‘We have the same rules as you do. Once a suspect has been arrested, we can take it with or without consent. In this case, that’s not going to be an issue. The man I’m talking about is as dead as Ms Karman, and currently occupying similar accommodation in the Edinburgh morgue. We need to work together on this, Jamie. I’m going to send you a photo of my suspect. If I’m right the DNA puts him together, obviously, but I’d like to paint a complete picture of what happened. Quid pro quo, I’m also going to need to see your investigation file, including all the forensics. Most important of all, you said Aisha was shot so: did you recover the bullet?’
Thirty-Eight
‘This gets worse, Sauce,’ Tarvil Singh remarked, as Haddock finished briefing him on his calls with Major Pollock and Inspector Ellis. ‘We started off with two dead men in Edinburgh, and now we’ve got five victims in three countries. D’you fancy giving DCI Pye a call and telling him how fucking lucky he is to be missing this?’
‘That would be cruel,’ the DI told him. ‘Sammy would love this. He’d see it as a path to glory and switch into full Luke Skywalker mode, the last of the Jedi.’
‘You do know we used to call you R2D2, don’t you?’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but I prefer that to being half of our official nickname, The Menu.’
‘How long’s he going to be off?’ the big DS asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘Because you always do. And,’ he added, heavily, ‘the fact that you’re not saying makes me think this is not man flu that he’s got.’
‘I prefer it when you don’t think, Tarvil.’
‘I get it. You’re telling me not to ask.’
Haddock nodded, then drew two fingers across his mouth in a zipper gesture.
‘Boss!’ Jackie Wright’s call forestalled any comeback. ‘Can Marlon and I have a word?’ The Glaswegian DC stood behind the desk, with a blue folder pressed to his chest.
‘If it’s relevant,’ the DI replied.
‘Your office?’
‘Hell no, it’s barely big enough for me. We’ll use the meeting room. Tarvil, you come too.’ He led the way through a door at the far end of the suite into an area that was dominated by the view through its picture window of Fettes College, the great grey Victorian faux-chateau that seemed to have been imposed on Edinburgh, its grandeur emphasising the awful drabness of the police building.
‘Every time I look at that thing,’ Singh remarked, ‘it makes me think of Mervyn Peake.’
‘Who?’ Wright asked.
‘Gormenghast,’ Honeyman said.
‘Fuck me!’ Haddock whispered, as they took seats. ‘Right Jackie,’ he said, ‘what do you and Marlon have for us?’
‘It’s him, not me,’ she replied. ‘Marlon, you did it, you tell him.’
He nodded his shaven head, almost dislodging the glasses that were perched on the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve been chasing Wister Air,’ he began, ‘the airline name that’s mentioned by Sir Robert Skinner in the statement he gave us. He alleges that Coats claimed to him—’ He halted in midsentence as Haddock held up a hand. ‘Sir?’
‘Bob Skinner doesn’t allege things, DC Honeyman,’ the DI said. ‘He tells you things, and you take them on board. You don’t question them or doubt them in any way; you act on them. Besides, I was there at the time, more or less, so I know what Wister Air is and how it fits into the story. Go on.’
The detective’s mouth tensed at the reproof; he continued, stiffly. ‘I’ve been investigating the company, sir, and I’ve established that its head office is in Cape Town, South Africa. It flies mostly tourist routes, and that’s the market it chases. In Britain it operates out of Edinburgh, Manchester, Liverpool and Stansted, and in Europe it flies from Schiphol, in Amsterdam. It appears to have very little interest in business travel. It makes its money flying British and Dutch holiday-makers to Cape Town, where their pounds and their euros go a hell of a long way.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Singh observed, drily, ‘but who owns it?’
‘That was harder to pin down,’ Honeyman admitted. ‘I looked at company registration in South Africa, in the UK and in Holland, but no joy. I looked at some other popular places, including Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands: nothing. Then I looked at North Cyprus.’
‘Is that really a country? I thought it was an occupied territory.’
