For a moment it seemed that Walters would protest, but finally she nodded, murmured, ‘If we must,’ coldly, glancing at the officers as if they were of another species, and led the child from the room, burning Pye with her eyes as she passed close to him.
As the door closed, Anderson looked up at the older detective. ‘McIlhenney, is it? Weren’t you Bob Skinner’s exec when he was my security adviser?’
‘That’s right, sir. I was a sergeant then.’
‘Up in the world, eh? And how’s Bob? From what I hear he’s got over his antipathy to politicians in a big way.’ There was no mistaking the sneer.
The big detective’s eyes narrowed. ‘DCC Skinner is very well, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure that he ever had a general antipathy to politicians, only those who tried to fuck him over for their own careers’ sake.’
Anderson’s eyes widened and for a moment Pye thought that he would fire back, but instead he chuckled. ‘I see the grand master still inspires devotion in his acolytes,’ he murmured.
‘The respect and loyalty of his colleagues, I would sooner say, sir,’ McIlhenney countered. ‘And maybe he’s due a bit more respect from you; after all, he did take care of your wife’s killer and recover your daughter.’
‘He did his job, that’s all. He’s still doing it. I always knew he was a careerist, but Christ,’ he sighed, ‘sleeping his way to the top.’
‘Is that so?’ The superintendent’s brows knitted, and his normally amiable features darkened. ‘Anthea Walters, you said. That would be Lady Anthea Walters, wouldn’t it, eldest daughter of the Duke of Lanark and heiress to the family fortunes, the same Lady Walters who has two cautions and one conviction to her name for possession of cannabis and who was chucked out of the US a few years ago after an incident involving a white powder? So what would you be doing, Doctor? Sleeping your way to the bottom?’
Every trace of humour vanished from Anderson’s face. ‘That’s out of order. Your police prejudice is showing. Anthea’s put those days behind her. She’s a remarkable woman, with much to offer society.’
‘I’ll look forward to watching her do that, sir,’ said the detective. ‘Now can we get down to business?’
‘Yes, please, as quickly as possible. You’re here to talk about Glover, yes?’
‘That’s right, the late Mr Ainsley Glover. You’ve heard of his death, yes?’
‘I have indeed, courtesy, initially, of that little Glasgow journo Ryan McCool, who called me to ask if I would give him an expression of sympathy. I declined. Then he called me again, telling me that you are now regarding the death as suspicious.’
‘Actually, sir,’ Pye, no longer content to be a spectator, told him, ‘we’re regarding it as murder.’
‘How, in God’s name? Initially you were talking myocardial infarction. Can’t you people tell the difference?’
‘We don’t have to, sir.’ The DI smiled. ‘We have doctors, like you, to diagnose for us, and pathologists, like Professor Hutchinson, to correct them when they fuck up.’
‘I see you’ve been to the Skinner charm school as well, Mr Pye.’
‘And proud of it, sir.’
‘So how did Glover die?’
‘We’re keeping that to ourselves, for now,’ McIlhenney declared firmly. ‘However, I can tell you that he was killed, with premeditation, by someone with more than sketchy medical knowledge.’
‘Are you working up to accusing me?’ Anderson barked.
‘If we were going to do that, Doctor, we’d be in an interview room in Gayfield Square, or Fettes, and you’d have a lawyer sat beside you. There are questions we need to ask you, that’s all.’
‘So let’s hear them.’ The man dropped on to the sofa. ‘You might as well sit while you do it.’
The two detectives accepted the grudging invitation. ‘Let’s begin with your attitude to Ainsley Glover,’ said Pye. ‘You knew him, yes?’
‘Yes, I did. I met him a few years back, when I visited Heriot-Watt University with some political colleagues, while we were in opposition.’
‘How did you get on?’
‘Get on? In truth he didn’t make much of an impression on me. I must have made an impression on him, though, because a few years later, after my period in office, he published one of his penny dreadfuls, in which there was a fictional Secretary of State for Scotland. The physical description was me to a T and the character was very unpleasant: venal, vindictive and thoroughly evil. I thought about suing, but I was advised that it wouldn’t be in my best interests.’
