19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Heard anything about rival candidates for the job?’

  ‘I had a whisper from human resources that there might not be any. I’m not sure I want that. Coronations are for monarchs and, these days, prime ministers, not for cops.’

  He headed for the door. Martin walked him downstairs, and out to his car.

  ‘Remember what I told you, Andy,’ Bob said as they parted. ‘This Coben’s a bully-boy, no more. If you change your mind about wanting him sorted, let me know.’

  ‘I won’t. But tell Neil I’m sorry for the way I behaved towards him. I regret that now.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that.’ Bob waved goodbye, drove out of the car park and picked up the road that led west, then south, to Edinburgh. But as the miles passed by, he found that he could not stop thinking about his friend, and worrying about him, strangely concerned that one of the toughest people he had ever met should have confessed to fear.

  ‘Is that all there is to it, Andy?’ he asked himself aloud. ‘A threat from a sinister stranger? Or is there more?’

  Thirty-five

  ‘What did the horse lady have to say?’ Regan asked McDermid as she approached him along the foot-worn path that crossed the field.

  ‘Nothing more than we’d heard from Sergeant Hope. She didn’t see anyone near the scene; she’d been on the beach and had taken the track that skirts the second fairway, but nobody passed her by, no dog-walkers, nobody carrying a blunt instrument.’

  ‘In this case a hammer, according to the pathologist. Not that she’d have seen the perpetrator anyway,’ he sighed. ‘This guy’s been dead since midnight.’ He glanced towards the course. ‘Second fairway, eh? Have you played Muirfield, then?’

  Lisa McDermid raised an eyebrow. ‘That possibility doesn’t exist. I’m a woman, George, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I’d noticed; my wife’s one, so I know what you lot look like.’

  She looked at him, realising that it was the first time in their short professional association that he had mentioned anything about his private life. ‘How does your wife feel about your new job?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s pleased about it, especially the promotion and the extra money. She likes the new house too, and living in Longniddry; it’s been good for us to get away from the old place. Too many reminders there . . . not that we’ll ever forget him, of course.’

  The DS did not know what to say; she was single, so she could not begin to imagine the pain of losing a child. But the moment passed. ‘How do we take this forward?’ she continued.

  ‘We visit the travellers. I told Superintendent McIlhenney about them, but he knew already, of course, given their proximity to the DCC’s house. We’ve got to keep a lid on this thing, for the natural inclination of the locals will be to blame them.’

  ‘Maybe we won’t have to visit them.’ McDermid pointed over Regan’s shoulder. ‘They could be coming to us.’

  The DI turned to see a tall man wearing denims and a T-shirt with a rock star logo that meant nothing to the Country and Western addict that was George Regan. He was walking not merely in their general direction but towards them, eyes fixed, and with a purposeful expression. The two detectives moved to meet him halfway, before he reached the turn into the path.

  ‘Can we help you?’ McDermid smiled at him but his face stayed set.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so; one of our kids spotted you along here. Look, I thought we were clear to stay here for a while at least. Whatever happened to the civil solutions you’re meant to be pursuing? Or is Mr Skinner’s word not worth a stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Regan told him.

  ‘Sure you don’t. When does the van arrive to lift us? I’d really like to know, because I’ve got some work lined up and I’d like to finish it before we get moved on. As a matter of fact, I’m due at the deputy chief constable’s house at half eleven, to service his lawnmower.’

  ‘We’re not here to shift anybody. We’re CID; DI Regan, DS McDermid. There’s been an incident.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just round the corner, up the path there. A man’s been found dead.’

  ‘What? As in had a heart attack?’

  ‘I told you that we’re CID, did I not? That might suggest different. Now, share with us please. Who are you?’

  The man’s manner seemed to change. ‘My name’s Derek Baillie.’

  ‘You’re a traveller?’

  ‘I told you that.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Just making certain.’

