19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Granted. But if he’d bashed his head in, why did he hang around till morning, waiting until the body was found, before he buggered off?’

  ‘There’s a counter to that. Why didn’t he hang around to help Regan with his inquiries?’

  ‘Not necessarily because he was guilty.’

  ‘But he may have assumed he’d be our main suspect, and realised that he’d have trouble proving his innocence.’

  ‘Did Dorward’s team find any trace of Mustafic’s blood in his caravan? You told me it was all over the bushes round the body.’

  ‘No, I’ll grant you that . . . but he could have gone for a swim in the sea straight after the killing.’

  Skinner laughed softly. ‘You are good, Neil,’ he admitted. ‘When I think of the big DC that I first took on the team, and I listen to you now, I’m proud of us both, me for picking you out, but mostly of you, the way you’ve grown as a detective. I’ll give you that one. He could have. But . . . Playfair is a barrack-room lawyer; he’s the sort of guy who will know very well that it’s about us proving his guilt, not the other way round. Let’s go back to that argument in the bar. What language were they speaking?’

  ‘I don’t know. But not English, according to Regan’s report.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And that brings me back to the great unknown. What was the nature of the relationship between these two men? From the little we’ve found out about how they came to join the group, it seems to me that they were partners of some sort. Partners in crime? Maybe, but partners in hiding. If you ask me, these guys were on the run, and when Playfair found that Mustafic was dead, he did the obvious . . . he kept on running, for his life. No, my friend, he’s not going to be easy to find.’

  ‘Who’s not?’ Aileen demanded. ‘Are you two talking shop?’

  ‘Comparing notes, that’s all,’ Bob replied defensively.

  ‘Well, stop it,’ she ordered. ‘Back to our place for coffee and a nightcap. The shop is closed for today.’

  McIlhenney laughed. ‘It reopens pretty soon, though, Aileen . . . in Australia.’

  Sixty-six

  As Mario McGuire and Michael Giarratano walked along Collins Street from the Grand Hyatt towards the complex that housed the Sofitel, Melbourne seemed to be coming to life. The morning was bright, but an Antarctic breeze was blowing in off the sea, and the Scot was discovering how cold winter can be in Australia. He checked his watch: eight thirty-five, twenty-five minutes to midnight in Edinburgh, same local time in Sydney, where he had wakened Paula from her first sound night’s sleep of the trip when he had called her an hour before.

  The inspector climbed a few steps off the pavement, then led the way between two tall blocks into a courtyard filled with cafeteria tables, and round to an escalator that rose into the foyer of the late Henry Mount’s hotel. He walked up to the reception desk and showed his badge, then waited, while a key card was cut for him. ‘Forty-seventh floor,’ he said, as they stood in front of the lifts. ‘This hotel starts on thirty-five. The floors below are all offices.’

  The elevator was lightning fast; McGuire felt his stomach flip as it came to a stop and was glad that he had skipped breakfast. As they turned into a corridor, open on one side and looking down on to a central area below, with a canopied bar, he spotted the author’s room long before he could read the number, from the orange tape that was stretched across it. Giarratano stepped up to the door and ripped it off, then slid the key into the slot.

  The bed had been made up. ‘Housekeeping must have been in before it was sealed off,’ the Australian murmured. ‘I hope they haven’t screwed anything up.’ Nevertheless, before they stepped inside, the two men donned white, sterile gloves, as if they were as anxious to leave no mess as not to contaminate any evidence.

  ‘I’m only looking for one thing,’ the DCS told him as he stepped into the room, and saw the view through a wall of windows. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’ One side of the hotel looked out on to a great circular stadium surrounded by six floodlighting towers.

  ‘MCG, mate.’ Another acronym. ‘Melbourne Cricket Ground, the greatest stadium in the world, we reckon.’ Giarratano pointed to its right. ‘And that is the Rod Laver tennis centre, where they play our Open. The MCG’s used all year round; they play Aussie rules footie there in the winter.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had any.’

  ‘Winter? Come on, it’s freezing today.’

  ‘No, rules. I saw a sports paper in Sydney on Monday: before they got round to telling you the scores, they listed the weekend’s injuries.’

