The Roots of Evil (Bob Skinner)

by Quintin Jardine

  Haddock sighed, deep and long. ‘You know, Arthur,’ he said, ‘given what’s happened this week I’m not surprised at all.’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘I was expecting something bigger,’ Lottie Mann remarked, as Skinner drew his car to a halt outside a modest cottage-style dwelling on the Black Shield Lodge estate. ‘McCullough’s a squillionaire, as we all know.’

  ‘It’s all they need,’ he replied. ‘They’ve got all the facilities of a five-star hotel just up the road.’

  John Cotter looked around as he stepped out of the car. ‘This is a big property,’ he said. ‘Are we sure he’s not hiding out in the woods, sir?’

  ‘If he was, his wife would have rooted him out by now, with a fucking machete. Cameron’s a formidable bloke, but they’re well matched.’

  As he spoke the cottage door opened, framing Mia McCullough. She had aged well, Skinner reflected. The memory of their brief liaison twenty-odd years before had never faded, nor had his instinctive attraction to her. He was a man who had always admitted to his weaknesses, and she had been one of them. Sarah, on the other hand was his strength and as he looked at his one-time fling he felt a surge of love, paradoxically, for his wife.

  ‘Three of you?’ she exclaimed as they approached, with an accusatory glare. ‘From your text I thought it was just you, Bob. I take it these are not social workers come to give me emotional support.’ She looked directly at Mann, ignoring Cotter entirely.

  The DCI returned her gaze, unsmiling. She knew that Dan Provan, her former CID, and now lifetime, partner would have fired back an instant response, but that was a skill he had been unable to pass on, so she restricted herself to a slightly raised eyebrow as she introduced herself and her sergeant.

  ‘Lottie and John are part of the team investigating the Edinburgh New Year murders,’ Skinner explained as she escorted them indoors. ‘They’re not investigating Cameron’s disappearance . . . which has now been given semi-official status, by the way; they’re looking for the car . . . but something else has come up. If he was here they’d be asking him about it, but he’s not, so . . .’

  ‘So you’re settling for second best.’

  ‘Put it any way you like, Mia.’ He smiled, trying to ease the tension. ‘Coffee would go well.’

  ‘You think this is fucking Starbuck’s?’ she retorted, then relaxed slightly herself. ‘There’s a pot on the hob, but it’s the servants’ day off, so we’ll have to help ourselves.’

  ‘Does she really have servants?’ Cotter whispered as they followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Only one, John, and he’s missing,’ Skinner hissed.

  To their surprise, Mia McCullough was not alone. ‘This is Cameron’s daughter, Inez Davis,’ she said, introducing an unnaturally blonde middle-aged woman with narrow, furtive eyes and painted but well-chewed fingernails. ‘Cheeky’s mum,’ she added. Skinner recognised her; on the occasion of their first meeting she had been in police custody. She glanced at him briefly without holding eye contact. ‘She doesn’t like me calling her my stepdaughter, since I’m only two months older than her.’

  ‘Where’s my dad?’ Inez asked the officers, abruptly. ‘I’ve asked my daughter’s polisman boyfriend, but he was no use.’

  ‘He’s occupied elsewhere at the moment,’ Mann told her, ‘as are we. Your stepmother,’ she looked her in the eye as she used the term, ‘has probably told you that the circumstances of your father’s disappearance don’t justify the excessive use of police time.’

  ‘If it was anybody else it would,’ she complained. ‘You lot have always had it in for my father.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Inez!’ Mia sighed. ‘You’ve never given a damn for him before, so don’t start now.’

  She turned to the visitors, handing each a mug, leaving them to add milk if they chose. ‘Right,’ she said, as the sergeant stirred his sugar, an addition which drew a look of contempt from Skinner, ‘what’s the emergency, and,’ she added, ‘what are you doing here, Bob? I know they never did cut the umbilical between you and the police, but it is Saturday and you don’t deal with the small stuff.’

  ‘I’ll let DCI Mann explain,’ he replied.