‘To most of the world it is,’ the DC agreed, ‘but it’s recognised as a state by one country, Turkey, and to them, it’s the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus. It’s got all sorts of international embargoes on it, but it is possible to use it as a corporate base. Wister Air was registered there, by an outfit called TCOC, as an offshore company in 2010; it has two shareholders, Anatoly Rogozin Enterprises, based in Monaco, and Lente, spelled like the six weeks before Easter but with a final e.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing that I can discover. It’s just a name. I can’t get anywhere with that. There are two directors of Wister Air, Rogozin himself, and a Northern Cypriot nominee. That’s a common device to get round local requirements.’
‘What about Lente’s assets?’ Haddock asked.
‘Shielded,’ Honeyman replied. ‘Whoever set this up with Rogozin didn’t want to be known, and they’ve made a bloody good job of it.’
Thirty-Nine
‘Just occasionally, Mario, there are times when I’m really glad I’m retired,’ Skinner declared.
‘I hear what you’re saying, Bob,’ the deputy chief constable replied. ‘But they don’t last long, fortunately. What you’re doing as a mentor for Sauce and other young people, that’s invaluable, and I like to think it’s a unique resource for our force.’
‘Bollocks! You could do that yourself; you’ve got the experience and you have the skills.’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ McGuire insisted, ‘because I’m too fucking busy. You were dead right to walk away from the unified police service. It has fundamental flaws. We all grew up as cops. Those of us who made it to command level had to become managers. At local or regional level, most of us got by even without specialist training, but that’s not the case now.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ Skinner said, but his voice lacked conviction and he knew it.
‘For now, maybe, but that won’t last. The job eats you. It devoured Andy Martin . . .’
‘He was swallowed by his own ego!’ his friend protested.
‘You know that’s not true. Andy was one of the best police officers you and I ever met, but he was a fucking detective. He was used to focusing on specific issues, mostly one at a time. He couldn’t handle the breadth of the responsibility. It affected him in every way. He became remote from people he’d worked with all his career and he became dictatorial. He turned from a pleasant guy into a grade-A shit, and when he finally packed it in his former friends had a farewell party, only he wasn’t invited. Now I’m sitting here in the senior command office which might as well be in fucking Stromness, and I’m . . .’ He stopped, in mid-sentence.
‘What?’
‘Ach, nothing. Forget it, Bob.’
‘Like hell I will,’ he said. ‘Let me take a stab at what you were going to say: you’re sitting there and you’re seeing the same thing happening to Maggie.’
‘You know me too well. Yes, you’re right. She’s taking some time off, Bob, at my suggestion . . . actually, my insistence . . . after having a chat with our senior medical officer. Nothing will be announced, but she won’t be around for a while.’
‘And if she doesn’t come back?’
‘I don’t like to think about that, but one thing I know for certain: I don’t want the bloody job. Nobody in their right mind would, not if they wanted to stay that way.’
‘Can I help?’ Skinner asked.
‘There’s one thing you could do,’ McGuire replied. ‘I’ve spent some time with the NYPD, as you know, and I’m convinced that we need to adopt the New York system, a Police Commissioner who isn’t a cop necessa
rily, but who has oversight of the whole system, with hire and fire powers. He or she would be appointed by Clive Graham, the First Minister, and would appoint their own advisory team on management matters; operationally we’d go back to the old set-up, with ten or a dozen areas each with a chief, responsible to the commissioner. It would spread the load, the public would like it and I think we’d all do a better job.’
‘I agree with all of that,’ he replied. ‘But what can I do?’
‘Use your media clout. Run the proposition on the Saltire.’
‘Hold on a minute. I’m not the editor; June Crampsey is. That would be her shout.’
‘So ask her if she’ll do it,’ McGuire persisted. ‘I bet she will; her dad’s a retired cop. I’m sure he’d persuade her if it was needed.’
‘Let me think about it,’ Skinner said, ‘but I’m not putting the paper up to be shot down. I won’t do it without sounding Clive out first. It might be seen as a climb-down by government, and you know how much politicians hate that.’ He took a deep breath and continued. ‘Now, what you told me earlier. Run it past me again, but at normal speed this time.’
‘The Torphichen Place investigation; it’s like that virus, spreading everywhere. Sauce has just finished briefing me. The latest is that the woman Coats told you about has been found in the mortuary in Manchester, with a Jane Doe label on her toe. Their CID have been able to trace her movements from John Lennon Airport to a hotel near the airport in Manchester.’
