Stevie frowned: something was beginning to niggle at the back of his mind. 'Should I remember this case? I was on the beat out in West Lothian ten years ago, just about to transfer into CID.'
'Maybe you should. Maybe you should remember the appeal too. The trial took two days; that was all. The first day was mostly medical evidence; the second day was when the key stuff happened, when we were in the box, and the shop assistant. After the verdict had been handed down, there was a full report in the Scotsman. Guess what? No, if you don't remember, you'll never guess.'
McIlhenney smiled, but there was a sadness about it. 'The next morning, Dan had a call at the office from a member of the public who'd read the paper. The woman insisted that she had to see him, so he took Regan and they went to her house. Dan came back with a face like thunder. I asked what had happened, but he wouldn't speak to me; George had to tell me about it afterwards. It was surreal, Stevie. The new witness was a customer in the corner shop. The baby died on the last Monday in October. What happens on the last Sunday in October?'
Steele felt his eyes widen. 'The clocks go back!' he said.
'Every year, without fail; but in that shop, the owner hadn't got round to changing his. The shop assistant was too thick to realise it, and we didn't interview her on the premises, so we never actually saw the bloody thing. It changed everything: it put Magda Vilabru right back in the frame, but she was in Algeciras, from which safe haven she couldn't be extradited in those days.'
'So was the case reopened?'
'Of course. The defence appealed formally against conviction and the Crown didn't oppose. The Advocate Depute told the court that he could no longer rely on the testimony of a key witness; that was all. The investigation was reactivated, but without the Spanish girl there was nowhere to go. And suppose we did bring her back now, we'd never get a conviction. Her being there only meant that she could have done it, not that she did it.'
'What if Patsy Aikenhead gave evidence against her?'
'We'd need to reconstitute her ashes for that. She hanged herself in her cell on the night of her conviction.' The big chief inspector looked at his colleague. 'It all happened ten years ago this month,' he told him. 'If I was you, I'd be wanting to know where Chris Aikenhead is right now.'
Steele returned his gaze. 'But you're not me, Neil,' he replied. 'So promise me that you won't try to find him yourself.'
Sixty-four
Skinner had expected to find Mario McGuire's head swathed in bandages, but the only dressing was a plaster covering a cut on his forehead. In fact, the detective superintendent looked remarkably normal as he sat up in bed in the small hospital room. 'Hello, boss,' he said. He sounded in good shape too.
McGuire looked at the tall figure, at the two boys who flanked him, and at the little girl he carried in the crook of his right arm. The older of the boys was slim, with a serious expression, while the younger was sturdy, a strikingly handsome child with clear blue eyes and tousled blond hair that was starting to darken. The girl, although only a toddler, was on course to be a stunner, with auburn hair and a friendly smile. 'I didn't expect to see you today,' he went on, 'especially not mob-handed. Mind you, I don't remember a great deal about seeing you yesterday.'
'We're on a trip across the river,' Skinner explained 'How's the head?' He directed his question towards Paula Viareggio. 'I'm asking you, because I want the official version.'
'He'll live, this time at least,' she replied, with obvious relief in her voice. 'They did another scan and an ECG this morning, and they were both absolutely clear. There's no fracture either; this man has a seriously hard head. We were having an argument just before you arrived about whether he goes home today or stays for another night under observation.'
'Would it help if I ordered him to stay… or tried to?'
'It's okay,' McGuire told him. 'You don't have to. I've given up arguing with Paulie, about the non-business things at least.'
'That's good, because I want you rested and fresh tomorrow. If they let you out, and assuming you feel fit enough to come in, I was hoping you'd be able to join me when I have my conversation with Mr Jay.'
'I'd join you for that, boss, supposing I was in a wheel-chair.'
'Two thirty p.m., then; in my office.'
