19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  The inspector frowned. ‘I’m trying to recall whether there were any other cigars on the body.’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. That’s why we need to look at his room. In the hotel, I made a call back home from my room, for an update. There are two new developments. Just like with Glover, Mount’s computer and his records have been stolen from his office. Also, I’m told he always smoked the same brand of expensive Cuban cigar. Now I don’t believe he’d come out here on a trip like this assuming that he could find them here. I reckon he brought his supply with him. If there’s any left, and we find it in his room, we can possibly trace the source, and we’ll be that much closer to his killer.’

  ‘So whose investigation is this?’

  McGuire smiled. ‘That, my friend, is a hell of a good question. Mount died here, yes. But the crime was committed by the person who put the device in the cigar, and I’m as certain as I can be that happened in Scotland. So what do you want to do? Toss for it?’

  Sixty

  ‘How are you doing, Becky?’ asked Sammy Pye.

  ‘I’m at the end of the road,’ his colleague confessed. ‘There is nothing I can say for sure, nothing I’ll be able to declare under oath. It’s possible that somebody tried to access the victim’s files on this computer, but nobody will ever prove it, far less who it was.’

  ‘The daughter could have done it, but she’s eliminated as a suspect.’

  ‘She is, but there’s one other. There was a second guest screen-name on her internet account: sllinco, with two “l”s. What’s the boyfriend’s name? Ray mentioned it, but it’s slipped my mind.’

  ‘Collins.’

  ‘There you are, then; it’s an anagram.’

  ‘You haven’t been in touch with Carol about this, have you?’

  ‘Of course not. This is your investigation, Sam; I’m only on the periphery. I wouldn’t go interviewing your witnesses without asking you.’

  ‘Sorry, Becky, course you wouldn’t. Do you think you can get into sllinco’s files?’

  ‘I can have a go, but ideally I’d need the same sort of information you gave me on Glover.’

  ‘That would be difficult.’

  ‘Then I’ll try with the basics. You never know . . .’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pye was about to hang up when Stallings spoke again. ‘Before you go, when am I getting my DC back? I gather he’s been kidnapped and taken down to Leith.’

  ‘Hey, he came of his own free will. We no longer needed to be based in Charlotte Square, so I decided we might as well go back home. Look, I’m grateful for the loan of Haddock. He’s in the middle of a specific task right now; I’ll look at releasing him once that’s done, unless . . .’ he said, heavily, ‘we get sucked into the Henry Mount investigation. That’s going to break in the media eventually, although the Aussies have helped us by keeping a lid on the name. From what I hear, they’re going to release it at a press conference in Melbourne at ten a.m. local time.’

  ‘What’s that with us?’

  ‘One a.m. Alan Royston’s going to have a busy night, with journalists looking for the connection between the two murders.’

  ‘Have we established one?’

  ‘The head of CID reckons we have.’

  ‘Neil McIlhenney?’

  ‘No, the real head of CID, DCS McGuire. He’s on holiday in Australia; he’s gone to Melbourne and he’s seen the body. He’s convinced; so much so that he’s told me to get up to Fred Noble’s place sharpish, and offer him protection.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Ah, I forgot, you’re a newcomer. Three days ago, this part of Scotland could boast of three internationally famous crime writers. Now we’re down to one, and that’s Noble.’

  ‘He must be nervous.’

  ‘I hope he is. If he is next on some nutter’s list, being nervous will be no bad thing. Give me a call if you get any more out of the Glover daughter’s computer.’ He hung up and walked out of his office, into the CID suite, where Haddock had taken over the desk vacated by the holidaying Griff Montell. ‘Sauce,’ he said, ‘any feedback from those emails you sent?’

  ‘Three results, sir,’ the DC replied. ‘Two of them are negative; the Bosnian message and the one to Ratko7 were both returned as undeliverable, addresses closed down. But while you were on the phone, I had a call from a woman in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Dr Mary Warmly.’

  ‘Odd name, even for America.’