  ‘As Sir Robert said,’ Lottie began, ‘we’re part of the Serious Crimes squad investigating the killings of Terry Coats and Inspector Griffin Montell.’

  ‘Neither of whom I know, or had even heard of until a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mrs McCullough, but a couple of days ago a third man was found dead. He’d been shot and his body was dumped too, but outside Edinburgh. It was partially hidden and attempts had been made to hide his identity, but one item was left behind. From that we were able to establish that he was a man named Anatoly Rogozin.’

  The faintest flicker of surprise broke through Mia McCullough’s mask of impassivity. ‘Go on,’ she murmured.

  ‘We’re seconded to Edinburgh,’ Mann continued, ‘but normally we’re based in Glasgow. A while back, before John joined me, I investigated the murder of a man pulled out of the River Clyde, near the Squinty Bridge. He was identified as the chairman of Merrytown Football Club, of which your husband is the majority shareholder, and his name was Dimitri Rogozin. I hope you’ll understand, Mrs McCullough, that when a second Rogozin turned up dead in Scotland, where members of that clan are not exactly thick on the ground, it got my atten—’

  ‘His brother,’ Mia snapped, cutting her off abruptly. ‘Anatoly was Dimitri’s brother. You’d find out soon enough so I’ll save you the trouble of chasing it down. But don’t ask me why he was in Scotland because I can’t help you there.’

  ‘Was he involved with the football club?’ Skinner asked. ‘I did some googling earlier on and, as far as I can see, the bulk of the shareholding is still shared between Cameron and Rogotron, the investment company that he and Dimitri jointly owned. When I was involved, Dimitri was chairman but Cameron was the principal owner, with fifty per cent of the shares personally, and twenty five per cent through Rogotron.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she conceded. ‘But . . .’ She stopped, frowning.

  ‘Come on Mia,’ he said, ‘we’ll find out. It won’t be easy since Rogotron is foreign-registered, but we’ll get there in the end.’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose. No, he wasn’t involved with the club; when Dimitri died, Anatoly expected to inherit his share in the club, and he told Cameron that he intended to buy him out. You’ll remember that Dimitri was a pompous little arsehole, nothing to him at all behind the bluster and the bodyguard. Anatoly, though, he was a different animal altogether and not one that Cameron wanted anything to do with. So . . . let me get this right . . . yes; Rogotron was constituted in an unusual way; Cameron and Dimitri were fifty-fifty owners, and there was a clause in the articles that said that in the event of the death of either one, the survivor had the right to buy his shareholding, at a figure set by the auditors. So instead of Anatoly taking over Merrytown, Cameron did, completely.’

  ‘How did Anatoly react to that?’

  ‘Badly. Threats were made, but you probably know, Bob, maybe all of you do, that my husband isn’t a man you can threaten. In the end, Anatoly thought better of it and went back to running his other interests.’

  ‘He had an Amex card in the football club’s name,’ Skinner said.

  She nodded. ‘I know. Cameron gave him that. He called it a fuck-off present. It has a spending limit and it’s valid for three years.’

  ‘And yet he did come back to Scotland,’ Mann said. ‘And when he did, he wound up dead. And just after he was killed your husband decided to go away for a few days, without telling anyone, even you.’

  Mia sighed. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but no, I won’t let you. Cameron didn’t kill him.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘That’s the thing. We know he didn’t, which makes me wonder even more. Why the hell has he done a runner?’

  Thirty-Five

  Although the image on the computer screen was shaky, it was recogn
isable as Major Pollock. However, the background had changed, from a drab office wall enhanced by a framed photograph of Nelson Mandela to bright sunshine and a verdant landscape. The sound was different also; snatches of conversation in a language that Haddock did not understand, but assumed was Afrikaans.

  ‘Inspector,’ the South African exclaimed, ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again; not today anyway. I’m at my golf club; we tee off in ten minutes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘Zoom invitations seem to go everywhere. I can call you back. I’m a golfer myself; the last thing I’d want would be some bugger interrupting my practice routine by calling me about work.’