'Excellent. I'll be dancing by that time.' His eyes left Skinner and moved to the door. 'Christ,' he laughed, 'it's getting crowded in here.' The DCC turned to see Maggie Rose and Stevie Steele come into the room. He glanced at Paula, looking for signs of tension between the two women, but found none. Maggie smiled at each of the boys, and made a fuss over Seonaid, amusing her father, who had never seen his former assistant in this light before.
'I'll relieve the crush in that case,' he said. 'Come on, boys and girl: we're off to the aquarium.'
The quartet watched them leave, James Andrew closing the door carefully behind them. 'You're looking unscathed,' Maggie told Mario.
'I've been worse.' He grinned.
'I know,' she said. 'I was there.'
He glanced around the room. 'The accommodation's better this time.' He nodded to Steele. 'Hi, Stevie. Is this social or professional?'
'Both. I'm running the investigation so I need a description, if you can give me one.'
McGuire winced. 'He was dressed in white gear, he wore a woolly hat and wrap-round goggles. I took him for your average punter who watches Ski Sunday and thinks that's how you have to look. Height? Hard to tell with the boots on, but as tall as me, I'd guess. I'm sorry, pal, but that's the best I can do.'
'I appreciate that. Spencer told me much the same thing, and he was with the man for a while. The person who supplied him with the ski equipment couldn't help us either: he just picked it out and handed over the money. No conversation, no eye contact; clean shaven, and not a youngster, that was all the kid could tell us. But there are other things you might have picked up that could help me, like a better feeling for his age, for one thing.'
'He has to be a fit bloke, Stevie. He was able to control Spence, which is not as easy as it sounds, even if he is only ten. He was able to keep ahead of me on the way up that hill, and I know what I can do. Plus, he was able to get the drop on me and knock me spark out with whatever it was he hit me with.'
'A sock.'
'A sock?'
'With a bloody great lump of rock in it.'
'Ouch! You're bringing my headache back.'
'Sorry, but all that helps, Mario. We're talking about a mature man with a pretty high level of fitness, somebody maybe in his thirties.'
'Did Spence hear him speak?'
'Not at all: he didn't say a word.'
McGuire's face grew grim as he relived the scene. 'Jesus!' he whispered. 'You know, Stevie, if Lauren hadn't come up after me…' He shuddered at the thought. 'Did they find any trace of the guy afterwards?'
'They think he made it down the side of the hill, and they think they know where he parked his car, but that's it. There's no physical evidence to take us forward. It's as well we've got the link.'
'What's that?'
'The thread that ties Dan Pringle, George Regan and Neil McIlhenney together: the Patsy Aikenhead investigation.'
McGuire gave a long whistle. 'Oh, my,' he murmured. 'That's what it's looking like, is it? It'll hit Neil hard, that will. Even though he didn't do anything wrong, that case has always preyed on his conscience. It was Dan Pringle who ordered George and him to have that witness brought in, rather than interview her on-site where they might have seen the clock for themselves. It was his mistake, but the guys covered up for him. That's the real reason for the famous coolness between Neil and him, whatever else might have happened since.'
'It's all history,' said a voice from the door. Mario, Paula, Maggie and Stevie all turned to see McIlhenney standing there. 'As will be the guy who took Spence when we find him: a bad memory locked up for good.'
He looked at the trio standing by the bedside. 'Would you please excuse me for a moment?' he asked. 'I'd like a private
word with my friend.'
'Of course,' Maggie answered, for them all.
The two men looked at each other, hearing rather than seeing the door close.
'I'm sorry, man,' Mario said, hoarsely, on the verge of tears.
'Don't be daft,' Neil told him gruffly. 'I'm here to thank you, not thump you. My kids could never come to any harm while they're with you: I've always known that.' He sat on the bed. 'Sunshine, do you believe in things beyond our ken?'
'No. I have to see reality to accept it.'
'Well, I do. I've seen the paranormal, I've experienced it, and I accept it.' He told his friend the story of his recurring dream. 'I thought it was me, and that it was a warning of impending death. But now I know different. It was you, and it wasn't Olive driving you on, but Lauren, her double. Wherever it came from, it was a message that, although something bad was going to happen, in the end it would be all right.'
