Quintin Jardine - Skinner Skinner 12

by Head Shot (pdf)

  Stan Coia sighed. 'It's a bit of both really; they were well warned not to upset their grandma, or Nana or anyone else, by screaming and shouting like they usual y do. But the way Viola's taken it ... Aye, you're right; the poor wee guys are frightened. She's excitable at the best of times, but this ... I'd to get the doctor to her, you know. The emergency call-out service, I'd to get them out in the middle of the night, after Mario came by to tel me what had happened. The poor lass, she was hyperventilating; I thought she was having an asthma attack, and you can die from them.'

  'How is she now?' Maggie looked back into the living room, where Viola stood, black-eyed, white-faced, beside her Aunt Christina.

  'Doped up to the eyebal s, if you real y want to know. It was touch and go whether she came today, but I managed to persuade her that her mother and her nana needed her.' His eyes flicked quickly around the room.

  'The Viareggio women are a funny lot, you know. You must see that too, as an in-law like me. There's old Nana, at the top of the tree ... if you leave out old Auntie Josefina, who doesn't know whether it's breakfast time or Easter, and never did, from what Beppe said. Then look at Aunt Christina, and at Paula; they're just like her, the pair of them, big, attractive women, very feminine, both of them, but as tough as teak underneath.

  'On the other hand, there's Viola and her mother, complete contrasts to the other three, nice and good-hearted, but soft-centred where the others are hard.

  164

  'You could explain it away as coming from Sophia's side. The Rossis are a funny lot; her father was a lapsed Catholic, a real outcast, apparently.

  Only you can't, because it's not just the women that are mixed up. I mean, God rest poor Beppe's soul, but where the hel did he come from?

  'I never knew Papa Viareggio; he was dead years before I met Viola.

  But from everything I've heard he was some man. Yet he and Nana managed to produce Beppe as well as Christina. I mean, he wasn't a bad man, and he didn't squander the family fortunes; but he was weak and if he hadn't had Paula and me and Aunt Christina around him, he might have. As it was, that business with the franchising, when he cancel ed it after his father died, that was a fiasco.

  'It's funny; isn't it,' Stan mused, unknowingly giving voice to Maggie's own thoughts. 'The Viareggio clan's a real matriarchy, and yet it's set up so that ultimately there's always a man in control. It's a real Italian thing, isn't it. There was Papa, then there was Beppe and now there's Mario, who's a throwback to his old grandfather, so they say.'

  He grinned at Maggie, his eyes distorted by the thick lenses of his spectacles. 'Genetics, eh; a load of crap.'

  She smiled with him, looking over at her husband, who was instal ing Ryan and David in front of the television set, in the far corner of the living room. 'What about you, Stan?' she asked him. 'Do you see yourself as part of the family, or stil as an outsider, as I do for all that Mario's

  done to make me feel like one of them?'

  'I'm a wage slave, pure and simple,' he answered at once. 'I don't know if I'd even be that, if Nana hadn't insisted on it. Okay, I've got my chartered surveying practice, and the Viareggio Trust is my most important long-term client, but that's it. More than that, when I'm ready to chuck it, that's al my boys wil have . . . assuming that they're interested in coming into my business. The way that Ryan talks about his Uncle Mario and his Aunt Maggie, I think he's halfway to being a detective already.

  'I resent that a bit, I have to confess. Not about him being a policeman,'

  he added quickly, 'but I resent the fact that the way the old man's inheritance was set up, my lads will miss out. Who are the beneficiaries of the Trust? Nana, Christina, Beppe and Sophia and their children; there's no right of succession after that. For all that he was a very clever and successful man, old Papa didn't, or couldn't, think more than two generations ahead.'

  'I see what you mean,' Maggie conceded, 'but it would have been very difficult for him to do more. As I see it, he trusted Beppe, overseen by Christina, to carry the business on for a bit, until Mario and Paula were ready to take over. They were his real heirs, those two; and you're right, the Italian in him made sure that there would be a man in overall control.

  'They're the future of the business, those two, and there are no restrictions on them, other than looking after Nana and Aunt Josefina.

