As the door closed behind him, she flipped up the folder and took out Charlie Johnston's Polaroid of the late Magnus Essary, then laid it on the desk before her alongside the amended likeness of George Rosewell.
She stared at them for over a minute, looking from one to the other, then back again. There was no doubt about it; the likeness was remarkable.
The night-shift, constable was a truly bad photographer; the snapshot of the body was fuzzy, but he had caught al Essary's essential features, save for the eyes, which were closed in death. The balding head, the sharp nose and the heavily bearded chin, they were al there.
She snatched up the phone again and dial ed. 'Sauce, I've got another job for you. I want you to ring around al the undertakers and find out which of them has made funeral arrangements for a man cal ed Magnus Essary. Get a couple of people out there to help you if necessary. When you find the right one, then even if they're in the act of lowering the coffin into the ground, I want the thing stopped.
'I want to take a look at the body.'
The risen sun was stil low in the sky, bathing the 737 shuttle in a soft yellow light as he watched it taxi in from the runway. The jetties were fil ed by outgoing commuter flights and so the passengers disembarked using rol -up stairways, boarding a long bus for the transfer to the terminal.
Bob felt his heart jump as his wife stepped out of the Boeing's door, into the bright morning. She was dressed entirely in black; boots, jeans and tee-shirt, with her big leather bag slung over her shoulder, and she carried herself tall and upright, her auburn hair shining as it fell about her shoulders.
For a moment, he was overcome; his head buzzed, and he felt his knees weaken. He leaned against the glass wall of the terminal building, steadying himself, gripped again by an odd feeling that somewhere else, in another place, time, or even dimension, he had played this scene before. It passed in a moment, and when it did, he realised for the first time just how much he had missed her.
Brad Dekker had pulled strings at Buffalo International; Sarah had cleared customs at Boston, and so, when the bus arrived she was met by a ground-crew member and brought straight to the reserved VIP room where he waited, alone.
'Hello love,' he said quietly. 'Welcome home.'
She crossed the room in three strides and threw herself into his arms; the tears came then, sudden and uncontrol able, taking her by surprise.
He held her to him until they were spent, feeling his collar dampen, stroking her soft shining hair, feeling for her in her explosion of pent-up grief, yet perversely and guiltily happy that it had brought them back together.
'Oh, Bob,' she murmured, eventual y, 'I've needed you sdiTOUch; I wish now I had asked you to come home.'
'Well, you've got me now,' he answered? smiling as she looked up at him, stroking the wetness of her face with his fingers. 'And for the avoidance of doubt, I've needed you too.'
192
'Have you been bored, waiting here alone for me?'
'I haven't had time, my darling,' he told her, honestly. 'I've been chumming Joe Doherty around America, talking to people who might have been able to tell us something about Leo and Susannah's murder. In the last few days, I've been upstate, I've been to Helena, Montana, and I've been to Washington, DC.'
'And did you learn anything?' Sarah asked, urgently.
'We learned that they still haven't found all of the Was that the Democrats swiped off the computer keyboards, and that the new people still don't see the funny side of it. But did we learn anything positive?
No, love, I'm sorry, but we didn't.'
'Bob, why's Joe involved? He's back with the Bureau now, isn't he?
And homicide's State business. What have you been stirring up? Have you been upsetting Sheriff Dekker?'
He looked at her, innocently. The? No ... well, not much, anyway.
Brad laid on this room for us, so he's okay. The State cops got a bit precious, at least their boss did, but Joe sorted her.'
'Look,' she demanded, 'let's cut to the chase. Do you have any idea who did it?'
Bob frowned. 'No, but... Sarah love, I have a lot to tel you, but not here, okay. Your luggage should have been picked off the carousel by now, so let's grab it and get going.'
'Where are we going, exactly?'
'Home, like you asked. But if you've changed your mind, and you feel it would be too much to go straight back into the house, we can check in to a hotel.'
'No, let's not do that. It would be worse for me to be anywhere else in Buffalo, I promise you.'
