Nine
‘Are you going to sit still for that, Lottie?’ Dan Provan asked. ‘Letting Scott’s parents bully you?’
‘The way they see it, they’re just looking out for Jakey,’ she replied lamely, as her colleague fastened his seat belt. He was dressed less garishly than the day before, but his lightweight blue suit was one she had never seen before.
‘Come off it,’ he scoffed. ‘They’re gettin’ at you, and you know it. They can’t do that, just kidnap your boy.’
‘Mr Mann says that the outcome of the hearing means that they can; or rather, Moss fucking Lee says so.’
His eyebrows rose; Lottie rarely swore. The lapse showed the depth of her anxiety, and it fuelled his anger. ‘Moss Lee’s a shyster,’ he snapped, ‘and so’s Arnold Mann. He had a street-corner garage in Maryhill – my uncle went to him once; his car was never the same again. Then he got lucky, landed a sales concession for a Korean car brand and built a chain of half a dozen dealerships that he sold to a bigger group.’
‘For more money than you and I will earn between us in our lifetimes,’ Lottie pointed out.
‘Maybe, but he’s still a shyster.’
‘He’s a rich bloody shyster! He can afford Moss Lee. He can afford to send my son to the Glasgow Academy, whether he wants to go there or not. I can’t. The only lawyer I’ve ever had helped me buy my house. She’s a glorified estate agent, not someone who could go into court against the likes of Lee, but I can’t afford a specialist.’
‘Maybe I can,’ Provan murmured.
She looked at him and felt something melt inside her. ‘You are a lovely fella,’ she whispered, ‘and I don’t deserve you as a friend. But I know that you’ve just blown at least half your life savings on your trip to Australia. I’m not going to let you blow the other half on me.’
‘I’m not letting this bastard win,’ he vowed.
‘Me neither,’ she concurred. ‘They’re such fucking hypocrites, the pair of them. You know, when Scott was on the piss and wrecking his police career, when he was giving me a hard time and virtually ignoring Jakey, they didn’t want to know. But when he really hit the skids, got into criminal trouble and it went public, by God, it changed then. They were all over the media: it was all my fault, I was a terrible wife, I’d ignored his problems, hadn’t cared about them. They’d never put a penny into our house, Scott’s and mine, not a stick of furniture, but when I divorced him, they made sure that he got his share, more than his share considering he hadn’t put a cent into the mortgage for about five years.
‘They were all over Jakey, too. Suddenly they had a grandson and he was a victim. Did they help me put a new roof over his head? Well no, they didn’t go that far. They just carped and made life as difficult for me as they possibly could.’
‘What are you going to do about the wee man today?’
‘There’s nothing I can do, Dan. I had to back down. Mr Mann was right, Auntie Ann’s still on duty at the hospital. If I picked him up and they found we’d taken him anywhere near Leo Speight’s opening ceremony, Moss Lee would have a fucking interdict on me in a heartbeat, and they’d have temporary custody, pending Scott’s release. I’ve got nobody else to help me, and I can’t afford paid childcare, like I can’t afford a decent lawyer.’
She was on the verge of tears, something he had never thought he would see. He reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘There might be somebody else,’ he told her. ‘You leave it to Uncle Dan. Meanwhile, let’s get on with our grim business. We cannae be late for Graeme Bell and his customer.’
She joined the motorway close to Cambuslang; the Sunday traffic was minimal and they reached the Govan turn-off in ten minutes. In half that time they were parked on a yellow line and heading for the mortuary suite in the vast Queen Elizabeth Hospital.
The building was still relatively new, but already the detective duo were familiar with its geography. As they turned the corner that led to the autopsy theatre, they saw Professor Graeme Bell standing at its door. He was not alone.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Mann murmured blasphemously.
‘And General Jackson!’ Provan added, completing one of his favourite phrases.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ the DI asked.
‘There’s only one of him,’ the DS replied as Bob Skinner heard them approach and turned to face them.
‘Good morning, both,’ he exclaimed, beaming at the consternation on their faces. ‘I asked the chief constable not to tell you I was coming, because I wanted to savour the moment.’
‘Consider it savoured, sir,’ Lottie Mann retorted. ‘But aren’t you retired? Am I missing something?’
‘I must prepare,’ Professor Bell muttered, beating the hastiest retreat possible, consistent with his dignity.
‘I’ve got a reason to be here, Lottie,’ Skinner said. ‘Leo Speight’s insurers have a substantial interest in the result of the post-mortem.’
‘They’re quick off the mark, aren’t they?’ she observed.
‘You know insurance companies,’ he retorted.
‘Ah believe that,’ Provan laughed, ‘about as much as Ah believe in the tooth fairy. Have you turned into a spook, big fella?’
‘Perish the thought,’ he retorted, then grinned. ‘But forgive me: can I see your warrant card, please, and then will you tell me what you’ve done with that decrepit round-heeled little scruff that used to hang on to DI Mann’s coat-tails?’
‘Blame Australia,’ the DS replied, scowling but privately pleased.
‘Blame his daughter,’ the DI interposed.
‘Ah,’ Skinner laughed. ‘If she’s anything like my oldest one, that explains everything.’
‘How much can you share with us?’ Mann asked, ending the pleasantries. She had no more believed the cover story than had Provan.
‘Without admitting to anything beyond my insurance connection,’ he replied with half a smile, ‘you share with me, I’ll share with you. At the moment, my main focus is on Speight’s associates.’
‘You think one of them might have bumped him off?’
‘I think nothing at the moment, and I won’t start thinking until Graeme tells us that he was bumped. Shall we join him?’
Ten
‘When my police career ended,’ Skinner said, as they left the autopsy theatre, ‘I assumed it would mean that I’d never have to attend another of these things. Wrong, as it’s turned out.’
‘You didn’t have to attend this one,’ Provan suggested. ‘We could have briefed you.’
The former chief constable nodded. ‘You probably could,’ he conceded, ‘but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing the look on your faces when you turned that corner.’
‘Was that right about Speight’s insurers taking a big hit?’ the DS asked.
‘So I’m told. Whoever wrote the policy framed the clause to cover accidental death, or death at the hands of a third party.’
‘Suppose they have retained you directly, like you want us to believe: are you licensed for that sort of stuff?’
‘Oh yes, DS Provan. I have all the available paperwork. I was even a member of the board of the Security Industry Authority, until I gave them some relocation advice.’
‘Eh? You told them to move office?’
Skinner’s eyes gleamed. ‘No, Dan, I told them to stick the job up their arse . . . saving your presence, Lottie. It was just paper-shuffling. The Home Office wanted my name on the board, but not my positive input to its work.’
‘Isn’t your media directorship paper-shuffling?’ Mann suggested.
‘Not in the slightest. I have specific roles, and I even train people, young journalists, in investigative techniques, and in the proper way to approach the police.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Among other things, it means respectfully, and always on the re
cord. I have a standing instruction to our staff: if an officer won’t consent to a conversation being recorded, walk away or hang up the phone. If possible, record the refusal and identify the person while you’re doing so. Does any of that sound familiar?’
‘No,’ Provan said. ‘Should it?’
‘It would have if I’d been in the Strathclyde job for longer. It’s the mirror image of a standing order I had in place for all ranks when I was chief in Edinburgh.’
‘Did you ever break it yourself?’
‘No.’ Skinner smiled. ‘Mind you, there were a few occasions when . . .’
He broke off as a door opened and the pathologist joined them in the corridor. He led the way to his office; it was small, and a tight fit for four, but they crammed in.
Skinner pointed at a coffee filter on a table in a corner. ‘Does that work?’ he asked.
‘I thought you told me that Sarah had cut your ration,’ Bell remarked.
He looked around the room, peering over Provan’s head, and behind Mann. ‘Do you see her here? I don’t.’
The pathologist grinned. ‘In that case . . . It’ll have to be paper cups, mind.’
‘Anything.’
Bell set to work over the machine. ‘How is Sarah, by the way?’ he asked.
‘She’s even more short of sleep then I am, but otherwise she’s great. We both thought we’d drawn a line under the family with Seonaid.’ He grinned. ‘When you get to our ages, you take things for granted that you shouldn’t. We’re, lucky though; we have a nanny who’s been with us for years. She’s very happy; even if we packed the older ones off to boarding school tomorrow, Trish still has five years guaranteed employment. She’ll be glad when Sarah goes back to work, I think; they’re bumping into each other a wee bit just now.’
‘Boarding school,’ Provan growled.
‘Not here, Dan,’ Mann whispered brusquely. Skinner was intrigued by the exchange but said nothing, waiting in silence for the coffee to arrive.
‘If we’re all sitting comfortably . . .’ Bell smiled as he perched on the edge of his desk. ‘I’ll submit my formal report in the usual way, Detective Inspector,’ he began, ‘within twenty-four hours, I promise, but I can give you the layperson’s version now. Your man was poisoned, for sure. Death was caused by hypoxia, which is the end result of potassium cyanide poisoning. All this is subject to laboratory analysis of the stomach contents and of the container that was found beside the body, but that’s how he died; there’s no question in my mind.’
‘Is there any possibility that it was self-administered?’ Skinner asked.
‘I can’t rule that out, but why would he bother with the soya milk if he was going to off himself?’
‘No’ just that,’ Provan added. ‘Why would he want to do himself in? He was as rich as Croesus, and he’d just come from announcing a new business venture in his retirement.’
‘All true, guys. So that possibility, having been considered, can be ruled out . . . which adds up to very bad news for the insurance company, Bob. One thing I will tell you,’ the pathologist added. ‘That was the fittest person I have ever autopsied. His musculature was perfect, and his cardiovascular system was phenomenal. Seriously, I would like to preserve his heart; it’s the finest specimen I’ve ever seen. I’m going to approach his family to ask their permission.’
‘What about his brain?’ Mann asked.
‘It was immaculate; no sign of any injury or past concussions. I hate boxing,’ Bell said vehemently. ‘I’ve done PMs on two people who died from injuries sustained in professional fights, so I know first-hand the damage that the sport can cause. Honestly, Lottie, if I hadn’t known who that man was, and you’d tried to tell me he was a boxer, I would have laughed in your face. Externally there was barely a mark on him either; a couple of small scars round the eyes, but nothing else. He’d never had a nasal fracture either.’
‘He was the best, Graeme,’ Provan murmured. ‘Ah’ve never seen boxing as an art, noble or otherwise, but watching Leo Speight made me think that way. He had reflexes like lightning, he moved like mercury and he had a way of knowing what the other guy was going to do before he did it. The man was an art form, literally one of a kind.’
‘They found a donor card in his effects,’ Bell sighed, ‘but no organs could have been harvested in the circumstances. What a bloody waste! Imagine walking around with Leo Speight’s heart and lungs.’ He drained his coffee and stood. ‘Now, lady and gents, if you’ll excuse me, I have a report to write.’
The three investigators left him to it.
‘What’s your plan of action?’ Skinner asked.
‘I’ve called a team meeting at the crime scene,’ Mann replied. ‘For this one I have all the resources I need. There was only so much we could do yesterday, without knowing that we were actually dealing with a murder, but today the investigation moves into top gear.’
‘Do you mind if I sit in?’
He sensed a moment’s hesitancy in the DI before she responded. ‘If you have the time, of course you can, sir.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll stand at the back, Lottie, I promise. The last thing I want to do is undermine your leadership. Besides, half your young guns won’t know who the hell I am.’
‘The other half’ll tell them quick enough,’ Provan grunted.
‘You can be open with them. They can all be told that I’ve been retained by the victim’s insurers and that I’m there at your discretion. Also, don’t call me “sir”, either of you; that would undermine your authority as cops. I’m a civilian, sort of; address me as either Mr Skinner, or just plain Bob, whichever you’re more comfortable with.’
‘Mr Skinner it’ll be then,’ Mann said.
The DS winked. ‘Fine, Bob.’
‘What have you established so far?’ Skinner asked as they moved towards the exit.
The DI gave him a rundown of the previous day’s events, from the time of their emergency summons to Ayr. He listened in silence, nodding occasionally, but not interrupting at any point.
‘The book deal,’ he said, when she was finished. ‘The man Butler, the manager; what was his attitude to it? He was duty-bound to report the approach to his client, but do we know how he felt about it? Was he for it, agin it, or somewhere in the middle?’
‘Definitely for it . . . Bob,’ Provan declared. ‘Mrs Raynor was quite clear about that.’
‘And Speight himself?’
‘Ambivalent at best, it seemed, although the publisher woman was still hopin’ to talk him into it. That’s what yesterday’s meeting was for.’
‘To be clear, now that Leo’s dead, the book’s an even better proposition for a publisher?’
‘So Mrs Raynor said. She’s hangin’ around in Scotland. We’ve got no doubt she wants to tie up a deal with Leo’s executor before another publisher cottons on to the potential.’
‘Who’ll she be dealing with?’
‘Butler,’ the DS replied. ‘We think.’
The other man frowned. ‘Would she be dealing with the estate, though,’ he wondered, ‘or would she be dealing directly with Butler as an individual? A biography has to have an author, and from what you’re saying, there was nobody closer to Leo than him.’
‘That’s how she’s thinking,’ Mann conceded. ‘We’re not sure how much influence his adult son had with him, but he and Faye Bulloch had been separated for two years. The way Butler spoke . . .’ She paused, then added, ‘If we’re right and he’s the executor of the estate, either way Mrs Raynor would be dealing with him.’
‘Would she now?’ Skinner mused. ‘But is he a significant beneficiary?’
Mann shrugged. ‘No idea. Why?’
‘Because of the added value of the book with Leo dead; if he’s going to inherit, that’s of lesser importance. But if he isn’t, and he can do a separate book deal with this Masthead outfit, it
makes him a person of interest, doesn’t it?’
‘Mr Skinner, as of this moment, everybody in this investigation is of interest. We’ve got a man poisoned in an empty house, with a cast list of mothers of his children, business associates, and general hangers-on.’
‘And acting sisters-in-law,’ Provan muttered.
‘What do you mean?’ Skinner asked.
‘Our boss, Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch: Leo Speight’s ex-partner, who was taking him to court trying to prove a common-law marriage, is her sister, Faye.’
He gasped. ‘You’re kidding me! I never knew that.’
‘Neither did we. She kept it quiet.’
‘She sure as hell did. When I was your chief in Strathclyde, she was my exec. I took her out of Special Branch and put her in that job. I’ve seen her full CV and her SB vetting report. There’s no mention of her being connected to Leo Speight in any way.’
The DS peered at him. ‘Who did the vetting?’
‘ACC Allan signed off on it. Your old friend Max, currently doing time for perverting the course of justice.’
‘Presumably whoever did the job on her was careless,’ the DS argued, ‘or just didn’t think it was worth including.’
‘With respect, Dan, that’s not likely. Full family background and close associates is part of the vetting process.’
‘I wouldnae know; I’ve never been involved with you spooks.’
‘Trust me, it is; they reported to me, in Edinburgh and in Glasgow.’
‘When was it done?’ Mann asked.
Skinner frowned as he searched his memory and put dates in order. ‘It would be around a year and a half ago. She’d been in SB for a bit over a year when I took her out of there.’
‘Fair enough, but is it relevant to this inquiry?’
‘Probably not, but anything out of the ordinary disturbs me in a homicide investigation. Max Allan was known for doing favours for friends, and Sandra worked for him when she was a sergeant in uniform. Lottie, as I say, it’s probably not relevant, but what if Max took her relationship with Speight out of that report? Okay, I’ll grant you it needn’t have been him; it could have been whoever did the vetting . . . but what if the relationship was excised because of something that was known about Leo that might have been embarrassing to Sandra and compromising to the force?’
A Brush With Death Page 7
