The Roots of Evil (Bob Skinner)

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Thanks,’ Haddock replied. ‘I’d prefer it if you let him sweat for a few hours.’

  ‘Sure, would you like us to tell him what you’re going to be talking about?’

  ‘Yes, please. I want to interview him about certain matters that have arisen from his cousin’s murder, including an allegation of gold-smuggling, money-laundering and abduction.’

  ‘Abduction?’

  ‘That’s possible. We’re looking for a potential witness. Her name is Aisha Karman; she worked for an airline called Wister Air, until she left them six months ago, without notice.’

  ‘What’s her nationality?’

  ‘She has a British passport, but she was educated in Port Elizabeth, South Africa.’

  ‘Then she could have come home. I’ll do what I can to help you find her. Plus, give me everything you have on DuPlessis or suspect about him and I’ll look into that as well. Anything else?’

  Yes,’ Haddock said, ‘one more thing. Why was there no mention of the gold robbery on Griff’s service record when he applied to join the Edinburgh police?’

  ‘What are you talking about? I told you, there was.’

  ‘Not according to Sir Robert Skinner, our former chief constable; he vetted him and approved his appointment. He wouldn’t have forgotten something like that.’

  ‘Then Griffin must have doctored it himself. That’s all I can suggest. After the robbery, he had a lot of “Hero cop” coverage. He didn’t like attention like that.’

  ‘Obviously,’ the DI agreed, ‘and maybe there was a reason for it. Thanks, Major. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

  He returned the phone to his charging stand, and rolled over . . . only to find himself alone. Cheeky was standing by the side of the bed tying the cord of her pyjama bottoms.

  ‘Come on, babe,’ he pleaded. ‘Get back in, I don’t have to get up for another fifteen minutes.’

  She looked down on him, imperiously. ‘Make that half an hour and I might be interested.’

  He reached out for her pyjama cord.

  Thirty

  ‘You’d think that road from Glasgow would be quiet on a Saturday morning, John,’ Lottie Mann complained, as they strode into the area of the Serious Crimes office that they had commandeered.

  ‘It’s much the same on Tyneside,’ her DS pointed out. ‘Down there, every bugger seems to head for the Metrocentre at weekends.’ He looked around the room. Jackie Wright was at her desk, but otherwise it was empty. ‘Fucking typical, we’ve come the furthest and yet we’re almost the first in. Remind me, why are we here?’

  ‘We’re trying to find the killer of a police officer,’ she reminded him, as she lowered herself into an unyielding chair. ‘And there’s always something to do. For example, there’s the phone records for both our victims.’ She reached out a hand. ‘Let’s have a look at them.’

  Cotter shrugged. ‘I’ve been through them, boss; both Montell’s and Coats’s. There’s nothing on either that ties them together, other than obliquely.’

  ‘What do you mean by obliquely?’

  ‘I found an exchange of WhatsApp messages between Montell and DS McClair in which Coats’s name comes up. Specifically, she refers to, quote, that cunt of an ex of mine, unquote, in the context of him failing to pick up her son and making her miss a date with Montell. Yes, we’ve been told by DI Haddock that Coats told him and Sir Robert that he knew Montell from previous police service, but there’s nothing in the messages to indicate that McClair was aware of them being acquainted, far less in regular contact. However, there is plenty of evidence of Coats’s gambling habit. There’s loads of phone calls to bookies, and his emails show an online history of bets being placed, and even notification of winning bets, albeit very rarely.’

  ‘Aye, fine, John,’ Mann said, ‘but we’re no closer to putting those two men in each other’s company. And until we can do that, we’re no closer to whoever did them in, so we’re contributing nothing to the main investigation. That’s what you’re telling me really.’

  The DS agreed. ‘That’s what I’m telling you, ma’am.’ Then he smiled. ‘But that was the bad news. Do you want the good?’

  ‘Please,’ she sighed, unimpressed. ‘Anything to brighten my day.’

  ‘I’ve got an email here from Denzil Douglas, the pathology forensic technician. He’s had a lightning fast response from Crick, that shoemaker in Jermyn Street he was on about. He says they’ve identified the customer; his name is, or rather it was, Anatoly Rogozin.’

