19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘And that frustrated Mr Glover?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Was he in financial difficulty?’

  Rankin shook her head. ‘No, he was well fixed, but not only from writing. His book sales were fine, and yet he could see his royalty income declining, the market being as it is. There’s a bottom line, though; his advances were big enough for him to be able to forecast minimum income for a few years ahead. And, of course, for the last few months he had an MSP’s salary coming in. Ach, Ally was rolling in it, truth be told, but he wasn’t a man to get angry for himself. Last time we had dinner, he went on at some length about the silent majority, the authors who are being driven back to part-time writing or out of the business altogether. They were his . . . his second constituency, you might say.’

  ‘And what about his first? His political career? How did he feel about that?’

  The journalist laughed softly. ‘Bewildered. When he stood for Holyrood, he never expected to get elected. He did it because he wanted to be a focal point for Scottish opposition to the nuclear deterrent, but that was all. He didn’t anticipate that the Labour vote would collapse and swing behind him in the way it did.’

  ‘I’m told that Dr Anderson accused him of doing it to sell books.’

  For a moment, Pye thought the woman would spit on the floor. ‘He’s a fine one. He turned on his own party to sell his pathetic book, bastard that he is. Look at him now, trying to be the mouthpiece of the old socialist conscience and shagging a Tory duke’s daughter at the same time.’

  ‘Did you hear the exchange last night?’

  ‘Only the end of it, when Anderson started shouting his mouth off.’

  ‘And did you see Dr Anderson after that?’

  ‘Yes. When Ryan McCool and Jock Fisher and I were turning into Young Street, I saw him.’

  A frisson of excitement flickered in Pye’s stomach, but he kept his tone casual. ‘Heading home to Darnaway Street, I take it?’ he asked.

  Sandy Rankin shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he was heading in the other direction, just before midnight. For an awful moment I thought he was going to the Oxford Bar as well, but when I took a look back over my shoulder, I saw him going past the entrance, carrying on up North Charlotte Street.’

  Twenty-seven

  The two fathers were stepping out of the lane that led from the bents on to Hill Road when Neil McIlhenney’s mobile sounded.

  ‘Probably Lou, wondering where you are,’ said Bob. He was carrying the sleeping Seonaid, her fair curly locks resting against his chest, as his sons walked ahead of them. They had allowed the children to play until the first signs of tiredness from their transatlantic flight had appeared in the three Skinner youngsters, then headed for home.

  ‘She’ll have seen us by now,’ his friend replied. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Boss,’ Sammy Pye’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Can you speak?’

  ‘I can listen; let’s try that first.’ He stopped. Skinner watched him curiously as his expression changed. ‘Mmm,’ he muttered eventually. ‘That might change things a little. My instinct is to pull him in but I wouldn’t do anything yet if I were you. I’ll consult with a higher power . . . yes, him, I’m with him just now . . . and get back to you.’ McIlhenney pocketed the phone, swept the flagging James Andrew off his feet and lifted him up on to his shoulder, then began the short walk downhill to Skinner’s home, steering Louis’ pushchair with one hand. ‘Pye,’ he said. ‘News from the battleground; a witness who saw Bruce Anderson heading in the wrong direction at the wrong time.’

  ‘So your instinct was right.’ They reached their destination and Bob unlocked the gate with a key. ‘He did go out again. His so-called alibi is useless.’

  ‘How do we play it?’ Neil asked, as Spencer and Mark ran ahead, their feet crunching on the gravel path.

  ‘You play it, mate, you and Sammy. I’m keeping well away from this one, for all sorts of reasons.’

  As they approached the house, the front door opened and Trish, the Barbadian nanny, emerged. As she took Seonaid from her father’s arms, Neil set James Andrew back on his feet, to follow her indoors. Leaving Spencer in charge of the pushchair, the two men walked into the kitchen, where Bob took a beer from the fridge and handed his friend a can of Sprite.

  ‘As I said to Sammy,’ the superintendent continued, ‘my gut says to lift him, but can we do it unobtrusively?’

  ‘Why should you? Given all the circumstances, if this was Johnny-on-the-street-corner, he’d be in the cells by now.’

