19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if it’s possible that anyone else has been rummaging around in there. If they had done, would they have left a trace.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she conceded. ‘OK, I’ll have a look. Don’t hold your breath waiting for results, though. Chances are you’d go blue in the face.’

  Forty-six

  ‘Have you ever felt like a traveller?’ Lisa McDermid asked George Regan as she stood in the doorway of the mobile crime-scene office that had just been delivered to Gullane bents, and parked halfway between the encampment and the path where Mustafic’s body had been found.

  ‘I might right now,’ the DI conceded, ‘if not for the fact that this thing has “Police” painted on it in big letters and black and white check all around it. I reckon the public will be able to figure out who’s who. But the same thought’s occurred to Baillie’s group, in reverse. He’s just asked me if it’s OK for them to move on.’

  ‘Has he? What did you say?’

  ‘I checked with the super; he says that he’s willing to let them, as long as they agree to go to the official site just outside Musselburgh, so that we don’t have to search the county for them if we need to talk to anyone again. Baillie’s accepted that; whether they do it or not remains to be seen, but I’ll be happy when they’re gone.’

  ‘I’d have thought they’d want to stay close to us, for protection. After all, one of their people’s just been attacked.’

  ‘These people aren’t used to asking for police protection; I doubt if the thought occurred to friend Baillie.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ McDermid looked at the steel desks, bolted to the floor, and to the stack of chairs tethered for transit against the side of the unit. ‘Will they put phone lines in here?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it. We won’t be here long enough; rest of the week, at most. Our next task will be to find out where Mustafic went last night after he left Baillie and Mr Skinner. We know he had more drink, and there’s only three other pubs in the village, so that won’t take us long. Then we interview bar staff, locals, anyone who remembers him from last night. This is a small place, so that won’t take long. Hopefully we’ll get a lead from that; if not it’s door-to-door.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  Regan stared at her. ‘What’s that got to do with it, Lisa? The obvious is that somebody who doesn’t like gypsies followed him out of the boozer and stove his head in. But we don’t make assumptions in CID; we take statements, we gather any physical evidence there might be . . . in this case, that would be fuck all . . . and we see where they lead us. So when we go down the village shortly and start making inquiries, please keep an open mind. Don’t just go looking for a thug with a hammer tucked in his belt. Discount nothing; if somebody tells you they thought they saw a Martian eyeing him up . . .’

  McDermid grinned. ‘I’ll keep a straight face and try to find out where he might have parked his spaceship. I get the message, George.’

  ‘Good.’ He checked his watch. ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘Give me a minute. I still have to call Playfair’s charity. Do we have phone books?’

  ‘They’re usually in a desk drawer.’ He tossed her the keys that the delivery driver had given him and watched as she matched each one to a lock.

  At the third attempt she found what she was looking for, two thick volumes, Edinburgh Yellow Pages and the residential directory. She picked up the former and turned to ‘C’. ‘Got it,’ she declared, and keyed in a number.

  ‘Rights for Ethnic Groups,’ a bright high-pitched male voice sang in her ear, in an accent that contrived to be both Asian and Scottish.

  ‘Hello, this is DS McDermid, East Lothian CID. I need to speak to somebody about one of your workers, a Mr Hugo Playfair.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man replied. ‘We don’t have anybody of that name here.’

  ‘I didn’t say that he worked there, only that he’s associated with your group.’

  ‘You better speak to my director.’

  ‘And he would be . . .?’

  ‘She. Ms James. Hold on, please.’

  McDermid did as she was told, happy that at least she did not have to listen to recorded ethnic music while she waited.

  If she had, she would only have heard a few bars. ‘This is Peedy James,’ a new voice said briskly. ‘How can I help you, Ms McDermid?’

  From Asia to Australia, the sergeant reckoned. ‘You can tell me about a man named Hugo Playfair. I understand that he’s one of your field workers.’

  ‘You do? Who told you that?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been led to believe.’