  ‘Say that again?’ the DCI snapped.

  ‘Anatoly Rogozin,’ he repeated.

  ‘Fuck! It couldn’t be.’ She stared at him, then snatched her phone from her pocket, scrolled through her contacts and called a number.

  ‘Lottie,’ Bob Skinner answered. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Thirty-One

  ‘Are you good, Lexie?’ Dominic Jackson asked his housemate.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ Alex Skinner admitted. ‘But I was a lot worse before I moved in with you. Do you know,’ she said, ‘that you are the only person who’s ever called me “Lexie”? Not even my dad ever called me that. I like it, but why do you?’

  ‘One,’ he replied, ‘it suits you, two, it gets you out of yourself. You had a faint touch of locked-in syndrome when you came here, in that you were obsessed with Alex and all the issues she had. Lexie’s a different woman; you like it, and I think you like her a bit more than you were liking yourself.’ He winked. ‘But you’re both the same really.’ He paused. ‘Can I ask you something serious now? How did you really feel about Griff Montell?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know anymore. He should have been the man of my dreams. He was kind, considerate, brave, funny, attentive, hung like a donkey, and very good in bed . . . two things that rarely go together in my limited experience. I heard a joke the other day: “What’s the difference between a clitoris and a golf ball? A man’s prepared to spend ten minutes looking for a golf ball.” Griff? All I can say is he wasn’t a golfer. I’ve never had a shopping list when it comes to men, but any who don’t live up to my basic expectations don’t last long. If I’d had one, he would have ticked all the boxes and added a couple more. I can’t imagine why his wife left him.’ She frowned. ‘Why didn’t I fall in love with him? Maybe I did at the beginning, but it didn’t develop; it settled into something that I can only describe as comfortable. Looking back on it now, it occurs to me that . . . this is going to sound vain . . . I was irked with him because I realised that he didn’t mind me not falling head over heels for him. He was all the things I said, made me feel good in many ways, but he never once used the “L” word. He never showed any signs of falling in love with me. I told myself “That’s fine, it’s cool, it’s uncomplicated,” but inside, I was hurt, suffering from a bruised ego, but unable to do anything about it. Maybe I did love him, Dominic,’ she exclaimed, ‘but the one thing I do know is that he didn’t fucking love me!’

  He looked at her and saw her eyes mist over. ‘He didn’t love anyone,’ he told her. ‘He couldn’t, literally. What you are describing to me is a man with what psychologists tend to diagnose as an antisocial personality disorder. Everything you’ve told me, and what I’ve been told by the deputy chief about his personal tastes, the things Sauce found in his home, and the way he protected it, they all bear that out.’

  ‘Mario spoke to you about him?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes. He’s given me a commission; he wants me to draw up a psychological profile of Griff.’ He glanced at her with a shy smile. ‘It’s the first one I’ve had from that level in the police service.’

  ‘I thought you were wary of accepting those.’

  ‘I am, but there’s no possibility of me being called as a witness with this one, as the subject’s dead. There can’t be a trial.’

  ‘You’re going to say he had a personality disorder? Griff?’

  ‘That’s what I’m seeing. He reminds me of a man I met in prison. He was utterly charming, the most
popular man on the wing in a place where that sort of behaviour can have you marked down as a grass or a . . . you know. He was good company; I spent quite a bit of time talking to him in the gym. He was clever, articulate and highly intelligent. In society he’d been a senior university lecturer in mathematics. And he’d killed four women by the time he made the one mistake that had led him there. I made him a case study in one of my degree dissertations. He was a very high-functioning psychopath. The Inspector Montell you’re showing me is exactly the same.’

  ‘Griff? Really?’ Her tone was sceptical.

  He smiled again. ‘Are you thinking that it takes one to know one?’

  ‘No,’ she protested, but in truth the thought had crossed her mind.

  ‘You were,’ he insisted, ‘but don’t be embarrassed for I’ve considered that very question. The first profile I ever did was on myself, and I got an A for it. My conclusion was that I am neither a sociopath nor a psychopath. I did hurt people, yes. Eventually I did worse. But I did it because I’d been hurt myself as a kid. It was the world I’d grown up in and it was what I’d been shown as a norm, but I felt empathy for the people I was hurting, with only a couple of exceptions. When I was convicted, I was called a psycho by one of the tabloids, but I never was. I knew the difference between right and wrong, and crucially I actually did care about it.’