‘That’s progress. How did she die?’ He paused, with a quick intake of breath. ‘Let me guess, she was shot in the head.’
‘Got it in one. The bullet’s being couriered up to Gartcosh right now. They thought they had a DNA sample too, but that’s been corrupted.’ McGuire hesitated. ‘But that’s not all,’ he added. ‘Sauce has established that the gun in Montell’s safe didn’t only shoot Anatoly Rogozin, it also killed his partner in the Pretoria gold robbery. I’ve just been given a profile by Dominic Jackson which suggests that Griff might have been a high-functioning psychopath. It looks as if that’s no longer in doubt.’
Forty
‘If there is any news about Grandpa, you will tell me, won’t you?’ Cheeky asked, as Sauce handed her a bacon sandwich. ‘I had my mother on the phone yesterday afternoon,’ she added. ‘He barely speaks to her but somehow she found out that he’s missing.’
‘She found out from me,’ he confessed. ‘I called Inez yesterday, on the off-chance that he had been in touch with her. She said he hadn’t, and I didn’t tell her anything, but . . .’
She grimaced. ‘But . . . she seized on it as an excuse to phone me. The last thing I want to do is let that woman into our lives, Sauce. She’s a disaster, just like my Aunt Daphne was . . .’
‘Nah,’ Sauce countered. ‘From what I’ve been told by Bob Skinner and others, including your grandpa, she’s not in the same class as Goldie was. She was flat-out dangerous. Inez is just an idiot, or so they all reckon. The puzzle is how she had a daughter like you. Your brains must come from your dad.’
‘My dad,’ she repeated. ‘I’m in my late twenties and all I know about him is that he had the brains to disappear off the face of the earth when Grandpa found out that he’d knocked up his fifteen-year-old daughter. He brought me up, you know, Grandpa did, him and Granny Abby.’
‘I know, you’ve told me, and so has he. He tolerated your mother, but since that time when she and Goldie got you involved in one of their scams, she’s been banished into the outer darkness, or to put it another way, managing the radio-station canteen.’
‘In that case why did you bother phoning her?’
‘Because despite it all, she is his daughter, and she might occasionally speak to him. And she’s your mum, so I can’t pretend she doesn’t exist any more than you can.’
She sighed. ‘I know. That doesn’t mean she’ll get anywhere near her . . .’
He gazed at her, caught by her hesitation. ‘Near her what?’
‘Oh nothing. Go on, get to work, since you say you have to.’
‘Not until you tell me what you thought better of saying.’ He grinned. ‘You might as well; I’m a professional interrogator, love.’
She frowned, then looked up at him. ‘You do love me, don’t you, Harold?’ she asked, earnestly.
‘With all my heart,’ he promised, ‘even when you call me Harold. Why?’
‘I’m late.’
His mouth opened then closed again, then opened and closed once more. ‘How late?’ he was able to ask, finally.
‘Two weeks, and that’s not Tom Jones disease: it is unusual, I promise you.’
‘Bloody hell, I thought you were on the . . .’
‘So did I, but I asked a doctor and she said that every month you take it, even without missing one, there’s about a half of one per cent chance of you falling pregnant.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Do you really have to go to work?’
‘Yes, I do, there’s a guy in a cell in Pretoria waiting to talk to me. I can’t do it from here because there have to be two officers on the call.’
‘In that case,’ she instructed, ‘find a chemist once you’re finished, and bring back a test kit.’
First things first, Haddock decided as soon as he fastened his seatbelt. He sent a message to Major Pollock, delaying his video meeting by half an hour, then headed straight for the Gyle Shopping Centre, where he was confident that he would find a pharmacy, even on the first Sunday of the year. Having no idea which of the tests on offer was the most reliable, he chose the most expensive. The checkout lady smiled at him. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered.
He was about to counter, ‘What makes you think it would be?’ when he realised that he might never have been happier in his life.
His mind was still full of domesticity when he arrived at his office, and his imagination was out of control. It took a fleeting vision of enrolling his twins at Fettes College to force him back to the day’s business.