  They can consolidate, they can expand, or if they choose they can liquidate, sell the bloody lot and distribute the proceeds. I'll promise you this though, Stan. Whatever happens, Mario wil take his nephews'

  interests into account, and I'm sure Paula will go along with that too.

  She has no kids yet, and neither do we ... nor will we, unless we adopt... so your boys could have quite a rosy future.'

  'That's good to know; thanks. Mind you that assumes that any of us have a future. I saw the Sunday Mail front page today. What is this Mafia stuff, Maggie? I know that Uncle Beppe used to joke about it all the time, but should we take it seriously?'

  'No more than Beppe used to take it himself; it was always a joke with him, even if it did wear thin from time to time. There is no organised crime in Edinburgh, not any more. We final y broke that a couple of years ago, when the last of the big drugs barons got sent down for most of the rest of his life. Even when it did exist, it wasn't Italian.'

  'What if this came from outside Edinburgh? The deli side of the business has all sorts of Italian suppliers.'

  'No it doesn't. We went over this with Paula last night. The deli suppliers are all wholesalers, and most of them are public companies, or part of public groups. The business deals with them and nobody else; it doesn't pay off middlemen and it never has. There are no supply problems just now, and no arguments with anyone over prices. Like most businesses, the biggest threat comes from the VAT man.'

  'So who kil ed old Beppe then, if it wasn't gangsters?'

  'We'd have told you if we knew. Now stop fantasising; off you go and watch the game with the rest of the boys.' She glanced at the women gathered around the table. 'I've got to stop Nana from pouring any more Chianti into your wife. God knows how it'l mix with the sedatives.'

  As it transpired, the combination proved as effective as any sleeping pill. Viola was put to bed by her mother and slept solidly until seven thirty, when Stan decreed that the boys had to go home. The others decided to leave at the same time, Sophia and Christina going back to 166

  tItlAJLJ StIUl

  Murrayfield with Nana, and Paula, her courage restored, returning to her warehouse apartment in Leith, uttering threats against the person of any journalist who might be lying in wait for her.

  As soon as they had gone, Mario began to clear away the debris left over from the extended lunch. He had just loaded the last of the crockery into the dishwasher, and selected a programme, when he noticed, through the open kitchen door, that his wife was seated at the dining table, making her way through a stack of papers.

  'What the hell's that?' he called to her, as he strolled back towards her.

  'Stuff I brought home from the office yesterday. It's the first chance I've had to look at it.'

  'Bloody hell,' he laughed. 'You're not turning into Manny English, are you?'

  'Hardly; it's just that I feel that while I'm filling his shoes, I should try to do things his way.'

  'Like spending every weekend shovelling shit?'

  'No,' she said, severely. 'Not every weekend; only those when I find myself giving short-notice lunch parties for your family.'

  'We won't make a habit of it, I promise. Anyway, I don't have any more uncles.'

  Maggie winced. 'Sorry; that was a bit crass. I was glad to do it, honestly, and I think it did everyone a bit of good . . . apart from Viola, that is. Nana fed the best part of a bottle of Chianti into her before I could stop her.'

  'Stan could have stopped her before you did,' Mario pointed out, 'but he wasn't bothered.'

  'True. I don't think it's his style though. He loves his boys, but I get the impression
that he and Viola aren't al that happy together.'

  'They're fine. You're not seeing either of them at their best, that's al .

  Anyway, a couple of drinks and a few hours' sleep were exactly what she was needing. Trust Nana to spot it, too.'

  'Oh yes, trust her.' She paused. 'Paula seems to have got herself together.'

  'Aye, she's fine. I've asked Jay to keep an eye on her place, but she doesn't need to know that.'

  'You don't real y think she's in any danger, do you?'

  'No, but I know a bloke that won the Lottery last year. You can never be quite certain.'

  He saw her frown. 'Who did it, Mario? Who could have?'

  'I don't know, but .. . My Uncle Beppe always had an eye for the ladies. It's got him into bother more than once. I just wonder...' He paused, as his eye was caught by a sheet of paper on the table. 'Here, what's that?'