  ‘Well . . . sounds as if Hugo’s been getting a bit flowery. We’re a small charity, Sergeant, dealing with pretty diverse client groups. We can’t afford to have field workers out with each of them. Hugo Playfair doesn’t work for us; he’s a supporter, sure, and he acts as a helpline for travellers, but it’s entirely voluntary on his part.’

  ‘Can you put me in touch with him?’

  ‘You could try and trace the group he travels with.’

  ‘We’ve done that; he’s not there. Do you have a mobile number for him?’

  ‘As far as I know he doesn’t have one. Too new-tech for him, he told me once.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’ McDermid asked.

  ‘A couple of years, I suppose. He pitched up here in the office, and made a donation to our funds. I gave him a coffee in return, and a Tunnock’s Caramel Log as a bonus. He told me that he was adopting a travelling lifestyle, and that he hoped that he could help us by being a disciple . . . yes, that was the word he used . . . among the travellers. I told him that was fine by me, but that he’d better not look for anything other than no-cost or low-cost support from me, as I don’t have the budget. He told me, “No worries,” and headed off. Since then I’ve heard from him a few times, about nothing specific, just calls to say hello, and let me know how his group was doing.’

  ‘Would it be fair to describe himself as a representative of REG?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be entirely accurate,’ James replied, ‘since I never gave him that mandate, but as long as he’s not pledging money in my name, I wouldn’t object to it.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the sergeant. ‘The first time you met Mr Playfair, when he said he’d “Decided to adopt a travelling lifestyle”, as you quoted him, did he say what he’d been doing before then?’

  ‘Not that I recall, and I didn’t ask. I’ve seen a few guys like him back in Australia; wankers, basically. They either made a few quid or inherited it, and decided to try the outback life, but they never lasted long before they scurried back to the town. I put Hugo in that category, but I have to admit, he’s stayed the course.’ As she spoke, McDermid recalled Derek Baillie saying something very similar.

  ‘Does the name Asmir Mustafic mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Mr Playfair never mentioned him?’

  ‘No.’>

  ‘So you don’t provide him with a caravan and a vehicle?’

  ‘Are you crazy? Of course not. Who is this guy anyway?’

  ‘He’s a Bulgarian gypsy immigrant, or he was until last night. Mr Playfair introduced him to the traveller group, not long after he joined himself.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the director told her. ‘I’ll check my database just in case; it has thousands of names of immigrants. Asmir Mustafic, you said, yes?’

  ‘Yes. You want me to spell it?’

  ‘I don’t think so; I’ve come across a few Asmirs, and a few Mustafics, but never in tandem. But the way, what do you mean he was an immigrant? Has he been deported, is that what this is about?’

  ‘No, he’s dead. He was murdered last night.’

  ‘Jesus! A racist killing?’

  ‘We’re still looking into that.’

  The detective heard her blow out a breath. ‘Bastards!’ she swore, quietly, as if she had reached her own conclusion about the murder. �
�No,’ she continued. ‘He’s definitely not on my files. Listen, if Hugo should contact me, do you want me to ask him to get in touch with you?’

  ‘No,’ McDermid replied quickly. ‘I want you to say nothing at all about me. If you can, find out where he is, then let me know.’ She recited her mobile number, slowly, so that Peedy James could note it. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she concluded.

  She felt Regan’s eyes upon her. ‘Well?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘It’s a front,’ she told him. ‘He’s used REG as a . . . a . . .’ She searched for a phrase that would not come.

  ‘Flag of convenience?’ the DI suggested.

  ‘Yes, one of those, whatever it is. His relationship with Mustafic didn’t derive from the charity, as he told Baillie. It’s weird, the whole business.’

  ‘Too right, which makes it all the more important that we find out exactly who this mystery man is.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that if Hugo Playfair isn’t what he said he was, then why should we take it for granted that Mustafic was either? Like you said, George, we make no assumptions in CID.’

