19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  He took out his most private diary, and ran through the list of numbers that he would not trust to a computer; it included several with no names attached, and it was one of those he dialled, on his secure telephone.

  ‘Yes? How can I help you?’ The call was answered by a woman, her voice pleasant but completely bland.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Piers Frame. This is Bob Skinner, up in Edinburgh. If you have a problem, call me back; Piers has my number.’

  ‘No problem, Bob.’ He was picked up instantly, and the Scot could tell that he had been on speaker-phone. He wondered how many other people were in the room, but was put at his ease instantly. ‘It’s OK, I’m clear to speak. What’s up? Have my unruly Ministry of Defence colleagues been annoying you again?’

  Piers Frame was one of the most senior intelligence operatives in the country; when the matter of the Glover surveillance had broken surface, he had helped Skinner root out the truth.

  ‘Christ, I hope not,’ the DCC replied earnestly. ‘The guy they were watching was murdered at the weekend. Very cleverly, a pro job, I’d say, one that we might well have put down as an accidental death. Way too subtle for the soldiers.’

  ‘Stone me!’ Frame exclaimed. ‘I . . . No, no, no; no way would they be involved in something as drastic as that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so either, but the housekeepers have been at work since then. Someone broke into his house and stole the guts of his computer, and his back-up hard disk. I don’t imagine for a moment that they took him out, but if they heard about it and decided on a precautionary clean-up, then I don’t appreciate that. Apart from the commercial value of what’s been stolen, Glover’s files might be essential to my investigation and I fucking well want them back.’

  ‘Understood. If they did that, it sounds like excessive zeal, even if they were working in association with the Americans. Leave it with me and I’ll make some discreet noises.’

  ‘Fine, thanks. By the way, while I’ve got your attention, have you ever heard of a man called Coben, or of anyone who might on occasion use that name?’

  ‘Coben? Not one of this department’s, I can tell you that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s more likely to be military than one of yours. Don’t worry about it; he’s just someone who came up on my radar. That said, if your MoD friends do know of him, it might be worth warning him that he doesn’t want to show up there again. If he does, I won’t appreciate that either.’

  ‘In that case, if he is connected to HMG in any way, he will definitely be told. I’ve seen what you can do when you’re annoyed. I’ll be in touch.’

  Forty-eight

  George Regan was still getting to know his new patch, and Gullane was a sensitive area for him. Normally one of his first acts on moving into an area would have been to put himself about, to make his face known. He had done as much in Musselburgh, Tranent and Haddington, but the coastal townships had a low priority, not least the one where the deputy chief lived.

  He parked opposite the Old Clubhouse Inn and looked across at it. The design of the building indicated that once it had been what its name implied, a starting point for golfers, before the construction of larger and more opulent premises at the west end of the village. Even on an early Monday evening it was busy; the tables set outside, with chairs and ashtrays for smokers driven into the open air by the law, were all occupied, with space heaters . . . little used in August, Regan guessed . . . scattered between them like elongated mushrooms.

  He pulled his key from the ignition and stepped out of the car, locking the door electronically a bare second after it had closed behind him. He headed for the pub, but had not taken more than two steps before his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took it out, checked the caller and put it to his ear. ‘Yes, Lisa,’ he said, turning and stepping off the roadway.

  ‘I’ve just had a call back from the Department for Work and Pensions,’ the sergeant told him, without preamble. ‘They’re emailing me a list of all the people in Britain called Hugo Playfair, with national insurance numbers and current known addresses. There aren’t a hell of a lot, and only three aged between thirty-five and forty-five, which we reckoned were age band outer limits for our guy. One of them is drawing full disability benefit and lives in Dorset, so we can rule him out. I’ve cross-referenced the other two with the passport agency, and I’m waiting for photographs. I’ve also run an NCIS check like you said. It’s blank.’

  ‘How can you pick up an email down there in the van?’