  ‘Are you saying that Griff didn’t?’

  ‘Precisely. And more; I read Griff Montell as someone who might have been a very dangerous man.’

  Thirty-Two

  ‘Sir, are you up to speed with the murder investigations that we’re all working on?’ Lottie Mann began.

  ‘Reasonably so,’ Skinner replied. He was slightly out of breath and the wind noise in the background made her suspect that she had caught him in the middle of a run. ‘Sauce is talking to me,’ he continued, more evenly, ‘with the deputy chief’s approval, and of course I’m getting feedback at home, given that my wife did the autopsies on them both.’

  ‘She also did one yesterday morning.’

  ‘That’s right. Are you going to tell me they’re connected?’

  ‘No, I’m not, but we’ve identified the Howgate victim and the name I’ve had thrown at me got my attention big time and it will yours too, I guess. Rogozin. Remember him?’

  ‘Dimitri Rogozin? Yes, of course I do,’ Skinner exclaimed, ‘and the thing I remember most about him is that he’s dead!’

  ‘That makes two of them. We’ve managed to identify the man who was found shot dead and dumped out of the city, in Midlothian. Your wife’s third new year autopsy. His shoemaker put a name to him, and that’s what it is: Anatoly Rogozin. We’re just at the beginning of trying to find everything we can about him, but Crick of Jermyn Street has just told us in an email that his shoes are delivered to an address in Chelsea, and payment comes from a platinum Amex card.’ She paused, but Skinner sensed that she was simply building up to the headline announcement. ‘That card,’ she announced, with something akin to triumph, ‘is billed to Merrytown Football Club, of our very own Scottish Premier League. Its principal shareholder, as we both know, is your friend, Cameron McCullough. We’re going to need to talk to him, sir. Do you know where I can find him?’

  He stayed silent for a few seconds, digesting what she had told him before replying. ‘My acquaintance, Lottie,’ he corrected her, ‘but it’s a hell of a good question. I’d like to know the answer myself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Grandpa McCullough went missing around the same time as the bodies were dumped in Torphichen Place. He hasn’t been officially reported as a misper . . . shit, I’ve always hated that term and here I am using it . . . but there’s a location request out for his minder’s car.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘Does that make him a suspect?’

  ‘On the face of it, no, because he was in his hotel in Perthshire immediately before he vanished. But what you’ve told me about the dead guy in Howgate makes me a hell of a lot more keen to find him. It’s time I dug out that Special Constable warrant card that Maggie Steele gave me. You and Cotter and I need to head up to Tayside.’

  Thirty-Three

  Tarvil Singh was never at his most sociable in the morning, and he knew it. In his earliest days as a police officer there had been those who said he was never at his most sociable in the afternoon either. That had been an advantage on Saturday afternoon duty at Edinburgh’s football grounds, but after surprising himself by securing a transfer to CID, he had worked on his social and communication skills His preference was still to speak to no one until ten o’clock had gone, but as a detective officer that was difficult to manage.

  When the office door opened and Sauce Haddock stepped into the room it was five minutes past his silent zone. He glanced at his watch, a gesture that some senior officers might have seen as insubordinate.

  ‘I know,’ the DI said. ‘I had domestic matters to take care of before I came in. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘Aye, sure,’ Singh chuckled. ‘You had to make her breakfast; and it’ll probably be an expensive dinner the night as well? Where’ll it be? Ondine? The Honours? The Ivy?’

  ‘Oh no; they’re for when Cheeky’s paying. She makes more than I do, Tarvil. Tonight, it’ll be lemon chicken at the Loon Fung.’

  The sergeant felt himself salivate. ‘Ohhh! Lucky bastard.’

  ‘I hope so. The table’s booked for seven o’clock. Whether we make it, that’ll depend on how today goes.’ He glanced around the room, nodding greetings to Wright and the two other officers on duty. ‘What about Mann and Cotter?’ he asked. ‘Are they not here today?’

