19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Good thinking. Now I am off. See you when I get back.’

  McIlhenney cradled his phone, but only for a second, before picking it up and calling Pye’s mobile number. He had decided that the murder investigation should base itself in Charlotte Square Gardens for only one more day, before moving to the team’s Leith office, and that there was no point in having landline telephones installed. ‘Where are we with Rankin?’ he asked, as the DI responded.

  ‘Ray and Alice are with her now. They ran her to ground at a hotel up in Jeffrey Street, and went up there to see her.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Sauce and I have some more people to interview from the Saturday night reception, but mostly I’m waiting for Rankin to confirm her statement about Anderson.’

  ‘I’ve got something else for you.’ He briefed Pye on the question that Skinner had raised over the odd omission from Ed Collins’s Saltire story.

  ‘Yes,’ the inspector conceded, ‘it’s a thought. I’d intended going to Deacon Brodie’s anyway, to confirm their stories, but to be frank I regarded that as a formality so it wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. Now I find myself thinking of something June Connelly said, that Glover hadn’t really taken to Collins, and only tolerated him for his daughter’s sake. Yes, I’ll take a closer look at the guy.’

  ‘Put a bit of pressure on him, Sammy. Have him come to you. Christ, have him brought to you if necessary.’

  ‘Who has priority? Him or Anderson?’

  ‘It isn’t a question of priorities. Whatever manpower resources you need, I’ll make sure you have them. Becky Stallings and Jack McGurk are round in Torphichen Place with a light caseload. You want them, I’ll bring them in. Don’t worry about Becky being a DI; you’ll still be the lead investigator.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. Let me think about that one.’

  ‘Don’t think for too long. This inquiry’s complicated; we’ve caught Anderson in a lie, Collins may be a second suspect and, to cap it all, the victim’s home’s been burgled and all his data stolen.’

  ‘Maybe not all of it. We’ve impounded Carol Glover’s desktop for examination; could be we’ll find something there. Then there’s that mysterious list in DCC Martin’s safe. That may relate.’

  McIlhenney frowned, and took a decision. ‘Sammy, we have to keep up the pace. Send the daughter’s computer along to Torphichen. I’ll brief Stallings and McGurk; they can handle that aspect of the investigation, and report to you on it.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Pye sounded relieved. ‘I’ll do that now.’

  The superintendent hung up once more, but before he could pick up to call Stallings, the phone rang. He snatched at it. ‘Yes,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Sir,’ a familiar voice began. ‘It’s George Regan, out in East Lothian.’ On his return to duty following a family tragedy, Regan had been promoted to detective inspector and transferred to the rural area to the south and east of the city. McIlhenney knew that he was not a man to be calling him on a trivial matter.

  ‘Yes, George,’ he replied. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A dead guy, sir, and what could be a nasty situation.’

  Thirty-three

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Detective Sergeant Lisa McDermid, as Regan pocketed his phone. She stood close to him on a narrow path that led from a roadway down towards the beach.

  ‘Word for word? He said, “Thank you, George, you’ve just made my fucking day.” The investigation into that author murder is high-profile and using up more and more people. Our acting head of CID needed this like a rash on his face, as somebody said once.’

  ‘What author murder?’

  ‘Where have you been? It was all over the radio and telly yesterday, and this morning’s papers. You ever heard of Ainsley Glover, the crime writer?’

  ‘It was him? For a horrible moment I thought it might have been Fred Noble. I really like him, and so does my dad.’

  ‘So you’re not bothered that Glover’s dead?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Noble’s my favourite, that’s all; that character of his is absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Ellroy? He reminds me too much of old Dan Pringle for me to take him seriously. I’m a Henry Mount fan myself; Petra Jecks, she’s a proper detective.’

  ‘We could do with them both here,’ McDermid muttered.

  Regan looked at her as she tucked a few strands of streaked blonde hair out of sight, and decided that she was one of those women who could look good in anything, even a disposable crime-scene suit. He turned to the uniformed officer by his side. ‘How was he found, Sergeant Hope?’

