The Bad Fire (Bob Skinner series, Book 31): A shocking murder case brings danger too close to home for ex-cop Bob Skinner in this gripping Scottish crime thriller

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Gut tells me he is,’ Bob Skinner said to his phone. It was on speaker mode, lying on his desk in Saltire House. ‘From what you say, he volunteered everything he could over FaceTime. Sauce believes him, and that’s good enough for me. Whether that’s everything Butt knows, time will tell. If he isn’t on the first plane home, I don’t think your warrant will ever be served.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You used to be a detective; work it out.’

  ‘I still am, just like you. And just like you, I will bask in the work of my juniors. I had a call from Tarvil Singh while Sauce and McClair were off air. You’re going to love this one. He ran deep background checks on all the players in the original investigation, right back to birth certificates, more or less, and came up with a beauty. Marcia Brown’s claim was that she was set up by Gloria Stephens’ daughter and her cop boyfriend, who just happened to be in the store at the time, conveniently visiting. Maybe it was convenient, but it wasn’t necessarily his girlfriend that PC Spider-Man was visiting; it was just as likely to have been his sister. The store manager, Mrs Hazel Delaney, who’s now running Grandpa McCullough’s radio station in Dundee, her maiden name was Parker. I called Sauce once he was clear of Butt’s wife and told him. He practically did cartwheels in his car. When he saw Delaney at the radio station, there was a bloke working in reception. There’s more than that: Terry Coats said something about him being called Spider-Man not just because of his name, but because he needed a mask. The man at the radio station had acne scars so bad that he wore cosmetics.’

  Bob laughed. ‘Be sure your skin will find you out. Is Sauce going up there to reinterview them?’

  ‘No, bugger that; they had a chance to own up, and they didn’t take it. I’ve had them lifted for withholding; they’re on their way down to Fettes now. They might even be there before he gets back. Things are falling into place, Bob.’

  ‘Are they? How do the Parkers tie into Wasim Butt, and how does he tie into Carrie McDaniels being murdered?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ the DCC admitted, ‘but I do know a bit more about the background. I had a call this morning from a solicitor acting for Mrs Stephens. He said that she now realises she was visited by Carrie on Friday and wants to make a full statement.’

  ‘Well, well, my daughter will be pleased.’

  ‘What’s Alex got to do with it?’

  She was sitting across from her father. ‘Carrie was working for her, remember?’

  ‘True. The lawyer also says that Stephens has no knowledge of what happened to McDaniels after she left her.’

  ‘If she had, she wouldn’t be phoning you,’ Skinner pointed out.

  ‘The one thing I don’t get is why she had her brief call me and not the SIO on the case.’

  ‘She’s been a council leader for years. Going to the top probably comes naturally to her.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘Anyway, that’s us up to speed. Will you make that other call like I asked? The way things are, it might be awkward for Sauce.’

  ‘Yes, sure, I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Any other bright ideas before I go?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘Yes, one. Ask Lottie to set up observation on Wasim Butt’s other business; the one that used to be LuxuMarket and is now called Household Supplies and Services, or something similar.’

  ‘Will do. You gonna tell me why?’

  ‘I don’t know myself yet. Cheers.’

  ‘You gonna tell me why?’ Alex asked, as the phone fell silent.

  ‘Same answer,’ Bob said. ‘Sometimes you just have to give the tree a bloody good shake to see if anything falls out. Not unlike your entirely unauthorised trip with Dominic to confront Stephens. I could have saved you the bother, by the way.’ He smiled broadly.

  ‘How would that have been? You’re at your worst when you’re smug,’ she added.

  He laughed and nodded. ‘Probably. Did it never occur to you that I might have known all about her? Aileen, my former wife, your former stepmother, was the leader of the Labour Party in Scotland, before she foresaw its collapse and fucked off to London to play among the big folk. She marked my card about quite a few people, and Gloria Stephens was one of them. “A small-time, small-town bully, full of wind and vinegar, lacking the courage or vision to take any risky action, content just to sit on her hands and survive election after election.” That was her verdict, and her judgement is always spot on, as she’s proving in London by positioning herself behind an ageing, unelectable leader and quietly building a power base on the left.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what Dominic said about Stephens,’ Alex conceded.

