19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘That was where I was heading when your witness saw me,’ Anderson interposed. ‘Jim picked me up on his bike, outside Brown’s . . .’ He looked at Pye. ‘Yes, he had a spare helmet, Inspector. We visited our patient, I sedated him, called an ambulance and had him taken down to the borders and admitted. That’s why I bolted yesterday. I did not want to get into that area. I didn’t want to involve Jim today either, but I knew you’d insist.’

  Skinner waited until he had caught his eye. ‘You’re not going to tell me who this patient is, are you?’ he said.

  ‘No. Under no circumstances.’

  He looked at the archbishop. ‘You’re not bound by the doctor-patient relationship, though, Jim.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I can claim another privilege.’

  ‘Fair enough. The matter is closed, Dr Anderson,’ he said abruptly, then paused. ‘Jim, do you mind if Bruce and I have a minute alone?’

  ‘How can I?’ Gainer chuckled. ‘Private conversations are at the heart of my priesthood.’

  Skinner sat quietly as the cleric and the DI left the room. ‘Tell me this, Bruce, please,’ he began after the door had closed. ‘How can a man who does the sort of work that you clearly excel in be such an abrasive, lying, manipulative arsehole of a politician, with both entities crammed into the same body?’

  Anderson smiled, sadly. ‘Do you think I don’t ask myself that question every so often? I have the occasional glimpse of my own faults. My only answer is this: I believe that I’m so good at my private work because I have an addictive personality myself. My drug is politics, and in its pursuit I’m a different man to the one my patients meet. My judgement goes out the window sometimes, as it did when we had our differences, long ago, and again when I lost my temper with Glover the other night. What the man said was true. I saw my flirtation with the rebellious side of my party as a way back in; that’s why I reversed my position on the Trident issue. That’s why, even now, I’m tempted to contest the by-election for the newly vacant Holyrood seat . . . which, I repeat, I had no hand in causing.’

  ‘Well, physician,’ said Skinner slowly, ‘my advice to you is this. Heal yourself of your addiction; get rid of your Mr Hyde. Don’t yield to that temptation. Focus on doing good, and nothing but good. For if you don’t, then pretty soon you’re going to come into conflict with the lady I’m going to marry, and I won’t like that. I told you yesterday that I don’t bear grudges for myself, but anyone who goes out of his way to hurt her . . . and, Bruce, that’s how you play the game . . . that person’s letting himself in for more grief than he could ever handle.’

  Fifty-four

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Colin Mount, shaking with what George Regan recognised as a combination of shock and anger, ‘is why, after Ainsley Glover was murdered, you could allow this to happen to my father.’

  ‘Col, please, not now.’ Trudy Mount’s voice was cracked as she spoke from the depths of an armchair.

  ‘It’s a fair question,’ the DI told her. ‘All I can offer as an answer is that we had no reason to think that the attack on Mr Glover was anything other than a one-off.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it have been wise to consider the possibility?’

  ‘What possibility, sir? That some madman is acting out a fantasy about crime writers and using literary festivals as a background? Let me ask you, do you think your father would have come up with a plot like that?’

  A soft chuckle came from the chair, where the new widow held a tall glass, gin and tonic, ice, no lemon, mixed by her son. The likeness between them was striking: both fair-haired, tall, slim built, she in her mid-fifties, he around thirty. ‘No, he wouldn’t, Mr Regan; his work was more concerned with financial crimes. His lead character, Petra Jecks, was an accountant, turned policewoman. But he’d have been well pleased if he had, I can tell you. The more complex the mystery, the better Henry liked them.’

  ‘Who were his favourites?’ Regan asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with the investigation?’ Colin Mount snapped.

  ‘Almost certainly nothing at all, it’s a straight question. I don’t expect to be involved in the inquiry; my assumption is that my colleague DI Pye will be linking with the Australian investigators, since he’s senior officer in the Glover case. I was asked to break the news of your father’s death because I’m working a homicide locally.’

