‘Margot; Margot Wilding. Mrs Ray says you and she will get on fine.’
‘We’ll see. Want another refill?’ She made to get up, but he told her not to be so bloody silly and fetched the bottle himself from the sideboard. ‘Are you ready to talk about it now?’ she asked, as he laid his replenished glass on a side table and slumped back into his chair.
‘Just about,’ he answered. ‘What a day we’ve had. That man Boras! The word “sinister” could have been invented for him. No wonder Brian Mackie arm-twisted the fiscal to release his daughter’s body so we could get him out of town. Trouble comes off the man in waves, and with that fucking city slicker of a PR man behind him, there’s no telling what bother he might have caused in the media.’
‘A million, eh? I’ll bet your phones were busy.’
‘Oh, they were, but it could have been worse. At least big Tarvil got a laugh out of it. He had a call from a psychic in London who claimed that she’d induced a vision by placing her hands on the telly during the press conference. She told him that we were looking for a criminal so clever, so devious and so influential that she makes Jack the Ripper seem like a shoplifter.’
‘She?’
‘That was what was wrong with her picture. We’re looking for a man. When Tarvil told her that, she said that sometimes the visions aren’t entirely clear and could he put her name in for the reward anyway?’
Maggie was surprised to find that she was still capable of spontaneous laughter. ‘Priceless,’ she chortled. ‘Did he ask her whether she reads crime books or writes them?’
‘No, he hung up. She won’t be in the big prize draw. Nor will anyone else the way it’s looking: we have a suspect.’
‘I know, Brian Mackie told me. That’s great.’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ said Stevie, hesitantly. ‘We’ve made a lot of progress today, but we’re still short of a clear-up. Thanks to a nice girl called Amy, we know for sure that the two female victims were acquainted. More than that, we know that they had a boyfriend in common, a man who lived with Zrinka in Edinburgh for a while, and then after she broke up with him, moved on to Stacey Gavin, until she also showed him the way down the road. That’s where we’re focused: on him.’
‘Well? That is great, isn’t it?’
‘On the surface, it seems that way. It’s not what I expected, that’s all. I was sure we really did have a serial murderer on our hands. That’s why I feel just a bit uncomfortable. Still, my discomfort may well be irrelevant. So, the killer seems to have had a thing about art, and about female artists. So what? I’m forced to ask myself. The shootings, those of the women that is, look ritualistic, and maybe they were.
‘Yet that doesn’t mean to say that there wasn’t a very simple motive behind them, one of the oldest in the book, namely, the hellacious fury of a cast-off lover. Both women had affairs with this man, both dumped him. The likeliest scenario facing us at this moment, indeed the only scenario, is that he took his revenge by stalking them and killing them, with Harry Paul, Zrinka’s new man, thrown in as a bonus.’
Maggie frowned. ‘He hid the boy’s body, didn’t he?’
‘Yes; in the bushes.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘To keep us confused, maybe; to buy himself extra getaway time, maybe. We’ll ask him when we find him.’
‘Do that, but as one detective to another, think about this: what if both girls dumped him because they found out something about him?’
Stevie looked thoughtful as he picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Then we’ll have to look into that too. But if that was the case, why kill Harry?’
‘Because he was there? Or was he afraid that the boy knew whatever it was too? Do you have a name for this suspect?’
‘We do. He’s called Dominic Padstow: only he isn’t, and that’s why he really has become our top target.
‘That’s the name Zrinka and Stacey knew him by. We’ve run every conceivable check on him. With Gregor Broughton’s authority, we’ve consulted the Department of Work and Pensions, the passport service and every public body and agency where he should be listed. But he isn’t. There is no Dominic Padstow anywhere. He doesn’t exist.’
‘Maybe he’s a foreign national.’
‘Amy says no. She’s met him, and she says that he was British; she was at Zrinka’s once, just after she and Padstow had got back from a weekend trip to Amsterdam. When she got there, they were still unpacking and some of their stuff was lying on Zrinka’s desk. She remembers quite clearly, she says, seeing two UK passports there.’