  ‘I know; he told me. If he’d thought for a second that she was capable of having Carrie murdered, he wouldn’t have let you near her.’

  ‘Hmph,’ she snorted. ‘I’ll be having a word with him.’

  ‘Don’t be doing that; he promised me he’d look after you, remember.’ He paused, seeing something in her eyes. ‘Here,’ he murmured, ‘are you . . .’

  ‘What if I was?’ she retorted defensively. ‘He’s an attractive man. Very serious, but charismatic, and I like him. Maybe I wouldn’t have when he was Lennie Plenderleith, but I do now.’ She winked. ‘But not in that way, so you can stop worrying. Dominic is happy in himself; the surprising thing is that he’s making me feel that way too. Living with him is giving me a break from myself, and I’m enjoying it. It’s more satisfying long term than phoning Montell for a quick shag, know what I mean?’ She rose and left him gazing after her, shaking his head and smiling.

  After a few moments’ contemplation, he reached for his phone and called up a number from his directory.

  ‘Bob,’ Cameron McCullough responded. ‘What are they saying I’ve done now? This isn’t still about LuxuMarket, is it? I thought Sauce and I had squared that away.’

  ‘I hope you have, but it hasn’t gone away completely. There are more questions to be asked, and the powers think it might be less awkward if they come from me rather than him. When you owned that business, you had a minority shareholder, right?’

  ‘Correct. The shares were held by an investment vehicle, but the beneficial owner’s name was Wasim Butt.’

  ‘How did he come to be involved?’

  ‘I bought him out . . . or most of him. Before the site became a supermarket, it was a cash-and-carry booze warehouse, selling in bulk at heavy discount to trade customers and to punters if you had a special ticket. There were quite a few of them in the cities, you remember. They started to fall by the wayside, though; the rise of online trading and the arrival of mega stores like Costco ate into the customer base and they fell like dominos. Wasim owned one of those businesses, in Kilmarnock. It was going the same way when I was approached by a lawyer on his behalf and asked if I would be interested in buying it. He had planning consent from the local council to convert it into a supermarket, but he didn’t have, or possibly didn’t want to risk, the capital required to bring that about.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘Why not? I’m an entrepreneur; people bring deals to me all the time. Anyway, I thought about it, I had some money lying about doing nothing, and so I agreed. The way we structured it, a new holding company was set up; I had eighty per cent and Butt kept twenty. End of story.’

  ‘Not quite, Cameron,’ Skinner said. ‘You don’t own it any more.’

  ‘No, I don’t, you’re correct. The conversion was successful and LuxuMarket made money, though not enough to meet my expectations on that level of investment. A few years back, I was approached, indirectly through my lawyer, by someone who was interested in buying me out. The terms were acceptable; I did the deal and made a nice profit, which I used to buy Black Shield Lodge, the hotel complex. LuxuMarket closed and became something else.’

  ‘Who was the buyer?’

  ‘It was yet another venture capital outfit; I can’t recall the name, but I can find out if necessary.’

  ‘It isn’t. I know already; the owner of the vehic
le is Wasim Butt.’

  ‘He bought it back?’ McCullough exclaimed. ‘Where did he get that sort of dough?’

  ‘Good question,’ Skinner conceded. ‘Around the same time, he also set his son up as a steel stockholder. Sometime soon, people might be looking for the source of those funds.’

  ‘They can’t touch me!’ McCullough protested. ‘I acted in good faith.’

  ‘Relax. Nobody doubts that. I’m keeping you informed, that’s all. I’ll pass on what you told me about Butt to Sauce, and to a second officer who’s looking into another aspect of the case.’

  ‘Do that; also, when you speak to my acting grandson-in-law, or whatever the hell he is, ask him how I’m supposed to run a radio station when my manager and receptionist have been arrested by his team and carted off to Edinburgh. When am I getting them back?’

  ‘That depends on how co-operative they are. Might be tomorrow, might not. What are you going to do? Is it a major hassle?’

  ‘I can handle it,’ McCullough admitted. ‘Mia effectively runs the station, and Ignacio’s been sweating buckets in the restaurant. He’ll be delighted to step in front of house; he might even have an idea about following in his mother’s footsteps on air.’

