19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘That’s a great pity. Without making any admission for your tape, I assure you that I am genuinely sorry about that, as I am about the unfortunate death of DI Steele. If I send you a gift for the child, will you pass it on?’

  ‘No, I’ll have you charged with attempted bribery. Now what is it that you want? What’s this information that you have for me?’

  ‘I won’t give it to you over the phone, or in any environment where I can be recorded. I’m a sitting target here.’

  ‘Be sure you stay close to the window,’ said Skinner, drily.

  ‘They don’t let me do that. I need to see you, Mr Skinner, to tell you what I know. If you have me brought up to Edinburgh, I’ll tell you there.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that.’

  ‘I thought not. Then you come to me, you and that gorilla of a colleague who thumped me in Monaco.’

  ‘You’re kidding. You really don’t want to meet DCS McGuire again. Anyway, he’s away just now.’

  ‘Then someone else.’

  ‘Are you trying to work a plea bargain? If you are, talk to the Crown Prosecution Service, not me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Maybe I’m just looking for some credit, when it counts.’

  ‘Like when it comes to sentencing?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You’ll get nothing from me.’

  Boras sighed. ‘OK, if you come to me, I’ll take you on trust.’

  ‘I repeat, why should I? What have you got for me?’

  ‘This morning,’ Boras replied, ‘when they woke me at the usual ungodly hour, they gave me my usual newspapers. In the Daily Mail, I saw a photograph, three actually, of a man you are looking for, someone calling himself Hugo Playfair.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Skinner, feeling the hair on the back of his neck start to prickle.

  ‘I know who he is.’

  Sixty-eight

  ‘What do you think, Sarge?’ Sauce Haddock asked. ‘Will things be much different now that Mr Skinner’s chief constable?’

  ‘In theory, no,’ Ray Wilding replied, ‘not for us, at any rate. The word that’s filtered down from Neil McIlhenney is that he’s going to keep hands-on with CID, just like he did before. But there are bound to be changes. There’ll be somebody new in the command corridor, for openers.’

  ‘Someone from outside?’

  ‘You’d assume so, especially with the big man’s being promoted internally, but I wouldn’t put money on that. He’s loyal to his own, and it’ll take a good candidate to beat Brian Mackie for the deputy job. If that happens—’

  ‘Mr McGuire for ACC?’

  ‘Wait and see, lad; I don’t expect anyone will give us a vote.’

  ‘What about Andy Martin?’ Alice Cowan called out across the CID room.

  Wilding stared at her. ‘Are you pulling my chain?’

  ‘No,’ she replied innocently. ‘Why not him?’

  ‘If you don’t know, I’m not going to be the one to tell you. Let’s just say that Judas bloody Iscariot’s got more chance.’

  Cowan turned to Haddock. ‘Sauce, what have I missed?’ she demanded, but the young DC was saved by the ringing of his phone.

  He snatched it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DC Haddock, Leith? Communications Centre. I have a call for you, foreign, from Belgrade.’

  His heart jumped in his chest. ‘Put it through.’ He heard a click. ‘This is DC Harold Haddock,’ he said.

  ‘I received email,’ a woman replied, ‘from you, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Are you Vsna?’

  ‘That’s my name, Vsna Vukic. You tell me the man who email me before is dead?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Murdered.’

  ‘Shit! Then I shouldn’t be speaking to you.’

  ‘I won’t take long.’

  ‘He ask me about some people, give me names, Andelić, Nikolić, asked me if I knew them.’

  ‘Why did he ask you?’

  ‘I am journalist in Sarajevo. Someone we both know sent him to me, a lady in America.’

  ‘Did he say anything else to you?’

  ‘When I reply to his mail I ask why he want to know anyway. He send me another. It said, “It’s about the cleaner.” That’s all I need to know. I delete his mails, just like I’m going to delete yours now. Don’t send me no more. I going to close that address.’

  ‘But . . .’ There was a sound, louder than a click, the sound of a phone hitting its cradle, hard. And then the dialling tone.