‘Why not?’
‘Counsel’s opinion was that I’d have to prove my assertion, against Glover’s undoubted denial and assurance of no slur on my integrity. I’d have to prove bad faith on his part, and counsel felt that would be impossible. I didn’t like it, but I had to live with it.’
‘Did you ever challenge Mr Glover personally?’
‘As in, “Come outside, you objectionable little man”? Hardly.’
‘In any way?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a challenge. After I’d been told I had no legal recourse, I called him and accused him of blackening my reputation. He told me I was being preposterous, that actually he had someone else in mind when he came up with the character, but that he wasn’t about to tell me who it was. I can’t remember who hung up on who. Maybe we both slammed the phone down at the same time.’
‘And after that exchange, when did you meet next?’ asked McIlhenney.
‘Now long afterwards, at an official functional. I ignored him, blanked him. Then last night, at the Book Festival party in Charlotte Square.’
‘And you quarrelled?’
‘Yes. I was going to ignore him again, but he came up to me and picked a fight. I think he’d had a couple of drinks.’
‘He started the argument?’
‘Yes he did. I’d have turned my back on him but he wouldn’t let me. He asked me if I was out to live up to the characterisation in his book. I asked him what the fuck he meant by that, and he said, “Trident.” I think he saw it as his personal campaign, and resented anyone else who opposes its awful presence in our country. It all got a bit heated after that, until finally I walked away from him.’
‘OK. Now tell us this, and think carefully before you answer. When you went to the do last night, did you know that Mr Glover would be there?’
‘I don’t need to think about that one. I didn’t know, I wasn’t shown a guest list, and I never asked to see one.’
‘Did you expect him to be there?’
‘It never occurred to me to wonder whether he would be or not. I do not arrange my diary with Ainsley Glover’s movements in mind, any more than I do those of Fred Noble.’
‘Fred Noble?’ Pye exclaimed. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘I’ve had a similar dispute with him. One of his books, the year before last, had a storyline about a politician whose wife was murdered. I thought that was far too close to home and I told Noble as much.’
‘Did you ever think of suing him?’
‘No, I’d had enough grief with Glover. I decided that the bastards were out to get me, but that I was going to let it all wash over me in future.’
‘Did you see Mr Noble last night?’
‘I saw him, across the room, but I ignored him, and happily he took the hint.’
‘When did you leave the event, sir?’ the inspector asked.
‘About eleven thirty.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Anthea would have accompanied me to the do, but we couldn’t get a sitter for Tanya. They were in the audience at my event, but left afterwards.’
‘Ah yes, you had a reading last night, didn’t you?’
‘I did, at six thirty in the main theatre; full house.’ He allowed himself a small, smug smile.
‘So you’d have been in the yurt?’
‘Yes, we were all asked to go there to meet our chairperson, and be miked up.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Yes, I was there again. I met up with Anthea and Tanya, before they left. I had a long queue in the book-signing tent; it was after eight before I got there.’
‘So you’d have seen Mr Glover at that point? We know he was in the tent before the party started.’
‘Well. Yes, I suppose I did. At least I was aware of his presence. I was talking to my daughter and to Denzel Chandler then, so I paid him no mind.’
‘Was Lady Walters awake when you got home?’ asked McIlhenney.
Anderson shot his inquisitor a furious exasperated look. ‘Of course!’ he snapped.
‘Not “of course,” Doctor. As you said, you left at eleven thirty. You’re close to Charlotte Square, but it must still have taken you ten minutes to get home. I was asleep myself at that time.’
‘Well, Anthea wasn’t, OK? She was in bed, watching some crap on television. I let her know I was home but I was still boiling after the barney with Glover, so I read for a while, before turning in myself.’
‘And was she asleep by that time?’