  ‘Yes, but it explains her email, Marythreecool. She’s a historian, on the staff at Harvard University, and she says that she’s an expert on the wars that followed the break-up of Yugoslavia. She told me that she didn’t know Glover but that she had an email from him, in April, asking if she knew anything about the four names on the list in DCC Martin’s safe. She replied, saying she couldn’t help him. A couple of days later, he phoned her. He asked if she was sure about this, and gave her the names again. She repeated that she didn’t recognise any of them, and she asked him what it was about. He got quite excited, she said, and told her that he was afraid that two of them, Danica Anelić and Aca Nicolić, were dead, and that he was trying to find the other two, if they were still alive. He knew that she had contacts in Serbia and Bosnia and visited there, and wondered if she had heard anything at all that might help him. She said no, yet again, then she asked what was behind it all, but he said he couldn’t tell her that and hung up.’

  ‘Did she ever hear from him again?’

  ‘No.’>

  Pye frowned, and scratched his head, pondering. He looked across the room, to find that Wilding was watching him. ‘April,’ the sergeant murmured. ‘Wasn’t it April when Glover had lunch with Andy Martin up in St Andrews, and gave him that list to put in his safe?’

  ‘Yes, it was. But why did he do that? Because he had twigged that his anti-Trident views had brought him to the attention of the intelligence services, and that he was being watched.’

  ‘And he was right. We know that from the new chief constable himself, don’t we? Didn’t he tell Neil McIlhenney that he had checked, and that it was true?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ the DI agreed. ‘But when he had his sit-down with DCC Martin and told him his story, did Glover ever mention the word Trident? I was there on Sunday when Andy let us in on it, and I don’t remember him saying that he did.’

  ‘You’re suggesting what exactly?’

  ‘That Andy assumed, correctly as it turned out, that it was the Trident connection that had attracted the spooks to Glover but that the man himself might have believed he was being watched because of something else, something unrelated. This list he left with him clearly has fuck all to do with Trident, not unless Serbia has a fleet of nuclear submarines that we know sod all about.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘First we’re going to see Fred Noble, make sure he’s still intact, and work out a plan to keep him that way. That’s top priority. After that, I’m taking this up the line, all the way to the top if I have to.’

  Sixty-one

  The pictures on the wall have been changed already, Neil McIlhenney noted as he took his seat alongside ACC Brian Mackie around another innovation, the new chief constable’s meeting table. Opposite was Chief Inspector David Mackenzie, with Skinner, in uniform, between them.

  ‘I’m about to face the media,’ he explained, ‘hence the silver braid, but I wanted to speak to you guys first. I won’t be taking too many questions down there, but one or two things might be said that you should hear first.’ He glanced around. ‘What I don’t need to tell you is how sad part of me is feeling; there’s going to be a ghost in this room for a long time to come. Jimmy has decided that he wants to leave quietly, and so as soon as Alan Royston has all the press gathered in the gym,’ he checked his watch, ‘in about ten minutes, he’ll make his exit. Brian’s told everyone else, and we’ll all be there too, lined up to say farewell. Gerry will give us the word when he’s ready.’

  ‘The press might be miffed when they r
ealise they’ve missed it,’ Mackie suggested.

  ‘They’ll get over it. Until he leaves it, this is Jimmy’s building, and things will happen as he wants them to happen.’ He smiled. ‘After that . . . what’s going to be different?’ He looked at each of his companions in turn. ‘It may be that a new deputy will come in and affect my thinking on this, but my intention is that change will be minimised. You all know that in his later years as chief, Sir James effectively delegated control of criminal investigation to me.’ He paused, as if inviting comment, but there was none. ‘Well, guys, I’m keeping it. My intention is that the head of CID,’ he nodded towards McIlhenney, ‘and in his absence, you, Neil, will continue to report directly to me. I will also take personal command of special operations as they arise, state visits, EU ministers’ meetings, and the like. Special Branch, though, will continue to report to the deputy, whoever he or she may be.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I know there’s been a lot of speculation, assumptions, even, that Andy will come back to fill that post, but that is a decision for the Police Board to make. I know the regs say they consult me, but I won’t try to influence them in any way, unless I really do not fancy a particular candidate. However, whether the job goes to him, or to you, Brian . . . I can’t order you to apply for it, but I hope you will . . . or to someone else, the new person will find himself . . . or herself . . . handling some of the things that were previously in Sir James’s court. There are politics attached to my post, and I want to keep as far away from them as I can, at least for long as my other half remains First Minister. The new deputy will be responsible for day-to-day relations with the Police Board, with Scottish Government, and with cross-border matters involving the Home Office.’ He turned to Mackenzie, immaculate in his chief inspector’s uniform.