‘So what do you do next?’
‘That depends on Gregor Broughton. We have a likeness of him, a scan taken from a portrait painted by Stacey, that her dad says is absolutely spot on. We’ll need Crown Office authority to release it, but if the fiscal gives us the go-ahead, that’s what we’re going to do. Mario’s gone across to see him in Fife tonight; he lives in Elie, apparently.’
‘Does he indeed?’ Maggie murmured.
‘Yes. Rather him than me: it’s a ghost town these days. Anyway, as soon as he gives us the nod, and clears the press release that Alan Royston’s drafted, we’re ready to go. Let’s hope it flushes the guy out: otherwise we’re at a dead end.’
Forty-two
Paula had been in the last stage of her major kitchen reorganisation when Mario had finally made it back from Fife, twenty minutes after ten.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she had asked.
‘Hell, no! It implies that you’re going to do most of the cooking in this household and that’s fine by me.’
They had watched the late-night news on the ITN satellite channel, sharing a bottle of Morellino di Scansano, a strong cherry-scented wine from southern Tuscany that Paula had begun to import on Mario’s mother’s recommendation, and so it had been well after midnight before they had begun to sleep off the day’s exertions, after adding a few more.
The head of CID was still bleary-eyed, and ten minutes past his usual starting time of eight thirty, as he settled in behind his desk. He glanced up as his aide’s head appeared round the door.
‘Morning, boss,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Christ, do I look that bad?’
‘Put it this way, the staff are saying they’ve seen you looking better. In fact they’re even saying they’ve seen Dan Pringle looking better.’ McGuire’s predecessor had been a notoriously slow starter. ‘Alan Royston’s outside,’ Pye continued. ‘He wants to run through the media coverage with you.’
‘Aye, okay, tell him to come in. Hold the coffee, though: I’ve just left breakfast, and I’ve still got Paul Newman’s Colombian Especial coming out my fucking ears.’
‘Could be worse. It could be Kopi Luwak.’
‘What the hell is Kopi Luwak? Should the Viareggio delis be stocking it?’
‘I doubt it. It’s a very rare Sumatran product, made from beans found in the shit of a small jungle animal, the civet cat, after it’s eaten them. True.’
‘Jesus! I won’t ask what it does with the local tea leaves. Now please, Sammy, fuck off.’
The sergeant left with a grin on his face, and moments later Royston walked briskly into the room. ‘How have we done?’ McGuire asked him.
‘Very well. Yesterday was a slow news day, so the investigation is all over the front pages of all the Scottish papers. The early editions all led with Boras’s “million-pound bounty”, as the Sun called it, but later they all switched to the picture of Padstow, and to our release. The pattern was much the same with television.’
‘Yes, I know. I caught some when I got in last night, and again this morning. Good. That was well done, Alan, to get it round everybody so late on.’
‘Modern systems make that easy,’ the media manager replied.
McGuire grinned. ‘Shut up and take the credit.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve had requests for follow-up interviews with you from STV, Sky and Forth News; I’ll take the credi
t for them too.’
‘No, you can take the media flak for turning them down. I’ve got nothing to add to what’s in the release. Every word of that was cleared with the Crown Office, and I’m not going to risk compromising it by having others put into my mouth. I want you to pass that message down the line to Stevie and his team, just in case an enterprising reporter tries to doorstep them.’
‘I’ve done that already. I’ve told them that anything relating to Padstow must come out of my office or yours.’
‘Good.’ He paused as the phone rang, then picked it up. ‘Sammy, what is it?’
‘I’ve got Mr Keith Barker on the line, Mr Boras’s assistant. He’d like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like a few with him.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Barker,’ he said. ‘This had better be private, Alan.’
‘Pity, but I understand.’ He picked up his papers and left.