  ‘Cleverly. One of the people in a house across the way has a wireless set-up and he’s let me piggy-back on it with my laptop.’

  ‘He won’t have access to your files, will he?’

  ‘No, they’re secure.’

  ‘In that case, good thinking. Any sightings of Playfair’s Peugeot?’

  ‘No, and all the station parks have been checked. If he has dumped it, could be at the airport.’

  ‘Aye, but which one? He’s had time to get to Newcastle by now. Gimme a call if you get anything positive. I’m just about to start my trawl of the pubs.’

  He pocketed the phone and crossed the street, picking his way between the tightly packed tables and into the Old Clubhouse. Inside, he had to blink hard before his eyes became accustomed to the light and he could see that the saloon was empty, apart from himself and a lone barman.

  The man was massive, not exceptionally tall, but with the frame of a weightlifter, dark-skinned with a spectacular cascade of dreadlocks that suggested West Indian origins, an impression that was confirmed by his accent.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked, with a welcoming smile that Regan read as sincere.

  ‘Do you know how to make a rock shandy?’

  ‘Which kind you like? Mine has ginger beer, bitter lemon, angostura.’

  ‘That’ll do it.’ Regan frowned as he looked at the man. ‘Have we met?’ he asked.

  ‘Could be,’ he conceded, ‘if you ever went clubbing in Edinburgh. I used to do door security there.’

  Regan scanned his past. ‘Buster Brown’s when it was called that?’

  ‘Among others. You wouldn’t be a policeman, would you?’

  He nodded. ‘I was uniform in those days. Do you remember me?’

  ‘No, but you remember me; that tells me enough. If you’d been a punter, chances are you’d have been too pissed to recall it.’ He reached out a hand. ‘My name’s Tony Bravo, by the way.’

  As they shook, the police officer expected his hand to be crushed, but the big man’s touch was soft. ‘George Regan, detective inspector. Have you heard about the discovery near the beach this morning?’

  ‘Word got around. Who was he?’

  ‘A gypsy, from the camp down on the bents. We reckon he was attacked on his way home after a night out drinking.’

  ‘And you reckon he might have been here?’

  ‘Yes. Were you on duty last night?’

  ‘Sure, all the evening, through to midnight, and then after, cleaning up. Do you have a photo of the guy?’

  ‘Not one that you’d like to see. He was a little guy, skinny, badly dressed.’

  ‘British?’

  ‘No, Bulgarian.’

  ‘Then I reckon he was in here. I saw him come up the road from the Mallard. I thought he’d head for Bissett’s or the Golf, but he came in here.’

  ‘Are you saying you hoped he’d pass you by?’

  ‘No, everybody’s welcome here. He came in, asked for a pint.’ Bravo smiled. ‘He blinked when he saw what it cost, mind you.’

  ‘Did he speak to anyone?’

  ‘No, not at first. The regulars ignored him; they guessed where he was from, and so did I, to tell the truth. This is Gullane; travelling people stand out.’

  ‘No trouble, though?’

  ‘Inspector George,’ said the barman mildly, ‘I don’t have trouble.’

  Regan understood why not. He laid a five pound note on the bar and picked up his rock shandy. ‘Not at
first, you said.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bravo picked up the banknote, folded it and slid it into the detective’s breast pocket. ‘Another guy came in just after; stuck his head round the door as if he was looking for him, then when he saw him, came in. Bought two pints, one for him, one for the little guy. Then they went over and sat in the window.’

  ‘Can you describe the second man?’

  ‘Ginger,’ the barman replied at once. ‘Red beard, red hair, stocky guy, thick wrists, looked quite strong. Wore a work shirt; looked hot in it. Wore boots too. Reckon he might have been a soldier.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Regan asked. The description matched Hugo Playfair, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but no one had ever suggested that the man might have had a military background.

  ‘The boots. They were polished. I see a lot of guys come through here, and a lot of them wear boots, especially in the winter. But I never see anybody polish them, save for soldiers.’