  ‘Fine, but by now the word about his dust-up with the dead guy will have spread right through the media. They wouldn’t be watching your man Johnny, but they’ll be keeping an eye on Anderson, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Not right now, they aren’t; he’s at his girlfriend’s father’s place, or so you told me. Nobody will be camped there, not yet, at any rate.’

  ‘Are you saying we should drive right into the Duke of Lanark’s estate and arrest him?’

  Skinner’s grin was huge and wicked. ‘I’m just helping your thought process, mate, that’s all. Why should you hesitate to do that? This is a murder investigation, the man displayed hostility to the victim and he appears to have lied to you about his whereabouts at the time of the killing.’

  ‘He appears to have, but he wasn’t under caution.’

  ‘So?’>

  McIlhenney nodded. ‘So we visit him again and we take a formal signed statement. But we don’t tell him about the Rankin woman seeing him in North Charlotte Street. If he tells us the same story and signs it . . .’ He paused. ‘But would we get away with that? Would we need to disclose?’

  ‘He hasn’t been charged with anything; he doesn’t have the rights of an accused person. So why should you?’

  ‘True. But if we went charging up to the duke’s baronial hall, he’d twig something was up, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Unless he’s a lot dumber than we think, he probably would.’

  ‘In which case we play it quietly. We visit him again as soon as he gets back to Edinburgh . . . no, that might be late; we do it tomorrow morning.’>

  ‘This time you probably don’t, not you personally; Sammy can see him, or even Wilding and Cowan, so it appears routine. But as soon as you have that signed statement . . . then he really is Johnny-on-the-street-corner. ’

  McIlhenney nodded. ‘He gets lifted and we go in with a warrant to search the place. The search of the Festival rubbish turned up nothing. You never know, he might have taken the ampoule home, and the big syringe with the glucose in it.’

  ‘That’s if he did it.’

  ‘You can’t see him as a murderer?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I’m not going to say anything to influence you, or prejudice your investigation.’

  ‘No, if you’ve got a view, I need to hear it. You know the man a lot better than I do.’

  ‘OK, but bear in mind that this is just my impression of him. This killing was well thought out, well-planned, and the moment was well-chosen; it’s one of the boldest crimes I’ve ever known. There’s no doubt that Anderson is smart enough to have planned it, or that he has the medical knowledge to have carried it out. My doubt is whether he has the balls to have done it. My experience of the man, Neil, is that he’s a coward.’

  McIlhenney smiled. ‘Backing off from you, Bob, doesn’t necessarily make a man a coward. But . . .’ he took a breath, ‘what you say might square with something else that Sammy told me. I believe you know an author called Henry Mount?’

  ‘Sure, he’s one of our Friday crowd; known him for years.’ He nodded. ‘That’s right, he told me he had a run-in with Anderson a while back. Bruce threatened to thump him, didn’t he?’

  ‘And Mount invited him to try it, only the offer was never taken up. The guy went all quiet. At the very least that marks him out as a blusterer.’ McIlhenney looked at the unopened can in his hand, popped the ring pull, and took a long drink. ‘But that doesn’t
change what we know about last night, and about his deception. We see him tomorrow, take his statement and if he’s still saying that he didn’t go out again, we knock on his door with a search team, and if the media spot us, then that’ll be too bad.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

  ‘Don’t be in any rush. Anyway, I might be out of town tomorrow morning. I might just take a run up to Tayside. You’re busy, and we need that list from Andy’s safe.’

  ‘He could send it down with a courier.’

  ‘I know he could, but like I said, I want to talk to him about a few things, including his trampling uninvited all over our patch, and the Coben visit. That in particular is something for me.’

  ‘Do you take it that seriously?’

  ‘As I said, not in the context of your investigation. Yet the intelligence community seems to have taken Glover seriously enough to threaten a senior police officer. That’s worth looking into. And nobody’s warned me off, or tried to, not yet at any rate.’

  ‘I’ve been sent to ask whether you two are ever going to join us.’

  Wrenched from their conversation, the men turned, so see Lauren McIlhenney standing in the kitchen doorway.