  Giarratano grinned. ‘Maybe so, but the MCG holds a hundred thousand, and we can fill it for a game.’

  ‘So did the Colosseum, and the Romans filled that too. That’s blood sports for you. OK,’ he said, ‘let’s see what Mr Mount’s left behind him.’ Quickly and methodically the two detectives searched the room. McGuire checked the dead man’s suitcase, half-filled with fresh clothes, then picked his way through a plastic bag, crammed with used garments, but found nothing. The Australian checked drawers and wardrobes, but saw only a jacket and two pairs of trousers, draped over hangers, a pair of black shoes, and another bag, containing trainers and gym clothing. The room had a desk, by the window. On it sat a pile of books, a programme for the Writers’ Festival, a copy of the previous day’s Age newspaper, a notepad and two pens. But nothing else.

  ‘Did he have his passport on him when he died?’ the Scot asked.

  ‘No, but he could have left that with the concierge. Wedding ring, Breitling watch, wallet, change purse, mobile phone, cigarette lighter and a Fuji pocket digital camera; those were all the personal items he had on him. I checked the list this morning, before I came to collect you.’

  ‘No more cigars?’

  ‘No. That’s why I checked.’

  ‘Then they’re here,’ McGuire declared. ‘He’d another five days to go on this trip. This man would not run out of his favourite brand.’

  ‘We should try the safe deposit box.’

  ‘There is one?’

  ‘This is a five-star hotel, Mario; of course there is. The receptionist gave me the emergency unlock code. All we need to do now is find the damn thing.’

  ‘Let’s check the wardrobe.’ He stepped across, opened the unit that Giarratano had just searched, and looked in, seeing nothing at first . . . until he moved the gym bag. ‘Got it. Damn thing’s on the floor.’

  He stood back as his smaller, nimbler colleague squatted beside the rectangular safe and keyed in four numbers, then swung the steel door open. He reached inside, fumbling, then smiled as he withdrew a wooden box and held it up for McGuire to take.

  The DCS read the name on the lid aloud. ‘La Gloria Cubana, Medaille d’Or number two.’ He opened the box, and a rich odour seemed to explode from it. ‘Jesus, these are good,’ he murmured. He looked inside and counted. Originally it had held twenty-five cigars; there were twelve left.

  ‘Are you a smoker?’

  ‘Not any more, but when I was I never had the palate for these things. Papa Viareggio did, though. He loved his cigars; I suspect that if he hadn’t died when I was sixteen, he’d have done his best to get me hooked. He’d have loved these, I know.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But the thing is, Papa didn’t just smoke them, he imported them.’

  ‘Through the internet?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Michael. I’m talking about way before that was created. No, he imported them and he sold them. The family business that he started began with fish and chip shops, but he diversified over the years, into cafés and delicatessens. In the delis, he always stocked good cigars, the kind he smoked himself; he reckoned it made good business sense. You got the cigar aficionados through the door, you got their wives afterwards.’

  ‘What happened to the business?’

  ‘When Papa died, Paula’s dad took it over, my Uncle Beppe. He didn’t ruin it, but he didn’t move it forward either. But then he died, Paula succeeded him, and
she did. It’s bigger now, with property holdings as well as the shops. Yet it’s still family owned, and it still follows the model that the old man established, including the importing of cigars. If Henry Mount bought his Havanas in Edinburgh, there’s a fair chance he bought them from my family.’ He frowned. ‘But he didn’t get them with a special bonus, though. Somebody rigged this box, some bastard with a dark sense of humour.’ He looked inside. ‘These come without cellophane wrappers,’ he said, ‘and they’re handmade, so it would have been relatively easy to rig a bullet trap in one and put it back without Mount being any the wiser.’

  ‘So where does the sense of humour come in?’ Giarratano asked.

  McGuire passed him the box. ‘Take a look,’ he told him. ‘The cigars are packed in three layers, eight, nine and eight. The top layer’s gone and there are four cigars left in the second. That means the one that did the damage was number thirteen . . . unlucky for Henry.’

  ‘Shit.’ The Australian paused. ‘Are we going to fight over who gets this box, Mario?’