  ‘That person’s going to take time to settle into the job, David, even if it’s Brian, or someone else from within. While he, or she, does, and beyond that, they will need support, and you will be the guy who provides it. Your job at the moment is command corridor adjutant; and you might still be called that, but you will have more clout. If the new deputy is on leave, or for any other reason can’t handle, let’s say, a meeting with government civil servants, he won’t pass it up the line to me, he’ll delegate it to you. And just in case the mini-mandarins feel slighted at being palmed off on to a chief inspector, you will be promoted to superintendent, with immediate effect, so get your epaulettes changed.’

  Mackenzie’s face flushed with pleasure, but before he could speak, there was a knock at the door. Gerry Crossley’s head appeared. ‘That’s the press checked in, sir.’

  ‘OK,’ Skinner replied. ‘Spread the word, and get everyone in position at the front door. Sir James is in my old room. I’ll collect him and escort him downstairs. We’ll be a couple of minutes, that’s all.’ He turned back to his colleagues. ‘Anything else, before we wind up?’

  ‘Two things . . . Chief,’ said Neil McIlhenney. ‘One’s for information, on the other I need a decision. First, Mario’s established, for sure as far as he and I are concerned, that Henry Mount’s death is linked to Glover’s.’

  ‘Fred Noble?’ The question was instantaneous.

  ‘He’s being taken care of. The second thing is this. The only potential suspect we have for the Mustafic murder is Playfair, the guy you met. He’s disappeared, but in trying to trace him, the only thing we’ve established for sure is that he’s been using a false name. DS McDermid has been to see Derek Baillie at the official site where his group’s stopping, and she’s come back with a photo that has Playfair in it. It’s good enough for us to extract an image for issue to the media. George Regan has asked if he can do that. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Do it. Issue the image, but have an artist play with it to come up with an impression of what he would look like without a beard and with his head shaved. He’d stand out like a pillar box the way he looked when I met him, so if he’s on the run, there’s every chance he’s tried to change his appearance. But first,’ he cautioned, ‘you have to get Crown Office permission. Get hold of the Lord Advocate or the Solicitor General; tell them I’ve authorised the request as I believe it’s in the public interest. Get on to it as soon as we’ve seen Proud Jimmy off into retirement.’ He stood, and the others followed his lead automatically. As if I was a head of state, he thought.

  As they headed for the stairs, he crossed the corridor, to the room that had been his, and stepped inside, with yet another pang of regret. He heard the phone ring, somewhere behind him, but ignored it.

  Sir James Proud stood at the window; he had changed out of the uniform that he had worn for the Board meeting . . . worn for the last time, in fact . . . into a pale green linen suit. It struck Skinner that he had shed five years in age, along with the blue serge. ‘Christ, Bob,’ he exclaimed, ‘you look like the prison governor come to take me to my doom. Where’s the chaplain?’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Thanks for the warning. I feel like an old friend, come to send you on a long holiday; I must make sure that’s clear to everyone.’

  ‘You are sending me on holiday, of course, since I don’t start drawing pension until the middle of next month. Better to go out this way, though.’

  ‘What’s your first act as a free man?’

  ‘Chrissie and I are being picked up this evening by a chauffeur-driven car, and taken to Manchester. That’s why we can’t join you for dinner later. We spend the night in the airport hotel and tomorrow we fly to Singapore, first class. We spend a few days there, then we go to Penang for a week, and finally back to Singapore for what’s left of a fortnight. It’s my lovely wife’s retirement present to us both: she’s been saving in secret for years for it. Once that’s over, we get on with the rest of our lives. Do you know, I’ve had three offers of company directorships already?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Are you going to accept them?’