'That's fine, then. I should warn you, the place is stil in a bit of a mess, after the FBI technicians dusted every imaginable surface looking for a usable print, but I've booked a cleaning service to come in this morning. Come on, we'd better get going or they'll be there before us.'
The airport staff member who had brought Sarah to the VIP room was waiting outside the door with the single large Samsonite suitcase that held the clothes she had brought with her. Bob thanked her, took it from her and wheeled it behind him as he led the way to the staff car park, in
which he had been al ocated a space.
'I brought Leo's Jag from the garage,' he told her. 'I wiped the powder off that though.'
'They printed that?'
'Honey, this is the Bureau we're talking about. They even printed al the toilet roll holders, in case the guy took a dump while he was searching the place.'
'My God! But Bob, what were the Bureau doing at the house in the first place? Dad and Mum were kil ed up at the cabin.'
'Later, love; I'll tell you all about it later.' He loaded the case into the boot of the dark blue Jaguar and walked round to the passenger door, to open it for his wife. He settled into the cream calfskin driver's seat, switched on, and pul ed smoothly out into the exit roadway. As they drove out on to the highway, heading south, Sarah stroked the smooth leather of the console between them. 'Dad always liked to have a good car,' she mused. 'I remember the smell of newness coming off them, from when I was a little girl. It was the only way he spoiled himself, really.' She flipped up the lid of the compartment and looked inside, then took out a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, in their case. 'Do you need these?' she asked.
'Not right now.' She replaced them and closed the central console.
'Do we have a date for the funeral?' It was as if she had been avoiding the question, but final y had plucked up the courage to raise it, to make herself part of the process.
'Friday,' he told her. 'It's fixed for Friday morning; there's a memorial service in the Lutheran church, and a burial after that. I left all the arrangements with the undertaker, once release of the bodies was confirmed. He's fixed the time to suit the Secret Service.'
'The what!'
'You heard. The new senator wants to be there, and she's bringing her husband.'
'You mean that?'
'I'd hardly kid you about your parents' funeral now, would I?'
She whistled. 'You know. Bob, al my life I sort of knew that my dad was an important man, beyond Buffalo. But I never real y understood how important.'
'Did he ever talk about his interest in politics?'
'No.'
'Or about his time in Washington?'
'He used to say that Teddy Kennedy was the best of the brothers, and that he'd have made the best president, but that was about it. There was a time, in my late teens, when I kept trying to get him to talk about it, but he always shut me down.'
'What did he think of JFK?'
194
'I once heard him say that he was shot at the right time, to ensure that he would be sanctified rather than vilified after his death. I think he approved of him. I recall once hearing him say to Jack Wylie that if adultery in office was a ground for impeachment. Congress would have been too busy with that to do any legislating. Make of that what you will.'
She paused. 'Have you seen Jack since you've been in town?'
'I was supposed to see him on Saturday, only. . .' Bob hesitated, then de
cided to economise with the truth. 'He had an accident, on his boat.'
'Oh no. Poor Jack, was he badly hurt?'
'That was something I was going to tell you when we got home. He was killed.'
She seemed to sag into her seat, as she buried her face in her hands. 'Oh no,' she moaned. 'What next?
I've known Jack all my life. He was
like an uncle to me; and he was as close to my father as Andy is to you.
What happened?'
'The gas tank blew up. He was barbecuing on deck.'
She sighed. 'That was Jack al right. He was at his happiest when he was wearing an apron, or playing around on that boat of his.'
'Or both.'
'Yeah, or both.' Suddenly she reached out for the radio controls.
'Goddamn it, let's have some music in this car; anything to lighten the atmosphere.' She pressed the button, and a heavy classical piece boomed out through the speaker system. 'I don't think so,' she murmured, and changed channel; Wagner was replaced by a nasal Country voice. 'Not you either, Emmy Lou.' She switched again, to hear Jon Bon Jovi going down in a blaze of glory. 'This is a conspiracy,' she shouted. 'Hold on; maybe Dad had some CDs here.'