  She handed it to him. 'It's the missing person poster on my dear father.'

  'Oh shit,' he muttered. 'Sorry, I forgot to mention something. He's grown a beard since this was taken. This isn't a current likeness.' He laid the flyer on the table, picked up a pen, darkened the jaw and top lip on the monochrome photograph and handed it back to her.

  Maggie gazed at it. 'He's still an evil-looking bastard. I'l have a revision issued though.' She laid it on top of her 'out' pile, then hesitated.

  'That's funny; looking like that, he reminds me of someone. But who the hell is it?'

  'Search me, love. Nobody I know, that's for sure. Damn!' As he spoke, he was interrupted by a distant, muffled tone.

  'What's that?' his wife asked.

  'My mobile. I left it in my jacket. I must have forgotten to switch it off.'

  He strode through to their bedroom. His wardrobe door was open, and as he approached, the ringing tone grew louder. He snatched the cellphone from the pocket in which it lay and pressed the receive button.

  The voice at the other end was light, teasing, and very female. 'Mr Superintendent?' it began. 'This is Ivy.'

  'Uhh?'

  'Ivy Brennan. George's neighbour, remember?'

  'Oh yes. What can I do for you? Has he shown up?'

  'No, it's nothing to do with him. I saw the Sunday Mail today, about your uncle.'

  'Then don't talk to me. Call the Leith office and ask for the incident room. Ask for Superintendent Jay; tell him I said you should call.'

  'No,' she said, firmly. 'I need to see you, now. The thing is, I might know who killed him.'

  He hesitated, picturing the dol -like girl in his mind's eye. 'Where are you?' he asked, at last.

  'My place.'

  'Stay there; I'll be half an hour. Oh, and by the way, you'd better not be kidding me on.'

  He took his jacket from its hanger and walked back through to the living room, wondering how much he should tel Maggie and, in particular, whether he should tel her that he was going back to see her 168

  father's neighbour. What if she wanted to come with him, to see the place where he lived? Would that be good for her?

  His worries were academic. 'Let me guess,' she exclaimed as he appeared in the doorway. 'You have to go and see an informant. It's okay, I know by now what it means when that phone rings when you're off duty. You might as well; I've stil got a bit to do here.'

  He smiled at her, more gratefully than she realised. 'Never mind, love; once Neil gets bedded into the SB job it'll al pass to him.'

  'And how wil Louise take to that, I wonder.'

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. 'With the same understanding you've shown over the years,' he whispered.

  'Get out of here,' she laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. 'Just don't be late, that's al .'

  42

  'It's like stepping into history, Joe,' said Skinner, a man not normal y '

  impressed by his surroundings, especially if they were late twentieth century and architect designed. But ugly or not, the Watergate Building was something else, having been the centrepiece of the biggest international political scandal of his life.

  'That's al it is now,' Doherty told him. 'The Democratic National Committee ain't here any more; it's on South Capitol Street. I just thought you'd like to see where al that started. Head on down there, Max, please.'

  'Yes, sir.' The deputy director's driver nodded and slipped the anonymous black car into gear. The Scot had never seen his old friend on his home patch before; he sensed the difference at once. He was more formal, and had seemed almost to grow in stature from the moment their flight had touched down, an impression confirmed by the deference of the chauffeur when he had picked them up.

  They moved south, away from the heart of government, and came quickly into South Capitol Street. 'Should you be seen going in here,'

  Skinner asked, 'with there being a Republican administration these days?'

  'Ahh shit, it's Sunday afternoon. Look around you.'

  It was true; for any capital city the streets were exceptional y quiet.

  There seemed, almost, to be more tour buses than cars.

  'Anyhow, Congress has been GOP for years,' Doherty added. 'It's only the White House that's changed hands. But suppose this was a weekday, there'd be nothing exceptional about me going to meet with Rusty. I do it fairly often, just as I keep in touch with the Republican Party organisation.'

  'Who?'

  'Rusty Savage; he's the guy we're meeting. He's deputy chief of staff of the DNC organisation, and he's been around for years, almost as long as me.'

  'Does he normally work weekends?'

  'When there's an election, yes he does, but not right now. He's 170

  here because I asked him to meet us in his office.'

  The car drew up at the entrance to 430 South Capitol Street, and the two passengers stepped out. Sunday or not, there was a receptionist on duty in the foyer. She recognised Doherty at once. 'Good afternoon, sir,'

  she greeted him, with the same clear show of respect that Skinner had seen from Max, the driver, at the airport. 'How good to see you again.

  Mr Savage is in his office; if you'd like to go on up in the elevator, I'll let him know you're on your way.'

  Rusty Savage was waiting for them as the lift doors opened. Doherty greeted him warmly, and introduced his companion as they walked towards an office across the hall. 'It's an honour to meet you, sir,' said the American, taking the Scot by surprise. 'I know who you are, and I know what you did at that conference a couple of years back.'

  Skinner looked at him, a touch warily, wondering how much he knew; most of the detail of that incident had been kept away from the media.

  'It's okay,' Savage grinned. 'I heard the whole story at the time from the former White House chief of staff. The Man Himself is in New York for the weekend, otherwise I know he'd have wanted to meet you.'

  'He might not have wanted to hear what we want to talk about, though,' muttered Doherty.

  'Yeah, what is that, Joe? You were damned mysterious when you called me.'

  'I had to be; I know that the Bureau isn't bugging your communications, but I can't be a hundred per cent sure about anyone else.'

  'Wow,' Savage whistled. He looked around his modest office as he closed the door behind him. 'You can relax in here, though. We have these offices swept for devices once a month; there's nothing recorded here, unless we want it to be. Sit down, guys.' He poured three mugs of black coffee from a jug by his walnut desk and handed one each to his visitors.

  'Now, what's so red-hot that it's come between me and my Sunday golf game?'

  'A double homicide,' the deputy director answered. 'A week or so back in the Adirondacks National Park in New York State.'

  'Leopold Grace and his wife,' said Rusty Savage at once. 'I heard about it. Tragic altogether, that such an eminent couple should die like that. Mr Grace was a Democrat from way back, and a personal friend of the former first family too. Matter of fact I had a cal from one of the new senator's aides a couple of days back, asking me if I could let her know ab
out funeral arrangements.

  'Still, how come the Bureau is involved? And what's your interest, Mr Skinner?'

  'Mr Grace was Bob's father-in-law.'

  Surprise flashed across the official's face. 'Ahh,' he exclaimed. 'So that's why you're here. When Joe said he was bringing you along, I didn't ask why. I just assumed you were on some sort of an exchange visit.'

  He looked back at Doherty. 'That doesn't answer my first question, though, Joe. How come you guys have picked up on this? The man wasn't a public figure any more; although he was a former chairman of the New York State Democratic Committee, and his word was still the law, when he offered an opinion on something or someone.'

  'Do the names Bartholomew Wilkins and Sander Garrett mean anything to you?'

  Savage leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee as he thought.

  'Bart Wilkins,' he murmured at last. 'Chicago, Illinois, I think; he was head of a law firm, like Mr Grace, and retired, like Mr Grace. But his involvement in active Democratic politics ended way back, when Governor Dukakis was adopted as candidate to fight Bush the Elder in 1988.

  'Wilkins thought it was a disastrous choice ... he was right, as it happened . . . and withdrew from the Illinois party executive.

  'Sander Garrett? Yes, that name rings a bell; I remember meeting him in Los Angeles a while back, probably in the mid-eighties. He wasn't a Califomian, though; he was from Nevada as I recall, and involved with the Party as a volunteer fund raiser.'

  Doherty nodded. 'That's very interesting. Let me throw another name at you; Jackson Wylie.'

  'Leo Grace's former partner,' Savage replied at once. 'He worked for him in the attorney general's office nearly forty years ago, and fol owed him into the law firm in Buffalo. He's still an active Democrat, and a member of the State Committee.'

  'I think you'l find he's less active from now on,' the deputy director drawled, with a trace of a wry smile playing at one corner of his mouth.

  'How come? Who's upset him?'