Anderson stared at the superintendent for several seconds, long enough for the detective to decide that he was going to ignore his question, until finally he replied, slowly and evenly, ‘She was, but I woke her, and we had sex.’ He rose to his feet, dismissively. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. We’re due at Anthea’s father’s place in Biggar this afternoon, and it’ll take us an hour or so to get there.’
McIlhenney stayed in his seat and looked at his colleague. ‘Are you done, Sammy?’
Pye smiled. ‘I think so, sir; for now, at any rate.’ He pushed himself easily up from the sofa.
Anderson showed them to the door in silence; they felt his eyes upon them as they walked downstairs, and stepped out into the street.
McIlhenney drew a deep breath, then let it out all in one. ‘Well,’ he exclaimed, as they walked towards Moray Place, ‘what did you think of that, Sammy my lad?’
‘I wouldn’t like to be in the same room as him and the boss, that’s for sure.’
‘I would, but tucked away in a corner. Apart from that, though?’
Pye frowned at him. ‘Are you asking me if he’s a viable suspect? He disliked the victim intensely, he has the medical knowledge to have planned the killing, and he was in the yurt with Glover earlier in the evening.’>
The superintendent nodded. ‘All of that, and by the way, that was pretty sharp, Sam. We only had the assumption that Glover was there before; we had no bloody witness. Now we have.’
‘And Anderson could have seen him put his pouch in that drawer. On top of all that, he has no alibi worth the name. He could have got home, flagged up his presence to Anthea, then gone out again without her knowing and been back up at the square in time to rig the insulin pen before Glover picked it up. I can see how he’d have done it.’
‘What about access to the Pavulon? You don’t find that in Boots.’
‘No, but Randall Mosley told me that he still consults at a private hospital in Midlothian; they do surgical procedures there.’
‘Do you fancy him for it, then?’
‘Let’s wait for McCall and his young PC to find that ampoule and see what we can lift from that.’
‘Every minute might count.’
‘Agreed, but . . .’
‘I know, Sammy. The next stage would be a warrant to search his flat for Pavulon and glucose. Based on what we’ve got at the moment, I can’t see any sheriff, not even our tamest, giving us one. You’re right; let’s wait for the search to complete and see what that turns up.’
‘Nothing,’ said Pye gloomily, ‘if the perpetrator is as smart as we reckon he is. It’s not his flat, by the way. I checked the register before we went along; it belongs to Anthea Walters.’
‘Hey,’ the superintendent chuckled, ‘given her history, do you think the drugs squad could get a warrant to search the place?’ He paused. ‘It’s OK, I’m kidding. Still . . . Bugger!’ he swore as his mobile’s ringtone interrupted him. He stopped in his tracks, took it out and flipped it open. ‘Yes,’ he said calmly, mastering his irritation.
‘How’s your day going?’ a clear male voice asked. ‘Caught the bad guy yet?’
‘No, but we’ve got a couple of options already. You not asleep yet, pal?’
‘Fat chance,’ Mario McGuire replied. ‘Paula’s zonked, but I’m still staring at the ceiling. Fucking jet lag. And it doesn’t just screw up your body clock: it slows your mind down as well. Since we spoke, there’s been something trying to burrow its way out of my brain. Finally it’s made it. I know who planned Glover’s murder.’
‘What?’ McIlhenney exclaimed. ‘Have you been smoking something that would get you arrested here?’
‘I’m serious. I know who worked out how to kill him.’
‘Man, if you’re taking the piss, this is not the time.’
‘Hear me out, Superintendent.’
‘Tell me then.’
‘He did; the man himself. Ainsley Glover did. I told you I’ve read all his books; well, in the third one, Black Sugar it’s called, there’s a murder where exactly that method is used. I’m surprised nobody’s put you wise already.’
‘We haven’t told anybody how he was killed.’
‘You might as well have.’ McGuire paused. ‘Oh dear, I’m in the shit. I’ve wakened Paula. Got to go.’
McIlhenney sighed as he put his phone back in his pocket.
‘Complication?’ the detective inspector asked him.
‘You could say that, Sammy. Our head of CID has just widened the field of suspects from somebody with medical knowledge to take in anyone who’s read one of Ainsley’s fucking books!’
