19 - Fatal Last Words

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Because he was afraid you’d incriminate him in Stevie’s murder?’ asked McIlhenney.

  ‘Not for a second. Because there are forces still at work in our region who would kill him if they could, for the things that he and I did against them, just as they’d kill me if they could get to me. As for the other people your boss mentions, you’d get nothing out of them. They have too many others still at risk to give one up. Plus, I think you’ll find that they’ve disowned me. I’m probably as much at risk from them as from my enemies in Serbia.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘You know,’ he murmured, ‘I believe everything you’ve just said. But you’re going to give us that name, with no promises or inducements; I believe that too. I’m Scottish, Dražen. My writ doesn’t run down here, and you’re well aware of that. No, you’re going to talk to us, because your conscience is going to make you, because you owe, not us, necessarily, but a widow and a baby up in Edinburgh. This morning you said something about sending a gift to wee Stephanie. You can’t. This is all you can do; all that it’s in your power to offer in atonement . . . without, of course, admitting your sin. So, let’s have it.’

  Boras leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked towards the guard in the corner. ‘He has to go now,’ he said.

  Skinner nodded. ‘If that’s what you want.’ He turned to the man. ‘Leave us, please.’

  As the door closed, Boras laid both hands on the table. ‘I believe you’re a fair man,’ he told the chief constable. ‘If this helps the Crown not to press for a heavy minimum sentence if I’m convicted, so be it, but I don’t expect you to try to fix that.’

  ‘I won’t. I can’t. Go on.’

  ‘About four years ago, the people you referred to, in America, asked my father and I for help. They had an agent they wanted to place in Bosnia-Herzegovina, and were looking for a way in. The man had a specific task: he was to go into Serbia to look for witnesses to an act of genocide ordered and presided over personally by a notorious general, a beast, a piece of shit named Bogdan Tadic. He was confident that he’d killed them all, but there was intelligence that a very few had slipped the net and that they were in hiding, near Uzice, in fear for their lives. The operative was briefed to find them, and keep them safe. With them in safe hands, Tadic could be arrested and sent for trial at the International Tribunal at the Hague. My father and I were happy to help with that, but he had placed three people through his office in Sarajevo within the previous year. His business, Continental IT, was big, but yet another appointment might have attracted attention. So we decided that I would handle it through my company, Fishheads. We were supposed to be deadly business rivals, he and I, so my building up a presence there seemed quite natural.’ He stopped and looked Skinner in the eye. ‘You don’t give my father enough credit, you know. He’s a genuine Bosnian patriot, and through him so am I.’

  ‘I’ve never doubted that,’ the chief constable told him. ‘However, I also give you both credit for being murderers, and not for patriotic motives.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Boras retorted. ‘Ah, let’s not get into a debate. I met the agent in Washington,’ he continued. ‘His name was Lazar Erceg, born in Tuzla to a British mother and to a Yugoslav, a professor of modern Balkan history. He was perfect for the job, and I could pass him off as an employee, no trouble, given his upbringing. When he was eleven the father managed to arrange a move to Cambridge, and young Lazar completed his education there. Then Yugoslavia exploded, Milosevic came to power and things were bad for anyone who wasn’t a Serb and for some who were. Professor Erceg went home, to help found Bosnia as an independent nation, became a member of the first government, and was promptly killed, shot by a sniper. They never caught the assassin, but nobody needed a picture to be drawn. Young Lazar was in the British Territorial Army. He wanted to go home to fight, but his mother said, “No way!” and he obeyed her. He stayed in Cambridge and became an academic like his father, within the same area, supplementing his income by writing scripts for the BBC World Service. By this time he sounded as English as I do, so he was never asked to broadcast, but he came to the attention of the Foreign Office, and eventually of other people as well.’

  ‘He was recruited then?’

