20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Your findings will do, Professor.’

  ‘That’s not difficult. In shorthand, death was caused by the total destruction of the brain and cranium, the result of contact gunshot wounds. It was instantaneous.’ He glanced at Gerulaitis. ‘You couldn’t do it any quicker,’ he added, for his benefit.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You want me to spell it out, Jack? Man, this is as obvious and determined a suicide as I’ve ever seen. There are no marks on the body that offer even the faint possibility that Mr Zaliukas was restrained, or tied up, or anything else. I assume that the lab is doing residue testing on his clothing, as we’re doing on his hands.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you’ll find without doubt that he fired the gun. I know nothing about Mr Zaliukas, about his background, his business or anything else, but the fact that CID are handling this matter and asking these questions points me in a certain direction. Well, my boy, whatever madcap theory you are pursuing, you can nip it in the bud. This is suicide, and that is what I would say under oath, absolutely and unequivocally.’ He frowned. ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You weren’t expecting me to say anything else, were you?’

  Mindful of Gerulaitis’s presence, McGurk fought off the urge to smile. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but we have to be thorough. You, of all people, must realise that.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the tiny pathologist conceded. ‘I know how the Force works . . . as my students will tell you.’

  Ten

  ‘How was your dad?’ asked Pippa Clifton.

  Alex Skinner threw her secretary a cool glance across her new work space. ‘My dad was fine, thank you. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason . . . other than the fact I’ve always thought he’s dishy. He reminds me a bit of that guy on the telly; you know the one I mean, he’s on everything. He plays a judge, and a policeman, and . . .’

  ‘Excuse me, woman, are you looking for a smack in the mouth? The chap of whom you speak is about fifteen years older than my dad, and chubby with it, these days.’

  ‘They can do wonders with make-up,’ Pippa chirped on. ‘He must be really pleased, your dad, about you being made a partner. My mum was astonished when I told her.’

  ‘That’s comforting to know. In that case I’m sure your dear mother will be the first to appreciate that because I’m a partner my time is now even more valuable, so unless you’ve got something work-related to tell me or ask me, please bugger off back to your desk.’

  ‘I have, actually. There’s one of your dad’s finest in reception, asking to see you.’

  Alex frowned. ‘About what?’

  ‘He didn’t say. He came in asking for Mr Conn; when he was told he’d retired, he asked for whoever’s taken over his clients.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Detective Constable Haddock, would you believe? Like that chap out of Tintin.’

  Alex’s eyebrows rose slightly. She had heard of DC Haddock, the one with the nickname, from Maggie Steele. ‘Pippa,’ she began, ‘must all the people in your wee life relate to TV actors or cartoon characters? Go fetch him please, but tell him he’s got two minutes unless it’s something I can bill out to a client, in which case he has as long as I reckon his interest is worth.’

  She waited, more aware than ever of the fact that virtually every minute of her working life was meant to be spent on fee-earning matters. Her new office, slightly larger than a toilet cubicle, was close to reception and so Pippa returned within a minute, leading a tall, slim young man with a fresh face, ginger hair and ears that were never going to be ignored. ‘This is Ms Skinner,’ she told him. ‘She’s taken over from Mr Conn.’

  Alex noted the change in the detective constable’s expression at the mention of her name, and the look of caution that seemed to come into his eyes. She stood as he entered. Pippa closed the door behind her as she left. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘You’re the one they call “Sauce”, aren’t you?’

  Haddock grinned, instantly at ease. ‘That’s me,’ he confirmed. ‘And you’re the one they call the chief constable’s daughter.’

  She nodded. ‘Something which gets you no special favours,’ she declared, but with a smile. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Are the Lietuvos companies among the clients you’ve taken over from Mr Conn?’ he asked.

  ‘They are, but I’ve been involved with them before, so they’re not new to me. Before you say anything else, I’d better tell you that whatever you might have heard about their owner, or whatever you might believe about him, I cannot discuss any aspect of my business dealings with him.’