  Baillie nodded. ‘Look,’ he began, then paused. ‘Bugger it,’ he muttered, ‘this is the last thing our lot needed. Tell your boss I’m sorry about his lawnmower but I reckon we’ll be moving on.’

  Regan shook his head. ‘I don’t think you will, Mr Baillie. Not until we’re satisfied that none of your people had anything to do with this.’

  ‘When you are, make sure you tell all the locals, because we’ll get the blame regardless. Jesus, this is the first time we’ve ever been asked to stay somewhere. Who is the poor man anyway? Some local bigwig?’

  ‘We haven’t the faintest idea, but unless the toffs in Gullane make a habit of going out in shiny trousers and white shirts that are boiled grey, I doubt it.’

  Baillie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Say that again. How’s he dressed?’

  ‘Dark trousers, formerly white shirt.’

  ‘Can you describe him? Is he a big bloke?’

  ‘No, he’s a wee man,’ replied Regan, interest awoken. ‘Age, not sure; but our doctor thinks he might be foreign. Why, do you think you might know him?’

  ‘I hope I don’t,’ exclaimed Baillie, suddenly agitated.

  ‘The body’s still there. Would you be prepared to take a look? I warn you, though, he’s not pretty, lying like he is. If you like we could wait until the mortuary people come to collect him.’

  The traveller looked at him, then at McDermid. ‘I’m not a wimp,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘You’ll need to wear a protective overall like the DI’s,’ the sergeant told him. When she had taken hers off, to interview the horsewoman, she had tied it round her waist. She unwrapped it and handed it to him, together with a pair of overshoes. ‘Use mine; it’s uni-size.’

  ‘Do I need to? If I’m just going in for a look . . .’

  ‘We still can’t run the risk of you leaving your DNA on the site.’

  ‘Just in case it’s there already,’ Regan added.

  Baillie glowered at him. ‘It isn’t. But that’s what I mean about you people; we’re where you look first.’

  ‘We look everywhere, so don’t take it personally. Suppose you were the parish priest, we’d still have to ask you to go in suited and booted.’ He waited while the man fitted himself into the flimsy outfit and pulled on the slippers, then when he was ready he led the way up the path.

  A tent, as wide as the path could accommodate, had been erected over the body; Regan raised its flap. ‘OK to come in, Arthur?’ he asked one of the two men who were working inside.

  ‘I’ve got a witness who needs to see the body.’

  ‘Is he properly dressed?’ DI Arthur Dorward shot back.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then OK, but tell him not to touch anything.’

  Regan stood aside to let Baillie enter. Dorward and his assistant stopped what they were doing and watched as he bent over the body. They heard him gasp, then retch. ‘Out,’ the scene of crime chief shouted, ‘if you’re going to puke on him.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ the traveller assured him, straightening up. ‘It was a shock, that’s all.’ He turned to Regan. ‘I know him,’ he said. ‘His name’s Asmir Mustafic, and he’s a member of our group.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s get out of here.’ He glanced at Dorward. ‘Arthur, have your people recovered the murder weapon yet?’

 
; ‘No, it’s not in the immediate area. We’ll need a squad of uniforms to search the surrounding land, and the gardens around here, in case it was chucked into one of them.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take care of that.’ He followed Baillie out of the tent and down the path. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said as they rejoined McDermid. ‘I know it can’t have been easy, to see someone you know in such a state.’ His face changed, for a fraction of a second; it betrayed nothing to the traveller, but the DS knew that he was speaking from personal, agonising, experience.

  ‘He’s a mess,’ the man murmured as he stripped off the overall and handed it back. ‘What was used on him? What sort of weapon?’

  ‘I can’t give you that detail, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I suppose not. But this changes everything, you know. Instead of the locals blaming us, my people will be looking at them. Threats are nothing new to us; until now they’ve been hollow, though.’

  ‘Listen, Mr Baillie, we’re not jumping to any conclusions. This death will be investigated in the same way as any other, and that means we start by looking at the people closest to the victim, because statistically that’s nearly always where we get a result. Did Mr Mustafic have any enemies within your group? Have there been any disagreements lately?’

