A Brush With Death

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Yes please,’ Mann said.

  ‘Okay, I will. You should get on to BT and get a list of every call made from the Beedham’s landline over that same period.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Provan exclaimed. ‘All this cloak-and-dagger stuff might be fun, big fella, but Lottie’s the one that’s under pressure to get a result. We know, near as damn it for certain, who killed the Italian. Like as not he did Speight as well, so why the fuck should we play these games when we’ve got grounds to arrest him right now? Suppose we let him carry on and he kills someone else? We’re the ones that’ll be out front covered in ordure. You and your spook pal’ll be nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that, Detective Sergeant,’ Skinner conceded; then his eyes, and his voice, hardened as his tolerance expired, ‘but I can offer you years of experience at command rank, taking decisions that were, with respect, way above your pay grade. What I’m suggesting to DI Mann is what I’d do if I was leading this investigation. It’s also something I’d authorise if I was her chief constable and she came to me for permission. Since I mentored her present chief constable, I’m pretty confident that Mrs Steele would agree with me!’

  ‘That’s me put in my place then.’ The DS sulked at the reproof.

  ‘Well and truly,’ Mann said. ‘We do what Mr Skinner suggests. And that’s not a debate either, by the way,’ she added.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ his protagonist told him. ‘Yes, you’ve got grounds to detain Swords for questioning in the Moscardinetto killing, and to take the fingerprints that will put him in the room, but you’re nowhere close to having him for the Speight homicide as well, not without much more evidence than you have already.’

  ‘I sense you’re not convinced that he did that,’ the DI ventured.

  ‘I’m not,’ Skinner admitted. ‘It doesn’t sit right with me. Swords – assuming we’re right and his presence in that CCTV shot isn’t just a massive coincidence – went to that hotel to steal something. The time shown on the public space camera, set alongside the time we know that the victim got back to the Stadium, is proof enough for me that Moscardinetto found Swords searching his room. Clearly they struggled and Swords overpowered him, but it’s unlikely he went there to kill him; more likely he went to steal the laptop.’

  ‘How did he know which was Moscardinetto’s room?’ Provan asked, his interest renewed.

  ‘Did Gino Butler say that he did all the bookings?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then speak to Trudi Pollock again. Ask her if Swords could have had access to the list of guest accommodation or if he just asked her straight out.’

  ‘Maybe speak to Butler instead,’ the DS suggested.

  ‘Hell, no. You should pull his phone records as well, landline and mobile. Mr Butler needs further examination. As well as being Leo’s best mate, he had access to everything. He knew where everybody was, and when.’

  ‘Maybe we should do more,’ Mann suggested. ‘Now that we’ve seen the will and know who the beneficiaries are, we should treat all of the adults as suspects, pull everyone’s phone records as far as we can.’ She paused. ‘Well, maybe not Rae Letts.’

  ‘Maybe yes,’ Skinner cautioned. ‘She really loved Leo; if he told her he was going to marry someone else, you never know. Logistically, though,’ he conceded, ‘it would have been difficult for her to organise and carry out the killing.’

  ‘Let’s start with the Brits,’ she decided. ‘Thanks for that input, Mr Skinner. What’s your agenda for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I have an appointment in Edinburgh. Everyone we’ve spoken to seems to agree that Charles Baxter was the man behind Leo Speight’s real wealth, his property empire. I thought I’d find out why he wasn’t at the party on Friday. But before I go, I suggest you think about Augusta Cambridge, the host’s painter friend. She was in a prime position while it was all happening, creating a record of the event. That means she was actively watching the crowd all night. It might be worth asking her what she saw.’

  Thirty-One

  Bob Skinner had been around Edinburgh for long enough to remember when the men who created the city’s wealth, and their own, were based in the Georgian buildings of the New Town, in the two great squares, and George Street, which connected them. The age of information technology had transformed the city, replacing the old with modernity of questionable taste, but LJMcF, a global practice of property advisers, had bucked the trend by adapting its headquarters to meet modern needs and staying where it was, frowning across Charlotte Square at Bute House, the official residence of Scotland’s first minister, with which the former chief constable was very familiar.