  Pollock laughed. ‘I don’t practise. I just go out and try to hit the damn thing straight. I play off nineteen. You?’

  ‘Single figures,’ the Scot replied, modestly.

  ‘It would be good to play sometime. You’ll be welcome here if you ever visit Pretoria.’ He glanced away from the camera. ‘From what I can see here,’ he said, ‘that ten minutes is stretching into fifteen at least. Two guys in a four-ball in front have just found the water off the tee. Go ahead and ask me what you want.’

  ‘Tell, not ask,’ Haddock said. ‘Are you sure? It might put you off your game.’

  ‘My game’s past praying for, Inspector. Go ahead.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist. Some of this is theory but it’s based on fact. Can I ask you something? What are your storage and recording arrangements for patrol officers’ sidearms?’

  ‘The officer is responsible for his or her firearm.’

  ‘When it’s issued is the serial number logged?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When someone leaves the service or changes job what happens to it?’

  ‘It would be reissued, and the serial number would be logged out to the new carrier.’

  ‘Sure, but would the number be checked when the gun is surrendered?’

  Major Pollock frowned. ‘No, probably not,’ he admitted. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘If I sent you the serial number of the Beretta we found in Griff’s safe, could you check it against your records?’

  ‘Yes, and I will do. Now tell me why.’

  Sensing his impatience, Haddock replied, bluntly. ‘Griffin Montell killed his partner, Officer DeWalt. The image in your robbery file matches the gun we have. Naturally enough, nobody ever thought to check Griff’s weapon during your investigation, but even if they had, I don’t believe it would have told them anything, unless they had also checked the serial number against that of the weapon issued to him. I believe that Griff helped stage the robbery. He told his accomplices where to wait, in the quietest stretch of track he could find. When they got there, he shot DeWalt straight away. The gun that he used was replaced by an identical firearm . . . not difficult, it’s the choice of international police services . . . and taken from the scene, but returned to him later, for his own security.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘My belief is that as long as he had the gun, he felt he was safe. He didn’t trust anyone else to dispose of it, because he didn’t want it turning up anywhere by accident, and he didn’t want to take the chance of being blackmailed.’

  ‘What about his own wounds?’

  Haddock stared into the computer camera rather than at the screen, knowing that he was looking Pollock directly in the eye. ‘One of his co-conspirators did that; a flesh wound in the shoulder, then he aligned the weapon against the side of his head and fired the grazing shot. Griff was a tough guy, remember.’ He paused. ‘His medical records here in Scotland show something interesting: a slight deafness in his right ear. Not enough to incapacitate him or make him unfit for service, but noticeable.’

  ‘Okay,’ the major conceded. ‘But what about the tracker that was found on the armoured van?’

  ‘Easy. It was put there at the scene. It was never in the Mint.’

  ‘You realise you’re making my colleagues look sloppy for missing all this in their investigation?’ Pollock said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the DI replied. ‘I would have made the same assumptions they did. I’d never have thought to check the serial number of Griff’s service weapon, or to give him a gunshot residue test. They found an officer dead and another one down at the scene, and they acted accordingly. After the event he did nothing wrong either. He didn’t draw attention to himself; he took his reward, a transfer to CID, and sat on his money until he was able to leave the country legitimately, on a job transfer. Once he was clear of South Africa, he was able to move his Krugerrands to Britain.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the South African murmured. ‘What you’re saying, it’s a terrible accusation, but it makes sense to me. Maybe the man DuPlessis can shine some light on it.’

  ‘Maybe he can,’ Haddock said. ‘Like I said, much of it’s conjecture, but at the centre of it, Griff’s gun killed Officer DeWalt. Everything flows from that. It killed a man in Scotland too. His name was Anatoly Rogozin, but I have no idea how he fits into the story, or even if he does.’

  ‘I’ll check it out for you, if you text me the spelling and everything you know about him.’ He glanced off camera. ‘We’re up next, Inspector. My partner isn’t going to be very pleased with my game today, but that’s nothing new . . . she’s my wife.’

