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

  He paused, glancing to his left. ‘Before we go any further, we should introduce ourselves. This is Detective Sergeant Noele McClair, and I’m Sir Robert Skinner. I’m no longer a full-time police officer, but I do have advisory status, and the deputy chief has asked me to sit in for him. As you’re aware from an earlier visit by Detective Inspector Haddock and DC Wright, they and DS McClair are investigating the abduction and death of Ms Carrie McDaniels.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Black retorted, ‘and I told them everything I know about it, which is exactly nothing.’

  ‘Be that as it may, you were acquainted with Ms McDaniels, yes?’ McClair asked.

  ‘Yes, I was, but only briefly. She visited me in Millport about ten days ago; a week last Friday, in fact.’

  ‘And you discussed what?’

  ‘She asked me about an old business I was peripherally involved with, a shoplifting allegation against a woman I’d represented in the past . . . in a manner of speaking, that is. She and her husband had divorced a few years before that, and I acted for him in the property split.’

  ‘You acted for him,’ the DS repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet you defended her in the theft charge?’

  ‘I know,’ Black said. ‘It sounds odd, but I was the only lawyer Marcia Brown knew. She called me and told me that I’d been an arsehole – her words – in the property matter, and that she hoped I’d be the same in her defence.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant, she didn’t have a defence. I told her as much, and as you undoubtedly know, she killed herself.’

  Skinner leaned forward. ‘That’s what you told Ms McDaniels?’

  ‘That’s it; nothing more, because I knew nothing more. Marcia claimed conspiracy; that was going to be her defence. I suppose I mentioned that as well.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  ‘I believed that’s what she believed.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong. She invented the whole thing.’ He laid both palms on the table, as if he was pushing it away. ‘Leaving that aside, I’d like to ask you about LuxuMarket, the premises on which the theft took place. The majority shareholder was another client of yours, wasn’t he?’

  Black looked at him, surprised by the change of direction.

  ‘Mr McCullough? Yes, he was,’ he confirmed. ‘He was offered the property by the previous owner; his business was failing and he wanted out.’

  ‘But he didn’t get out completely, that previous owner, did he?’

  The solicitor’s gaze fell to the table, and he took a deep breath. ‘No, he didn’t. He retained a twenty per cent share in LuxuMarket.’

  ‘At whose request?’

  ‘His own.’

  ‘Who acted for him?’

  He looked away, towards the window. ‘My firm did.’

  ‘Didn’t you have an ethical problem with that? Representing both the seller and the buyer in the same commercial transaction?’

  ‘My partner acted for the vendor.’

  ‘And that’s ethical? Come on, man,’ Skinner laughed. ‘Stop pulling my chain. When the deal was completed, did the two parties, buyer and seller, meet? Be careful how you answer this, otherwise I’ll have to switch on that recording device over there and make this a formal interview. I know Cameron McCullough, and I know that he used you because it was a small deal by his standards. Answer my question so I don’t have to ask him. Did he and the vendor meet?’

  ‘Yes, they did.’

  ‘Did you and your partner disclose to Cameron that you were from the same law firm?’

  ‘No, we did not.’

  ‘In effect, what happened is that you went out and found a buyer for the vendor, your original client. When he asked you to act for him in the purchase, you got greedy and trousered two fees for the same deal.’

  The lawyer sniffed. ‘If you want to put it that way, Sir Robert.’

  ‘I do. Why Cameron?’ he asked.

  ‘At that time, if you were looking for a venture capital investor, he was one of very few people with cash. It was in the middle of the recession, remember.’

  ‘A few years down the line, when your original client wanted to buy him out, who made that approach?’

  ‘I did. I set out the terms and Mr McCullough accepted. The second time, they didn’t meet; there was no need.’

  ‘What was the name of your other client?’

  ‘Mr Butt,’ Black replied. ‘Mr Wasim Butt.’

  ‘When he told you that he wanted to buy Mr McCullough out, did you ask him where the money was coming from?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you know anyway. The funds came from the RL Investment Trust, based in Zurich.’

