18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I was dressed casually, yes, so that I could remain inconspicuous. I had no idea that young woman was a police officer because you chose to keep the facts of the operation from the fiscal’s office. I had seen the way in which she was being exposed in the media, and I was so concerned that I went along there with a view to protecting her, if necessary. As for my dress, is that relevant?’

  ‘You’re not a police officer, Gregor.’

  ‘I’m a concerned citizen, Bob, concerned about the inability of your force to prevent the murders of several young women over the last few months, and so lax that it has allowed a copycat killer to emerge, after the earlier murders were solved.’

  ‘If only. You’re wrong, they weren’t solved.’

  For the first time, Broughton’s composure seemed less than complete. ‘What do you mean? Those cases are closed.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Stallings. ‘They’ve been reopened as a result of new medical evidence indicating that Daniel Ballester could not have been the killer. I’m leading the investigation, which has now been linked with that into the murder of Sugar Dean.’

  ‘Then link me to them, I challenge you.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Skinner told him. ‘We’ll start with the most recent. When Ms Dean was killed, you were at Murrayfield Golf Club, and the Law Society’s criminal justice event.’

  ‘So were you, I’d remind you.’

  ‘Yes, but while she was being killed I was spending a pointless half-hour on the practice ground, hitting golf balls. A couple of days ago, a colleague of mine found a green-keeper who remembers seeing me there. The same green-keeper has a hell of a good memory: he recalled seeing a man answering your description walking towards the clubhouse, along the side of the eighteenth fairway, that is to say, heading away from the place where the girl was shot.’

  ‘I doubt if just “answering my description” is going to convince a jury.’>

  ‘On its own, probably not; so let’s go back a bit to the shooting of Zrinka Boras. Again, I was in the vicinity, at home in Gullane, on sabbatical, very close to where the killing took place. But you weren’t far away either, Gregor.’

  He paused. ‘Way back at the start of the inquiry, the investigating team asked local people if they could recall anything unusual that morning. Two of them recalled being overtaken between Gullane and Longniddry by a Saab 93 convertible, heading towards town and going like a bat out of hell. Yesterday I asked Neil McIlhenney to do a check with the traffic department. Your car was clocked by a camera on the A1 that same morning. It was referred to the fiscal in Haddington for possible prosecution; you’re his boss, Gregor, so he did you a favour. He’s just admitted as much. We haven’t interviewed Lady Broughton yet, but when we do, I’ll bet she tells us that you weren’t at home the night before Zrinka was murdered. I believe you’d been stalking her for a while. That day you followed her, not knowing for sure where they were headed, from Edinburgh to North Berwick, where she and Harry, her boyfriend, ate, then back to Gullane, where they camped. And you took your chance. If they’d just gone back home, back to her place, those kids might still be alive.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ The prosecutor laughed. ‘A speed camera near Tranent does not put me in Gullane. A jury would laugh at you.’

  Skinner reached into his pocket and produced a clear plastic envelope, with a piece of paper inside. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but this does. You ate in the same restaurant in North Berwick they did . . . or someone did, and paid for his meal with your credit card. Is that jury still laughing?’

  He stared at Broughton, who remained impassive. ‘Let’s go back to Stacey Gavin now. She died some time after eight in the morning, in South Queensferry. You live in Fife: you drive more or less past that spot on your way to work . . . and you were at work that day.’

  ‘And where were you, Bob?’

  ‘As it happens, that morning I gave evidence to a fatal accident inquiry in Fife, and drove close to the murder scene. You would have had easy access to the list of witnesses, Gregor. You could have known that.’

  ‘Possibly, but the chain of coincidence extends further. As I recall, your inquiry revealed that you yourself own works by the first two girls murdered, Gavin and Boras.’