  ‘He was never recruited. He volunteered, for any job, as he put it, that needed doing and for which he might be suitable. Then he waited; while the war ended, while the Kosovo insurgency happened, he waited. Not in Cambridge, though, not all the time; he went back home whenever he could. He visited the family he still had there, and he came to know the country his father had died to found. While he was there, he heard of Tadic, and what he did. It isn’t one of the most notorious atrocities, because the dead were numbered in dozens, not in thousands, but that didn’t matter to them, how many were piled into the mass grave. It was an ethnic Bosnian enclave, in Serbia; people in a couple of small villages, minding their own business when Tadic warned them to get out of the country. They ignored him. He didn’t give them a second chance. It was brutal, horribly brutal.’

  ‘Wasn’t he arrested as soon as the war was over?’ asked McIlhenney.

  ‘In Serbia, with Milosevic in power? No chance. Besides, no witnesses. That’s what Lazar Erceg was sent in to put right. And I was happy to help.’

  ‘You sent him in?’

  ‘I appointed him Balkans regional sales development manager of Fishheads Ltd. I gave him an office, and a supply of business cards. The name on them was Hugo Playfair,’ he pushed the photographs back towards Skinner and McIlhenney, ‘and that gentlemen is him.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘You’re not just feeding us a line here?’

  ‘There is no doubt about it,’ said Boras, smiling. ‘Come on, Detective Superintendent, you think I don’t know my own employees?’

  ‘What happened to him between then and now?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Search me. I never saw him again, and they didn’t give me operational feedback. All I know is that Tadic was eventually arrested, and put on trial before the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, to give it its full title. He was convicted . . . must be at least two years ago . . . and sentenced to life imprisonment, as in, not to be released until dead.’ Suddenly he winced. ‘If he wasn’t a genocidal bastard I might feel some sympathy for him, in my situation.’

  ‘So why should Playfair show up in Scotland, going round the country with a band of travelling people?’

  ‘I take it that question was rhetorical, Chief Constable,’ the prisoner exclaimed. ‘For I haven’t a fucking clue.’ He paused. ‘However, there is one person I can think of who might give you some more background.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘One of Tadic’s trial judges. From your own city, I believe: Lord Elmore.’

  Seventy-one

  ‘This is a nice set-up,’ said Ray Wilding. ‘I confess that I’ve never been in a Viareggio deli before. Are they all like this?’

  ‘As far as I know they are,’ Sammy Pye told him. ‘They always were pretty classy, but since Paula took over from her old man, she’s moved them further upmarket.’

  The sergeant whistled. ‘Why’s our head of CID in the police force if he’s part of the family that owns this? Why isn’t he in the business?’

  ‘I think he could have been, but he chose the police. So Neil McIlhenney told me.’ He pushed the door open. ‘Fancy lunch in the coffee shop?’

  ‘Sure. It’s going on one, and we might have to hang about anyway if this manager isn’t back soon from her family funeral.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ Pye stepped up to the counter. ‘Is Miss Hammett in?’ he asked an assistant, showing his identification. ‘We’d like a word.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ the man replied. ‘Is Mickey back?’ he called to a colleague at the cash desk.

  ‘She’s back,’ a woman’s voice announced. The detectives looked around to see a black trouser suit approach, a hand within it outstretched in greeting.
‘Michaela Hammett. You the police?’

  ‘DI Pye, DS Wilding. We’re here to ask you about a particular box of cigars we believe was sold here.’

  ‘La Gloria Cubanas, cabinet of twenty-five. I had an email from my boss asking me to trace details of the purchase. Monday last week, that’s when the transaction took place.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  The manager frowned. ‘That’s as impressive as it gets, I’m afraid. It was a cash sale, so I’ve got no credit card details for you, I’m afraid.’ She waved a hand to attract the attention of the counter assistant, then beckoned him across. ‘This is Eddie McBain,’ she said as he joined them. ‘He’s our cigar specialist, believe it or not.’ He smiled bashfully, interpreting her remark as a compliment. ‘Box of La Glorias,’ she said, ‘ten days ago. Your name’s on the sale slip.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about the buyer?’ Pye asked him.

