by T F Muir
She reached for the door handle, glanced at the woman—
Another tilt of the head.
Was that a signal?
Along North Street – lights at green; a couple walking their dog; three cars easing towards the cathedral corner, the car in front, a Porsche SUV, almost at a crawl, as if looking for a parking space.
Or . . . ?
Another glance from the woman, and this time Jessie saw it.
The eye contact. The Porsche SUV.
Jessie faced the Porsche, registered only that the driver was a blonde-haired woman. She strode on to the street and flagged the Porsche down, but it accelerated towards her with an easy growl from its engine. Jessie tried to grab the door handle, almost caught it, but was spun off by a sudden burst of acceleration.
She fell to the ground, landed with a heavy thud, then pulled herself to her knees in time to catch Gilchrist running full pelt from the cathedral grounds on to the road. He stood his ground, warrant card high in the air, and the Porsche pulled to a halt less than two feet from him, its engine revving, as if the driver was in two minds whether to get on with it and just run him over.
Jessie turned back to the woman at the Merc, who stood with her mouth open, her eyes shifting, not sure whether to make a dash for it or not.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Jessie shouted to her as she walked towards her. ‘I’ve had enough exercise for one day.’
CHAPTER 23
Jessie pressed a button on the recorder on the table, and announced that the interview was being recorded, then listed who was present – DCI Andy Gilchrist and DS Jessie Janes of Fife Constabulary, and Caryl Dillanos. She read Dillanos her rights, and said, ‘You have also been advised that you have the right to have a solicitor present, but you have turned that down. Is that correct?’
‘What do I need a solicitor for? Buying a car’s not a crime.’
‘Reckless driving is,’ Jessie said.
‘So I pay a fine and lose my licence. Big deal. I’ll hire a driver.’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ Gilchrist said.
‘It is to me.’
‘How about murder?’
Dillanos let out a laugh. ‘Murder? Who am I supposed to have murdered?’
‘Would you like to have your solicitor present now?’ Jessie pressed.
‘I don’t want a solicitor present. OK? I don’t need one for a traffic violation. And I’ve not murdered anyone. But if you lot continue to threaten me like this, you will be hearing from my solicitor. And it won’t be about traffic violations.’
Gilchrist leaned forward. Time to take over. ‘For the record,’ he said, ‘please state your full name, date of birth and address.’
‘Caryl Versace Dillanos, 23 September 1968, Glasgow.’
‘Address in Glasgow?’
She told them, and Gilchrist thought it was somewhere in the city centre.
‘Caryl Versace Dillanos,’ he said. ‘Is that the name on your birth certificate?’
‘Deed poll.’
‘What’s your birth name?’
‘Megan Murphy.’
Jessie snorted. Gilchrist glanced at her. ‘Middle names?’ he said.
‘None.’
‘When did you change your name?’
‘Years ago.’
‘When exactly?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Best guess. Ten years? Twenty?’
‘Nineties. I was in my early twenties, something like that.’
‘Why change your name?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very.’
‘Let me see.’ She held both palms out, as if weighing one imaginary item against the other. ‘Megan Murphy? Caryl Dillanos?’ She lowered her left hand. ‘Dillanos walked it.’
‘And the Versace?’
‘Thought it sounded good.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Import export,’ she said. ‘But officially I’m an international buyer.’
‘And unofficially?’
‘There youse go. Trying to put words into my mouth. I’m an international buyer full-time then. Is that better?’
‘An international buyer in what?’
‘In whatever you want me to buy.’ She showed him a set of teeth that had to have set her back several thousand pounds, maybe more.
‘Working for?’
‘Myself ?’
‘Trading as?’
‘Myself.’
‘And you’ll be registered for VAT?’
‘That’s right. Check it out with my accountants.’
‘Murdock and Roberts?’
Surprise shifted to suspicion, then on to irritation. ‘Have you been checking me out?’
‘Are you current with your tax returns?’
‘What’s this? Do I need a solicitor?’
‘Would you like to stop this interview and call one?’
‘Just get on with it, will you? I’ve an appointment in the West End at two.’
And with these words, Gilchrist came to see that Caryl Versace Dillanos had lived her entire life on the wrong side of the law. The police were little more than an annoyance to be dealt with every now and then, an interview here, a visit to the police station there, maybe even slipping the odd hundred quid or three to have the boys in blue turn a blind eye while Ms International Buyer shifted her stolen goods. Who knew? But one thing Gilchrist did know was that Dillanos had no idea of the seriousness of her situation. Or perhaps she thought she could brass her way through it.
Best to go straight to the core.
‘Do you know a Mr McCarron?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Angus McCarron?’
She paused, as if making the faintest connection. ‘Barely,’ she said.
‘Answer yes or no.’
‘Yes.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with Mr—’
‘There was no relationship.’
‘No professional relationship?’
‘Yeah, well.’
Gilchrist returned her firm gaze, thought he caught the tiniest flicker of understanding, as if she was only now putting two and two together. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘He’s an estate agent. He showed me some property.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘All over the place.’