  While the hidden infrastructure of the office was brand new, its fittings had kept faith with its origins, at the insistence of Historic Scotland. The drawing room remained as its architect had designed it, and it was there that tall, portly, three-piece-suited Charles Baxter greeted his visitor, gazing at him over the top of a pair of narrow gold-framed spectacles.

  ‘This is something of an honour, Mr Skinner,’ he declared in a cut-glass Edinburgh Academy accent as he offered his hand. ‘It’s amazing to me that in all the years you were top cop here, we never actually met.’

  ‘Not that many years,’ Skinner countered. ‘For most of that time I was the second top cop, after Jimmy Proud.’

  ‘Ah yes, Sir James. I’d heard he wasn’t too well. Prostate cancer, is it?’

  ‘That’s right, but don’t count him out. He’s had surgery and follow-up treatment, a tough pathway, but it’s leading him towards recovery. We live in the same village, so I see him regularly.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Baxter asked. ‘Your old police force, I mean. I recall you being pretty vocal when this new creature was first mooted.’

  ‘Too bad the politicians didn’t listen,’ Skinner grumbled. ‘But that’s all history; the police service is what it is, and after a shaky start it’s in good hands. To answer your question, of course I miss it, but even if it was still there in its original form, with a chief constable based down at Fettes, that person wouldn’t be me. I’d have moved on anyway. I never liked the role; I found it too constricting. When I was appointed, Jimmy, my predecessor, told me to forget convention and do it my own way. I tried, but there are things that can’t be avoided; for example, keeping the city councillors happy.’

  ‘I know that one,’ the surveyor agreed. ‘It’s a big part of this firm’s life too. That said, we can do it in ways you couldn’t. I’m not talking brown envelopes, you understand, but we have other ways of making them feel important and maintaining their goodwill. Come,’ he said, ‘let’s sit.’

  The room was dominated by an oval dining table, but two high-backed chesterfield chairs were set on either side of a high fireplace in which logs burned in an iron basket, a welcoming contrast to the damp chill of the day outside. A Thermos coffee jug sat on a low trestle, with two cups. ‘Yes?’ Baxter asked, loosening the lid.

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I’d better not. I had some with lunch up in my office, and my wife has me on a ration.’

  ‘Ah. Is the lady a dietician?’

  ‘Worse, she’s a pathologist,’ he chuckled.

  ‘You’ve put me off it now,’ his host murmured, replacing the jug and settling back into his chair. ‘Now, sir, why have you come to see me? Does InterMedia need some advice about the building up at Fountainbridge? I know you’re a director of the group. Are you thinking about a sale and lease-back, perhaps, to raise some cash? Or restructuring existing borrowing?’

  ‘We have no need. The group’s in a very healthy cash position, so healthy that we took advantage of the slump in sterling to clear off a historic mortgage on Fountainbridge. The fact is, Mr Baxter, I haven’t come to talk about my business, but yours. I’m involved – on the periphery, let’s say – in the investigation into the death of Leo Speight. I understand he was a c
lient of yours.’

  Deep frown lines creased Baxter’s forehead. ‘He was more than a client. He was a friend, a very good friend. We got on like a house on fire, surprising I suppose, given the difference in our professions and our backgrounds.’

  ‘And yet you weren’t at his retirement party last Friday. Why was that?’

  ‘There’s a simple explanation. I was at a rival event, my parents’ golden wedding anniversary, in Prestonfield House. You say you’re involved on the periphery, Mr Skinner. Can I hazard a guess and suggest that you’re representing the interests of Leo’s insurers, given that there seems to be a degree of mystery about his death?’

  Skinner grinned. ‘I wouldn’t discourage that speculation,’ he said.