  ‘Not even if the companies were dodgy?’

  She shot him a look that was part of her genetic inheritance from her father; he seemed to sit a little straighter in his chair. ‘Sauce,’ she said, slowly, ‘if the companies were dodgy, we wouldn’t be acting for them, so I hope you’re not going to suggest that they are. If this firm had a motto it would be “Probity”, and we’d nail it over the door.’

  ‘No,’ he assured her, hastily. ‘I’m sorry; that was a throwaway line. The businesses aren’t under investigation, I promise you.’

  ‘But their owner is?’

  ‘Not exactly, Ms Skinner . . .’

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘Alex. His death is.’

  ‘Mr Zaliukas is dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Her cop’s daughter’s mind focused, instantly. ‘And you’re CID? How did he die?’

  ‘He killed himself. Our inspector’s been into his house, using keys that were found on the body. She found his computer still switched on. There was a note on the screen. It said, “I couldn’t live without Regine and the girls.” Not much room for doubt, but I’d a phone call from my sergeant while I was waiting in your reception area telling me that suicide’s been confirmed at autopsy, and that he’s been formally identified.’

  She hesitated. ‘It wasn’t up Arthur’s Seat, was it? My father told me at lunch that there had been a suicide up there. He said it was messy; he didn’t want to tell me any more. Was that it? Was that Mr Zaliukas?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. And yes, it was very messy; that’s why it took us so long to get the formal identification done.’

  ‘Poor guy. Mind you, it doesn’t change the nature of my relationship with the Lietuvos group. Mr Zaliukas may be dead, but it’s the business that’s my client. With that in mind, what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘We could start with the last time you saw him.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him. I’ve handled work relating to the company in the past, as an associate of the firm, but Mr Conn always met with the principals, Mr Zaliukas and his wife. He and I had a meeting scheduled for Friday morning.’

  ‘To discuss what?’

  She frowned. ‘Problem number one. I can’t discuss my communication with my client.’

  ‘Can you help me just a bit?’

  She heard his plea. ‘I can tell you that the meeting was routine; it was set up purely for the two of us to meet, so that he could decide for himself that he was happy to work with me in the future. I can probably tell you also that there is no crisis within the companies, of which I’m aware. We may be in a recession, but people aren’t sitting at home worrying about it. They’re still going out to pubs and clubs, so the leisure side of the business remains on a sound footing.’

  ‘How about the other side, the development arm?’

  ‘That’s OK too. Lietuvos Developments constructs and refurbishes commercial property, some for sale, some for rental. Management anticipated a downturn a couple of years ago, and postponed several potential projects until it’s blown over. Meantime, the rental properties are all occupied by tenants with sound covenants . . . that’s to say, they’re all good risks . . . so income is well in excess of existing borrowing. I can tell you all that because it’s in the current corporate brochure. That was produced two months ago, and the text was certified as accurate by Mr Conn.’

  �
�I’ve seen that. What about the share ownership? That’s public information; it would help if you could tell me about it, save me looking it up.’

  ‘Sure. I’m under no constraint there; that’s public information. Each company has one hundred issued shares of one pound each, half owned by Mr Tomas Zaliukas and the other half by his wife.’

  ‘That’s changed a bit.’

  ‘True. Very true; his half is now owned by the estate of the late Mr Tomas Zaliukas.’

  ‘Who inherits?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alex admitted. ‘I’ll need to get back to you on that. Mr Zaliukas’s family matters are handled by a different division of the firm. I’ll speak to the partner in charge and tell you what I can.’

  ‘Would he . . .’

  ‘She, Sauce.’

  ‘Sorry. Would she know where Mrs Zaliukas is? We’ve been told that she left him last week, and obviously we need to contact her.’

  ‘That’s not obvious to me, I’m afraid. We’re his legal representatives, you’ve informed us of his death, and you don’t need her for identification purposes, since that’s been done. It’s for us to take it from here. She shouldn’t be upset any more than necessary.’