  ‘I remember he’d about five hundred quid in his bankroll. I saw it when he paid me; he peeled them off in twenties.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  McBain frowned. ‘Thirty-something, maybe just, maybe a year or two younger, white; wore a blazer, as I remember, with a wee lapel badge, and a pale blue shirt with a white collar. Sharp guy, looked like a soldier rather than an office worker.’

  ‘Clean-shaven?’

  ‘No, he’d a moustache. His hair was neat too, dark and wavy, but he’d used foam on it. Aye, and he wore glasses, the kind that react to the light.’

  Pye frowned, remembering . . . ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Do you no’ want his name?’ the assistant asked, surprised.

  The inspector stared at him. ‘I thought it was a cash sale,’ he retorted.

  ‘It was, but when I gave him his change, I said tae him, “These are cracking cigars. I hope you enjoy them, Mr . . .” and then I realised I didnae know his name, and felt daft, until he said to me, “Cockburn, the name’s Cockburn,” and left.’

  The detectives exchanged glances. ‘I want you to think about this,’ said Wilding. ‘Instead of “Cockburn”, could the man have said “Coben”? Is that possible?’

  Eddie McBain’s face lit up. ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘it’s more than possible, it’s likely. I just thought he was mumblin’ when he said it.’

  Seventy-two

  ‘What did you think of him, then?’

  McIlhenney glanced momentarily to his left from behind the wheel; he had volunteered to drive back to Edinburgh, and Skinner had accepted. ‘I think he’s a remarkable man; if he hadn’t been influenced by his corrupt and wicked father . . .’

  ‘He’s a murderer, Neil. He didn’t plan to kill Stevie . . . that’s not in doubt . . . but he had killed already and the trap he laid was set for somebody else.’

  ‘Granted,’ the superintendent acknowledged, ‘but he’s locked up now, the evidence against him is strong, and that’s that. What I was going to say is that he gave me the impression of an inner strength that I haven’t encountered too often before. There’s a calmness about him that’s almost monastic.’

  ‘He’s no monk.’

  ‘He might as well be, in that place. I can understand why nobody’s had a go at him; he looks bloody dangerous. There’s an aura about him that will let him come to terms with his sentence. How long will he get, do you reckon?’

  ‘That’ll depend. His defence counsel will probably argue that Stevie was collateral damage, an innocent victim of a trap laid for villains. If the judge buys that, I could see a tariff of as little as fifteen years. But if he takes the hard line, then recent precedent says it could be as much as thirty-five years. Do you see him meditating his way through that?’

  ‘Maybe. Look at the Birdman of Alcatraz.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘You’ve been watching your wife’s favourite movies again. There’s no comparison. Stroud, the real Birdman, was a murderous bastard who caused chaos in American prisons. My guess is that Dražen’s so calm because he’s been told by his very expensive legal team that they’ll be able to cast reasonable doubt on the forensic evidence that we expect to convict him. But they’re all Londoners, and they’ve never seen Arthur Dorward in the witness box. You wait till he’s convicted; see then if he still has that aura about him.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘you misunderstood my original question. What I meant was, what did you think of what he had to say? Did you believe him, or was he spinning us a yarn, knowing that we’ll probably never be able to check it out?’

  ‘Yes, I believe him. I accept the idea that his willingness to help us is penance in some way for Stevie’s death. He knows Playfair, and he gave us his real name. It shouldn’t be hard to check, starting in Cambridge, so he knows we’d see through a lie very quickly.’

  ‘True. So what does it tell us about the man? What was he doing travelling around Scotland with a Bulgarian under his wing?’

  ‘You and I can only speculate about that,’ McIlhenney pointed out. ‘Our best hope is that Lord Elmore can tell us more . . . or tell me more, at any rate.’

  ‘You reckon I’ll leave that to you, do you, that I’ll be too busy in my new office? I don’t think so. It’s great being Supreme Leader; you get to cherry-pick. I’m going to sit in on that meeting, for two reasons. One, I’ve a personal interest in catching the killer of a man who was my companion only three nights ago.’