  ‘I know about the policy,’ Baxter confessed, ‘the one that covered the outside possibility of his being killed in the boxing ring. He told me about it when it was set up. I’ve seen it and I know exactly what it says, so I’m going to assume that your brief is to establish that he died of natural causes, or if not, by accident or misadventure.’ He gazed across the gap between the chairs. ‘How did my friend die?’ he asked. ‘The police have described it as “unexplained”. Are you able to tell me?’

  ‘No, I’m not, but I’m not being obstructive or perverse. The police are waiting, impatiently I can tell you, for some lab work to be completed, hence that description.’

  ‘What does that mean? Does it rule out any connection with his career?’

  ‘The pathologist didn’t find any; he’s a top man, and believe me, he looked. My role in the investigation,’ he continued, choosing his words carefully, ‘requires me to assume that the autopsy is going to tell us stuff we won’t like to hear. If that happens, I want to be prepared for it, so I’m looking into every aspect of Leo’s life.’

  ‘All I can tell you,’ the surveyor replied, ‘relates to his property portfolio. Leo never involved me with the part of his life that generated his wealth. He said I didn’t need to know how it was earned, because that was tough and bloody. My job was to help him invest it and make it grow.’

  ‘In that case, how did you come to see that insurance policy?’

  ‘It had to be disclosed to a lender in a property deal, along with all his other policies. It was a very big deal.’

  ‘How wealthy was Leo?’ Skinner asked. ‘I’ve heard all sorts of figures over the last few days, but nobody really seems to know.’

  ‘No, because they couldn’t,’ Baxter agreed. ‘The media estimates you read vary between fifty and seventy million, but they’re all based on reports of the money he earned from his pay-per-view fights. They take no account of his property holdings, which were considerable and international. I’ve spent this week trying to work that out, and I’m nowhere near finished. Personally he owned homes in London, Ayr and the Bahamas.’

  ‘Where was his tax base?’

  ‘Monaco, although very few people knew that. Through his property company he owned a hotel there, near the football stadium. It was one of his first investments, and he kept an apartment on the top floor. Officially, that’s where he lived, but he was on the move all the time. That said, in the last year of his life he spent more time in Scotland than he should have. I think there was a lady involved.’

  ‘Did he mention a name?’

  ‘No, but that wasn’t unusual; he was discreet. I only found out about his American girlfriend, the mother of his youngest child, when he told me to find a family home near Las Vegas and put it in her name.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I did well by him. Our San Francisco office found the property and did the deal, and I visited after Rae and the baby had moved in. They made a nice little family, and Leo was clearly very comfortable with her. I’d hoped that it might become permanent, but Rae told me from the start that wouldn’t happen.’

  Skinner caught his eye. ‘How did she feel about that? Did you sense any resentment?’

  ‘None at all. She trusted Leo to look after her and the child, and that was enough for her.’

  ‘What about Faye Bulloch?’

  ‘For some reason she stopped trusting him, and demanded more than he was prepared to give her – specifically, his name. He was generous in all other respects, but that was a line he drew in the sand some time ago. She shouldn’t have gone to that lawyer; it was a bad idea, or she was badly advised.’

  ‘The property holdings you mentioned earlier; how extensive are they?’

  ‘They’re considerable. He owned ten hotels around the world, and had just begun construction on another site in the Bahamas. That included four in Scotland: the Blacksmith, where the party was; Beedham’s by Loch Lomond; a place called Black Shield Lodge—’

  ‘In Perthshire?’ Skinner exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, you know it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘He acquired that three months ago, from a man named McCullough. The chap has a certain reputation, so I was wary of him, but everything was kosher. The only condition was that he and his wife have a life rent on a villa on the estate. McCullough told me he intended to put the money into a trust fund for his granddaughter, since he knew she’d have no interest in running an hotel. It’s already an impressive property; Leo’s intention was to make it even more so, a rival to Gleneagles, but with a casino licence as well. He had friends in politics and entertainment, and was fairly confident of securing one.’

  Aileen and Joey, Skinner thought, as a small smile flickered across his face. Everyone was at that party for a reason, it seemed.

  ‘Four hotels in Scotland, you said?’ he continued.

  ‘That’s correct. The fourth is a shoddy place in the middle of Glasgow called the Stadium. Leo bought it, on my recommendation, from the previous owner’s administrator. We completed the deal last week and take possession on Friday. He got it for a song; our plan was to refurbish it to the same standard as Beedham’s, hire a Michelin-star chef, and run it in the same way. He intended to close the place at the end of the month – which reminds me, as executor of that part of his estate, I must tell the staff.’

  The surveyor smiled at his own cleverness. In his visitor’s mind several pieces of a jigsaw clicked into place. ‘Have you ever heard Leo mention a man called Aldorino Moscardinetto?’ he asked.

  ‘Never,’ Baxter declared. ‘If he had, I’d have remembered all those syllables. Who is he?’

  ‘An Italian film-maker, also a guest at the Blacksmith party last Friday. As far as I’m aware, he was the only one to have been put up in the Stadium rather than in the venue or in Beedham’s, as the boxing people were.’

  ‘I suppose he was at the foot of the pecking order. Had I been able to go, I’d have been put up in the Blacksmith. Is it important?’

  At the foot of the pecking order, Skinner thought; or Leo wanted to keep him apart from everyone else.

  ‘Just wondered,’ he replied casually. ‘You were taking me through the property holdings.’

  ‘Yes: ten hotels, four in Scotland, the one I mentioned in Monaco, one in Windsor, one in Cheshire, one just outside Toronto, one on Vancouver Island and one in Charleston, USA. Each of them I sourced for him, then handled all aspects of the deal. As his success grew in the ring, so his property empire grew outside. The Bahamian resort was going to be special; I’m not sure what’ll happen with that. The funding’s in place and the work’s under way.’ He frowned. ‘That one’s unstoppable; I’ll have to think long and hard whether to find a buyer or to proceed. I’m expecting to be named as a trustee in Leo’s will,’ he explained, ‘to administer the property holdings on behalf of the minor beneficiaries – his children, I imagine.’

  ‘You imagine? When did he last discuss the will with you?’

  ‘First half of last year; just after he signed the contracts for his retirement fight. He asked me to make as sure as I could that Faye couldn’t get her hands on any of the property holdings, regardless of how t
he court case went. Those went beyond hotels,’ he added. ‘There were offices also, in Scotland, London, Toronto, New York; high-value premium rental properties. The building in which we are sitting, Mr Skinner, is owned by Leo Speight Holdings (Scotland) Limited, a subsidiary of the parent group, Leo Speight Commercial PLC, a company registered in the Bahamas.’

  ‘Formidable,’ Skinner said. ‘What’s it all worth?’

  ‘As I said, that’s what I’m trying to assess. What I can tell you is that the insurance policy you’re interested in is just a drop in the ocean. Leo’s business was highly geared; that is to say it was supported by borrowing from financial providers around the world. All that borrowing was underpinned by life insurance policies. Whatever Leo’s net worth was when he was alive – I’d have put that at around a hundred and fifty million – his estate’s not going to be valued at anything short of twice that amount.’

  ‘Three hundred million?’

  Baxter nodded. ‘Gets your attention, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does. It also makes me wonder who else could have been aware of those numbers.’

  ‘That would depend on who knew the totality of Leo’s property holdings, and I’m not sure that anyone did, other than me. His man Butler was never involved in that side of his life, and his corporate structure wasn’t exactly designed for transparency. What are you getting at, Mr Skinner?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’m just lining things up in my mind. The deals he did, or that you did for him, were any of them confrontational?’

  ‘None at all; they were all straightforward purchases: willing vendors, willing buyer. We never beat anyone down on price, never haggled. I only recommended a purchase if I was certain that it had medium- to long-term growth potential. There were only two exceptions to that: Beedham’s was a country house, privately owned and in disrepair. We took a punt on it, because there was no certainty of planning consent to turn it into an hotel. That said, if we hadn’t been given approval, Leo could still have restored it and sold it on at a substantial profit – or lived in it had he chosen.’