  ‘When? About forty-five minutes ago, just after nine. If you want it exact, the time will be logged in at the communications centre.’

  ‘No,’ said Regan patiently. ‘How was he found, as in, has a member of the public trampled all over the crime scene before we got here?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. It was a rider found him . . . as in, horse. There are quite a few in Gullane, and along at West Fenton. This lady had been on the beach and was heading home. This path’s a bit narrow and windy, but it’s used quite a bit by equestrians, more so than walkers, truth be told, because it tends to be covered in horse shit. She went to take it, but her animal refused. It just wouldn’t go, whatever she did. So she got off, took a look and found this guy. She didn’t have to get very close to see the blood on the back of his head and work out that he wasn’t asleep. She got straight on her mobile and called us. She’d just done that when the guy from that house up there,’ the sergeant pointed towards a wide, grey bungalow, ‘came out to walk his dog. She told him what she had found and he had the presence of mind to block the path at the top, in Erskine Road, to stop any civilians getting down before we got there. My neighbour PC Reid’s up there now, keeping guard.’

  ‘Did you speak to the householder?’

  ‘Soon as we got here. He saw nothing, heard nothing out of the ordinary; no shouts, screams, sounds of argument. It was him that told me about the tinker camp just along the way.’

  ‘Traveller camp, Sergeant Hope. “Tinker” isn’t an acceptable term any longer. Have you been to see them?’

  ‘Oh no! That’s a job for CID. Us uniforms have been told to stay away from there.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’ he murmured, wondering why. He turned round and looked across the field beside which the narrow path ran. Beyond it, he saw a golf course - Muirfield, he had been told - and at its furthest point a woman, holding a large grey horse as it grazed.

  ‘That’s the witness, yes?’

  ‘That’s right. I asked her to wait for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He turned to DS McDermid. ‘Peel off your paper suit, Lisa, and go and have a word with her. I’ll wait for the pathologist.’

  ‘You don’t have to. He’s here.’ The voice was soft, Irish. The DI turned to see a tall, youngish man, with a round face and distinctive brown hair; he, too, wore a crime-scene tunic and carried a small bag. ‘Inspector Regan?’ the newcomer asked. ‘I’m Dr Brown, Aidan Brown.’ The two shook hands. ‘Have you had a look?’

  ‘You mean have I touched anything?’

  The pathologist smiled. ‘I was trying to be discreet, since this is our first meeting.’

  ‘That’s OK. If you’d been here first I’d have asked you the same thing. I verified that the man was dead, that’s all. I didn’t need to look for a pulse; he’s stone cold. You can tell us for sure, but I’m guessing he was killed during the hours of darkness.’

  ‘You say “killed”?’

  ‘Take a look at the back of his head. Either he was drunk enough to climb a tree and fall out, or someone bashed it in for him.’

  ‘Are the SOCOs on the way?’

  ‘Yes. Led by the self-proclaimed genius Arthur Dorward.’

  ‘I’d better get finished before they arrive in that case.’ Dr Brown headed up the path, approaching the body.

  Regan followed, at a distance, and watched as h
e went to work on the little figure, pathetic in its dark trousers and dirty shirt; a sordid death, he thought. The pathologist was thorough; his examination took almost fifteen painstaking minutes as he peered at the body, using a torch on occasion even though the morning was bright and fair. Eventually he stood up and turned back to face the DI. ‘Yes, you can indeed forget suicide or accident. There isn’t a tree around here that’s high enough for him to have fallen out and done that. Subject to detailed examination, I’d put the time of death between eleven last night and midnight, with the deceased having been on the way home from the pub. He’s choked or vomited at some point and there is a strong smell of alcohol. It appears that he was attacked from behind. He has a couple of broken fingers in his right hand, and my supposition would be that after the first blow, he put it to his head in an instinctive but useless attempt to protect himself. He wasn’t struck that many times, but enough to do the job. The skull is intact, but I’ve no doubt about the cause of death. He wasn’t killed instantly, but the limited amount of bleeding indicates that he died quickly after he was attacked. I can feel indentations, and there’s a clear, circular bruise on the damaged hand, all of which lead me to conclude that he was killed with a heavy hammer.’ He paused. ‘I’m probably straying into your area here, but unless the people of Gullane are routinely tooled up, in the most literal sense, when they go out for an evening, this was not an accidental encounter. Someone followed this man, with intent to kill.’