  ‘Granted. What’s the other?’

  ‘I have a funny feeling that I can see the way this thing is headed.’

  ‘Achh!’ the superintendent snorted. ‘You and your intuition. It’s a bloody sight more than I have.’

  His boss beamed. ‘I guess that’s why I’m chief constable,’ he said mildly.

  They drove on, circling Newcastle to the west, Skinner bemoaning the fact that the city’s notorious Brown Ale had passed into foreign ownership. ‘Not that I drink the stuff,’ he admitted, just as the ringtone of his mobile sounded through the car’s Bluetooth system. ‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice activating the call.

  ‘Bob? Piers Frame here; your secretary told me you were travelling. Can you speak? Are you alone?’

  ‘Not alone, but we can talk. My companion’s a senior officer and in on the investigation.’

  ‘OK, I’m happy with that. I don’t need you to identify him. Let’s leave the snoopers at GCHQ, who listen to my every word, I’m sure, something to puzzle over. I have some information for you, about the name Coben.’

  ‘Have you by God? I wasn’t hopeful, I admit.’

  ‘What I have to say won’t change that. He’s dead.’

  ‘Then he’s not the man I want, unless he’s been culled very recently.’

  ‘No, this happened a few years back. There is very little known about him, but Frankie Coben was a Serbian national, from a wealthy family with a part-Hungarian, part-American background. He seems to have been very much a background figure, though. The current Serbian government can’t tell us anything about him; all the records of him have been expunged. By whom? Nobody’s sure. He was a nasty piece of work; the anecdotal evidence . . . and that’s all there is . . . says that he was a state security fixer, torturer, and killer. He was also very bright; he was said to have been educated at the University of Belgrade, a student of literature.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was reported killed about seven years ago, during an assassination attempt that was blamed on the Americans. There was nothing intact in the building after the explosion, only body parts, but later, Coben’s papers and ID card were found among the wreckage.’

  ‘But nothing else, no physical confirmation . . . like his head, for example?’

  ‘No, that was all.’

  ‘I see.’ Skinner glanced across at McIlhenney; his eyes were on the road ahead, but he had eased his speed and was listening intently. ‘Can you get me a mugshot of this guy?’ he asked.

  ‘There aren’t any. They went with his
records.’

  ‘Was he the target of the hit?’

  ‘No, no. Coben was always a low-profile figure, never more than a background whisper; he didn’t attract that level of notoriety. They were after a bigger fish, and the best evidence that it was indeed an American effort is that they ballsed it up. The man they were after was Coben’s boss, who was then in hiding under protection, but he was elsewhere at the time . . . in a brothel, they reckoned after the event.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Tadic, General Bogdan Tadic.’

  Seventy-three

  ‘Has our cigar salesman finished with the artist?’ Pye called through the open door of his cubicle as Wilding walked back into the CID office.

  ‘Just.’ The sergeant waved a printout at him. He stepped into the room and laid it on the inspector’s desk. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘McBain reckons that’s spot on.’ The image could almost have been a photograph, it was so detailed. ‘What do we do with it now?’

  ‘We do two things. I’ve just had my instructions from the chief constable himself. He called me from his car to ask whether we’d heard from Mario in Australia, then hit the roof when I gave him my news. He and Neil McIlhenney have been away on a trip. He didn’t tell me where, but he did say it’s given them a clue to who the man might be. You’ve got the likeness on computer, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. I want you to send it to Andy Martin’s email, up in Dundee. Call him, warn him it’s there, wait till he opens it and ask him to confirm that it’s the man who called on him. The other task, I’ll handle; he wants the photofit faxed to a guy in London, who might be able to fill in some blanks on the guy.’

  ‘MI5?’

  ‘One number up from that.’

  Wilding’s eyes widened. ‘Jesus, this is serious. Big boy’s games.’

  ‘We can play them too.’