  A child no more, Skinner thought, and more like her mother every day. ‘There’s only one answer to that one,’ he said. ‘Come on, Neil.’ He led the way across the hall, and into the garden room.

  ‘Was that fun?’ Louise McIlhenney asked them. ‘You’ve tired the kids out, that’s for sure, even Spence.’

  ‘That was our purpose,’ said Bob. ‘But I’ll bet my three will waken in the middle of the night, nonetheless.’ He smiled. ‘But then so will Trish, so she can get on with it. And how about you two ladies . . . sorry, Lauren, you three. Got all your catching up done?’

  ‘That’ll never happen,’ Aileen told him, ‘not when you guys are the subject under discussion.’ She held out a slip of paper, offering it to him. ‘You had a phone call, about half an hour ago. A Mr Aislado; says you know him, didn’t want to leave a message, but would appreciate a call. That’s his direct line.’

  Bob frowned as he took the note from her hand. ‘I know him all right, and so do you. Big Xavi; he’s the editor of the Saltire, remember. You should; his paper supported your party in the election - remarkably, given what it’s called.’

  ‘Now you mention it, I do. But that’s a funny name for a Scottish journalist, isn’t it?’

  He laughed. ‘Come on, you’re from Glasgow, and your name’s de Marco. You of all people should know that there’s no such thing as a typically Scottish name any more. Aislado’s . . .’ he paused, ‘Xavi’s short for Xavier, by the way . . . his grandfather was a refugee from Spain in the thirties, at the start of the civil war, but he was born here, so that makes him just about as Scottish as you and me. Grandad made a small fortune in the pub trade. When he died, Xavi’s dad Joe carried on the business and doubled it in size, then, when Franco died, he sold up, went back to Spain and invested in newspapers and radio stations. Xavi stayed in Scotland, though; he was a pro footballer for a while, with the Hearts mainly, and then he became a journalist. When he went to work for the Saltire, it was on its last legs, and being run into the ground by a crook. But just when it looked as if the paper was going down the toilet, Xavi went to see his old man . . . although as I understand it, he can’t stand him . . . and got him to buy it. He was installed as managing editor, and the thing’s never looked back since.’

  ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ He picked up a cordless phone from the coffee table and punched in the number.

  The call was answered at once. ‘Aislado,’ said a deep slow voice.

  ‘Xavi, it’s Bob Skinner. What can I do for you?’

  ‘First of all, thank you for calling me back.’ The accent was Scottish and yet not quite, not one hundred per cent. There was a hint of his Spanish ancestry hidden there. ‘I’m looking at a story here, Bob, filed by one of my people. It’s about Ainsley Glover’s murder, and it’s got quite a bit of detail that I do not recall Detective Superintendent McIlhenney mentioning when he made his statement earlier on today. My reporters are good, as you know, yet I’m surprised by this piece, since the writer is a member of my sports staff.’

  Skinner looked at his colleague, meaningfully, beckoning him closer. ‘Xavi,’ he said ‘Neil’s with me now. I’m going to put you on speaker mode, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He pressed the hands-free button. ‘Could you repeat what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘Sure.’ The editor told his tale once more.

  ‘So what does your story say?’ On the couch, Aileen and Louise were listening, intently but silently.

  ‘It claims that Glover was murdered by a massive injection of glucose after being paralysed by an anaesthetic drug. And it says that you are looking for a killer with specialist medical knowledge. Bob, I was at the party last night, and I heard Dr Anderson shout at the man.’

  ‘Does your story attribute this information?’

  ‘It refers to police sources, plural.’

  ‘What is the reporter’s name?’ asked McIlhenney.

  ‘Ed Collins. He’s my top football writer.’

  ‘Shit,’ the superintendent exclaimed, ‘that’s Carol Glover’s boyfriend. Wilding and Cowan went to tell her the cause of death, in confidence, and he was there. He left before they could interview him and discover for themselves that he was a reporter.’

  ‘So the information’s correct?’

  ‘We can’t deny it, Xavi,’ Skinner admitted. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself an exclusive.’