  ‘I appreciate the way you did it, Mr Regan,’ Mrs Mount told him, ‘with great sympathy and compassion. Please excuse my son’s abruptness.’

  ‘I have no need to. I understand it.’

  ‘You ask about Henry’s favourites; you’ll find them all on the shelves in his office. Most are American, but the two old stagers were at the top of the list. You’ll know who I mean, Ainsley and Fred Noble. They were friends, but he admired their work. They were called The Triumvirate; Henry was very pleased to be counted among their number, although he’d never have admitted that publicly.’

  ‘Have you been aware of any threats to your husband?’

  Mrs Mount shook her head. ‘No, none at all. And I’d have known if something had been troubling him. I could read him like one of his books.’

  Regan looked at her son. ‘How about you? Had your father mentioned anything to you?’

  ‘I thought you weren’t involved in the investigation?’ he shot back.

  ‘I said that I don’t expect to be, but I’m here now. I’d be letting myself and you down if I didn’t ask the obvious questions.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Colin Mount, mollified. ‘No, Dad was business as usual before he went to Australia. He was sorry that Mum couldn’t go, but still excited about the trip.’

  ‘Normally, I would have gone with him,’ Mrs Mount explained. ‘But I’ve just had a small operation, and the medical advice was to stay at home.’ She frowned, deeply. ‘If only . . .’ she murmured.

  ‘It would still have happened, Mum. It’s probably as well you weren’t there.’

  Sudden ferocity shone in the woman’s eyes. ‘That he should have died alone? Is that what you’re saying? If I’d been there . . .’

  ‘What, Mum? You think whoever killed him would have thought twice because you were there?’

  She subsided as quickly as she had flared up. ‘No, but . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘My mother has a very protective nature,’ her son explained. ‘She gave me hell when I had a motorbike, until I sold the bloody thing just to get some peace and quiet. She was the same with Dad. She’s probably the only person in Gullane, maybe even in the whole damn world, who thinks he stopped smoking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she protested. ‘He did.’

  Colin laughed. ‘See what I mean? He told you he did, sure. But not even you could separate my old man from his Havanas.’

  ‘Oh, I knew that, really,’ Trudy Mount exclaimed, with a smile that did not fool Regan for a second.

  ‘So your husband was in good humour,’ the DI continued.

  ‘Exceptionally. He had just finished a Jecks book, for publication next year, and he was working on a new project. I’m not sure what it was . . . he could be secretive about his work, even with me . . . but it was something different. Still financial, though; he’d been talking to Ainsley.’ She caught Regan’s puzzled expression. ‘Henry used him as an informal, unpaid consultant on accountancy matters; he knew quite a bit himself, having trained to be a CA before going into the diplomatic service, but if he needed advice on anything, Ainsley would happily provide it.’

  ‘Mr Mount was a diplomat before he was a writer?’

  ‘Yes. He retired when he did his first big book deal, about ten years ago. We retired to Gullane then; Henry had always wanted to live here. It made a pleasant change after some of the places we’d been. Venezuela, for example, you would not have liked, or Berlin, back in the early eighties. It’s transformed now, of course.’

  ‘But he didn’t write about that part of his life?’

  ‘No. He said that he wanted to keep bo
th sides of his career completely separate.’

  ‘Can I see his office?’ Regan asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at her son. ‘Colin, drive the inspector along there, would you?’

  The detective was taken by surprise. ‘He didn’t work at home?’

  ‘No. Henry was very disciplined when he wrote, and he didn’t like the inevitable domestic disturbances: doorbell ringing, me hoovering, that sort of thing. He had an office on the outskirts of the village, and did all his writing there. I never went near the place; it was an understanding we had. I used to tease him about keeping a mistress down there; he said that he did, and her name was Petra Jecks.’

  Colin Mount smiled sadly. ‘And one other,’ he sighed. ‘La Gloria Habana, his favourite cigar; when he was working, he used to kiss her all day.’