  ‘Who was behind that?’

  ‘Mr Butt, I assumed.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Let’s go back to Carrie McDaniels, and her visit to you. After she left you, did you call anyone to tell them about her visit? Before you lie to me, you should understand that if you do, I will know. I have your professional reputation in the palm of my hand, mate, so don’t make me crush it.’

  ‘I called Wasim Butt,’ the lawyer confessed.

  ‘I thought you were retired from practice.’

  ‘I am, but not from my business with him.’ He glared at Skinner. ‘Do what you have to,’ he snapped, ‘but I have had enough of this. I want to leave, so please arrange for a car to take me back to Millport. I don’t care how many blue lights it has on top, I don’t even care if the sirens blare all the way there; I just want to go home.’

  ‘You will,’ McClair said, ‘when you’ve answered one more question. Which Wasim Butt did you call? Father or son?’

  Seventy-Four

  ‘No comment,’ Wasim Butt whispered.

  ‘I put it to you, sir,’ Sauce Haddock said, ‘that the first you knew about Carrie McDaniels’ investigation of the Marcia Brown case was when you were told by your son. Not Zaqib, but your older son, your namesake, Wasim, the boy you left behind in Pakistan when you ended your marriage to his mother.’

  Butt’s solicitor murmured in his ear. ‘No comment,’ he repeated.

  The DI sighed and looked at the lawyer. ‘I suppose you think you’re doing a good job for your client. Wrong. He can “no comment” all he likes, but it won’t make any difference. He will be charged with conspiracy to murder, with complicity in human slavery and aiding and abetting prostitution, some of it involving minors. My colleagues in our specialist crimes unit have enough on him to put him away just about for ever, and the Crown Office has authorised me to charge him. The best you can do for him is to shut the hell up and allow him to decide for himself how long he wants to spend inside.

  ‘Mr Butt, let me spell a couple of things out to you. We have a witness, a very scared witness, who will swear that as soon as Carrie McDaniels left his house, he called your son, Wasim junior, on a mobile number. I have no doubt at all that when we gain access to your phone records, as we will very soon, we’ll find that you received a call from that same mobile number. When Zaqib called you later on to tell you about Carrie’s visit to him, it wasn’t the first time you’d heard her name.’

  He paused to allow his words to sink in; the solicitor opened his mouth, but Haddock silenced him with a look and a raised hand. ‘This part is speculation,’ he continued, ‘and not too relevant to the situation you’re in now, but I am expecting your phone records to show that as soon as Zaqib’s call to you was over, you called Wasim back. It’ll be for the jury to decide who actually ordered the execution of the young woman, but it was one of the two of you, and as the senior figure, you’re where they’ll look first. Maybe if you were standing side by side in the dock, they might decide differently, but your son won’t be there. The Crown has less than four months from the date of your remand to bring you to trial. Even if he was arrested in Pakistan tomorrow, if his former colleagues in the Federal Investigation Agency turned against him, no way could he be extradited within that time frame. I have to tell you, Mr B
utt, that when Detective Constable Wright and I look across this table at you, we don’t see a cold-blooded killer; we see a man who’s been sucked into something and is shitting himself, maybe even literally. So that’s it: you either talk to us, or we end this interview right now and charge you with everything the Crown Office has authorised.’

  The solicitor, who was also of Pakistani origin, leaned towards Butt again, murmuring in a language neither Haddock nor Wright understood. His client pushed him away, shaking his head and shouting, ‘Enough!’ He buried his face in his hands for a few seconds. The lawyer persisted, but again he was rebuffed, with a volley of words in a tone that would have been angry in any language.

  At last Butt turned back to the detectives. ‘You are asking me to betray my son,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ the DI replied. ‘Betrayal isn’t an issue. We know your son is guilty of everything you’ll be charged with, and we have enough to prove it. We’re offering you a chance to help yourself. Do you confirm what I’ve just put to you?’