  ‘Will it inconvenience you if I run it?’ The editor’s question took the police officers by surprise.

  ‘It would let certain people have information we’d rather keep to ourselves for now.’

  ‘Would that include Anderson?’

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘In that case I’m prepared to omit the sensitive elements from the story. Collins’ relationship to the victim’s daughter is enough of an exclusive for me. I’ll tell him to do a piece from that angle.’

  ‘Will he take that?’

  ‘He’ll take it from me,’ the editor rumbled. ‘He came by the information through a sin of omission. He should have told your officers immediately that he worked for the Saltire. I’ll tell him that, forcefully, and I’ll impress upon him that if he even thinks about passing the story on to a pal, he’ll be yesterday’s news as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Thanks, Xavi,’ said Skinner, sincerely. ‘That’s another one our force owes you.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Aislado, with just a hint of a very rare chuckle in his voice. ‘I don’t like that man Anderson either.’

  Twenty-eight

  ‘Jesus, Sammy,’ said Ray Wilding, ‘that’s a bit embarrassing. Are we in the shit? How are the bosses taking it?’

  ‘Remarkably well, all things considered. They’re taking the view that Collins should have made it clear to you that he was a journo.’

  ‘Nonetheless, we should have found that out for ourselves.

  Schoolboy error, boss; I’m sorry.’

  ‘Noted. The truth is, Mr Aislado’s attitude probably let you off the hook. If he’d splashed it without warning the DCC, then there might have been an explosion.’

  ‘I’ll buy his paper from now on,’ Wilding vowed. ‘That seems the least I can do.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful; his circulation’s on the up from what I hear, but every sale counts. Now, where are you?’

  ‘We’re at Glover’s house,’ the sergeant told him, ‘in his office, as I speak. And we’ve got a problem: somebody’s beaten us to it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The place has been gone over, expertly. Wilkie, the son, brought us here. He’s downstairs just now. When he let us in, the first thing I noticed was that the alarm wasn’t set. I came here earlier, re
member, with Carol, to collect his insulin ampoules. When we came in, there was a warning tone, and she cancelled the system. When we left, she reset it. I watched her punch the numbers into the keypad. When we unlocked it, no tone, no nothing.’

  ‘Maybe she missed something out and it wasn’t set properly. She was under stress, remember; she’d just had a hell of a shock.’

  ‘Sure, that was my first thought too, until I got up here, into the office. Wilkie showed us his dad’s filing cabinet. His personal records were there, payment slips, receipts, bank statements, all that stuff, but the file we really wanted, his correspondence, it’s missing. There’s a folder, sure, but it’s empty.’

  ‘Are you sure he kept paper records?’

  ‘The son says that he did.’

  ‘OK, but his outgoing stuff, letters he wrote, emails he sent, there will be copies of these on his computer, surely.’

  ‘I’m sure there are. But the big problem is, it’s not here. Glover’s whole life, so Wilkie says, the originals of his books in various stages, his accounts, his photos, his music, was on a Dell desktop, with everything backed up on an external resource. Alice and I are looking at the computer now; the casing’s been opened and the hard disk’s been removed. There’s no sign of the back-up disk either.’

  ‘Who would want to do that? The daughter, the son?’

  ‘I don’t see that, Sammy. Why would they? Wilkie seemed totally shocked when we found this. He says that his father had three new works on the computer, and two of them hadn’t been delivered to his publisher. The way he sees it, this is a disaster. We did ask him where he’s been all afternoon, though. He said that he and Carol never went out of her flat from the moment we left them to the moment we returned. They spent most of that time fielding telephone calls from the media, so if we need to confirm their story it should be easy enough.’

  ‘Have you looked at Carol’s computer yet, at her dad’s secret email address?’

  ‘No. We came straight here.’

  ‘Then you better had. Call me on my mobile as soon as you have. Young Sauce and I are going out to Fred Noble’s place to interview Glover’s agent. She’s ready to see us, but before that, I’ll need to report this upstairs. If you’re convinced it wasn’t Wilkie and Carol protecting their inheritance, then it has to bring Mr Coben, Andy Martin’s mystery visitor, right back into the game.’