  Fifty-five

  ‘How are you doing with those lists?’ asked Ray Wilding. ‘Sammy will be back soon and he’ll want to know.’

  ‘Not helluva well,’ Sauce Haddock admitted. ‘I’ve been trying to identify the holders of the email addresses, but it’s not easy. The first one, pr876@whe.com, could be a journalist. www.whe.com is the web page of the Washington Herald newspaper. Margotthreecool@ hotmail.com is a listed member but doesn’t have any information on her profile. Ratko7@belp.yu, again, may be a journo, since that’s the address of a radio station in Belgrade. The other two, VsnaP@inet.yu and adilkovac6@saranet.ba could be anything. I’ll need an interpreter to correspond with those service providers. The “ba” suffix is Bosnia, by the way.’

  ‘What about the names on the other list?’

  ‘That’s weird. All four appear to be Yugoslav: Mirko Andelić, Danica Andelić, Aca Nicolić, and Lazar Erceg. I’ve run them through every search engine I can find and come up with sweet eff all. The only thing I can say is that they don’t seem to cross-reference with any of the email addresses.’

  ‘Still, we’ve got a Yugoslav connection, and that’s something. Let’s make an assumption, Harold, that Glover didn’t speak the language, and that when he communicated with these people . . . if he did . . . he did it in English. Fair bet, agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, I want you to send a message to all five addressees, on the force’s email, telling them who you are and that you’re investigating the murder of Ainsley Glover. Try that and wait to see what comes back.’

  Haddock looked back at him, more than a little diffidently. ‘Actually, Sarge,’ he replied, ‘I’ve done that already.’

  Fifty-six

  ‘Take a right turn into the main street,’ Colin Mount instructed, ‘then carry on into the village.’

  Regan waited for a break in the traffic, then did as he was told. He had decided to drive, with the dead author’s son directing. ‘So your dad and Ainsley were close,’ he said. ‘How about your two families? Did you know Carol and Wilkie?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve met them,’ the younger man replied. ‘Carol’s my dentist.’

  ‘NHS?’

  ‘Are you kidding? When my old dentist retired, I found out very quickly that there are damn few of those left. I complained to Dad; he said that’s how it is now, and he suggested that I speak to Carol. I’m on Denplan. My teeth are in pretty good shape, so it’s not that expensive. Mind you, they need to be, so whatever the cost, I’d bear it.’

  ‘Why are your gnashers important?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Because of my evening job. I’m a television presenter, with STV.’

  ‘Oops, sorry. I’m afraid I’m mostly a BBC viewer, that and Sky. What do you present?’

  ‘News features, documentaries, arts programmes.’

  ‘Not Scotsport, then?’

  ‘Definitely not Scotsport. I barely know a football from a rugby ball. One’s got points at the end, I think. Take a left here,’ he exclaimed, ‘at the bank, then go straight on.’

  ‘So you’re the opposite of Ed Collins?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carol Glover’s boyfriend; he’s a sports writer, I’m told by one of my colleagues.’

  ‘Oh, him. Yes I suppose, although I barely know the guy. I did meet him at the Book Festival launch. I was there with Dad, and he was with Ainsley. He quizzed me about how to get a start with STV, but I told him that these days most of our sports guys were ex-players. The guy is football fixated, so I was surprised to see his by-line on a couple of Festival reviews. It was probably the Ainsley connection that got him in there. I read one yesterday, in fact, of a show at the Bedlam Theatre. I saw that show myself; I’m afraid his review was fucking rubbish. He might as well not have been there; he could have done it from a publicity flyer.’

  ‘Where do I go now?’ Regan asked. The road seemed to be coming to an end.

  ‘Go through the gate ahead, then park anywhere. Dad’s office is just around the corner. It was his pride and joy,’ he said sadly. ‘He designed it more or less himself; the architect drew up plans to his instructions.’