‘Okay, Sam,’ McGuire grunted, as the door closed. ‘You can put him through, and don’t listen in.’ He waited.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ A smooth, well-lubricated voice sounded in his ear. ‘Good morning to you.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ the detective snapped. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve calling me after that stunt you and your boss pulled yesterday.’
There was a silence. ‘Mr McGuire,’ Barker protested, eventually, ‘I’m not used to being addressed in that way. When you speak to me you are effectively speaking to Mr Boras.’
‘Fine, for he was fucking lucky that he left this building yesterday before I could get my hands on him. You can feel free to pass anything I say on to him. I can understand a man with his wealth and in his situation wanting to do what he did. I can’t understand, and I can’t accept, his pulling it out of the hat like a white fucking rabbit, without prior warning or consultation! You’re his adviser in this area: you must have known that.’
‘Mr Boras is a man of independent mind: he can be impulsive.’
‘And so can I, mate; another reason why you were lucky to get away unscathed. You’re supposed to be a professional, yet I’ve just had to send Alan Royston, your opposite number in my camp, out of the room so I could speak to you without him trying to grab the phone out of my hand to tell you what he thinks of you for letting your boss do that.’ He drew breath, to let his message sink in.
‘Now shut up and listen,’ he went on. ‘The money is stupid, because it won’t get you a result, and because it’s a distraction to my officers. It’s declared an open season for cranks. We’ve already had one medium on the line with the solution, only she doesn’t quite know who the murderer is. But what I’m really concerned about is the rest of what Boras said. I want to lay this out for you. I’ve reviewed the tape and I consider that there is a clear implication that he plans to interfere in our investigation. If he does, I don’t care who or what he is, I’ll charge him.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ Barker protested.
‘Let’s hope so, but if I’m not, be warned, on his behalf. Now, why are you calling me?’
‘I’m following Mr Boras’s instructions. He would like daily reports on the progress of the investigation.’
With difficulty, McGuire suppressed an explosion of spontaneous laughter. ‘He’d what?’ he said. ‘Hey, how about this? Would you like me to give you a desk in the inquiry headquarters? Then you can sit in, and see for yourself?’
‘Well,’ the aide replied, ‘not personally, but I could send a staff member.’
‘Aw, Jesus, man,’ the head of CID sighed, ‘I’m kidding. Listen to me: I have respect for Mr and Mrs Boras and their bereavement, just as I have for Mr and Mrs Gavin and for Colonel and Mrs Paul. I’ll give all of them any information I believe to be appropriate, whenever I can: I’ll give it to them, understand me, not to you. But there are legal constraints on what I can divulge, even to victims’ families. Right now, I suggest that you show your boss the latest press cuttings, for they reflect all that we know. Goodbye, and do not call me again.’
Forty-three
‘How are the phones going, Tarvil?’ asked Stevie Steele, as he hung his jacket over his desk in the main CID room. He only used the detective chief inspector’s empty office when there was a need for privacy or, as Ray Wilding put it, ‘a bollocking to be administered’, although only the sergeant himself had ever been in there for that purpose.
‘They’re quiet, boss. I had that psychic woman on again, though.’
‘Who did it this time? The ghost of Harold Shipman?’
‘She didn’t mention him. But she did say that Padstow’s too young, and that we should be looking for an older man, and fiendishly clever too. She’s gone off the idea of a woman, but she’s sticking to the Professor Moriarty theory.’
‘Since you told her we were looking for a man.’
‘True.’
‘Did you hang up on her again?’
‘No, I thanked her very much and said that I’d pass her information on to my inspector, and that maybe he’d arrange for the picture of Padstow to be made to look a bit more mature. Then I hung up.’
‘Poor woman.’ Steele chuckled. ‘Next time, take her name and phone number, just to make her feel valued.’
Singh stared at him. ‘You don’t go for any of that stuff, do you, sir? Mediums and that?’