  Haddock shook his head. ‘I’ll still need to talk to her . . . or someone will. We’ll need to ask her about her husband’s state of mind if nothing else. If she has any information, the fiscal will want to know about it.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d agree with me that it would be OK for her to provide it in statement form, through this firm.’ She paused, to consider the point. ‘Let’s not argue about it at this stage, Sauce. We’ll contact Mrs Zaliukas and we’ll tell her that you want to interview her. If she agrees, fine; if not . . . we’ll do it my way, or you can try having me leaned on by someone higher up the tree, but I’ll tell you now, you’ll have to go to the very top.’

  He rolled his eyes, and smiled. ‘It won’t be me that does that,’ he said.

  ‘It wouldn’t work anyway.’ She looked at him across her desk, her hands on the arms of her chair. ‘If that’s all . . .’ she began.

  Haddock stayed seated. ‘What about Mr Zaliukas’s other business?’ he said. ‘The massage parlours.’

  ‘Curle Anthony and Jarvis has nothing to do with those,’ Alex replied, firmly. ‘Mr Conn was very firm on that point when he was here, and he stressed it to me when we did our client handover.’

  ‘Do you know who does run it?’

  ‘As far as I know, Mr Valdas Gerulaitis looked after it for him, but that’s only hearsay from Willie.’

  ‘And he owned the properties directly?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. His other businesses are incorporated.’ Alex sighed. ‘All I can tell you is this, and again it’s second-hand, from Mr Conn. A few years ago, when the properties came on the market, Mr Zaliukas came to him and asked him for advice that he wasn’t prepared to give. Our client wasn’t happy. In fact he was so unhappy that I think my predecessor might have been a wee bit scared.’

  ‘Scared of losing his business, you mean.’

  ‘No, scared of losing something more personal. That’s only my impression, mind, from the way he was when told me about it. Anyway, to mollify him, Willie sent him to another firm, one that has a big criminal practice, and other expertise, and to a particular lawyer, a man called Ken Green. The firm’s called Grey Green. You may have heard of it.’

  ‘I’ve dealt with them, and him. Not close up, but I know who he is. He acted for a kid we arrested for murder last summer.’

  ‘Then go and renew the acquaintance. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, on Mrs Zaliukas and on the will.’

  Eleven

  ‘What’s eating you today?’ Griff Montell asked Alice Cowan as she locked their borrowed car. The freezing temperature made his breath hang in the air.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ she challenged as they headed for the medical centre, a hundred yards away on the street corner. ‘Why should anything be eating me?’

  ‘I’m talking about that crap back in the office about who’s in charge. That and the fact you’ve been frosting me for a while now. Have you run out of civil words?’

  ‘No!’ she snapped. And then her face cracked into an involuntary smile as she realised how contradictory her reply had sounded. ‘It’s you who’s been distant with me, Griff. That’s more like the truth.’

  Montell was forced on to the back foot. ‘No I haven’t,’ he said, defensively.

  ‘Oh no? You asked me out on a date a couple of months ago; we had a decent time and we did it again a couple of weeks later. Since then, nothing. Was I boring? Do I turn you off? Do you like your women with less meat on their bones? Have I got BO? Or have you found a better option? Whatever, it would be nice to know so that I can do something about it.’

  He stopped, at the kerbside. ‘None of the above,’ he told her. ‘You’re good company, you’re attractive, you smell nice and my reaction to you is entirely positive. And I’m not seeing anyone else either. I just . . . I just wanted to pause for thought, that was all.’

  ‘You’re not still carrying a torch for your ex-wife, are you? Or maybe for Alex Skinner?’

  ‘I miss my kids,’ he replied, ‘but not their mother. As for Alex, she was a neighbour and she was a friend, end of story. No bridges back there.’ He stopped. ‘Alice, we can’t have this conversation now; we have a job to do.’

  ‘True,’ she conceded, ‘but it’s not over.’

  They crossed the street and approached the surgery. A woman was waiting in the reception area. Her body language radiated impatience; Cowan guessed she had been watching them approach, and had seen them pause.