Jackie Wright had more than earned a day off, although it had needed an order to make her take it, but Marlon Honeyman was on duty, gazing fixedly at a computer screen, oblivious to Haddock’s nod of greeting. Tarvil Singh, on the other hand was deep in a copy of the Observer.
‘Are we in that?’ the DI asked.
‘What?’ he looked around, momentarily startled. ‘Us, no, we don’t rate the English Sundays. No, I was reading about the new flu they’re having in China. It’s not too clever.’ He looked more closely at his colleague. ‘What are you so happy about? It’s bloody Sunday. Are you so wrapped up in this that you’ve forgotten that?’
‘It’s your cheery face, Tarv. It does it every time. Have you got the South African on stand-by like I asked?’
‘Yes,’ the DS replied. ‘I sent an invitation to the address that Pollock gave us. The custody officers wanted to know how long they should hold the guy. I told them to ask their boss. That was right, wasn’t it?’
‘Spot on. We don’t have jurisdiction and I don’t see us wanting him as a witness. Go on, call them back.’
As Haddock pulled up a chair beside his, Singh went to his keyboard and reactivated the Zoom meeting that he had set up. To their surprise the face that appeared on screen was familiar, that of Major Pollock, and he was in uniform.
‘Good morning, guys,’ he began. ‘You probably weren’t expecting to see me, but things have changed here. I’ve had a team of officers investigating movements on cruise vessels operated by Mr DuPlessis’ company, and it’s proved very interesting. It seems that he and a couple of colleagues have been providing what I’ll describe as discreet transport services for sensitive consignments.’ He grinned, but grimly. ‘In other words, the buggers have been smuggling. You asked me specifically about a consignment that Griffin might have received a couple of years ago, but in fact we’ve uncovered more than that, for people other than him with nothing to do with your investigation. So today, we’re both going to be interviewing him. After that I’ll decide whether he’ll be kept
in custody. As yet, he doesn’t know what I know, so be ready for me to jump in when the moment’s right.’
His hand covered the camera, the source computer was swung around and the two Scots found themselves looking as a middle-aged man was brought into the room. He had a black V-shaped hairline, a sharp nose and a loose, nervous mouth.
‘Mr DuPlessis?’ Haddock began. As he spoke, a flashback from the morning found its way into his mind, and he had to push it back.
‘That’s me,’ the man on screen replied.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Harold Haddock, in charge of the Serious Crimes team in Edinburgh, Scotland, and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Singh. We’re investigating the murder of our colleagues, Inspector Griffin Montell, and another man. I believe Inspector Montell was your cousin.’
‘Yes, he was. Our mothers were sisters, but we weren’t close.’
‘I believe that his mother is no longer alive.’
‘That’s correct,’ DuPlessis confirmed. ‘Mine is, but she lives in Buenos Aires with her second husband. He’s a rugby coach,’ he added.
‘When did you last hear from your cousin?’
‘I can’t remember. We never communicated much.’
‘Try, Mr DuPlessis,’ Singh growled.
The sight of the massive Sikh leaning forward to fill the screen seemed to alarm the South African, but not enough to shake his claim to forgetfulness. ‘I can’t, okay.’
‘When we searched your cousin’s apartment after his death,’ the DI continued, ‘we were surprised by some of the things we found. Specifically, there was a significant amount of South African gold coins, far more than you’d reasonably expect to find in the home of a working cop. There was a lot of cash, more than a year’s salary for his rank. And there was a firearm, a Beretta handgun, a type regularly carried by police officers around the world.’
DuPlessis shrugged. ‘Why are you telling me? Like I said, I hardly knew the bloke.’
‘Is that really true?’ Major Pollock asked, breaking into the investigation. ‘You see, Tom, my people in Cape Town have been making enquiries at your workplace, Oceanic Magic. They have interviewed a woman called Dee Gosford: she’s a chief engineer and under questioning she told them . . . confessed would be a better term . . . that a couple of years ago you asked her to take charge of an item for you, and take it to Southampton where it would be offloaded at night, when the rest of the world was asleep. She was paid five Krugerrands for her trouble. She couldn’t identify the man who collected the consignment, not unnaturally, because it was dark, but her physical description is a fair match for Griffin Montell.’
The Roots of Evil (Bob Skinner) Page 18