Sixty-five
Bob Skinner had been on a guilt trip all weekend; as soon as he stepped inside Deep Sea World he was hit by another wave. Mark and James Andrew had been nagging him for a year and more to take them there, but he had always found an excuse for delaying the adventure. And even now, when the moment finally had come, there was, if not an ulterior motive, a secondary purpose to the family trip.
The aquarium itself was a fantastic experience. The boys were consumed by it, and Seonaid squealed with excitement as they made their way through the exhibits: the touching pool, where youngsters were given hands-on experience of fish, the interactive displays and, most impressive of all, the underwater safari, where visitors were conveyed on a moving belt inside the vast aquatic wildlife park itself.
They spent two hours there, before Bob announced that it was time to go for lemonade and biscuits and, in his case, a cappuccino.
The cafe was busy but he found a table, leaving Mark and James Andrew to watch their sister as he made selections for them. He had just returned and was sipping his coffee, when Jazz shouted, 'Hey, Dad, there's Uncle Andy.'
He turned, to see Andy and Karen Martin approaching, pushing the infant Danielle in her chair. 'Fancy seeing you here,' Andy exclaimed, with more than a hint of a laugh. Bob pulled up two more chairs, making sure that one of them was next to his own.
'What do you think of the aquarium?' Karen asked Mark, and the two of them embarked on a discussion of its high points and other merits.
'How are you doing?' Bob asked Andy, as they sat together.
'I've been getting an idea of the life and times of Tommy Murtagh. He's a creepy bastard, but we knew that' He took his friend step by step through the First Minister's meteoric career, from the shop floor to the power and trappings of high office, and through his family background.
'Brindsley Groves, eh?' Skinner mused as he finished.
'Have you heard of him?'
'I've heard of the firm, but not him: Dundee's a closed book as far as I'm concerned. The Courier, the Discovery, and that's all I know about it.'
'There's more to the city than that.'
'Maybe, but let's concentrate on Mr Groves. Have you met him?'
'Thanks to Rod Greatorix, I met him on Friday evening. Mrs Groves is Rod's sister.'
'Is that awkward for you?'
'No. They're not bosom pals.'
'What's he like?'
'He's like a lot of rich men, amiable as long as you know your place with him, but his kids didn't stick around long, so there must be another side to him. He's fifty-eight, so Rod said.'
'And he was banging Murtagh's mother, while she worked for him?'
'So the great Dundonian rumour mill has it.'
'Maybe more than the rumour mill.'
'What do you mean?' Martin asked, intrigued.
'Did you know that there's a Groves family trust in existence?'
'No, but it wouldn't surprise me. There has to be a hell of a lot of money there.'
'There is. Now guess who one of the beneficiaries is.'
The younger man's green eyes gleamed. 'The man himself?'
Skinner nodded. 'There's nothing illegal about it, in that it doesn't require to be declared on any public register, but it's a fact. We can't use the information in any way, because that would probably betray the source, but it begs a few more questions.'
'Damn right it does. It's time I took a closer look at Tommy Murtagh's antecedents… beyond the official biography.'
Sixty-six
It would have been wrong to say that Neil McIlhenney was nervous as he drove through to Glasgow, with Bandit Mackenzie in the passenger seat of his car. He knew that his family could not be safer: they were being guarded round the clock by an experienced police team, and the children would be taken to school in the morning by detective escorts. Despite all of that security, he would rather have been with them.
In fact he had been offered the opportunity, but he had declined. To pull out of the stake-out would have been to leave his colleague exposed, and he could not contemplate that. So he pressed on with the assignment, hoping that Samir Bajram would show himself, that he would lead them to his three companions and that they could wrap the whole thing up.
Bandit was quieter than usual on the drive through. Although legal constraints had prevented the press from using Spencer's name, the incident had been reported, and word had spread rapidly through the police ranks that he was the child involved. However, the link to the two earlier deaths had not been picked up.