  Skinner smiled. ‘But you knew that anyway. Not long into my sabbatical you came out to Gullane to consult me about a pending prosecution. Both of those pictures hang in my living room. And you’re an art buff, Gregor. I haven’t been to your place, since I’ve never been invited, but Mario McGuire has, on business. You profess no knowledge of painting, but he describes it as being like an art gallery, with pictures all over the drawing room; quality, he says, and Mario knows his stuff. You knew what you were looking at when you saw my modest collection; you knew also, when you decided to make a comeback, that there’s a piece of Sugar Dean’s work hanging in this building . . . as there is in the Crown Office.’

  Broughton chuckled. ‘Looks as if it’s either you or me, Bob. I suggest that the Crown Agent issues indictments against us both, then we’ll see who the jury thinks is most likely.’

  ‘You had a gun on the beach this morning, an illegal firearm. You were a member of Edinburgh Gun Club twenty years ago.’

  ‘You’re a police officer. You have access to guns. Indeed, you’ve killed at least one man that I know of. Let me answer your further point. You say that my gun was illegal, but I’ll argue that I’m an officer of the law, like you, and that the laxity which allows you to carry a weapon also applies to me in times of extreme need, in the public interest.’

  ‘But not in Spain.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You can’t justify being armed in Spain. At my request, the Mossos d’Esquadra raided your house up in Torremirona yesterday. They found two starting pistols in the garage, both converted to fire live rounds. Of course, they didn’t find the one you used to kill Nada Sebastian, the artist who was murdered within sight of my Spanish house. I guess you chucked that one in the sea. How many times have you been in my office, Gregor? How many chances have you had to see the picture of hers that hangs there? I didn’t know myself that it was one of hers, but you clocked the signature and traced it to her website. Then you traced her, and you killed her, when I was there.’

  ‘And when did I have the opportunity to do that?’

  ‘When you were in Barcelona last week, on a liaison visit to the Catalan government. I’ve checked with the Catalan justice ministry; it ended on Tuesday, yet you didn’t fly home till Thursday afternoon. My guess is you tracked Sebastian on the Wednesday, and then, next morning, you followed her again and shot her.’

  Broughton leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the ceiling, before looking Skinner in the eye once more. ‘And if I did all this, set you up in this way, why did I sign off on Ballester as the murderer?’

  ‘Because you thought even that might implicate me. And also, probably, to show yourself what a clever bastard you are. But you weren’t, you see, because that’s where you nailed yourself to the fucking wall, that’s where you made the big mistake that’s going to put you away.’

  ‘Do go on, my friend.’ The fiscal yawned.

  ‘No problem. You knew that we had Ballester in the frame, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Broughton nodded.

  ‘Right, and then you heard that he was dead, swinging in his cottage in Wooler. You didn’t stop to ask yourself why he would hang himself if he was innocent, as you surely knew he was. You seized the main chance, you drove down to the scene and when nobody was looking you planted all the evidence that was found there. That would have been easy to do. All of it was outside the house, outside the taped-off crime scene, and all of it was found after you’d been on the scene, none of it before.’

  ‘As before, Bob, you’re describing your own actions. You were there too, remember?’

  Skinner leaned towards him. ‘But I never touched Ballester’s computer. I never laid a hand on it. You took that away from the scene. The local coroner went ballistic when
he heard that, remember, so you had the hard disk copied and you sent the original machine back down south. When my guys looked at the copy . . . an exact copy, you told them . . . they found images, beautiful, caring photographs of the three dead girls, Stacey, Zrinka and wee Amy Noone, all taken, posed like angels, in the minutes after their deaths.

  ‘Daniel Ballester couldn’t have put them there, Gregor, because he couldn’t have killed them. If you’d read his autopsy report carefully, you’d have learned that he had a physical condition that would have made it impossible. The only person who could have seeded that computer was their murderer, and the only person who had access to Ballester’s machine, was . . . not me, not anyone else . . . it was you, Gregor. You killed them all, and that’s how I will prove it, or prove enough of it to put you away until you’re eating your dinner with a shaky fucking spoon! Go on, Prosecutor. What are my chances of a conviction, even before the world’s most perverse jury? Go on, tell me!’