  Forty-seven

  ‘I’m going to miss this view,’ Bob Skinner whispered to the room that had been his since his promotion to chief officer rank. He had taken over the office as an assistant chief, and had insisted on retaining it on rising to deputy. For how many years had it been his? Not being one for calendars or metaphorical milestones, he found that he was unable to recall off the top of his head.

  In an ideal world he would have stayed there for good, but the chief’s office had added privacy, in that his secretary’s office was en-suite. More than that, there were the security considerations that suggested he should be at the back of the building rather than the front. He knew them well, since he had put the argument forward himself.

  He was still turning over Proud Jimmy’s revelation, that he would inherit the accommodation across the corridor without opposition. He had expected that there would be a contest, and had hoped genuinely that it would be so. Why? Perhaps, secretly, because it offered his last escape route. For years, his gut feeling had been to stay where he was, for a few more years at least, perhaps pitching for the Strathclyde job once he was past fifty. Conventionally, he would not have been promoted to head his own force, but circumstances, and Sir James’s machinations, had made him eligible, and since then all of the counsel of those closest to him had pointed him in the same direction, until he had no counter-arguments left. So he had declared his candidacy, but with the thought in the back of his mind that he might not be the certainty everyone assumed, and that a stronger runner than he might emerge and win through in the interview process. If Andy Martin had decided to contest the position, he would not have held that against him, although he knew that if the younger man had been successful, he could not have worked for long under his command.

  But all of that had become academic. Barring an upheaval within a generally supportive Police Board, he would be chief constable in twenty-four hours.

  He looked down the driveway that led to the main entrance to the police headquarters. He saw Sammy Pye park his car in one of the visitor spaces and climb out, heading, Skinner guessed, to brief Neil McIlhenney on the Ainsley Glover investigation. The detective superintendent would be waiting for him, having just returned to his office after giving the DCC an update on the murder of Asmir Mustafic, and on the disappearance of Hugo Playfair.

  ‘I knew there was something about that wee bastard that didn’t ring true,’ he had told his colleague. ‘I thought he was watching over the travellers as a group like a mother hen, but now, it seems, he was only looking out for one of them.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s why we’re detectives, mate . . . and make no mistake, when I’m across the way I will still be a detective, because we answer questions like that. Find Playfair; at least, do the best you can. From what you’ve told me, it might not be that easy.’

  He watched as Pye turned left at the top of the crest and headed for McIlhenney’s office. The next time he saw the DI, they would be facing Bruce Anderson across a desk. There you go again, Bob, he thought, letting instinct override common sense. He knew that most officers would have arrested the fugitive and held him for questioning, until he had been eliminated as a suspect. But he knew the man and he knew his weaknesses, and in his judgement, his lack of moral courage made it inconceivable that he could plan and execute a crime as meticulous and cold-blooded as the killing of Ainsley Glover. He hoped that he would not be proved wrong, but decided he would rather deal with that than with the consequences of a highly public arrest, followed by a vindication. He nodded, as if in confirmation; at the same moment there was a soft knock on the door. He had no need to call ‘Enter,’ since his green light was on, but he did anyway, out of habit.

  Gerry Crossley, the secretary he would inherit, stepped into the room. ‘Sir, I’ve got the Duke of Lanark on the phone. He’s come through on the chief’s line, but he’s left for his farewell tour of the divisional offices, so he’s asked to speak to you. I’ve tried to press him, but he won’t say what it’s about. Can I transfer him to your line, or would you rather be unavailable?’

  Skinner smiled. ‘What would Sir James have done had he been here?’

  ‘He’d have growled a bit but taken the call. He always does.’

  ‘Then that’s how it’ll continue, Gerry, probably with the growling as well. Put him through. And don’t worry, I reckon I know what it’s about.’

  ‘Do you want me to listen in?’

  ‘No, not to this one.’

  ‘Understood.’