  Yet again the solicitor tried to intervene, and again his client pushed him away. ‘Get out of here,’ he hissed in English.

  ‘No,’ Haddock said. ‘He stays here; I am not taking the chance of you claiming that we infringed your right to legal advice. Please carry on.’

  ‘Yes,’ Butt said. ‘I confirm it. My son Wasim did call me to tell me that the investigator had been to see Mr Black.’

  ‘What did he say? What was his tone?’

  ‘He was angry. He told me that anyone who even scratched the surface of that issue might uncover things that could not be seen. He blamed me for warning the woman’s son to stop persecuting us, and so exposing myself. He even blamed Zaqib for stopping her at the supermarket in the first place. He said that any attention that was drawn to the place, and what is done there now, would jeopardise both of us.’

  ‘To be clear, when he called you, he was in Scotland and you were in Pakistan, visiting your brother.’

  He nodded. ‘For the recorder, please, Mr Butt,’ Jackie Wright requested. ‘We need to hear you say it.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘When Wasim is in Scotland, where does he live?’ the DI asked.

  ‘In the warehouse; there is a room there, and a cooker. He comes and goes at night. People shop for him during the day.’

  ‘Back to that Friday: you had heard from Wasim junior, then Zaqib called you?’

  ‘Not straight away, but a few hours later. He wasn’t angry, more curious about the questions she had asked, but I was anxious.’

  ‘So you called Wasim junior back?’

  ‘Yes, and this time he was different; he had decided what to do. He told me to get myself back from Rawalpindi straight away, and to get Zaqib out there. He said that he wanted him as far away as possible for a week or so.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was going to do?’

  ‘No he did not, that I promise.’

  The DI paused. ‘If he had, would you have prevented him?’

  ‘Not would I, could I. No, I could not. Make no mistake, Officers, I was a figurehead. My son was in charge from the very beginning.’

  Haddock stared him down, a technique he had learned from Bob Skinner. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ he said coldly.

  ‘Not really. But it is the truth.’

  ‘Tell it to the jury,’ the DI snapped, then moved on. ‘Can you confirm that Zaqib never knew he had an older brother?’

  Butt nodded, then remembered the recorder. ‘Yes, I can. I never told him, nor did I ever tell Rachel, my wife, that I had been married before I left Pakistan.’

  ‘But Wasim knows about Zaqib?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you always in contact with him?’

  ‘No, not always. His mother and I, obviously we did not part on good terms when I decided that I was going to leave her behind and go to Britain. Her father, he was part of the reason. He was a very strong man, and a very powerful man in Hyderabad. He was involved in business that was not entirely legal, and he insisted that I work in it, for him. I could not take that, so I left my wife and my son. I heard nothing from Wasim until he had left Hyderabad himself to go to Lahore University. Then he got in touch. It was a shock, I can tell you. I had put him out of my mind.’

  ‘When was the first time you met after that?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘After he joined the army, when he was twenty-four or twenty-five. I went to visit my brother Imran, and when I was there, I flew to Karachi to meet with my son.’

  ‘Did you ever tell Imran about him?’

  ‘No,’ Butt replied. ‘Imran is older than me. He had left Hyderabad for Rawalpindi before I married Azra. He is a very proper man, and I didn’t want him to think badly of me.’

  ‘So how did you and Wasim junior get involved in the human slavery business?’ Wright asked, unable to keep the anger from her tone.

  ‘He came to me ten years ago and told me that he had joined the FIA, the intelligence police. His work there had shown him how easy it was to move people around, and he had got involved in sending people to Glasgow and other places. He said there was money in it, but it was the tip of the iceberg. He asked me about my cash-and-carry business. I told him that I had sold most of it to Cameron McCullough. He said that if I bought him out, we could turn it into something else and move people through it, not just from Pakistan, from parts of Europe as well. I said that if I had that kind of money I wouldn’t have sold it in the first place. He said, don’t worry about that, I’ll provide the cash. And he did.’