  The deputy chief constable’s eyes and those of his adversary seemed to lock together. To Stallings it was as if their intensity was sucking the air out of the room, until she realised that she was holding her breath. Beside her Joe Dowley sat catatonic; she glanced at him and saw an expression on his face that was pure terror. She could see Skinner only in profile, and perhaps that was just as well. As she watched, Broughton, seated a few feet from her, slowly fell apart. First the confidence left his eyes, and then the courage, and finally the hope, until all that was left was despair.

  ‘You can make a phone call,’ said Skinner, quietly. ‘Who’s going to tell Phil, Gregor, you or me?’

  ‘You’d better do it,’ the beaten man whispered, only just loud enough for the tape to register. ‘I couldn’t find the words.’

  ‘Okay. Interview terminated.’ He looked to his right as he switched off the three recorders on the table, and removed the cassettes. ‘Excuse us, please, you two. We’ve got enough for now. The next part’s private, between the two of us.’

  ‘Sir,’ Stallings murmured.

  ‘Jesus, Becky,’ the DCC exclaimed. ‘Relax, I’m not going to give him a doing.’

  Doubtfully she left the room, taking the tapes and a still shaking Dowley with her.

  Left together, Skinner looked back at the man he had thought he knew. ‘So, Gregor, why?’ he asked him, for the third time.

  ‘They were beautiful, you know,’ Broughton replied softly. ‘You’ll have seen those images. You called them angels, and others did too. I read the reports. You were all right. That is what they were. They were art themselves, dead, yet living art. I tried to make them something greater: not with a brush, for there I have no skill, but with my camera. There can be such beauty in death, Bob, in the perfect death. It’s an art form, the purest, loveliest art form there is, and who better to appreciate it than those with art in their soul? As you have, for I’ve seen your taste, the things you possess. I know you can see the beauty.’

  ‘I can see a very sick man, Gregor.’ He paused. ‘You must be aware that we are searching your house. The Lord Advocate gave us a warrant. Phil’s in court, and your boys are being looked after while it happens. We’ll find those images, but will we find any others, victims we don’t know about?’

  ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘You won’t find them in my home, but sooner or later you’ll search my office, and find my lap-top, my camera and a third gun in my private safe. You’ll find nine, in total, including Nada Sebastian. Not just from Scotland, some from other parts of the world, where I have travelled, including countries where the penalty for such things is death, although I can’t be extradited to any of them. It isn’t just the art, you understand, it’s the excitement too, the danger, and ultimately the thrill of the victory that’s part of each creation.’

  ‘Amy Noone?’ Skinner asked. ‘Why her?’

  ‘You’re on a roll, you tell me.’

  ‘I will. I’ve read all the witness statements from those investigations. There’s one with Amy, where she talks about the first time she, Zrinka and Stacey were all together. It was the final-year show, up at Lauriston, where the students sell their work. She said something about Stacey selling her last picture to a man. She said that he spun them a story about wanting it for his daughter’s flat, and that he looked “as tough as fuck”, as I recall. You’re a pretty rugged guy, Gregor. That was you, trying to fit me up into the bargain. You saw that statement and you killed Amy because she could have identified you. Does that cover it?’

  ‘As I said, Bob, it’s your day.’

  ‘Maybe, but there’s one thing that’s got me baffled. Why pick on me? Why try to set me up? Not even you would have anticipated that I’d be convicted for things I hadn’t done, but enough smoke, even without fire, would have derailed my career, and probably Aileen’s too. I suppose that’s what those anonymous phone calls were about, you trying to kick-start that process. So why, Gregor, why me? We’ve known each other for twenty years. I’ve always regarded you as a friend. Tell me, please; I don’t know and I can’t guess.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can, Bob. If it’s any consolation, I’ve never regarded you as an enemy: as a friend, though, no, not for a long time; not since I found out about you and Phil.’

  Skinner stared at him. ‘That’s it? That’s why you’ve been trying to point my own officers at me in their investigations? Phil and I went out together . . . what? Twelve years ago now, before you and she were married, or even engaged. It wasn’t a secret at the time, but I doubt if there’s anybody in Edinburgh who still remembers it, apart from the three of us. I’ve never even told Alex about it, only Aileen. What’s your beef? I didn’t ask her to marry me, although I might have got around to it, I admit. You did, and she accepted. I was the one who got hurt, not you.’