  ‘No, none at all. Asmir wasn’t a disagreeable sort; he was a quiet wee man. He was old school, a gypsy from the east; that means he enjoyed a sort of respect within the community.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. He and I went for a drink, then he left to go somewhere else.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t follow him?’ McDermid asked him.

  Baillie smiled. ‘And bash his head in, you mean? No, and I can prove that. There was a third person with us. He and I stayed on in the pub for a while, and then we left to walk home, both of us. We got to the foot of Hill Road, then he went his way and I went mine.’

  ‘We’ll need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. He won’t be hard to find; his name’s Skinner and he’s your deputy chief.’

  Regan grunted. ‘As soon as he hears about this he’ll be finding us. Are you telling me that you and the DCC were the last people to see Mr Mustafic alive?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’ve just said he was going somewhere else when he left us. That tent back there was reeking of beer, and he only had the one with us. Az liked a drink, and he’d a few quid in his pocket; he’d have been somewhere till closing time. You ask around and you’ll find out where. Bar staff and their punters give us the eye whenever we go in to a pub - and that’s if they let us over the door. He’ll be remembered.’

  ‘No doubt,’ McDermid’s tone was sceptical ‘but none of that gives you an alibi. As soon as you and Mr Skinner parted company, you could have gone and lain in wait for Mustafic, ready to smash his head in.’

  ‘You could make the same suggestion to your boss, Sergeant, but I’m a gambling man and I’ll bet whatever’s in your wallet right now that you don’t.’

  ‘You will not even think about taking that bet, Lisa,’ Regan warned her, before she could open her mouth to reply. ‘Mr Baillie,’ he continued, ‘I take it that the dead man had a caravan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a family in it?’

  ‘No. Az was single.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his background?’

  ‘No more than I told Mr Skinner last night. He joined our group two years ago, and he’s been travelling with us ever since. He never told us himself where he came from, but the man who introduced him to us said that he was from Bulgaria.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘His name’s Hugo Playfair. He’s one of us as well. He’s a do-gooder, a big wheel in a charity that stands up for people like us.’

  ‘Can we speak to him?’

  ‘You can speak to whoever you like.’

  ‘And we’d like to see inside Mr Mustafic’s caravan,’ McDermid added.

  ‘Sergeant, as far as I’m concerned you can see inside every damn caravan we’ve got. I’m as keen to find the guy who killed Az as you are. Mr Skinner’s lawnmower will have to wait for its service, but I’m sure he’ll understand.’

  Thirty-six

  ‘The computer’s arrived, Sammy,’ said Detective Inspector Becky Stallings, her London accent unaffected by her lengthening stay in Edinburgh. ‘Once Jack McGurk’s managed to hijack a monitor and a keyboard, I’ll be able to make a start. Do we need an administrator password?’

  ‘Not as such; not to open the operating system. The daughter said you just switch it on and you’re in. She’s wireless capable, so you should be able to access the internet through our network. Once you’ve done that, the password for her email account is “rootcanal”, all one word.’

  ‘Yuk! I’ve had some of that. Is this girl a sadist?’

  Pye smiled, imagining Stallings’ expression at the other end of the line. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘she’s a dentist.’

  ‘Same thing. Once we’ve got into her account, what next?’

  ‘The second screen name you’re looking for is fatallyg, all one word. That’s . . .’ He spelled it out. ‘What I can’t give you is the password he used.’ In the silence that followed he could almost feel his colleague’s frown.

  ‘Mr McIlhenney didn’t tell me that,’ she sighed. ‘Never mind, I might get lucky. It might be very simple, or he might have tried to be too clever in linking it to himself or someone he knows, that we trip over it quickly. A lot of people do that; I’ve had experience of this sort of stuff before. What I’d like you to do is send me an email with all the personal detail you can on Mr Glover: full name and date of birth, wife’s details, children’s details, his postcode, their postcode, and anything else you think might be relevant. Did he have a profession, apart from author?’

