Lethal Intent bs-15

by Quintin Jardine

  'Eh?' Neil McIlhenney exclaimed, sharply.

  'Within this room for now, please, till there's an official announcement.' Skinner told the two chief inspectors of Dan Pringle's decision. 'I have to respect his wishes,' he said. 'I thought about trying to talk him out of it but, honest to God, he's a broken man.'

  'So who…?'

  'I haven't had time to think about that, Neil. It's an appointment I didn't think we'd have to make for another year or two. For the moment, I'll do the job myself, till the present crises are over.'

  'What?' Mackenzie intervened. 'We've got more than one?'

  'Always,' Skinner shot back, covering his slip of the tongue. 'Did you think you'd come to a cushy number?' He leaned on the desk. 'Let's concentrate on this one for now, though. Frankie Jakes.' He jabbed a finger at one of two images on the desk: it showed a man with dark, scowling eyes, a low forehead, and a scar on his stubbled chin. 'This ugly boy. What did Dell tell you about him?'

  'Age twenty-nine, or at least that's what his asylum documents said. They also gave his real name as Branko Janevski, and his home city as Skopje. He was granted asylum five years ago, on the ground that he'd been ethnically cleansed, but the view in Strathclyde CID is that you couldn't cleanse Frankie with a high-pressure hose.'

  'Do they know of any Albanian connection?'

  'That's why he was allowed to stay. A lot of Macedonians have ethnic Albanian origins; when things went nasty in the break-up of Yugoslavia, they were persecuted. A lot were killed; the younger guys like Frankie got out any way they could and headed for Calais.'

  'What about his criminal activity?'

  'Small time; that's what I was told. He's suspected of dealing, as we knew already, and of being hired muscle for gangs across the river. His name was mentioned in connection with a shooting in Paisley a while back, but only in the passing, and he wasn't even interviewed. He has a couple of arrests on his record, but no convictions. The closest shave he had was two years ago, when he was caught with a supply of ecstasy tabs. He was going to be charged with possession with intent to supply, but the drugs got nicked from the evidence room before he got to court.'

  Skinner tapped the other photograph. It showed a much younger, less menacing man, clean-shaven with slightly frightened eyes. 'Who's the other guy? "Bobby Jakes", it says here.'

  'That's right; his real name's Bobi Janevski, Frankie's wee brother, said to be nineteen years old. He came over with him, and he's never far from his side. They share a flat in Dumbarton Road. He was lifted along with Frankie on the ecstasy thing, but that's the closest call he's had.'

  'Okay, those are the guys; what about the pub?'

  'The Johnny Groat's an old-fashioned boozer in Cameron Street, not far from where they live. The owner has half a dozen small pubs, with a manager in each. He lives in Skelmorlie and he doesn't give a shit about them. It's run-down and shabby and so are the punters. The local CID look in every so often, but they can't be everywhere, and there never seems to be much happening.'

  'What's your cover story when you're in there?'

  'If anyone asks, we're night-shift porters at the Western Infirmary,' McIlhenney told him. 'We've just been transferred from the Royal; that's why we're not known around there.'

  'Sounds okay,' the DCC conceded. 'So, when will you be in there?'

  'Tonight. I've got someone to see here, and then we'll be off.'

  'Have you told your wives what you're doing?'

  'No detail, obviously. Stake-out is near enough to the truth.'

  'How did Lou take it?'

  'She didn't press me on it, but I can tell she's worried.'

  'How about your wife, Bandit?'

  The chief inspector shot him his most disarming grin. 'Her exact words, boss? "Jesus Christ and General Jackson, David, not another weekend up the bloody spout!" She's well used to it by now.'

  Forty-five

  Andy Martin had respected Rod Greatorix from their first meeting in his own early days as head of CID in Edinburgh. They had both been detective chief superintendents then, opposite numbers in their respective forces, and he had found his colleague to be a ready and valuable sounding board.

  If Greatorix had ever resented the younger man's appointment to the Tayside deputy chief constable post, he had kept it to himself, and their good working relationship had continued in their new circumstances. Thus when Martin invited him to lunch with him in his office, there seemed nothing unusual about it.

  As they ate, their conversation across the table had been restricted to golf, and to the unlikelihood of either being able to play that weekend as the weather closed in. It was not until they had reached the coffee stage that the DCC turned to what was on his mind. 'How long have you been in post, Rod?' he asked.

  'Twelve long bloody years, Andy. Your old colleague, Dan Pringle, is the same age as me, to within a month, and he's only had his job since you left it. Are you going to tell me I've been in it too long?'

  The question took Martin by surprise. 'God, no!' he replied. 'You're one of the biggest assets this force has got. The chief and I are only sorry that you can't do another twelve long bloody years.' He paused. 'You should be sitting in this office, you know. It didn't occur to me when I applied for the job that my conscience would bother me after I got it.'

  'Then let it rest in peace. Nobody was ever going to appoint someone my age to chief officer rank, and you know it.'

  'Maybe I do, but maybe also I don't agree with that, as a matter of principle. You earn things in this life. You earned the silver braid on your hat and the lift in your pension. It's not your fault that my predecessor was only a couple of years older than you and chose to sit out his career here until the last possible moment'

  'There was nothing to be done about it, though, was there? And anyway, it was my own fault: I could have had an ACC job in Inverness ten years ago, but my wife didn't want to move up there. So don't you worry about that; I'm content.'

  'I'm glad for you,' said Martin, 'for I'm not'

  Greatorix was taken aback. 'Why the hell not? You're on a fast-track to the stars, son. What have you got to be worried about?'

  'The future, Rod; not mine in particular, but everybody's in this service. Have you heard any talk about a new bill that's coming up in the Parliament?'

  The older man chuckled. 'I'm long past bothering about those things. Let them get on with it, I say.' He sipped his coffee. 'But I thought this new Justice Minister was supposed to be a good act. With her in post, why are you concerned?'

  'Because she's not calling the shots. This new bill, Rod, it'll be introduced next week. Let me tell you what it does.' As he explained the powers that the new measure would confer upon the First Minister, he watched Greatorix's expression become more and more sombre.

  'Surely he's not going to use them,' he argued. 'When he says they're only for extreme situations, shouldn't we believe him?'

  'Rod, when this becomes law, all promotion short-lists at assistant chief rank will be referred to him automatically. If he's not going to look at them as a matter of course, why do it at all? The betting is that he will use the powers. He's already made one private threat to a senior officer who crossed him. You were here before Tommy Murtagh, and you were in a position to watch him operate as a councillor. You tell me that he can be trusted with overall command of the police.'

  The chief superintendent sat silent for a while, gazing through the window at the grey day. The snowfall of the previous evening looked to be on the point of returning. Finally, he gave a great sigh. 'I can't tell you that, Andy. The fact is that he's one of the last men I'd trust in that position.'

  'When he was a councillor, was he ever under investigation?' asked Martin.

  'Informally, yes. A council employee once came to a colleague of mine, a guy who's retired now, and complained that Herbert Groves Construction had insider knowledge in three successive contracts. He pointed out that their bids were submitted last, in each case, and that they were lowest,
in each case, by only a few hundred pounds.'

  'