‘Will Ms Raynor still be at the Turnberry Hotel?’
‘She will be. She was booked in for last night and tonight. She’s probably sitting there thinking she’s been stood up.’
The detectives exchanged glances; Mann raised a questioning eyebrow, Provan nodded.
‘Okay, we’ll talk to her,’ the DI said.
‘She can’t tell you anything,’ Butler warned.
‘Be that as it may, she had a private meeting with Mr Speight a few hours before he died. If he said anything to her that might have been relevant – even if she didn’t know it – we have to interview her to find out.’
She extended a hand. ‘Give me your business card please, Mr Butler, or your mobile number. You can go for now, but we may need to speak to you again.’
Six
‘Are you okay with this, Dan?’ Mann asked her colleague. ‘You must be running on empty by now. If you like, I could call the woman at the Turnberry and make an arrangement to meet her tomorrow, before she flies back to London.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve hit the wall, Lottie, and climbed over it. My body thinks it’s breakfast time right now. I can go on for a while . . . mind you, I’d like a bite to eat.’
‘We’ll pick something up on the way. Meantime, I’ll contact Ms Raynor and ask her to be ready for us.’
‘Will we no’ have to stay here to talk to the press?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘The big bosses have decreed that the guy Allsop, the communications director, will do all that.’
‘A civilian? I thought that was against policy.’
‘Not any more. Hey, if you think I’m bothered, think again. I brief Allsop on what he can and can’t say, but he has to stand there facing the cameras and the recorders. I’ve never been very comfortable doing that stuff.’
‘You were all right last time,’ Provan pointed out.
‘Maybe, but Skinner was there. I knew I could rely on him if I got into deep water.’
‘I wish he was still here. That guy Martin, the first chief of the new force; he was supposed to be the business, but he was a bloody disaster.’
‘If you ask me,’ Mann mused, ‘he spent too much time trying to prove to the world that he wasn’t Bob Skinner, instead of following his example.’
‘His and the old fella who was chief before him,’ the DS added. ‘Sir James Proud, his name was. They called him Proud Jimmy, until he got his knighthood.’
‘Past tense?’
‘I think so. I’m sure I heard he had cancer.’
‘Don’t write him off, not till you read his name on a coffin plate. Come on, let’s head for Turnberry.’
‘What about Allsop? Shouldn’t we wait for him if you have to brief him?’
‘I have done. I spoke to him when you were in the toilet. I told him he can confirm the identity, but say that we’re treating it as an unexplained death, pending post-mortem findings.’ She opened her car door, and slid into the driving seat. ‘We should get going. I’d like to meet Ms Raynor before she sees Allsop on telly.’
‘Will they let me into the place wearing this shirt?’ Provan muttered.
Heading out of Ayr, Mann spotted a McDonald’s sign, and pulled in. Two hurried Big Macs and two coffees later, they were back on the road, but the rest of the journey went by in silence, mostly because the sergeant’s head kept dropping on to his chest, only for him to snap awake, time and time again.
‘I thought you said you were over the wall,’ the DI laughed as she pulled up alongside the long white hotel, set on a crest overlooking the championship golf course.
‘I’m wide awake now,’ Provan promised. ‘I wonder if the owner’s in.’
‘I imagine he’s otherwise occupied.’
They walked for at least three hundred yards before reaching the main entrance. The DS whistled as they stepped into the reception area. ‘How the other one per cent live, eh.’
‘They’re welcome to it,’ Lottie murmured, with a hint of bitterness. ‘My grandfather was a waiter in a hotel as posh as this. He needed the tips to survive because the wages were at starvation level.’
‘That wouldnae happen now, though.’
‘One can only hope,’ she growled.
‘One can,’ he repeated, smiling. ‘Did you learn that on your command course?’
As he spoke, he realised that he was being appraised by an attendant, a tall man in his twenties dressed in a tailored blue uniform, double-breasted, with epaulettes. His grin vanished and he reached for his warrant card on its lanyard. ‘DS Provan and Detective Inspector Mann,’ he said sharply. ‘We’re here to see one of your guests, a Ms Raynor.’
The man continued to stare down at him, focusing on his clothing.
‘Incognito,’ Provan declared. ‘Ah’m disguised as a bloke who’s just off a plane from Australia, which means handle me with care. Ms Raynor, please . . . that’s assuming you can find her in a place this size.’
‘Is she expecting you, sir, madam?’ The accent was American.
‘No, she isn’t,’ Mann told him, ‘but it is important.’
‘I’m not sure,’ he murmured. ‘We are very protective of our guests.’
‘So are we,’ the DI countered bluntly, ‘and you will be one of ours if you obstruct us. Ms Raynor please, quick as you can. You can tell her it’s in connection with her delayed business meeting.’
‘Very well, if you insist. If you’ll wait here, please.’
He walked across to the reception desk and spoke to the older of the women behind it. She glanced across at Mann and Provan, frowning, hesitating for a few seconds before turning her gaze to a monitor, then picking up a phone. The officers watched the scene for almost a minute, until their greeter approached them once again.
‘Ms Raynor will see you,’ he announced. ‘If you’ll follow me.’
They fell into step behind their escort as he led them from the reception area along a corridor that ran westwards and seemed to go on forever. Eventually he stopped, and opened a half-glazed door into what appeared to be a small conference room.
‘Wait here, please, madam,’ he said, ignoring Provan entirely.
‘I think you were right, Dan,’ Mann chuckled as the door closed on them. ‘It was only your warrant card that got you in here.’
The DS scowled as he checked his watch. ‘Cheeky prick.’ He looked at his friend, suddenly anxious. ‘Hey, never mind this being a long day for me, what about you? Should you no’ be back for Jakey by now?’
‘It’s okay,’ she assured him. ‘I sent my Auntie Ann a text warning her I’d be late.’
As she spoke, the door opened, and a tall, dark-haired woman stepped into the room. She was younger than either had expected, younger than either of the detectives.
Managing director, the DI thought. She must be bright.
‘You want to see me?’ Emily Raynor began, with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety in her eyes. ‘You’re police officers?’
‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann, and this is Detective Sergeant Dan Provan.’
‘Reception said you want to see me about my meeting with Leo Speight. What’s wrong? Has he been arrested for something?’
‘No,’ the DI replied. ‘We’re sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead. His body was found in his house earlier today.’
‘Dead?’ the young publisher repeated. She was visibly shaken. ‘But he looked so fit.’
‘He was so fit. The official word at the moment is that his death is unexplained, but in fact it’s suspicious.’
‘That’s police-speak,’ Raynor exclaimed, her composure restored. ‘Are you telling me he was murdered?’
‘Not yet,’ Provan said. ‘Not until the pathologist says he was, but that’s the way we’re leaning.’
‘That’s terrible. Poor Leo. How can I
help you?’
‘We don’t know if you can,’ the DS admitted bluntly, ‘but you met with him yesterday, and you talked with him for a while. So we need you to go over that conversation. Sit down, please, Ms Raynor.’
‘That’s Mrs.’
‘Whatever, make yourself comfy.’
The trio settled into chairs at a small table beside a window that looked out on to the embers of the day as the setting sun gave a pink tinge to the expansive waters beyond the golf course. Is that the Firth of Clyde? Provan pondered. Or the Irish Sea? A wave of tiredness broke over him, taking him by surprise. Either way, who gives a fuck?
‘Carry on,’ he said. ‘Tell us about your conversation with Mr Speight. We’d like you to recall as much as you can.’
‘It was strictly business,’ Emily Raynor began as soon as they were settled.
‘Your business being book publishing?’ Mann asked.
‘That’s right. I’m MD of Masthead Book Publishing; we’re a small house, still independent, but what we do we do very well, and we are very profitable by contemporary standards. Mostly we publish genre fiction, crime and what we call chick lit these days.’
‘Forgive me,’ Provan intervened, ‘but you look as if you’ve only known these days.’
‘Touché, Sergeant,’ she replied. ‘And thank you. You’re probably right, but publishing is a very fast-moving industry. I’m thirty-two, as it happens, but there are younger people than me in positions like mine. Masthead is profitable in difficult market conditions, and that’s how I’m judged: by results, with no allowances made for age or anything else.’
‘How do you do that? Beat the market conditions?’
‘By taking no chances. I don’t expect ever to publish a Man Booker short-lister; we stick to what we know makes money. As I said, that nearly always means genre fiction, TV tie-ins – cookbooks and the like – and celebrity biographies . . . if the celeb’s big enough to be a sure winner.’
‘Which you thought Leo Speight was?’ the DI observed.
‘Absolutely. He’s been a huge name in British sport, yet he’s still a mystery to many people. He’s never done an authorised biography before. There have been a couple of unofficial attempts by journalists, but none of his inner circle would co-operate with the writers, so they were superficial and sank without trace.’
‘What made you think he would have co-operated with you?’
She stared at Provan, wide-eyed, then smiled. ‘One and three quarter million pounds, Sergeant. That was my opening offer when we met yesterday, although our owner, a hedge fund, had authorised me to go as high as two million. It’s a massive advance for a sports book. It was for world rights to an autobiography, with a named co-author.’
‘Who would that have been?’
‘We hadn’t got that far, but I’ve been in discussion with a Pulitzer Prize winner, an American novelist named Eroica Jonsen. You may have heard of her.’
Mann stifled a laugh. ‘And then again he may not. Who started the ball rolling, Mrs Raynor?’ she asked. ‘Did you approach Mr Speight?’
‘No, I approached Gino Butler about the project a few weeks ago.’
‘Butler? Speight didn’t have a specialist literary agent?’
‘No, Inspector, he didn’t. I hear what you’re saying, but I didn’t care who I dealt with if I got Leo’s signature on a contract. Frankly, having Gino as the agent would have been easier for me.’
‘And being on a percentage of the deal, he’d have been keen to sign up,’ the DI suggested.
‘Oh, Gino was, make no mistake about that. It was . . .’ She stopped in mid sentence, a canine nipping at a corner of her mouth.
‘Go on, please.’
Raynor sighed. ‘Leo was the problem. As soon as we started to talk, it was clear to me that he’d been more or less dragged along to the meeting . . . figuratively, that is. Leo wasn’t a man who’d have been dragged anywhere literally. He had an air about him, not of menace, but of complete physical self-confidence. I did a lot of reading about him before I came up here. One of the things that came across was his ability to win fights before he even stepped into the ring, by sheer, effortless intimidation of his opponents, without even saying a word. When we met, he seemed to fill the room. I couldn’t imagine him ever being beaten, and I had the sense that he’d never imagined it either.’
‘How did he react when you made your offer?’ Provan asked.
‘With what I’d describe as polite indifference. I pitched it as hard as I could, bigged up Eroica as the co-author; when I got to the advance, the headline figure, one and three quarter million, he didn’t even blink. He smiled, paused for less than five seconds and then said, “Mrs Raynor, after tax and commission, that would increase my total wealth by about half of one per cent, near as damn it. In return for that, I would have to give you and your American lady full access to my life. I don’t know if that’s something I’m prepared to do.” I have to say, that stopped me in my tracks. In my experience . . .’ she grinned at Provan briefly, ‘limited as it is, sports people are always about money, money, money, but not Leo Speight. That said, I knew he was wealthy, but not . . .’ She paused. ‘From what he said, he must have been worth over a hundred million. Who’ll inherit that?’
The DS shrugged, and blinked hard to keep his eyes in focus. He had been asking himself the same question. ‘That’ll depend on his will,’ he said, ‘but I can see a few lawyers picking up six-figure fees arguing about it.’
Mann raised a hand, intervening. ‘He couldn’t have turned you down flat, though,’ she pointed out, ‘since you were due to meet again today.’
