being kicked by one of my dear wife’s colleagues.’
Twenty-eight
In the twenty-first century the Caledonian Hotel may carry the name of an international chain, but to Edinburgh’s citizens it is still known, with simple affection, as the Caley. For over a hundred years it has stood at the west end of Princes Street, glaring along its length at its rival, the Balmoral, formerly the North British, with its red sandstone seeming to blush against the greyness of the rest of the famous thoroughfare.
For all that, the majority of Edinburghers have never set foot in its foyer, or been escorted by an usher to the lifts that carry guests to the five-star accommodation of its upper floors.
‘I thought the ACC would have come with us,’ said Stevie Steele, as they stepped out into a long, carpeted corridor.
‘No,’ Mario McGuire replied, ‘he reckoned that if he did it would look as if he was making sure we behaved ourselves. But reading between the lines, I suspect that he had enough last night of Mr Boras and his bag-carrier, Barker, to do him for a while.’
They counted off the numbers until they reached their destination. Steele checked his watch to make certain that it was exactly ten a.m., then rapped on the polished wood and waited.
A tall man, immaculately dressed and groomed, opened the door; both detectives knew at once that he was Keith Barker. Mackie’s description had been perfect: ‘So fucking smooth it’s a wonder the clothes don’t slide off him, and I’m sure he wears a touch of eyeliner.’
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, extending a hand first to McGuire in the assumption that as the older of the two he was the senior officer, ‘you will be the police officers.’
The head of CID resisted the urge to reply, ‘No, we’re the fucking chambermaids.’ Instead he nodded, then introduced himself and his c
olleague. Barker stood aside and ushered them into the suite.
Davor and Sanda Boras were seated in armchairs, he with the air of a monarch, or perhaps a Mafia don, she with the slightly vacant gaze of one who has been heavily sedated. Neither rose as the aide presented the two detectives and offered them seats on a couch that faced the couple.
A woman in a dark grey suit, worn over a black blouse, hovered behind Sanda Boras. McGuire glanced at her and then at Barker, who read his silent question. ‘This is Camilla Britto,’ he said, ‘Mrs Boras’s secretary.’
‘Okay,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘We had assumed that we would be conducting this interview in private. On balance, I think we’d prefer that.’
‘And we would not,’ Davor Boras snapped. ‘Miss Britto will remain, to attend to my wife’s needs as they arise. Mr Barker will remain to attend to mine.’
Steele glanced to his right, looking for the first signs of an eruption, but the head of CID simply shrugged. ‘If that’s how you wish it, sir,’ he replied.
‘I will start with a question,’ the stocky millionaire announced. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What’s not to understand? I’m asking what you are doing here, talking to my wife and me, when you should be out somewhere pursuing this man who has killed our daughter, and that other poor woman.’
McGuire drew a breath; he knew that command had brought with it an added need for patience and yet there were times when it ran up against his nature.
Steele read the moment. ‘You are part of the investigation, sir,’ he interjected. ‘We need to know everything that you know about your daughter, her recent life, her movements, her associates, because in there may be one tiny piece of information that will lead us to this man. This may seem intrusive to you, and it may even seem like a waste of our time and yours, but it is necessary.’ From a corner of his eye, he saw Barker look towards his employer and give a tiny nod.
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