‘Where, exactly.’
She puffed up her cheeks, then blew out. ‘St Andrews, Pittenweem, Anstruther, and some other places with names I can’t remember.’
Gilchrist noted the absence of Kingsbarns. ‘And did you buy any of them?’
‘Wasn’t buying. Just looking to rent.’
‘So as well as being an international buyer, you’re also a domestic renter?’
‘Very funny,’ she said. ‘I buy, I sell, I rent, I wheel and deal. In other words, I make money. Lots of it.’
Gilchrist ignored the taunt. ‘Did any of the rental properties Mr McCarron show you interest you?’
‘Not for me. For a client.’
Gilchrist leaned forward. Now they were coming down to it. ‘Name?’
She shook her head. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘Phone records? Notes? Anything that might jog your memory?’ he asked.
‘Don’t keep records.’
‘So it’s all cash, no sales receipts, no records of any kind?’
‘I’m not into paperwork.’
‘Even for Murdock and Roberts?’
‘That’s different. I’m legit.’
Gilchrist offered a dry smile. Being legit meant that she filed tax returns through a firm of accountants, who probably did not ask too many questions or dig too deep. Having them file her company’s annual tax returns was just eyewash to give the impression of being a professional business.
‘So what about the 350 SLK?’ he asked. ‘Going to pay cash for that too?’
‘How else?’
Jessie lifted a custody folder from the floor, placed
it on her lap, and said, ‘DS Janes exhibiting two items booked in when Ms Dillanos was first detained.’ She slapped two thick envelopes on to the table, and said, ‘There’s nine thousand pounds in each. I thought we agreed twenty.’
Dillanos shrugged. ‘That’s all I was going to offer.’
‘And you sent that wee bimbo to check me out?’
‘Who is she?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Jana.’
‘Surname?’
‘Just Jana.’
‘Polish?’
Dillanos’s eyes stilled, as if realising Gilchrist would always be one step ahead of her, maybe two. ‘Could be,’ she said.
‘She have a visa?’ Jessie asked.
‘Don’t know. Ask her.’
‘So what does she do for you?’ Gilchrist again.
‘Trainee.’
‘Trainee what?’
‘Trainee international buyer.’
Jessie snorted. ‘Going to take over when you retire?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’d better train her quick, then,’ Jessie sniped.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Gilchrist raised his hand, like a referee stepping in between two opponents. ‘DCI Gilchrist leaving the interview,’ he said.
Time to talk to Jana, he thought, and see how her lies compared to Dillanos’s.
He pushed to his feet, and left the interview room.
CHAPTER 24
Gilchrist found Nance and PC Dan Morton in Interview Room 3.
He introduced himself, noted the time, and sat next to Nance, who shoved her handwritten notes to him. He read the girl’s name – Jana Judkowski – then smiled at her.
‘Yana Jookofski?’ he said. ‘Is that how you pronounce it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Your boss, Caryl, she says you’re a trainee.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Trainee what?’
‘Just trainee.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Is she a good boss?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘And you’ve declined your right to have a solicitor present?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The change in tack seemed not to faze her. ‘I would remind you that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law,’ he said. ‘You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I’m not saying you have, Jana. I’m only asking if you understand that any lies you say now could come back to bite you.’
‘I’m telling the truth.’
Gilchrist held her gaze. ‘Do you have any tattoos?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘Can I see them?’
She gave a knowing smirk, her wounded-girl image evaporating to reveal a temptress trained in the ways of easing money from men’s fingers with the oily charm of a seductress. ‘It’ll cost you,’ she said, lowering her head, raising her eyebrows.
‘Can you point to where they are?’ he said. ‘If you feel uncomfortable answering that question, PC Morton and I can leave the room.’
She leaned back in her chair, lifted her arm and tapped the back of her neck.
‘For the record,’ said Nance, ‘The interviewee is indicating that she has a tattoo on the back of her neck.’ A pause, then, ‘And another tattoo on her left breast. And her right breast. And one near her genitalia.’
‘I have a butterfly tattooed on my labia,’ Jana said, and smiled at Gilchrist. ‘Want to see it?’
‘Any others?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Yes or no.’
‘No.’
Gilchrist said, ‘Again, I would remind you of your need to tell the truth.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s all,’ she said.
‘You don’t have another one here?’ He raised his left arm, tapped his armpit.
‘No.’
Dillanos had taught her well, he thought, taught her how to look someone in the eye and tell a lie as if it were the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Or maybe that was why she had been selected as a trainee. He thought back to Dillanos, the cocky manner, the way she shifted in her chair, revealing more thigh than necessary – albeit woollen-tight-covered thigh, but thigh nonetheless. If she smoked a cigarette, she would exhale straight into your face.
‘What does the number eleven mean to you?’ he asked.
She frowned, as if baffled by his question. ‘Eleven?’
He nodded. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
Maybe he had it all wrong. ‘How about bones?’ he tried.