  ‘I hope we don’t have to. Obviously you have to look for prints and DNA other than Mount’s, but if you get a result I promise you that the match will not be in Australia but in Scotland.’

  ‘Unless your assumption is wrong, and he bought it here, or even in the duty free in Dubai.’

  The big DCS grinned. ‘If they were duty free, it would say so on the box, but the rest is easily sorted. Bring it over to the window and hold it up.’ As Giarratano obeyed, he took a camera from his pocket. ‘Let me see the side with the bar code.’ He stepped in close, zoomed in on the black and white strip, focused and took a photograph, then a second, then a third, ‘For twice the luck,’ he said. ‘Find me internet access in this place. I’ll send these back to Edinburgh right now, and I’ll warn my people to expect them. I’ll copy them to you at the same time. You can both get checking, and by this evening we’ll know for sure.’

  ‘If it’s Edinburgh, do you want the box?’

  ‘At this stage, all we really need are any prints and DNA you lift from it. Did you bring an evidence bag, as well as these gloves?’

  ‘Yes.’ The inspector pulled a large clear envelope from his pocket, unfolded it and slid the cigar box inside. ‘Let’s take this back to my office. You can send your email from there.’

  ‘No chance, mate. I send it from here, then I go back to the Grand Hyatt and check out. I’m on the first plane back to Sydney. I’m on holiday, remember.’ He smiled. ‘But to be honest, I have one more job to do. Paula never travels anywhere without her tiny wee Sony laptop. I need her to use it to access her files back home and find out for sure if Viareggio and company sell La Gloria Cubana cigars.’

  Sixty-seven

  Gerry Crossley prided himself on being an early starter. His job description read ‘nine to five’, but he always made a point of being at his desk at least fifteen minutes before the appointed time, so that everything would be ready for the chief constable’s arrival. There had been heavy overnight rain, and a brief shower had caught him between the bus stop in Comely Bank and the headquarters building; standing in the corridor, he shook surface water off his raincoat before stepping into his compact office and hanging it on one of the two wall hooks. The other was occupied; a short car coat hung from it.

  The connecting door to the chief’s room was slightly ajar. He popped his head round, to see Bob Skinner seated at his meeting table, with the daily newspapers spread out before him, and a mug in his hand. He looked up and smiled. ‘Morning, Gerry,’ he called out.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ the secretary replied. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘You’re not; I’m early.’ He paused. ‘And listen, we’ve got to get something sorted out. You’re a civilian colleague, not a serving officer, and you’re certainly not a servant, so don’t go “sirring” me all the time.’

  ‘How should I address you?’

  ‘In any way that makes us both feel comfortable. You want to call me “Bob” in private and “Mr Skinner” in front of the troops, I’m fine with that.’

  ‘I’m not sure the head of HR would approve of me being on first-name terms.’

  ‘The head of HR reports to me; her approval or disapproval isn’t of any consequence.’

  Crossley stood for a few seconds, thinking. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘if it’s all the same to you, Mr Skinner, I’ll call you that, or “Chief”, as appropriate. That’s what you are now, to police and civilians alike, and that’s how I addressed Sir James.’

  ‘Fine. That’s agreed. Now, as for my daily routine, I plan to be here by eight thirty, partly because the traffic’s slightly easier, and partly because it’ll let me do what I’m doing now, catch up on what the press are saying, before this place comes alive. Once that’s done, I’ll look at any urgent mail, then at nine fifteen, with effect from tomorrow, I want a quick morning meeting with the deputy . . . when appointed; until then Brian Mackie’s acting . . . the ACC, head of CID, or in his absence Neil McIlhenney, and David Mackenzie. No agenda, just a review of current business.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll do a note for your signature, for circulation.’

  ‘Nah, do it yourself; I want you to be seen as an executive more than as a secretary. We’ll maybe give you a new title. “Chef d’équipe” sounds a bit flash, but something along those lines. Frame the circular “The chief constable requests,” and so on. It’ll have the same effect as if I sign it. Tell them I don’t anticipate it lasting any longer than fifteen minutes and that if anyone wants coffee or tea they can bring it themselves.’