  ‘Don’t push that one!’ Skinner warned. ‘He’s got a degree to finish.’

  ‘I’m with you on that one; after that, it’s his choice. Nothing you or I can do about.’

  ‘Agreed. One last thing, Cameron: the lawyers you mentioned in the LuxuMarket deal, buying and selling; the police might need their names.’

  ‘Same bloke both times; the man who approached me originally on Wasim’s behalf. He was local, he was competent and frankly he was cheap; the deal wasn’t big enough for me to involve my serious advisers. His name was Black, Cedric Black.’

  Sixty-Four

  ‘Are they ready for us?’ Haddock asked Singh.

  ‘Their solicitor wants five minutes with them, then five with you before the interview starts.’ Singh smiled as the DI’s eyebrows rose. ‘Humour him,’ he said. ‘He’s a new boy. His name’s Simkins. I explained to him that it doesn’t work that way, that he’s there to ensure his clients’ legal rights are protected and to advise them against self-incrimination if he thinks it’s necessary. They’re in Room 1.’

  ‘His clock’s ticking,’ McClair observed, checking her watch.

  ‘Before you go down there,’ her fellow DS said, ‘something of interest. I’ve been running checks of the national DNA database for everyone involved in the case, so they’re on hand for checking against findings at Carrie’s apartment and on her car. Wasim Butt’s on it.’

  ‘Is he?’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘Does that mean he has convictions?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. He has the rarest blood group, AB negative, and he’s on the donor list. His DNA is on file through that.’

  ‘Okay. Have you told Dorward?’ Singh threw him a silent snarl. ‘Aye, okay, sorry again. Noele, let’s go.’

  Haddock led the way from the Serious Crimes suite and down one flight of stairs; as they turned into a corridor, they saw a uniformed constable standing outside the interview room door. He looked uncomfortable in the heat.

  ‘Is it baking in there?’ Haddock asked. The PC nodded. ‘Is there enough water so they don’t have an excuse for an interruption?’

  ‘Plenty, sir.’

  ‘Fine, let’s be at them.’ He thrust the door open and led McClair into the room.

  A burly young man who had been seated at the table facing them jumped to his feet. He had thick tousled hair, his left ear was misshapen and his nose was twisted off the straight. Prop forward, the DI thought. Not quite good enough.

  ‘I didn’t say I was ready for you, Officers,’ the solicitor protested.

  ‘That’s not the issue,’ Haddock replied quietly. ‘We’re ready for you, and that’s what matters. You’re on our side of the table, Mr Simkins; move round, please, and sit behind your clients. We’re interviewing them, not you.’ He looked at the pair as he and his DS took their places opposite them. ‘Mrs Delaney, Mr Parker,’ he said, switching on a recording device, ‘you know us, Detective Inspector Harold Haddock and Detective Sergeant Noele McClair. I assume you were cautioned when you were arrested, but I will repeat it for the tape and for the benefit of Mr Simkins.’ He recited the standard form of words and asked if they understood.

  ‘My clients—’ Simkins began.

  ‘I’ll say this once, sir. You are not a party in this interview; you are a professional adviser to your clients. Don’t interrupt me again on anything other than a matter of law.’ He looked at the woman opposite him; her eyes betrayed her anxiety, and she was perspiring in the stifling heat of the room. Her brother looked beaten before the game had even begun. His acne was uncovered; his face was pitted so badly that Haddock felt a pang of sympathy. ‘This needn’t have been necessary, Mrs Delaney, if you’d been open and honest with us in Dundee. You weren’t, and now you’ve laid yourselves open to charges.’

  She gnawed at her lip. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I’m sorry. I was only trying to protect Peter.’

  ‘From what?’ He looked at the disfigured man. ‘Are you prepared to admit to a conspiracy against Mrs Marcia Brown?’

  ‘Fuck no!’ he cried.

  ‘Peter’s more or less in hiding,’ Hazel Delaney explained. ‘His ex-wife, Vera, she’s trying to find him so she can take him to court. They split up after she got herself knocked up by another bloke, a car dealer, and went off with him. The guy is minted, but Vera’s still after Pete for a bigger share of their joint property than he reckons she deserves. Plus, she wants rights to his pension.’