'Is your kid all right?' Mackenzie had asked, as they left Edinburgh.
'Yes, thanks, but I don't want to talk about it. I want to stay focused on tonight's job.'
'Have they got any leads?'
'Yes. Now shut it, please.'
They listened to music for the rest of the journey, until finally they arrived in Partick. McIlhenney parked under a light in the next street to the Johnny Groat, and they walked the short distance. The pub was quiet as they arrived: Dolly was either occupied, working elsewhere or taking a night off for her corner of the bar was empty.
They ordered their drinks and settled down for a night in front of the television. Adept though he was at nursing a pint, Mackenzie was on to his second before the door swung open and the Jakes brothers appeared. Bobby looked as edgy as ever, but Frankie smiled as he walked across to them. 'Hello, boyz. Night shift again?'
'Afraid so,' McIlhenney grunted.
'You have a chance to think about that thing we talk about the other night?' he asked.
'Give us time. It might be possible, but we'll need to be sure that no fingers get pointed at us. We'll let you know in a few days whether we're up for it or not.'
'Okay, I stay patient. You wanna drink?'
'No, thanks,' said Mackenzie, 'we've just got them in.'
'Ah,' grunted Frankie, accepting a pint from his brother. He glanced up at the television set above the bar. 'Anything on?'
'The usual Sunday-night shite.'
The Macedonian laughed. 'Could be worse. You could be working already.' He turned as the door opened again, and his ugly face split into a huge grin. 'Sammy!' he exclaimed.
Samir Bajram looked just like his photograph. Even without the crescent earring the two detectives would have recognised him. It was his eyes that were compelling: they were a deep brown colour and they seemed to sparkle, radiating danger and an eagerness to do harm. The beard they had been told about was still there, but it was so fair that it was almost invisible.
He embraced the Jakes brothers. Frankie turned towards them. 'Boyz, this is my cousin Sammy. He's visiting for a while. Sammy, this is Mac and David, I might do some bizniz with them.'
The dark eyes fell upon them in a silent challenge. McIlhenney guessed that this was how he greeted all strangers. He longed to hold his gaze, to send him a message, but he resisted the temptation. 'Hello,' he murmured, picking up his glass.
'Pleased meecha,' the Albanian replied.
Frankie took him by the arm. 'Boyz,' he told them, 'Sammy and us got to talk bizn
iz. See youse later.'
The two brothers and their cousin turned their backs on them and walked to the far side of the bar, taking a table behind Dolly's empty corner, where Bobby ordered another pint of beer. McIlhenney and Mackenzie turned their eyes back to the television, but listened elsewhere. From time to time, a buzz of conversation drifted across to them in a strange language. They waited: their cover story would allow them to stay until ten thirty at the latest. If necessary, they agreed, they would go back to the car and wait close enough to observe Samir leaving, then follow him.
They were almost ready to go when the three stood up. The bar had filled up by that time, and they eased their way through the drinkers, Frankie greeting those he knew and shouldering past the rest. 'So long, boyz,' he called out to them, as the trio left.
'Count to twenty,' said McIlhenney. 'Let's give ourselves long enough to make it look as if we drank up before we went, rather than that we followed them straight out. We'll cop where they're going and take it from there.'
Mackenzie counted off the numbers slowly and quietly. Finally he whispered, 'twenty' and they rose.
Once outside the pub, they glanced left and then right. Fifty yards away, three figures slouched along, backs towards them. 'You wait here; I'll bring the car.' Mackenzie nodded agreement, and stepped back into a close, making himself invisible to their targets, but keeping them in sight.
As he watched, they stopped beside a car. Frankie bent over beside the driver's door, as if to fit the key into the lock, then the doors were opened and all three stepped inside.
'Get a move on, N—' Mackenzie began, and then the street erupted in a great orange glow, engulfing the car and the three men. The noise of the blast assaulted his ears a millisecond later.
Lethal Intent Page 25