  ‘That’s a load of help,’ he sighed. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Sixty-nine

  ‘Where’s Neil?’ asked Mario McGuire ‘When I called Fettes they said that he and the chief went off somewhere in a hurry, and that I was to call you instead. Where the hell’s he gone, and what’s he doing with Proud Jimmy?’

  ‘You are indeed out of touch, boss,’ Sammy Pye told him. ‘Sir James is gone. The new chief constable took up the post yesterday.’

  ‘Big Bob?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Acting chief?’

  ‘No, permanent. For once in this place, nothing leaked in advance of it happening.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t be too hard on McIlhenney for not tipping me off, especially since it’s the result we all wanted. Now, where are they off to?’

  ‘I don’t know. All he told me is that it has nothing to do with our investigation.’

  ‘Investigations, plural. There’s no longer any serious doubt that Glover and Mount were killed by the same person.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sammy, I’m the fucking head of CID. If I tell you something as gospel, you’re not supposed to ask me if I’m sure, even if I am giving you information from the other side of the planet.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the DI, chastened.

  ‘That’s OK,’ McGuire chuckled. ‘I’m taking the piss because I’m pleased with myself. You have no idea the buzz you get from swanning into somebody else’s territory and clearing up his crime for him. His boss was so pleased she even picked up my hotel tab in Melbourne.’

  ‘Paula’s premise held up, about how he was killed?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. They’ve done the post-mortem and confirmed it. There were powder burns on his fingers and lips, and tobacco in his mouth. His uvula was missing, shot off, and there was an exit wound behind where it used to be. They’ve actually found the bullet. They dug it out of a window frame behind where he was standing. After it went through the top of his spine and into the wood, it was flat as a pancake.’

  ‘So it’s our investigation, officially,’ said Pye.

  ‘We pretty much knew that as soon as George discovered his computer had been stolen, but yes, it’s ours, Inspector.’

  ‘And like with Glover, we’ve got bugger-all forensic evidence.’

  ‘Ah but,’ exclaimed McGuire, in a voice so exultant that Pye could almost see him beam, ‘we do, my son, we do.’ Without pausing he launched into a step-by-step description of the discovery of the cigar box, ‘You should see the MCG from that room, mate; some view,’ and of his photographing the bar code. ‘Those images will be in McIlhenney’s mailbox right now. He must have gone off in such a rush he didn’t have time to open it.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can access it,’ the DI volunteered.

  ‘No need. We’ve cracked that too, thanks to my old grandad, dead these twenty years and more. Paula’s IT traced the bar code. That very box was stocked by the Viareggio deli just off St Andrews Square. It’s six thirty in the evening here in Sydney, so they’ll be open by now. These babies are very rare items; that lot cost going on for two hundred quid the set, and even in Edinburgh they don’t turn over many of them. If we discount the bizarre notion that Henry Mount decided to kill himself by doctoring one of his own Havanas, that means that someone either tampered with the thing after he’d bought it, or they bought it for him. You need to get somebody up to that shop to pinpoint the sale, a
nd get the credit card details, and you need to reinterview Mount’s family.’

  ‘What about the box, and the cigars?’

  ‘We’re getting them. My new friend the chief commissioner of Victoria State Police herself has decreed that. They’re in a secure container on their way to the airport even now. You’ll have them tomorrow.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, I don’t envy the lab, trying to lift DNA off the cigars that are left. They’re handmade, in Cuba; we might have bother summoning witnesses from there.’ He chuckled. ‘Almost as much trouble as you’ll have trying to find me for the rest of my holiday. As of tomorrow, we’re up in Queensland, in a Nissan Movano, and our mobiles will be switched off.’

  Seventy

  ‘This is not how I imagined I’d be spending my first day as chief constable,’ said Bob Skinner to Neil McIlhenney as he swung off the A1(M), heading for Darlington. They had made good time from Edinburgh: it was still well short of midday.

  ‘I don’t imagine it was,’ his friend replied. ‘Your time’s even more valuable now. Then there are the perks of the job; you could have had a driver take us down here, and take you to and from the office, for that matter.’