  The DI took a drink, and filed the thought away.

  ‘Could you hear the conversation?’

  ‘No, but I could see them. I thought they were both on edge. They didn’t stay long. Finished their drinks and headed off together.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘By then? About nine.’

  ‘And Mustafic had the two pints while he was here, that’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  On top of one in the Mallard, Regan thought. There was more than that in him when he died, for sure. Must have gone somewhere else. Oh, Mr Playfair, I really do want to talk to you.

  He finished his rock shandy and nodded farewell to Tony Bravo. ‘Thanks a lot, big man,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  He left the pub and, leaving his car parked, walked back to the main street, where the other two village pubs stood, on opposite sides but only around a hundred yards apart. He decided to stay on the south side of the road, although Bissett’s bar was the further away. As he reached it, he saw a powered wheelchair parked outside, flanked by two men, smoking. He nodded to them as he passed and stepped inside, into a big square bar, complete with dartboard and pool table, although neither was in use.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asked him. The contrast with Tony Bravo could not have been greater; the man was shorter, overweight, and looked as if he spent too long indoors.

  The inspector decided against another soft drink. ‘Information,’ he said. ‘Police, DI Regan.’

  ‘The murder, eh.’

  ‘That’s right. We’re trying to establish the dead man’s movements last night. I know he was in the Mallard and the Old Clubhouse, but I’m pretty sure his drinking didn’t end there.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t do any of it in here.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘It was Sunday night and the Fire Training School was empty. I knew everyone who came in here last night.’

  ‘Everyone?’ Regan asked sceptically. ‘On a nice summer evening you only had locals in?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘But not entirely?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ the man conceded.

  ‘The victim was a small man, skinny, not very well dressed, and he probably wouldn’t have been alone. My last sighting has him with another man, stocky, red hair, red beard.’

  ‘Oh aye. I remember them.’

  ‘So they were here.’

  ‘Not for long. I wouldn’t serve them.’

  ‘They were the worse for drink?’

  ‘The wee man probably had had a couple, but no, that’s no’ why. I didn’t fancy them, that’s all. I reckoned they were travellers. There’s bad feeling about these people around here, and I didn’t want any of it in this bar. If I let trouble develop, my boss would be down on me like a ton of breezeblock. So I showed them the door.’

  ‘How did they take that?’

  ‘The wee man didn’t take it too well, but him wi’ the red hair, he hustled him outside.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Aye, no argument.’

  Regan was surprised, given Playfair’s position as a self-appointed champion of the people of the road, but he realised that there was no point in pressing the barman further. He headed for the door himself, wondering who, among the half-dozen drinkers he had seen perched on stools, was the owner of the wheelchair, and trying to recall any applicable law about driving under the influence.

  He crossed the road and walked into the public bar of the Golf Inn. Its layout was different, split into two areas, the first equipped with comfortable seating, some of it around an unused fireplace.

  ‘Evening, Inspector,’ said the thin, fair-haired steward.

  ‘That obvious?’

  The man smiled. ‘No. There’s a guy in the back bar who just came in from Bissett’s. You wanting to know about the dead guy and his pal?’

  ‘They were here?’

  ‘Yes. They came in around half nine. Two pints of Eighty Shilling. My name’s John, by the way.’

  ‘Who paid?’

  ‘The red-haired bloke. It’s the other fella that’s dead, right?’

  Regan nodded. ‘Yes. How long did they stay?’

  ‘The wee man was there until after eleven; the pair of them sat over there.’ He pointed to a corner of the bar, next to the window.

  ‘The red-haired guy left first?’

  ‘Yes, about half ten. They finished those pints, red-haired guy got another couple in. They were halfway through them when they had some sort of a barney. We were fairly busy on Sunday night . . . the good weather brings out some of the older people as well as the regulars . . . so I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the wee man started shouting at the other bloke. Not in English, but I could tell he wasn’t complimenting him on his dress . . . or anything else for that matter. I was about to tell them to pipe down or piss off, but Red-head beat me to in. Got up and walked out with a face like . . .’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘Oh aye, he was all that.’