  The area looked to be the approach to a farm, but its use was no longer confined to agriculture. Regan pulled up alongside a van, with the name and telephone number of a local construction firm painted on the side. They stepped out, into the midday warmth, the inspector following his guide past a building that looked like a workshop, or tiny factory, and past a Portakabin, stopping finally at a big hexagonal wooden structure, with a pointed roof. There were windows in each of the six walls, apart from the one that held the door, which was itself part-glazed. Colin Mount produced two keys from his pocket, and unlocked it. ‘Carry on,’ he murmured, standing to one side to allow Regan to enter.

  The DI looked around, impressed instantly by his surroundings. The floor was high-quality hardwood, with rugs scattered around. Beside the door was a small kitchen area, with sink, kettle, microwave and fridge below. Beyond, an area was closed off. ‘Toilet?’ he asked.

  ‘And shower. Dad went for a jog from here occasionally, if he needed to think through a piece of a story. He called it running, but I knew the truth.’

  The rest of the area was open. Henry Mount’s desk was set against a window which looked out across open fields, or would have if it had not been obscured by a large LCD screen. ‘Is that a monitor or a television?’

  ‘Both.’

  There was a second desk, not far away. The DI pointed to it. ‘Whose is that?’

  ‘Mine,’ the young man replied. ‘As well as my television job, I look after all my dad’s affairs.’

  Regan’s gaze moved on, taking in an ashtray, complete with a cigar butt, a keyboard, a mouse, a telephone, a clay pot containing pens with a variety of logos, gathered, he guessed, from hotels around the world, a thick notepad, a side table on which sat a printer and a modem router, and photographs of his wife and son. But something was missing. ‘Where’s the computer?’

  ‘Dad used a laptop, but more or less as a hard disk. The monitor plugged into it; the keyboard, mouse and printer are all wireless.’

  ‘Did he take it to Australia with him?’

  ‘No. He decided not to; too much hassle. It’ll be in his safe.’

  The inspector frowned. ‘I don’t see a safe.’

  Colin Mount smiled faintly. ‘No, you don’t.’ He stepped to the door, and flipped over the rubber-backed doormat, set to catch the first footfall. ‘Now you do. Another piece of my dad’s design.’ It was there, set flush to the floor. He found the keys once more, slipped one of them into a lock, turned it twice, and lifted the heavy lid. He frowned. ‘Or I thought he’d decided not to,’ he muttered to himself. He looked up at Regan. ‘It’s not here. The bloody thing’s empty.’

  Fifty-seven

  ‘I have to say this, sir, this is impressive,’ Michael Giarratano drawled. ‘After my boss spoke to Scotland, I was expecting a phone call from somebody in Edinburgh. Three hours later, you’re here. Did you beam down here, Scotty?’

  As the massive detective chief superintendent stared down at him, the Australian realised that he was several chuckles short o
f being amused. ‘Let me explain something to you, Inspector,’ Mario McGuire said, in a voice that made the winter night seem even colder. ‘Just because you and I happen to make up one complete Italian name between us, that doesn’t imply any kinship, and it sure as hell doesn’t entitle you to patronise me like some hick from the bloody outback. I’ll tell you how I got down here. I was on effing holiday in Sydney when I had a call from my oppo back home, telling me about this situation. I left my partner back there, and caught an effing plane at about an hour’s notice, with one minute to spare. Now I’m standing here, at going on eleven at night, in an effing crime tent with an effing comedian, freezing my effing nuts off, and there’s no effing body. So why the fuck,’ he barked, ‘did your people bring me here?’

  Giarratano straightened as if he had come to attention. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he replied formally, ‘I was ordered to offer full cooperation, and my assumption was that you’d want to visit the crime scene.’

  McGuire shivered. ‘Inspector, it’s dark, any potential witnesses are long gone and I’m looking at a chalk outline on the ground. I’ve seen chalk outlines before, although mostly in dodgy movies. I’d like to make the acquaintance of the late Mr Mount, preferably before your pathologists start carving him into sections. Can we do that?’