  ‘If I think them appropriate, I’ll consider them. Chrissie says she’s not having me lolling around the house all day. She wants to move, too; somewhere down your way, she says.’

  ‘If Lady Chrissie wants it, then it’ll happen. I’ll look forward to having you as a neighbour, boss.’

  ‘Boss?’ Proud Jimmy chuckled. ‘Not any more, son.’

  Skinner grasped the older man’s right hand in both of his; for a moment his eyes moistened. ‘Sir James,’ he said, ‘you will always be the boss to me.’

  ‘That’s nice to know. I’ll always be available to you, of course, whenever you need to bounce things off someone outside the office, and away from home. I’ve never told you this, but I admire the way that you and Aileen have handled your growing relationship. As Terry Secombe told you, I think, it worried some of the Board members, but he and I damped that down pretty firmly. Now,’ he declared, ‘I mustn’t keep that car waiting. Lead on, Chief Constable.’

  His successor nodded, opened the door and stepped aside. Gerry Crossley was waiting outside, ready to accompany them downstairs, although he and Proud had already said a private goodbye. ‘Two calls for you, sir,’ he told Skinner. ‘One from Mr Laidlaw, at Curle Anthony and Jarvis, and the other from DCC Martin. Neither left a message, but Mr Martin did say his call was urgent.’

  ‘Not more urgent than this, though, Gerry. I’ll return them both when I get back upstairs, after I’ve sparred with the media and had my picture taken.’

  The three men walked slowly downstairs into the foyer of the headquarters building. Police officers of all ranks, CID and uniform, and civilian staff formed two lines. They broke into spontaneous applause as Sir James appeared. He paused, smiled, then made his way through the honour guard, shaking hands with each person and thanking them, by name. Finally, he stepped through the door, with Skinner behind him. A police car waited outside, its uniformed driver, Sergeant Ian McCall, who had won a ballot for the honour of taking the old chief into retirement, standing at attention. Proud Jimmy returned his salute, shook hands with his protégé for the last time, then slid into the
back seat. A few seconds later, he was gone.

  Skinner stood, looking after the car as it cleared the gateway. Eventually he became aware of Royston standing beside him. ‘On with the new, Alan?’ he murmured.

  ‘We better get to it, Chief,’ said the civilian. ‘The natives have figured out what’s been going on, and they’re restless.’

  ‘Let’s chuck them a few buns, then.’

  The two men walked back inside, turning right and heading for the gym, where major press briefings were held. ‘Before you go in there,’ Royston murmured, ‘I get the impression that there’s something up. Nobody’s said anything, but I have a feeling that you might have more to deal with than your own agenda.’

  The chief constable frowned. ‘Maybe they’ve got wind of Henry Mount’s death earlier than we thought.’

  ‘That could be.’ The media manager pulled open one of the double doors. ‘Whatever,’ he said ‘we’ll find out soon.’

  Skinner stepped into the hall. As usual, his place was at the far end, beneath the force crest on the wall. He made his way past the crowd, television cameras positioned at the back, press and radio reporters towards the front, and photographers to the side. His table was littered with the usual array of microphones. He took his place facing the crowd, surprised once more by the number of journalists that Edinburgh could turn out, and a little flattered that they had come because of him. But was that the only reason? Bearing in mind Royston’s warning, as the cameras flashed, he studied the faces, trying to read them. Most were smiling, but one or two were sombre. Expectant? Maybe. His bellwethers sat in the front row: John Hunter, the ancient freelance, unchallenged doyen of the press corps, and Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire. Many years before, there had been an Evening News reporter called John Gunn, and it was a source of regret to the two veterans that he had not survived to their time, otherwise, as they put it, often, ‘You’d have had hunting, fishing and shooting sitting side by side.’ He smiled at them; Hunter nodded back, amiably, and Fisher gave him a brief smile, but yes, there was something behind it, an awkwardness, perhaps.