  Haddock grinned. ‘No way would I play golf with my partner,’ he chuckled.

  ‘I don’t have the choice,’ Major Pollock sighed. ‘You know,’ he said, as he began to move and his image became shaky once more, ‘one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t they shoot Griffin between the eyes rather than upside the head? That would have been the obvious thing to do.’

  ‘I agree,’ the DI concurred. ‘I can’t work that one out either. If I ever do, I’ll let you know. Good luck out there. By the way,’ he added, ‘missing the water off the first tee sounds like a good plan.’

  Thirty-Six

  ‘Sod it,’ Jackie Wright murmured, as she studied the Civil Aviation Authority website. ‘If you were registered in the European Union, you’d show up here but you don’t, so where the hell are you?’ Frustrated, she closed the window. ‘Marlon,’ she called to a detective constable who had been seconded to the team from Glasgow with Mann and Cotter, ‘I’m struggling here. I’m trying to find the ownership of an airline called Wister Air. It’s got a foreign permit to fly into the UK, but that doesn’t tell me its base.’

  ‘What about its own website?’ he suggested. His accent was heavily Glaswegian but with West Indian undertones.

  ‘I’ve tried that. It tells me everywhere it flies to, what I can eat on board and what the special offers are on its duty free, but nothing else.’

  ‘Does it have a corporate section? Most companies do, for investor relations.’

  ‘Not that I could see.’

  ‘That suggests it’s privately owned.’

  ‘If you wanted to protect your privacy,’ Wright asked, ‘where would you register a business?’

  Big eyes stared at her. ‘I’m Marlon Honeyman, a boy fae Castlemilk. How the hell would Ah know that?’ Then he smiled. ‘But if I was a clever bastard who’d done a degree in business studies before I joined the polis, I would probably look at somewhere offshore.’

  ‘If your business had South African links, which haven might you choose?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be African, but otherwise pretty much anywhere. It would depend on how much privacy I wanted. Jackie, leave it with me. I’ll have a look and see what I can find.’

  Thirty-Seven

  ‘Inspector Haddock? Jamie Ellis, Liverpool. I think I’ve traced Aisha Karman.’

  Sauce beamed at her image on the computer screen; her message asking for a Skype meeting had taken him by surprise. ‘That’s excellent. Do you have a location for her, and can I speak to her?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ the officer replied. ‘She’s in cold storage at Manchester City Mortuary, so I don’t think you’ll get a word out of her.’

  ‘Shit,’ Had
dock hissed, as an unspoken fear became reality. ‘Are you certain that it’s her? How long has she been there?’

  ‘We’re absolutely certain. She’s been there two months, but she looks brand new. The photo you sent puts it beyond doubt. Her body was dumped on a quiet road just north of Bolton and found by a dog-walker within twelve hours of her death. She’d been shot once in the head at close range, but there wasn’t a scrap of personal identification on her, which stymied the CID investigation from the beginning. DCS Jones on the Manchester force is dead chuffed with you, by the way,’ she added, ‘for taking a big black smudge off her record, just by telling us who she was. I’ve been seconded to work with her on the investigation. Before you say anything, they might have identified her from the missing-person report in Liverpool, but,’ she shrugged, ‘they didn’t.’

  ‘There was no potential identification at all?’ Haddock asked. ‘Not even clothing?’

  ‘She was naked; her prints weren’t on any database, nor was her DNA.’ Inspector Ellis raised an eyebrow. ‘However, we do have someone else’s. She had sex shortly before she died. My Manc colleagues believe that he stripped her, shagged her and shot her . . .’ she paused ‘. . . hopefully in that order.’

  ‘The donor DNA. No match, I guess?’

  ‘None, anywhere. Our investigators have searched databases internationally. Are you going to make DCS Jones even happier by telling us who he is?’

  ‘I’m not going to promise that, but I do know of a man who was in a relationship with Aisha Karman, here in Scotland.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Could you get a DNA sample from him? Do you have grounds for doing that? Do you even need grounds in Scotland?’