  ‘I don’t plan to use that privilege unless it’s official and there might be alcohol involved; an ACPOS dinner, for example. Aileen gets picked up from home by her government car. If I had one as well, how long would it be before the tabloids caught on? I’m probably not flavour of the month with them, after our pal Laidlaw crapped all over their big picture special yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah,’ McIlhenney chuckled, as they joined a line of traffic on a single-carriageway road. ‘Too bad Mitch retired from our Thursday night football in North Berwick. I miss his silky skills.’

  ‘He’d probably sue you for describing him that way.’ Skinner sighed. ‘Maybe I should quit too; that would be a good picture for the sports page. I can see the headline: “Superintendent kicks fuck out of Chief Constable”. Yes, maybe enough’s enough.’

  ‘Away you go. You need it; we both do. It lets us mix with guys outside the job on a regular basis. Taking me along there was the second biggest favour you’ve ever done me.’

  ‘I needn’t ask what the biggest was.’

  ‘No. Introducing me to Louise tops the lot.’ McIlhenney hesitated. ‘She has told me about you two, you know, that you went out with each other at university. You never mentioned it.’

  ‘Of course not. It was for her to do that.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you’d stayed together?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have worked. We were too career-minded, both of us. If we had, though, I suppose you and I might have wound up with pistols at dawn.’

  ‘Like you and Andy?’

  Skinner winced. ‘No. That’s different. That won’t be a duel; if it comes to a fight, it’ll be my rules.’

  ‘You mean if he applies for the deputy’s job?’

  ‘I mean if he applies for any fucking job in Scotland; as from October, that’ll be the First Minister’s stepdaughter in those photographs. Aileen hasn’t seen them, nor will she, but she’s nearly as angry as me. But let’s not dwell on that.’

  ‘October?’

  ‘Yes. A quiet do; registry office wedding, just us and witnesses, then a blessing by Jim Gainer, with guests, then a reception in the Parliament building . . . for which we will be paying the standard fee, incidentally. Keep it to yourself, but look out for the invite.’ As he spoke, a sweet female voice from his satellite navigation system told him to turn right in three hundred yards. He obeyed and found himself heading north once more, for a mile or so, until a structure that could only have been a prison came into view. ‘HMP Brankholme,’ he said. ‘Looks pretty secure; it would take a battalion to break in here, so getting out would be something of a challenge.’

  ‘If you have the money . . .’

  ‘Nah. The staff here are meant to be incorruptible, and bribery’s the only way you could do it.’

  ‘I bet Ainsley Glover or Henry Mount could have dreamed up a plan.’

  ‘Maybe, but I doubt if Dražen Boras is a reader of either of them. They’re too parochial; he moves internationally, just like his old man Davor does.’ He frowned. ‘Now there is a guy I really do not like.’

  ‘Are you saying you like Dražen?’

  ‘I like some people I’ve put away,’ said Skinner. ‘Lenny Plenderleith for one. Dražen? No, I never could, because he killed my friend and he has to pay the full price for that. But in terms of evil, of ruthlessness, I reckon the father’s a league above the son. From our conversation this morning I’m coming to believe that Dražen genuinely regrets that Stevie died. But from my meetings with his dad, I don’t believe that he gives a fuck.’ The navigation system interrupted again, advising him that he had reached his destination. ‘You can form your own view of junior in a few minutes.’

  Entry to the prison was complicated. Their warrant cards were checked . . . Skinner’s still showed him as deputy chief constable . . . and Skinner’s car was checked, engine compartment, boot and beneath, before they passed the second gate, where a second layer of security awaited. Eventually they were greeted by a tall woman in a dark suit, with close-cropped brown hair, and a manner, as she introduced herself, which indicated that she had no problem functioning in a predominantly male work environment. ‘Ngaio Arnott, Deputy Governor. I processed Boras’s call to you.’

  ‘Did he have trouble persuading you that he was serious?’ asked Skinner.