  ‘Been and gone,’ Singh told him. ‘They’re following up some info on the Howgate incident. I heard her talking to someone, then a few minutes ago they headed for the door. They never said where they were going, and I . . .’

  ‘Let me guess. It being short of ten o’clock you never asked them?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he grunted, as Haddock stepped past him and into his little office.

  The DI sighed as he sat at his desk. His lateness was attributable, in part, to the need to reassure Cheeky that her grandfather was surely okay, having taken his new minder with him to wherever he was going. ‘Right now, love, he’s probably standing on the first tee of a country club in Malaga, or maybe even Miami, with three other guys. You know he’s taken up golf.’

  ‘I know,’ she had admitted, ‘because you played with him and you told me how bad he was. Grandpa doesn’t like being second best at anything.’

  ‘He’s a lot worse than second best. Give a kangaroo a golf club and it would have a better swing than him.’

  ‘Which is exactly why he wouldn’t swan off on a golf tour. Sauce, the truth is he only took up the game in the hope that it would make him closer to you, because you’re going to be the father of his great-grandson . . . some day!’ she had added quickly.

  ‘Some day?’

  ‘Sauce!’

  The smile left his face as his mobile sounded and he saw the name on the screen. Arthur Dorward was famously phlegmatic on his better days; at weekends, he was notoriously dour.

  ‘Mr Haddock,’ he growled, ‘I’m calling you from the crime campus at Gartcosh. I can only hope you’re somewhere equally grim.’

  ‘I’m at Fettes,’ he replied. ‘Does that qualify?’

  ‘Fuck, yes. The ugliest building in Edinburgh, even worse than the mortuary,’ he hesitated for a second, ‘which, in a way, brings me to why I’m calling you. That gun you sent us for test-firing and comparison purposes, the Beretta. You said it was just for elimination, right?’

  ‘Yes. It came from Griff Montell’s safe. He was a naughty lad to have it, but that hardly matters now.’

  ‘You might say that, and I can confirm that it was not the weapon that killed Mr Coats.’

  ‘No,’ the DI said. ‘I knew from the start that it couldn’t have been, given the timeline. Sorry, Arthur, I suppose that was a waste of
resources.’

  ‘I’ll accept an apology any time, son; even when it’s not warranted. The Beretta might not have done for Coats, but it did account for the man we now know as Anatoly Rogozin.’

  ‘What man, Arthur?’ Haddock exclaimed, puzzled.

  ‘Jesus,’ Dorward chuckled, ‘and you’re the SIO. Do you not read your own investigation files, or speak to your own officers? He’s the guy they found behind the trees in Howgate. Denzil Douglas emailed it to big Lottie’s new gofer last night.’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. The pair of them are out of the office, but maybe they’ve left me a note. Who is he, this Rogozin?’ he mused.

  ‘That may be what they’ve gone to find out. But,’ he continued, ‘leave him to one side for a moment. As I told you, he was killed by Montell’s gun; it’s up to you lot to find out who pulled the trigger, but given that you found it in his safe, it only points one way. To back that up, remember that Co-op bag you sent me?’

  ‘Yes. We saw it being taken into the building on Saturday night on Griff’s monitor camera, although we don’t know who was carrying it.’

  ‘Whoever it was, the gun was in it. We found significant quantities of the same lubricant that was used on the pistol inside the bag. Are you sure it wasn’t Montell himself that was carrying it?’

  ‘I haven’t ruled that out a hundred per cent,’ Haddock admitted, ‘but the build is wrong. Griff was bulkier than the person on the video recording. But in the light of what you’re telling me, maybe we should test all of Coats’ clothing for traces of that oil.’

  ‘Test the body too. That stuff’s pervasive; if he got it, say, on his hair it could still be there.’

  ‘I’ll do that. I’ll ask Sarah to have one of her people take another look. Thanks, Arthur. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Fine, but hold on, we’re not done yet. We’re thorough here at Gartcosh. We cover everything, including the South African crime report that you added to the investigation file yesterday, the one about the bullion robbery where a police officer was killed and Montell survived. You might find this hard to believe, Sauce, but that cop was killed by the same weapon that took out Howgate Man.’