  Haddock held his gaze. ‘What about the money to set Zaqib up in WZB? Was that his too?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘That was mine. It was what I had left from the original sale to Mr McCullough. I did it for Zaqib’s safety,’ he insisted. ‘Wasim made it clear that he could never know what we were doing. Zaqib is a straight-up guy; he would not have accepted it. If he had found out . . . well, they might have been brothers, but he was nothing to Wasim.’

  ‘And Cedric Black? His call to Wasim was instant; was he complicit?’

  Wasim Butt senior drew a breath, and a half-smile came to his lips. ‘Mr Black? He is one of those lawyers who does not want to know what his clients are doing. But he did, he did.’

  Seventy-Five

  ‘What about Black?’ Lottie Mann exclaimed. ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mario McGuire replied. ‘We have to be careful with him. He’s on his way back to Millport, maybe with a slightly raised heart rate but thinking that he’s free and clear. He knows we can’t hold him on the basis of a single phone call to a non-contract mobile that was probably melted along with Carrie McDaniels and Gerry Heaney. We have to prove that Wasim junior was on the other end and we have to get beyond reasonable doubt that Black told him about Carrie’s visit. Wasim senior’s confession takes us part of the way there, but we need more, much more, before the Crown Office will authorise charges. We might have enough for the Law Society to remove his practising certificate, but he’s retired anyway, so that’s hardly a sanction.’

  ‘Will we ever get him?’

  ‘Is he guilty of anything, Lottie?’ Skinner looked at her as he posed the question. ‘Did he have knowledge of what went on behind the scenes at Household Supplies and Services? Old Wasim says yes; Black’ll say no. And even if a miracle occurs and we – sorry, you, me not being officially a polis any more – have Wasim the younger in your custody this time next week, that will not be a tie-breaker, for he is going to say precisely bugger all.’

  ‘Will we ever?’ John Cotter asked.

  ‘We can always hope,’ Lowell Payne told him. ‘But the cynic in me says we’ll never see him again. He’s become a major embarrassment to the Federal Intelligence Agency, one of their own going into private practice, so to speak. They may well be reluctant to look too hard for him. They may even take the pragmatic way out.’

  The young DS stared at him. ‘What’s that, sir?’


  ‘One behind the ear,’ Skinner retorted. ‘Murky world, intelligence; it has its own rules.’

  Lottie Mann shuddered. ‘I suppose that’s it for our investigation,’ she sighed. ‘Wasim junior heard about Marcia Brown and took care of her before she became trouble.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Payne told her. ‘The FIA did cough up Wasim’s service record. When Marcia died, he was on an operation in Pakistan.’

  ‘This too,’ Skinner added. ‘If it had been him, I doubt she’d have been killed by an overdose of Oramorph injected by an invisible syringe; nothing so subtle. She’d just have vanished. No, you two still have an active investigation on your hands.’

  ‘But not a single lead,’ Cotter complained.

  His mentor grinned. ‘That’s when it gets really interesting, Hitch. You might have no leads as such, but I’m going to give you a shopping list. Given that you’re a film buff, did you ever see Raiders of the Lost Ark?’

  ‘My third-ever favourite film, sir, after The Godfather and It’s a Wonderful Life.’

  ‘I thought it might be. It’s my number two, after Con Air. When you start to work through my list, I want you to be thinking of the very last scene.’

  Seventy-Six

  ‘He’s quite certain about that?’ Dominic Jackson asked.

  ‘Do you think he’d have given me the green light to go home if he wasn’t?’ Alex countered. ‘Lowell Payne had word today that Wasim Butt the younger was killed in a shootout with police when they went to arrest him at his grandfather’s home in Hyderabad.’

  ‘Are they sure it was him?’

  ‘They are now. Uncle Lowell is a world-class sceptic, just like my father, but the Pakistani police showed him photographs of the body, and sent him a DNA profile that matches the one Arthur Dorward produced in Gartcosh. That leaves Butt senior up against it, with nothing to establish that he didn’t order Carrie’s killing himself.’