  The detective smiled. ‘That’s pretty comprehensive, Dr Brown. Any other pointers?’

  ‘None I’d take into the witness box, but. . . his face is undamaged, and going purely by his facial features, I’d take a guess that he might not be British.’

  Thirty-four

  ‘This is a bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it?’ Andy Martin murmured as he handed Skinner a mug of coffee, then settled into a seat, facing his visitor across a low table. His casual air hid his uncertainty. His friend’s secretary had called his just after nine, and had made an appointment for ten thirty, no reason given, no agenda specified. He had spent the time since wondering what the motive might be, and whether there was any chance of it being personal rather than business.

  ‘Deliberate on my part,’ the older man replied, with a soft Sphinx-like grin. ‘I wanted to keep you on edge, keep you guessing. Mind you, I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out by now.’

  Martin’s anxiety deepened. ‘Humour me,’ he said, deliberately casual. ‘It’s Monday morning and I had a busy weekend.’

  ‘So I gather.’ In an instant Skinner’s amiability vanished. ‘Which brings me to the point. Did you really think you had any chance of keeping a secret from me, in my own city?’

  He felt ice in his veins. Surely Alex could not have gone to her father? ‘What do you mean?’ he retorted.

  ‘You know damn well what I mean.’

  ‘I want to hear it from you.’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ Skinner paused, his unblinking gaze locking on to the other man, ‘you gave Neil McIlhenney and Sammy Pye information that related to a homicide inquiry that they have under way. For which I thank you. And then for some reason you suggested that they might keep it from me. What the hell did you think you were doing?’

  ‘Christ! Is that what’s behind all this? McIlhenney ran straight to you and spilled it out. I might have bloody known.’

  ‘Yes, you might have. We’re not talking about friendship here, Andy, we’re not even talking about loyalty, although if that was put to the test, I think you’d find that Neil’s lies with me. We’re talking about duty. It’s his duty as an officer under my command . . . and I don’t mean line management; in two days I’ll be his acting chief . . . it’s his duty to report to me. That’s black and white, or are you going to argue there’s a shade of grey?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No, I’m not, but didn’t he tell you why I made that suggestion?’

  ‘He did, but I want to hear it first hand.’

  ‘It ties in with Aileen. My thinking was, and still is, that if you knew about a secret surveillance, outside the knowledge of the local police force, and you told her, then given her position . . . there would be a huge political argument, she’d get hurt and your career would be crippled in the process.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Martin insisted.

  ‘No, it’s what you persuaded yourself you thought. Do you think for one moment that I’d put Aileen in harm’s way? If I’d a problem with military intelligence playing silly buggers on my patch, I’d have sorted it myself. As it is, I accept that sometimes national security has its own requirements. And in case you hadn’t noticed, that isn’t a function devolved to the Scottish Parliament, because like it or not, we ain’t a fully self-governing nation, chum, not yet at any rate. My duty to Aileen is to keep her safe, and if that means shielding her from information that’s outside her official remit, then so be it.’

  ‘Wait a minute, are you telling me you knew about Coben?’

  ‘I’d never heard of the guy before yesterday but I knew about what was happening. You came on to my patch and stirred it, instead of calling me and asking me to sort it out, as you should have . . . not just because of the territorial thing, but because you had a family connection with the man involved. Of course the ripples got back to me, man. When they did, I looked into it, and found out what was up. The people who ran the surveillance apologised but said it was necessary.’

  ‘To the point at which they took my poor hapless cousin out of the game?’ Martin snapped.