  ‘Yes, especially since you’re possibly going to be a witness in his trial. If it had been anyone other than you, I’d have refused on those grounds, but he assured me that he has essential information unrelated to his own case, so I decided on public interest grounds to let you decide whether to speak to him or not. You’re here, so I guess I made the right decision.’

  ‘He could still be taking the piss, but if he is I’ll look like a mug, not you.’ The chief looked at her. ‘What sort of a prisoner is he?’

  ‘Exemplary. He’s courteous, he does what he’s asked rather than what he’s told . . . and that makes a huge difference in a place like this, as I’m sure you’ll know.’

  ‘Does he mix with other prisoners?’

  ‘He’s not isolated, as such, but he keeps himself to himself. As a remand prisoner, he’s not required to work, so he exercises a lot, in his cell and in the gym, when it’s available to him. He reads the business press every day, and his library withdrawals show an interest in foreign affairs.’

  ‘Is he resented by other prisoners?’ McIlhenney asked her.

  ‘Do you mean has anyone ever had a go at him? No. He’s not a man to invite that sort of attention. As you’re about to find out for yourself; he should be in the interview room by now.’

  Arnott led the way through a series of corridors, until she stopped outside a plain grey door, and peered through a spyhole. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘he’s here.’ She opened the door, and ushered the police officers inside, announcing them both by name and rank.

  Dražen Boras sat at a table, facing them; it was fixed to the floor and he was shackled to it, handcuffs through a bolt in the surface. He smiled as they entered. Skinner gazed at him, appraising him. He wore a skin-tight black Nike vest, and the evidence of his gym work was clear to see in well-defined musculature. He was clean-shaven, and somehow, even in prison, he had managed to maintain a tan. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he greeted them. ‘I’d rise, but they won’t let me.’

  The chief constable looked at the deputy governor. ‘I think we can lose those,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be fine. Dražen knows I’d just love him to have a go at me.’

  Boras nodded. ‘True, and I have no thought of it.’

  Arnott nodded to a guard, who stepped forward and unfastened his cuffs.

  ‘Is this room bugged?’ he asked. ‘I don’t see anything, but you may be more subtle than I give you credit for.’

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ the woman promised. ‘This room
is kept for lawyers and clients; we couldn’t use anything we taped so there would be no point doing it.’

  ‘I can see that. You can leave us.’ He pointed to the guard. ‘He can go too.’

  ‘No,’ said Skinner firmly. ‘He stays; he can stand as far away as this room allows, but he stays. I want him as insurance against you banging your head off the wall then accusing us of helping you do it.’

  The prisoner chuckled. ‘I can see that too. OK, I agree.’ As Arnott left the room, the warder went to its furthest corner and the two police officers took seats at the table.

  ‘Right,’ Skinner began briskly. ‘We didn’t come here for the drive, Dražen.’ He took three photo prints from his pocket and laid them on the desk. ‘So tell us, who is he?’

  ‘First, what’s in it for me?’

  ‘I told you, we’re not here to do a deal with you.’

  ‘That’s what you said, but you’ve got here in under three hours. It seems that you need the information I have. I’m right, am I not, Mr Skinner? Maybe I’m right too in that you have a personal interest in this case. The Daily Mail report said that you live in the village where a man was killed, for which this guy is on the run.’

  ‘Yes and no. I live there, but the man isn’t necessarily on the run because he did the killing. In fact I don’t believe that he did. Dražen, you have no cards in your hand. You know this man? OK, from where? Was he a business acquaintance? I doubt that, not going by the way he lived. Were you at school together, or university? Possible, but if you were we could have checked that without driving down here, you know that. So that leaves your other activity. Let’s summarise that. Your father was a Bosnian immigrant to Britain who made it big here. When his country was torn apart and NATO got involved, he volunteered his services to the intelligence community, placing agents in the Balkans as employees of his business. Eventually, so did you, when you set up in business for yourself. Don’t ask me why, but I’m certain I reckon you know this man from those days. If you choose not to give me his name, I can ask your father, or your former associates in America.’

  Boras’s eyes darkened. ‘You can ask my father if you can find him. A few days after my arrest, he disappeared. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since, not even by my mother.’