‘That’s true. He didn’t. He said that he owed it to Gino Butler to consider it properly, so he’d think about the proposition overnight and give me an answer today.’
‘It seems that you’ve had that, if not in the way you’d hoped.’
Emily Raynor nodded. Then her expressive eyes narrowed to match the smile that followed. ‘And yet I haven’t. Potentially, an authorised biography of Leo Speight is worth even more now he’s dead. He has no privacy to protect, and if your suspicions are confirmed, the manner of his death gives it massive extra interest.’
‘Maybe,’ the DI conceded, ‘but who does the authorising?’
‘His estate will,’ she replied instantly. ‘His executor, when we know who that is. Who’s the likeliest candidate, do you think?’
‘We can’t speculate.’
‘I will. Gino Butler is the obvious. His manager and his childhood friend. And even when Leo was alive, Gino was obviously in favour of the project. I’m seeing a best-seller here, Sunday Times and New York Times. The Life and Death of Leo Speight, by Gino Butler with Eroica Jonsen. Oh yes, I need to speak with Gino again, as soon as possible.’
And so do we, Lottie Mann and Dan Provan thought, in mental harmony.
Seven
‘Could it be that easy?’ Lottie asked as they stood beside her car.
‘It usually is, lass,’ Provan replied, ‘but let’s no’ get ahead of ourselves. We need Graeme Bell to tell us what killed Leo before we can think about interviews under caution.’
‘That won’t be till tomorrow morning, so we’d best get you home, and me.’
‘Go straight to yours,’ he said, as he reoccupied the passenger seat and strapped himself in. ‘I’ll get a taxi from there.’
‘Sod that,’ she answered. ‘It’s only an extra fifteen minutes for me to drop you. Auntie Ann won’t mind.’
‘She’s a good woman, your auntie.’ He yawned. ‘She’s single, isn’t she? Mid fifties?’
‘In your dreams, Dan,’ she laughed.
Those dreams enveloped Provan before they had left the hotel grounds, but they involved Lottie, Australian beaches and a dead shape in a cane chair, conquered at last, rather than visions of a middle-aged Scottish spinster nur
se. He slept all the way to Glasgow, oblivious to the sound of Radio Scotland, and to the news bulletin in which Peregrine Allsop’s emotionless anglicised Edinburgh tones announced the death of Leo Speight, emphasising that the cause was at that time undetermined, but that further information would be released when it became available.
Not even the mention of Lottie Mann’s name and his own, in a shouted question that Allsopp ignored, roused him from his slumber, nor did Fergus Muirhouse’s televised description of how ‘Glasgow’s top detective duo’ had been spotted at the scene.
He woke only when Lottie kissed him lightly, playfully, on the cheek and whispered, ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, and by the way, you need a shave,’ into his ear.
Snapping back into wakefulness, he sat upright and stared at her. ‘There’s something I’m missing,’ he said.
‘Yes, your moustache,’ she chuckled, ‘but don’t go growing it again.’
‘No’ that. Something at the crime scene.’
‘It’s not a crime scene till Graeme Bell says it is,’ she pointed out.
‘Don’t be bloody pedantic, Lottie. It is, and we both know it. There’s something there, something we’ve seen and it’s wrong, but I’m buggered if I can put my finger on it.’
‘You will, though,’ she assured him. ‘You always do. Now indoors with you and let me get home.’
Provan nodded. ‘Aye, on ye go, lass. Thanks for this. I really would have got a taxi.’
‘I know you would,’ she agreed, adding, ‘then you’d have gone to sleep again, and the driver would probably have taken you home via Hamilton to ramp up the meter, and you’d have been none the wiser.’
Provan winced at the thought as he retrieved his baggage from the boot. Standing on the pavement, he retrieved his keys from a pouch in the front of his cabin bag. ‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Light breakfast, then it’s you and me for the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Professor Bell’s going to do the post-mortem on Speight at ten o’clock, and we’ll need to witness it.’
A Brush With Death Page 5