‘Absolutely not. Yet I’m a wee bit on her side. Okay, everything’s pointing us to Padstow; normally that would make it easy. But just because he’s left a trail and given us a break, I don’t think we should underestimate him. We don’t know who he really is, he’s still out there, and he’s bloody dangerous. That’s more or less what your lady caller was telling you, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Okay, boss, next time she calls, I’ll treat her like my auntie.’
‘You do that, but don’t hang around waiting for her. Ray’s back here today. When he gets in, I’ve got a job for the two of you. I want you to interview a woman called Hope Dell, and a business called High-end Talent, up King George IV Bridge; source the number yourself. She’s Harry Paul’s agent; she’s probably not going to be able to tell you much, but you never know, if he was a target . . . We have to talk to her, and that’s all there is to it. Show her the Padstow picture; maybe it’ll ring a bell.’
He turned and walked towards Montell’s work-station. ‘Griff, you wanted to talk to me.’ The big South African nodded. He looked in need of a shave, and Steele realised that he was still wearing the same shirt as the day before. ‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I was working on this computer till late, so I crashed out in the rest room. I’m fine, though. I had a wash and I’ve been out for breakfast.’
‘I didn’t mean you to do that, man. It’s above and beyond the call.’
Montell raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to accuse me of sucking up to the bosses again? I know Wilding doesn’t like me, but I hope you’ll be fair.’
‘Don’t be so fucking prickly. For a start, it’s Detective Sergeant Wilding to you. As for me, I respect commitment, and I won’t make fun of it. How much progress have you made with the computer?’
‘There are a couple of things on it that I need to talk to you about,’ he nodded towards the unoccupied office, ‘and it had better be in there.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Steele, and led the way into the glass-walled sanctuary. ‘Okay,’ he asked, as Montell closed the door, ‘what’s the big mystery?’
‘I’ll get to that, sir, but first, remember that phone number that we saw on Zrinka’s contact list? It was listed under the initials RG?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a pay-as-you-go number, non-contract, the kind you top up, but I’ve managed to trace the owner. It’s an O2 number, one of a batch allocated to the Carphone Warehouse and sold through their outlet at the Gyle shopping centre six months ago. I managed to contact them last night, and they found the transaction and the buyer’s name. They know it wasn’t an alias since it was paid for with a c
redit card. The phone belongs to Russ Gavin, Stacey’s dad.’
‘Russ? Why the hell would Zrinka have his private mobile number?’
‘Good question, sir, but there’s more to come. Just on a hunch, I asked the company if they have any other listings for that family. They have: the Gavins have a family contract under which Russ, Doreen and Stacey all had phones. We know that Stacey’s was stolen by her killer, but the other two are still active. So why did he need another?’
‘I guess you and I are going to have to ask him that, Griff. But first we should have another talk with Amy Noone, to see if she knows anything.’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
‘And we will,’ Steele went on, ‘but there was nothing there that you couldn’t have said in front of Tarvil. So what else have you found?’
Montell winced. ‘This is where it gets tricky, very tricky. Remember Dražen’s e-mail and the reference to a man, an important man by the sound of it, contacting her about one of her pictures?’
‘Yes; he said good for her, but don’t get too friendly.’
‘That’s right. Well, boss, when I checked her e-mails I found one from someone saying that he owned one of her works, and he’d like to buy another, or even commission one, as a birthday present for his daughter. The incoming e-mail address was robertmorgan, at downline dot co dot UK. He told her that his address wouldn’t accept replies from people outside a very tight circle, so he asked her to call him, and left a mobile number. I tried to trace that, and ran up against a brick wall. Nobody would talk to me. So I tried to trace the e-mail subscriber through the ISP. Same result.’
‘Why didn’t you just call the number?’
‘I was about to when DI Shannon from Special Branch came storming in here. She threatened to rip my fucking balls off, told me to make no further enquiries and ordered me, as she put it, to make fucking sure that you went up to see her at Fettes as soon as you got in this morning.’
Steele’s eyes blazed with sudden anger, in a way that Montell had never seen before. ‘Hey, boss, I’m only repeating what she said,’ he protested.
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