  He left. The DCC stared at his phone, waiting for it to ring. He had no problem dealing with the aristocracy as a rule; he had met the Duke of Lanark once, at a reception hosted by his friend the Marquis of Kinture, but the encounter had been brief.

  ‘Mr Skinner.’ The voice was softer than he had recalled, or expected. ‘I assume that you can guess what leads me to call you.’

  ‘I tend to keep my guesses to myself,’ he replied. ‘So why don’t you tell me, formally.’

  ‘Of course. It’s about my daughter; she was arrested today in connection with the possession of Class A drugs.’

  ‘Yes. She’s been charged and she’s being held in custody overnight. She’ll appear before Sheriff Morgan tomorrow.’

  ‘You endorse the decision to detain her?’

  ‘Absolutely. I have no problem with it, none at all.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the Duke murmured. ‘In that case, I simply want to assure you that I don’t either. I will of course support her, in that I’ll pay for her defence, but I have no expectations and I will not attempt to exercise any influence on the court. I’m in London just now, and I have no intention of returning for her appearance. I want Anthea to get what’s coming to her. My daughter is a self-indulgent brat who is an embarrassment to me, to her mother and to her siblings, and I’ve had enough of her behaviour. I’ve tolerated her past indiscretions, but she’s gone too far.’

  For a few moments, Skinner sat silent, wondering how he would have dealt, as a parent, with a similar situation. ‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘For our part, I have to tell you that we’re not out to make an example of her just because of who she is. From what I’m told, a guilty plea would be very appropriate, but that won’t be expected tomorrow. I won’t oppose bail; if you like I can ask the fiscal what his attitude will be.’

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand me. You go ahead and oppose bail. I mean it; I don’t want to see Anthea go away for years or anything like that, but a short spell in custody might concentrate her mind . . . if she has one left, that is.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, sir,’ the DCC replied, ‘but you can hardly propose that in court. Let’s leave it to the fiscal and the judge to decide the issue, shall we?’

  ‘I would like you to ask the fiscal to oppose; I really would.’

  ‘O
K, if you feel that strongly, I’ll make that call.’

  ‘Good man. Thanks. You must come to dinner some time. I’d appreciate a chat with you, and with the First Minister, in calmer circumstances.’

  ‘That would be interesting,’ Skinner replied, with a smile.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll have my secretary contact yours when I get back to Scotland.’ Just as he thought the conversation at an end, the Duke continued. ‘What of Bruce Anderson?’ he asked. ‘I’ve already had him on the phone, assuring me he knew nothing of this awful heroin. He doesn’t feel that he can spend another night at the flat, so I’ve invited him and Tanya to stay at my place, until he sorts himself out. They can sleep in the big house tonight, and there’s an empty cottage on the estate that they can move into tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m glad about that; I’ve cut him some slack, but I confess that I’m more comfortable knowing where he is . . . just in case I’ve made a major mistake about him. I’m seeing him tomorrow in connection with the Glover investigation. He won’t be implicated in the drugs business, though.’

  ‘That’s good. He should have been more careful, but I can’t be too hard on him. People like Anthea are incredibly devious; I know, because I’ve made it my business to study them. I encouraged her relationship with Bruce, because he has skills in that area. In fact I put them together initially. I employed him, truth be told; their thing developed from there.’

  ‘So he was her counsellor first?’ said Skinner.

  ‘Initially he was, before they became partners. If you’re worried about the ethics of the relationship, I’m not. He did her good for a while, even though he’s a bit volatile himself. If you ask me, he never had a good counsellor himself when he needed one. Don’t be too hard on him, Mr Skinner. Thank you and good day. I look forward to entertaining you.’

  The DCC was thoughtful as he replaced the phone, still surprised by the Duke’s unexpected attitude, and wondering if there was another way of looking at Bruce Anderson. He was so preoccupied that he almost forgot the business that had been on his mind earlier. Almost.