She opened the console again, took out the Ray-Bans, laid them on her lap and began to rummage in the deep compartment. She felt around for a few seconds until, in an instant, her expression changed, her frown of irritation replaced by something much deeper. From within the box she withdrew a gun; a dark, metallic, well-oiled automatic pistol.
'What the hell is this?' she gasped, holding it up for Bob to see.
He stared at it, oblivious for that moment of the straight road ahead.
'Jesus,' he murmured. He took it from her, slowing his speed as he did, and looked at it for a few seconds, before handing it back. 'That's no
replica, and it is loaded. Now just do what I say. The safety catch should be on the side, at the top of the grip. Check that it's on, then put that thing back where you found it.'
She did as he had told her, then closed the console lid, slowly and careful y. She looked up at him, at his grim profile as he drove along.
'Bob, you know my father hated firearms; he wouldn't even watch a Charlton Heston movie, because of his NRA connection. So what was he doing with a loaded automatic in his car? What the hell was he into?'
He shook his head, slowly. 'I wish I knew, love, I wish I knew; for I'm damn certain that it got him kil ed.'
196
48
Often, during Mario's Special Branch days, he and Maggie would meet for lunch. The venue usual y depended on the weather; sometimes it would be the canteen, on other occasions a restaurant or a pub. But occasional y when the weather was warm and fine, they would buy sandwiches and eat them at a table at the piazza in Princes Street Gardens, watching the children on the roundabout, and talking above the noise of the traffic up in the busy thoroughfare.
She went there again on his first day in Borders Division, feeling lonely already without him, and tried to remember her life before they met, before they got together on that crazy stake-out in Fife. She had been wary of him at first, of his big, outgoing personality, of his smile, and of his bedroom eyes, al of them so much in contrast to her own make-up. Yet when the time came, it had been she who had made the move.
She had been a private person until then, showing a reserved and, often, a severe face to those around her. She had had few interests
outside the Job, and even fewer friends. Once, she had tried to break the mould by placing an ad in the dating column of a Sunday newspaper. It had led to a few encounters, and eventual y, when she had plucked up the courage, to her first adult sexual experiences, clumsy, fumbling affairs in drab hotel rooms, for she had refused to take her partners home with her, or to go with them to theirs. Quickly she had come to the conclusion that she was very bad at sex, and had given it up, virtually, until her big Irish-Italian detective had come along to stir genuine lust within her, for the first time in her life.
Yet, for all that she had developed as a person since her marriage, Maggie knew that many of her work colleagues could still see only her old self. They did not know the social animal she had become; they could see only the severe, strict, senior officer on her way up the ladder.
She had heard her 'Lots' nickname long before Dan Pringle had let it slip, but she knew that she had another, one she still bore in the eyes of some resentful colleagues. When she had overheard a Special Branch typist ask Ruth McConnel , the DCC's secretary, in the ladies' room at Fettes, 'How are you getting on with Rosa Kleb?', she had known about whom the woman was talking . .. even if her loyal friend Ruth had ignored the question.
She threw the wrapping of her sandwich into a bin and walked up the steps and out of the gardens, then along Shandwick Place towards her office. Al the time, her mind was gnawing away at her concern that a few days earlier a probationer constable had actual y been afraid to come into her office. For all the encouragement ofWillie Haggerty and Clan Pringle, she knew that someone with aspirations to chief officer rank should inspire respect, not fear, in their juniors. But the question that Maggie stil had not answered, even in her own mind, was whether she actually had such aspirations.
Walking briskly in the sunshine, without stopping to window-shop, she reached Torphichen Place in less than fifteen minutes. She had only just hung her jacket in its usual place on the back of her chair when there was a knock; she cal ed and young PC Haddock entered, wearing his diffident expression.
'Excuse me, ma'am,' he began.
'Okay, you're excused.' He stopped and stared at her. 'Oh, go on, Sauce,' she exclaimed. 'We don't need the preamble every time.'