  ‘Police?’ she asked.

  Montell nodded, introducing himself and his colleague.

  ‘At last!’ hung in the air, but remained unspoken. ‘Rita Taylor, practice manager,’ was her clipped response. ‘I spoke to your sergeant. Hopefully, you’re fully briefed.’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ said Cowan. ‘Where is the girl?’

  Mrs Taylor turned towards a corridor that led out of the reception and waiting area. ‘She’s in a consulting room. A practice nurse is with her.’

  ‘And the doctor who did the initial examination?’

  ‘With another patient at the moment. But there’s not much she could add to what I’ve told you at this stage. Nurse Chetty’s competent, I promise you.’

  ‘Let’s see her then.’

  The detectives followed her into the corridor, to the second door on their left, which opened into a windowless cubicle, furnished with a sink with lever taps, a small desk, two chairs, and an examination table. The young woman who lay on its paper coverlet was dishevelled. Dark roots showed under blond hair that looked lank and in need of a wash. She was wrapped in a blanket, from which her feet protruded, clad in dirty grey carpet slippers.

  ‘Was she wearing those when she was brought in?’ Montell asked.

  The small, brown-complexioned nurse who stood beside the table nodded. ‘Yes. Them and a light cotton dress, that was all. She was freezing; not far off being hypothermic. We’ve warmed her as best we can.’

  ‘But she’s still not responsive?’

  ‘No more so than when she was brought in.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything? A bag, any sort of identification?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Damn it.’ He glanced at Cowan. ‘We’ll need to wait until she can tell us herself who she is.’

  She looked at Nurse Chetty. ‘Now you’ve had more time to look at her, any idea what she’s taken?’

  ‘Not heroin,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure of that; I’ve seen plenty of those in my career. She’s not drunk; there’s alcohol involved but it’s just boosted the effect of whatever else is in her system.’

  As she spoke, the girl gasped, and whimpered, sounds rather than words, which turned into a squeal. Cowan sat on the edge of the examination table and touched her face. ‘It’s OK,�
�� she soothed. ‘You’re safe.’ The girl showed no sign of understanding, yet the gesture seemed to calm her.

  ‘GHB,’ Montell murmured.

  ‘What?’ his colleague exclaimed.

  ‘Gamma hydroxyl butyrate, if you want it the hard way. I’ve seen its effects when I worked this area in South Africa. It’s one of the most common date rape drugs, and easily obtainable, because any arsehole with a chemistry set can put it together. It’s illegal to make or possess it and it’s not commercially produced. This girl’s hallucinating; she’s semi-conscious. Those are symptoms of overdose. How’s her heart rate?’ he asked.

  ‘Very slow,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Yeah. If it was ketamine, it would probably be higher than normal.’

  ‘How long does it take to wear off, in your experience?’

  Montell raised his eyebrows. ‘Mixed with alcohol, it could be a couple of days.’

  ‘Do you know how to treat an overdose?’ The question came from behind him. He had forgotten that Mrs Taylor was still in the room.

  ‘The doctors I worked with used to rehydrate, that’s after they’d pumped the stomach.’ He paused. ‘You might want to do both, and then she should definitely be examined for sexual activity, forced or otherwise, as soon as possible. You should get that doctor along here as soon as you can.’

  The practice manager nodded and left. ‘You’d better get her undressed,’ Montell told the nurse, ‘and give her what treatment you can. I’ll step outside while you do that. Alice . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Cowan, calmly. ‘I’ll stay here to help, and yes, to look for signs of physical abuse.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’ she asked, as he took hold of the door handle.

  ‘The time of day,’ Montell replied. ‘It’s still only the afternoon, and this girl’s been wandering the streets in Leith. Date rape is what it says; it happens during social interaction. At lunchtime? I don’t buy that. Then there’s the way she’s dressed, and the amount of the stuff she’s got in her system.’ He opened the door. ‘You help the nurse, I’ll do some thinking about this.’