  ‘You think so? Remember when Ranald was born, our first?’

  ‘Of course I do. We wet his head in Deacon Brodie’s. Got it very wet, as I recall.’

  ‘I told you he was carried full term . . . or, at least, I allowed you to assume that he was. Actually he was two months premature.’

  To Skinner the room suddenly felt smaller. ‘Now wait a minute . . .’ he began. ‘Phil and I didn’t have that sort of relationship.’

  ‘Never? Under oath?’

  ‘Well, maybe a couple of times . . . just before it packed in. But you’re not telling me that you and she were platonic.’

  ‘No, I’m not, and our relations were within the time-frame. Phil never gave me the slightest hint that I might not have been Ranald’s dad, but I’m afraid I always had that little niggle. Gradually I forgot about it, though, until last year, when something happened. Your daughter was attacked, and to help the investigation, she gave a DNA sample. Of course, the papers in the case landed on my desk. I’d never thought of having a test done until then, but I found the temptation too much to resist. I had comparisons run privately using your daughter’s DNA, Ranald’s and mine. Congratulations, Bob. Your sex with Phil may not have been very memorable, but for all that it was effective. You stole my son, you bastard.’

  ‘Does she know?’ Skinner whispered.

  ‘No. She and Ranald must never know, but now that . . . now that it’s all over for me, by God you should!’

  ‘And you’ll trust me to keep your secret, after what you tried to do to me?’

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt Phil. You wouldn’t damage the boy.’

  ‘How exactly would it damage him to know that the most notorious serial killer we’ve had in years isn’t his dad after all? How much hurt do you think Phil’s going to feel when I tell her about you? How is she going to carry on with her career, with her husband up before one of her fellow judges?’

  ‘Bob, a few minutes ago you said you thought of me as a friend.’

  ‘Fucking wrong there, was I not?’

  ‘Maybe, but do this one thing for me. Keep my secret.’

  Skinner glared at him. ‘Okay, I will, if you do something for me.’

  ‘What?’ />
  ‘The psychiatrists are going to be crawling around inside your head for the next few weeks, Gregor. They may say you’re nuts, unfit to plead. But if they don’t, then the word you say is “guilty”. You will not put Phil and her boys through the ordeal of a trial.’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘At the moment, pal, you’re lucky that I’m not around this table disembowelling you with my fingernails. If you do that to your wife and family, what else do they have to lose? Do we have a deal or not?’

  Gregor Broughton looked at him and nodded. ‘We do. Tell me, Bob,’ he added, ‘since I can’t be objective in this, you must have interviewed more than a few crazy people in your time. Do you think I’m one of them?’

  One Hundred and Four

  ‘Do you think he is?’ Aileen asked him, her arm linked though his as they strolled past Gullane Parish Church.

  ‘Fit to plead?’ he responded. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Did he know right from wrong as he was killing those people? That’s the test. Gregor’s career, a very successful one, was based on knowing that very difference when it came to the cases he had to prosecute, so it may be difficult for him to offer that defence. On the other hand, this prosecution will be handled personally by the Lord Advocate; for practical reasons, he may be quite keen to accept it. Now ask me whether I think he’s crazy. Absolutely not, but my gut feeling is that’s what the outcome will be.’

  ‘How did Lady Broughton take it?’

  ‘She’s a rock. Jimmy Proud and I went to see her together, in her office up at Parliament House. We told her what had happened and we played her a tape of the interview, then we sat quietly for half an hour while she persuaded herself that we were telling the truth.’

  ‘Do you think she had any inkling that her husband was . . .’

  ‘No, but neither did I until very late in the day. And, you know, if he hadn’t made that mistake with the computer, nobody would have twigged. Not for a while at any rate. Phil’s first reaction was to write out her resignation as a judge and hand it to the Lord President, but I talked her out of it.’