'Very good, ma'am. Well, it's like this . . .' She sat behind her desk and waited for him to come to the point. 'We've found the undertaker, ma'am; the firm that made the arrangements for Mr Essary. It was the Co-op, up at Fountainbridge.' He paused again. 'The only thing is ...
the funeral was on Saturday.'
'Damn,' she hissed. 'That makes it difficult. Where's he buried?'
'Aye, wel , ma'am, that's the other thing. He was cremated, down at Seafield.'
'Oh damn!' she snapped. 'Just our bloody luck. Ah, well, that was good work, son, to come up with an answer so quickly. What was the undertaker's name?'
'Mr Jaap, ma'am; Walter Jaap.' He held out a piece of paper, torn from a notebook. 'That's his number; I thought you might want to talk to him.'
'You thought right. Thanks. Anything else?'
'Sergeant Wilding, from the head of CID's office, dropped in an envelope ten minutes ago, ma'am. It's in your tray, there; apart from that, there's nothing else.'
'Okay, on you go then.'
198
As Haddock left, she flattened out his note on her desk and dial ed the number he had written on it. 'Funeral services,' a solemn voice answered.
'Mr Jaap, please.'
'This is he. How can I be of assistance?'
'I want to talk to you about a funeral.'
'Certainly, madam. Shal I cal on you?'
'No, that won't be necessary. This is Detective Superintendent Rose, Edinburgh CID. The funeral I want to ask you about took place on Saturday, in Seafield Crematorium; the guest of honour was a Mr Magnus Essary.'
'Yes,' Jaap replied. 'I attended that one myself.' He paused. 'But everything was in order, I assure you. The body was released from the mortuary with a cremation certificate, issued by medical staff at the Royal Infirmary.'
'I'm sure it was. I'm not questioning your procedures, sir. I'm interested in the funeral itself. For example, I'd like to know who was there; how many mourners, the names of the pal -bearers, anything else you can tell me.'
'Ahh,' came a sigh. 'But that's the pity of it. The poor man had no one to see him on his way.'
'No one?'
'Not a soul, other than myself, and my staff.'
'But who instructed you?'
'A lady; a Miss Ella Frances. She phoned me and asked
me to collect the deceased from the mortuary and bring him to our chapel of rest, here at our salon. I did so that very day, and next morning she came to see me.
She showed me al the necessary paperwork, by which I mean the cremation certificate and the death certificate itself. She told me that the late Mr Essary was her business partner, and that he had no relatives.
She asked me to book a cremation; I did it there and then; she chose a simple coffin and reserved a hearse. I asked her if she wished me to place an intimation in the press, but she declined.'
'Can you give me an address and telephone number for Miss Frances?'
Jaap sighed again. 'Alas no, superintendent. She gave me neither.'
'But what about payment?' Rose asked. 'How are you going to invoice her?'
'I don't have to. She asked me what the bill would be. I told her that her requirements would cost just under nine hundred pounds, and she paid me there and then, in cash; she gave me one thousand pounds, the balance being a gratuity for my staff.'
'And then she didn't turn up for the funeral? Is that what you're saying?'
'That's right. She told me to proceed as instructed; she said that the late Mr Essary had been a humanist, and had wished no formal ceremony.
She also told me at that time that she would be unable to attend herself, as she had to be in France, unavoidably, on business. She did lead me to expect that there would be mourners from Mr Essary's circle of friends, but on the day, there were none.'
'This stinks!' the detective exclaimed.
'I agree,' said the undertaker. 'I must admit I was concerned by the circumstances; I had it in mind to discuss it with my chief executive. I have an appointment to see him this evening, and I intended to tel him about it then; your call has anticipated that.'
'Give me a description of this El a Frances woman.'
'She was smal , in her twenties, I'd have said, but I'd hate to put an age to her. She was dressed in mourning black . . . nothing unusual in that, given the circumstances . . . with a wide-brimmed black hat and heavily tinted glasses which she never removed during our meeting.'
Quintin Jardine - Skinner Skinner 12 Page 22