Twenty-four
‘Where does that lot take us, Sarge?’ asked Alice Cowan.
Wilding shrugged as he placed a chair behind the extra desk that the Festival administrator had supplied. It had been sited just beyond the entrance and to the left, facing the area where Glover had died; that had been blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. At the back of the tent, a whiteboard had been set up, but it was virgin. ‘It rules out patricide, assuming Glover’s kids really were getting tanked up along the Royal Mile when he died. It tells us that he liked to keep his fan base at arm’s length. It tells us something about his circle of friends, lady friends at any rate. But in terms of a solution, it doesn’t take us any further.’
‘Wilkie’s a medical student.’
‘Sure, but not even they can be in two places at once.’
‘Carol’s a dentist; they do anaesthetics.’
‘But not with the drug that was used on the victim.’
‘Maybe it was a conspiracy; the two of them, and a third party. Their dad must have been worth a few bob.’
The sergeant sighed. ‘You spent too long in Special Branch, Alice. Or maybe you’ve been reading too many crime novels.’
She looked at him disdainfully. ‘I don’t read crime novels; they’re for saddos.’
‘Like me, you mean? So what do you read?’
‘Romance, mostly.’
‘Jesus, and you’re calling me a sad person.’
‘Not you,’ she said, backtracking. ‘You’re different. You’ve got a professional interest in the subject.’
Wilding laughed. ‘When in a friggin’ hole, Alice, stop digging. Are you saying that my approach to crime-solving is based on pearls of wisdom that I pick up from reading police procedurals? Do you think DI Walter Strachan’s my mentor?’ He winked at her. ‘Because if you do, you’re wrong; my professional style’s based on somebody else fictional, but he’s retired now, so I’m on my own.’
‘Excuse us.’
They turned, startled by a voice that came from the entrance to the tent. Cowan looked out and saw two men standing there. The younger, forties, she reckoned, was tall, over six feet, with a small head on a long body, floppy dark hair and a narrow build; he was dressed mainly in black. His companion was an inch or two shorter but with a bigger frame, clothed
in jeans and a red T-shirt, emblazoned with a devilish face she took for that of a bull, a first impression confirmed, once she could read it, by the name ‘Cordoba’ stencilled below. What little was left of the man’s greying hair was cropped so close that at first glance he seemed totally bald, making it consequently difficult to guess his age.
‘CID?’ he asked.
‘That’s us,’ Wilding confirmed, stepping into view past the DC. ‘Mr Mount, is it?’ The bald man nodded. ‘And Mr Noble?’
‘That’s me,’ his companion confirmed.
‘I read your books,’ the detective explained. ‘You both look more or less like the photos on the cover.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Fred Noble with a tentative smile. ‘It means we haven’t aged much in the five years since they were taken. Randy Mosley said you wanted to talk to Henry and me about poor old Ainsley.’
Wilding nodded. ‘That’s right. We’re talking to everybody who was with him last night.’ As he spoke he noticed a thick and recently lit cigar burning between the first two fingers of Henry Mount’s right hand. ‘Sir,’ he murmured, nodding towards it, ‘I’m sorry, but even if it doesn’t look it, this is a workplace, so . . .’
‘Of course; excuse me,’ the author responded. He lifted up his left foot, stubbed out the offending object on the sole of his shoe, and slipped it into his pocket. ‘My vice,’ he explained, his accent more than hinting at west of Scotland origins. ‘Deeply non-PC these days, but I look on it as an aid to weight loss.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a weak excuse, I’ll grant you, but it’s the best I can come up with. Wish I could give it up: they’re bloody expensive, even abroad, where you’re not giving most of the cost to that bastard in Eleven Downing Street.’
‘You don’t like politicians, Mr Mount?’
He looked at Cowan, appraising her, trying to read behind her question. ‘I used to work in the world of politics, lady. I don’t like politicians of a certain colour, especially not when they pursue policies that discriminate against the people they should be trying to help the most.’
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