‘Bones?’ She looked at Nance as if seeking relief from this lunatic, then back to Gilchrist. ‘Bones? What bones?’
‘Small bones.’
She sniffed, shook her head. ‘No bones.’
Now was as good a time as any to trip her, he thought. ‘And Kumar?’
‘What about him?’
‘Him?’ Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Who said Kumar was a man?’
Jana blinked once, twice, deer caught in headlights, then rubbed her eye, as if something was irritating it. ‘Kumar’s a man’s name,’ she said.
‘Not always.’ He didn’t know if it was or not, but sometimes you have to press.
‘Well, I thought it was.’ She lowered her hand. ‘I don’t know anybody by the name of Kumar,’ she said.
‘You didn’t meet anyone by the name of Kumar in the cottage in Kingsbarns?’
‘No.’
Gilchrist stifled a smile. ‘So you’ve been to the cottage in Kingsbarns?’ he said. ‘How long did you stay there?’
‘I didn’t stay there. I just visited it.’
‘With Caryl?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Caryl said she knows Kumar.’ He sat back to watch her reaction.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You don’t believe Caryl said that?’
‘That’s not her style.’
‘What’s not her style?’
‘Talking to the police.’
‘She’s in trouble, Caryl is,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Do you want to go down with her?’
Jana’s throat bobbed, and she tried to hold his gaze.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ Gilchrist said to her. ‘I’m going to get myself a cup of tea, and while I’m doing that I would like you to tell Detective Sergeant Wilson here all you know about Kumar.’
Jana sniffed.
‘And if I were you, Jana, I would want off this sinking ship while I still can.’
‘Ship?’
‘Figure of speech.’ He held her eyes, seeing in their worried look the little girl she had once been. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Jana? Your boss, Caryl, is in trouble. She’s going down. She’ll probably go to jail. Do you want that to happen to you?’
Silent, she returned his hard stare with a blank one of her own.
Gilchrist wondered if she would open up to Nance if he was not there. So he excused himself, and returned to Interview Room 1.
Dillanos barely glanced at him as he entered.
Jessie’s iPhone beeped as he took his seat, and she read its message.
Gilchrist reintroduced himself, and said, ‘Jana’s not as experienced as you.’
‘That’s why she’s a trainee.’
Not a blink. Nothing. ‘She’s coughing it all out in the other room,’ he tried.
Dillanos smirked at him. ‘Must have a cold, then. Maybe the flu.’
Jessie placed her iPhone on the table and leaned forward. ‘Does Bankenson Insurance mean anything to you?’ she asked.
‘Should it?’
‘You’ve made four insurance claims in the last five years. Goods lost in transit. Each shipment from Dubai.’ Jessie picked up her iPhone, read the screen. ‘The largest claim was for three hundred and twenty-seven thousand. That’s pounds sterling.’
&
nbsp; ‘That’s right,’ Dillanos said. ‘Stuff ’s expensive.’
‘What sort of stuff ?’ Gilchrist chipped in.
‘You name it.’
He shook his head.
‘They’re all the same, these insurance companies,’ Dillanos went on. ‘Extortionate rates, and quick to take your payments. But not so quick to pay out.’
‘But they did in the end,’ Jessie said. ‘For all four of them, netting you, hang on a minute . . .’ She mumbled as she added it up, then said, ‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand, give or take. All cash.’
‘Cheques, actually.’
‘Did you report that to Murdock and Roberts?’
‘Of course. Check it out. Phone them up. I had to cough up for the stuff. Which isn’t cheap, let me tell you. And after the deductible’s paid, you’ll see I made a loss.’
‘Tax write-off ?’
‘Loss. Tax write-off. Same difference. It still cost me a ton.’
‘Where were the shipments lost?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘At sea,’ Dillanos replied. ‘Indian Ocean.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They sank?’
‘Vanished. The shipments, I mean. Not the ships.’
‘Pirated?’
‘Could be. Offloaded in Somalia. Who knows. I don’t know the details.’
‘Where did the shipments originate?’
‘Dubai.’
‘And sail from there?’
‘Qatar,’ she explained. ‘Doha.’
Gilchrist’s Middle Eastern geography was not the best, but he said, ‘So they were transported by truck from Dubai through Saudi Arabia and into Qatar? Then loaded on to a ship, and never turned up at the other end?’
Dillanos said, ‘It’s a bitch.’
Gilchrist almost smiled at the scam. The shipments were probably never loaded at Doha, but sold on the black market before they reached the docks. You could cover anything you wanted with paperwork – an official stamp here, another there, proof that the cargo had been safely loaded. Who could argue with that? An insurance company would try, for sure. But in the face of compelling evidence, signed documentation, missing cargo, what could they do but pay out?
‘You ever been to Dubai?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Loads of times.’
‘Doha?’
‘Once or twice.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Kumar’s an Arabic name, isn’t it?’ He was guessing, just putting the question out there. But for the first time that day, he thought he detected a shimmer of uncertainty.