  ‘Don’t be fucking daft. The intelligence community had nothing to do with his murder, I’d bet the house on that. They may have been playing silly buggers after it, but that’s as far as they’re involved.’

  ‘Did you tell them to have a word with me, though? Did you know about that?’

  Skinner stared at him. ‘Are you crazy?’ he asked. ‘No way would I do that, or countenance it. If I ever had a visit like that, the guy would leave the room in a fucking bin bag.’ He frowned. ‘Come to think of it, I did once, and he did. But that’s what’s at the heart of this, isn’t it? That’s what’s behind your strange order to McIlhenney, isn’t it? And that’s why you tried to keep Pye out of the discussion. This man Coben got to you.’

  Martin sat silent; then he nodded. ‘He did, Bob. He sat there, military sharp, with is wee Union Jack lapel badge in his blazer, and he threatened me, professionally; that’s no problem on its own, but he threatened my family too, and that’s different. I lost it, and I told him to get the fuck out of my office before he left via the window. I meant it, yet he just smiled at me. What he was saying to me was, “I can reach right into your life and hurt you where it causes you the most pain.” If you want me to come right out and admit it, yes, that scared me.’

  Skinner sighed. ‘You shouldn’t have been keeping that from me, son, you should have told me. National security or not, we can’t have the state intimidating chief police officers. That’s what I call a real excess of zeal. Look, I’ve been at this level for a lot longer than you, and I’ve got connections you haven’t. Do you want me to put it right?’

  ‘No, I want you to forget about it. You weren’t there, Bob, and it isn’t your family.’

  ‘Andy, he takes orders like the rest of us, and he’s exceeded them. A word in the right ear and he’ll be reprimanded.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Martin insisted. ‘It’s all history now anyway. Ainsley’s dead, so the surveillance is over and there’s nothing for the spooks to get their knickers twisted over. I just want it to go away.’

  ‘OK,’ Skinner conceded. ‘But I want something from you: that list your late cousin gave you.’

  ‘No problem, but if you don’t think the watching operation was linked to his death, what good’s it going to do?’

  ‘I won’t know that until I’ve seen it, will I, but if the people he was in touch with were being watched themselves, his contact with them might ha
ve drawn attention from people we don’t know about. It’s a long shot, but it’s a line of inquiry that has to be followed.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Sure.’ He rose from his chair and stepped across to a small secure cabinet in the furthest corner of his office, unlocked it, and took out a white envelope. ‘There,’ he said as he handed it over. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Skinner slipped it, unopened, into an inside pocket of his jacket. He picked up his coffee and drained what was left in the mug, making a face as he realised that it had gone cold. ‘How’s Karen?’ he asked.

  ‘Expanding, and it’s pissing her off. She’s a great mother, but she’s not hugely fond of being pregnant.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect her to be. As I remember, Myra and Sarah in the same condition were about as approachable as a wasp’s byke. Myra, God bless her, was fond of declaring that if women and men took turns at being pregnant and giving birth, the maximum family size would be three, because no man would ever do it twice.’ His forehead twisted into a frown. ‘Not that she had the chance herself, poor lass. We’d planned to have four, she and I.’ Bob Skinner looked at his friend. ‘I’ve never stopped missing her, you know, even now when I’m happier than I’ve ever been since she died. I still have this daydream where she walks in out of the blue, and I have to explain to her all the changes in the modern world, the internet, satellite navigation, all that stuff her daughter takes for granted. That’s something I miss too, not being able to share my worries about Alex with her.’

  ‘You’re worried about her?’ Andy asked quietly, not yet sure of what might be coming.

  ‘No, no, not really. No more than usual; it comes with the territory of being a dad, I suppose. She was a bit strange yesterday, and I found myself telling her that maybe she was getting too career focused, needed to broaden her interests.’ He chuckled. ‘Imagine me telling her that! I even suggested she should think about going into politics. The Aileen effect, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘Time I was back off to Edinburgh. The rest of today and tomorrow will be taken up by a handover with Jimmy.’