  ‘He was an accountant.’

  ‘That could mean it’s number-based . . . but he was a wordsmith as well, so maybe not. I’ve never read any of his books. Might there be something in them he could have used?’

  ‘I’m no expert either. All I can tell you is that his main character’s name is Detective Inspector Walter Strachan.’

  ‘Spelling as in the footballer?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘That’s something else to go on. As soon as we’re up and running, I’ll start playing around with combinations of that. Meantime, you put that email together and get it to me as quickly as you can.’

  Thirty-seven

  ‘Boss, where are you?’ McIlhenney asked.

  ‘I’m stuck on the Forth fucking Bridge again,’ Skinner groaned. ‘Roadworks this time. They can’t build the new crossing soon enough for me.’

  ‘Did you get the list?’

  ‘Yes, and I have something else for you as well. An apology from Andy for the heavy-handed approach.’

  ‘None needed. He had his viewpoint and I had mine.’

  ‘Don’t kid me, mate; your nose was well out of joint.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the superintendent conceded. ‘I found myself wondering whether he would have acted the same way if Mario had been here.’

  ‘He would, no doubt about it. He didn’t take you for a soft touch, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’d have behaved in the same way and the outcome would have been the same. I didn’t promote either of you guys to get rolled over by anyone on your own territory. McGuire might have been less diplomatic than you, that’s all.’

  ‘I shudder to think how McGuire might have been.’ McIlhenney chuckled, then his mood changed. ‘I’ve got some news for you now,’ he said, ‘and you’re not going to like it. It’s probably as well you’re not moving at the moment.’

  ‘What’s up?’ said Skinner, suddenly anxious. ‘Has the Glover case gone bad on us?’

  ‘Nothing to do with that. A name, Asmir Mustafic?’

  ‘I know him,’ the DCC confirmed, surprise undisguised in his tone. ‘He and his travel
ling friends are camped almost right in front of my house; you must have noticed them yesterday. Don’t tell me, there’s been bother between him and the locals.’

  ‘Between him and whom we know not, but he’s come off a bad second. The guy’s dead. He was found near the campsite this morning with his head badly dented. The pathologist reckons somebody took a hammer to him.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Skinner gasped. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Midnight, give or take.’

  ‘But I was with him last night. I had a beer with him in the Mallard.’

  ‘I know that. He was identified by a man called Derek Baillie; he told the officers at the scene that they’d been with you.’

  ‘That’s right, although Mustafic didn’t stay long. His ingrained suspicions of anyone with a warrant card were just too strong. Who’s lead officer? DCI Leggat?’

  ‘No, Graham’s on holiday, like half the bloody force. George Regan and Lisa McDermid are running it.’

  ‘George? I’m fine with that. McDermid’s a bit new to CID, but he’ll keep her right. Do they have any leads so far?’

  ‘You and Baillie are their only suspects so far.’ He paused. ‘I’m joking, OK! But George says that Baillie’s worried about how his people will take the news.’

  ‘They’ll take it quietly, or else. I’m having no confrontation between them and the village; tell George to make that clear to Derek Baillie. I assume that his investigation will begin in the encampment, with those who knew the guy. I’m not saying there’s nobody in Gullane who’d do something like this, but I really would like to think there isn’t. Step one, look at Mustafic’s life and his relationships and establish a potential motive. It’s unlikely to be robbery, I’ll tell you that now. The man arrived from eastern Europe a couple of years ago, without a bean and without much English. He earned his keep doing casual jobs or helping other travellers with theirs. Plus I think he had a bit of charity support; there’s a pushy wee guy among the group who fronts for a body called Rights for Ethnic Groups; name of Hugo Playfair.’

  ‘But travellers aren’t ethnics.’

  ‘Not in Scotland, technically, but they’re treated as if they are. I have the word of the First Minister for that.’