  ‘If those are her rights—’ McClair began.

  ‘They’re not,’ Parker protested. ‘She’s inflated the value of everything we had. I gave her a fair share, after expenses were deducted. It’s all accounted for, but she’s hired her own legal clowns and they’re saying I could have got more. If she’d been reasonable, I’d still be in Australia and in the police service there. As it was, I had to get out.’

  ‘Without leaving a forwarding address, even for your ex-employers?’

  ‘TFR, lady. Her mother was bad enough, but Vera’s twice as venomous. She’s like that big spider in Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘Ungoliant,’ Simkins volunteered.

  ‘No, ya twat!’ Parker snapped. ‘Shelob.’

  Haddock stifled a smile. ‘How long have you been back?’ he asked.

  ‘For the best part of a year,’ his sister said.

  ‘Where has he been living?’

  ‘With me. I’m a widow, as you might know. The neighbours probably think he’s a bidey-in and I’ve never made them any the wiser. Look, it’s not just Vera and her constant hassling; he was crushed by her desertion, by the divorce. He’s been having a continuous breakdown ever since. If you’d been through something like that, you’d understand.’

  ‘I have been, and I do,’ McClair responded. ‘But Mrs Delaney, there’s no record of your brother anywhere.’

  ‘Does there need to be?’

  ‘I’m afraid there does. He’s employed at your radio station. The DWP and the taxman have an interest in that.’

  ‘Pin money,’ Delaney countered. ‘I pay him out of the petty cash; the station expenses account.’

  ‘Does Cameron McCullough know?’ Haddock asked.

  Her face was flushed, but she reddened even more. ‘No.’ She looked at him. ‘Shit,’ she whispered, ‘you and he are related.’

  ‘We’re not, but even if we were,’ he glanced at Simkins, whose eyes had widened, ‘I wouldn’t discuss details of an active investigation with him. He won’t be hearing it from me, but you might want to think seriously about setting things straight.’

  ‘I will. Mr McCullough’s been good to me over the years; he offered me a move to Dundee to be nearer my husband’s base, and then he supported me when Ron was killed. I should have told him.’

  ‘Make sure you do, but now can we g
o back to the thing that started all this: the theft charge against Marcia Brown. You were both there and you played a part in her arrest and the prosecution. She made allegations at the time that were never followed up after her death. She claimed conspiracy, and said that you, Mr Parker, were a part of it with your girlfriend, Vera Stephens.’

  The ex-policeman wiped a hand across his face, as if he was trying to eradicate his blemishes, an unconscious gesture that he had made half a dozen times during the interview. ‘Rubbish, all of it,’ he said. ‘There never was a conspiracy; Marcia Brown stole that stuff, pure and simple. When she realised it was discounted, she ripped the ticket off herself. Christ, there was footage of her doing it, in the car park, when the security boy’s back was turned.’

  ‘She claimed that she was distracted by someone, a constituent she called Adrian, after she’d cleared the checkout, and that’s when the stolen goods were planted on her trolley.’

  ‘No,’ Parker declared firmly. ‘She wasn’t. She was clever enough to leave her trolley in an area that wasn’t covered by the security cameras, but she didn’t notice the one that actually recorded her stealing the clothes.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hazel Delaney confirmed. ‘I reviewed the footage myself afterwards. I found both of the clips Pete’s talking about.’

  ‘Terry Coats never mentioned them.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ her brother said. ‘I gave them to Chief Inspector Mason, my boss. She didn’t like to be in the witness chain for anything, so she told me to take them straight to Bobby Hough, the fiscal. Ask him; he’ll confirm it.’

  ‘That’s unlikely,’ Haddock replied. ‘He has Alzheimer’s. What about Vera?’ he continued. ‘What was her part in this?’

  The hunted man threw back his head and laughed out loud, almost maniacally, his eyes rolling upwards. ‘That’s the biggest joke of all,’ he exclaimed. ‘Vera couldn’t stand her mother; they barely spoke to each other, and when they did, it always ended in an argument. That’s the reason she and I went to Australia: to get away from the vicious wee cow.’