  ‘And the other guy?’

  ‘He finished both pints, his and his mate’s, then got another in for himself; and another after that. He might have been only a wee guy, but he could put it away.’

  ‘What sort of state was he in when he left?’

  ‘About one more pint short of dazed and confused, I’d say.’ John looked at the detective. ‘Was Red-head waiting for him, then? Is that what happened?’

  Regan smiled, grimly. ‘Let’s just say that’s a possibility I’m starting to consider very seriously.’

  Forty-nine

  Bob pulled into the driveway, coming to a halt a few feet short of the garage door, which was closed, as usual. He glanced in the rear-view mirror to ensure that the gate had closed properly behind him, in response to his remote signal, then eased himself from behind the driver’s seat and retrieved his jacket from its hook in the back.

  He frowned, wondering why for a few seconds, until he realised that his usual welcoming committee was conspicuous by its absence. Normally, when the children were at home, at least one of them would be in the doorway to greet him before the car had stopped moving. And if not them, Aileen, whose high office carried with it chauffeur-driven travel to and from the Parliament, and who usually made it home before he did.

  He opened the door and stepped into the hall, but still there was no rush of feet, nor the sound of any presence. He turned to his right and looked into the kitchen, but that too was empty. ‘On the beach, I guess,’ he murmured, feeling a tinge of disappointment. He transferred his mobile to a trouser pocket, slung his jacket as usual over the post at the foot of the banister, and headed for the garden room.

  It was full, of his family: Aileen, the children, Trish the nanny and Alex.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ he asked, with a huge smile.

  ‘Let me give you a clue,’ Aileen replied, as she took a bottle from the ice bucket and began to pour. ‘This is not Asti Spumante, this is the Widow Cliquot.’ She handed him a gla
ss, rose up on her toes to kiss him, and whispered, ‘Congratulations, my darling,’ in his ear.

  ‘Congratulations,’ five voices echoed, although Seonaid’s version, screamed above the rest, was missing at least one syllable.

  He took his glass and acknowledged the toast, noting that while the two younger children were waving glasses of cola, Mark had been allowed a small amount of champagne, then slipped an arm around his partner’s waist. ‘That’s me kept my side of the bargain,’ he told her. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘A deal’s a deal.’ She nodded. ‘October suit you, in the next parliamentary recess?’

  ‘You set the date, and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Who’ll be your best man?’ asked Alex.

  He was surprised by the question, and paused, for he had not considered it. But he looked her in the eye and said, ‘I’m not having one. I’m having a best person, and you’re it.’

  ‘Pass!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Refusal is not an option. No embarrassing speeches, though.’ He caught Mark looking at him, a little quizzically. ‘Don’t worry, kid,’ he laughed, ‘that doesn’t mean that you and the Jazzer have to be bridesmaids.’

  ‘Or pageboys,’ the boy begged. ‘Please not, Dad.’

  ‘You can be ushers,’ Aileen announced, ‘not that there’ll be many people to ush,’ she added. ‘And the wee one can be a flower girl.’

  Alex picked up her sister. ‘If she’s trainable,’ she chuckled as the child wriggled, and a small amount of cola spilled on to the floor.

  Two thoughts occurred to Bob. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Jimmy called me this afternoon,’ his fiancée replied.

  ‘And where have you hidden your car, daughter? I had no notion that you were here when I came in.’

  ‘It’s in the garage; the last place you’d be likely to look.’ She set Seonaid back on her feet and herded the children in the direction of the kitchen, where their evening meal had been set out for them by the nanny.

  As they left, Bob dropped into his armchair. ‘You realise this is premature?’ he murmured. ‘The Board doesn’t meet until tomorrow. The recommendation could be overturned.’