  Crossley grinned. ‘They’ll love that.’

  ‘They’ll have to. I’m not making it for them, and neither are you. However, I’ll cater for the head of HR this morning. Ask her to come and see me at nine thirty, to brief me on procedures for appointing the new deputy. It has to be advertised, but tell her I want to know whether we can frame it in such a way that if Brian Mackie’s promoted deputy, we can select an assistant to replace him from the same list of applicants.’

  ‘Will do, Chief. Will you want to talk to her about designating an acting ACC?’

  ‘No, Gerry, I’m not going to do that, not yet, at any rate; Maggie Steele comes back from maternity leave next month, and it’s going to be her. HR doesn’t need to be consulted on that, just told.’ The secretary said nothing, but his eyes expressed approval. ‘One other thing,’ said Skinner, ‘while I remember. I’d like you to check Brian Mackie’s leave sheet. Aileen and I will be taking time off in October, while Holyrood’s in recess.’

  ‘Very good. I’ll leave you to get on with the papers. How was the coverage of your briefing?’

  ‘Restrained,’ Skinner told him. ‘There are news reports of my appointment, and a couple of photos, but nothing about the interruption. Mitchell Laidlaw’s interdict is pretty comprehensive in what it prohibits. One of the tabloids has done a background piece on me that includes a picture of Alex, but that’s as close to the wind as anyone seems to have sailed. I’m nearly finished. Just the Herald and the Saltire to read.’

  He picked up his mug as Crossley left. It was half-full, but the contents were cold, and so he tipped them into the basin in his private bathroom, then poured himself a refill. Coffee was one of his vices, and he knew it. Only Aileen’s firm instruction had made him switch to decaf.

  He was studying the Herald when his phone rang. His appointment was reported on page three, but his attention was focused on the front. He reached across to his desk and took the call.

  ‘I have a call for you, Mr Skinner,’ said his assistant, ‘but I’m not sure you’ll want to take it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘It’s from Brankholme Prison, near Darlington; the deputy governor who put it through here told me that it takes high-risk remand prisoners from the regional courts. The caller’s Dražen Boras, the man who’s awaiting trial for—’

  ‘I know who Dražen Boras is, Gerry. Why would that bastard want to speak
to me? To congratulate me on my appointment?’

  ‘He says he has information, and that he’ll only give it to you, nobody else. He says it’s vital, and that you’ll be very interested in it. The deputy governor said she reckons he’s genuine.’

  Skinner took a deep breath and gazed out of the window, at the uninspiring view of an empty playing field. The last time he had seen Dražen Boras, one of only two meetings, he and Mario McGuire had arrested him in a hotel in Monaco, and had charged him with the murder of Stevie Steele, Maggie’s husband. The Bosnian-born millionaire had thought himself beyond their reach, thanks to the help of American friends who had repaid favours owed, but he had been wrong. Skinner knew that there was a good chance he would have to see the man again, to give evidence of his arrest, but in truth, if he could have tossed him from the balcony of his room in the Columbus to save the expense of a trial, he would have done so without a second’s thought.

  ‘Vital, is it?’ he murmured, feeling the anger welling up within him. ‘OK, Gerry, I’ll take Mr Boras’s call, but you be listening in. Tell him he’ll be recorded.’

  ‘But we don’t have that facility, Chief.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Dražen’s the sort of bloke who’ll assume we do. I wouldn’t want to ruin our image in his eyes.’ As he waited, he realised that he was gripping the phone as tightly as he might if he had his hand round Boras’s throat. He forced himself to relax, to be calm.

  ‘Mr Skinner.’ The voice was smooth, the accent that of an English public schoolboy, as he had been. ‘I’m slightly surprised you’re speaking to me, since I know you and your people would like me dead.’

  ‘You’re being dealt with as we would wish, Mr Boras. You’ll have your day in court, then if you’re convicted, as our evidence says you will be, you’ll have your thirty years, or whatever, in jail.’

  ‘Thirty years, you reckon?’

  ‘Less than the time my colleague might have had left. Did you know his widow has a baby daughter that he never saw?’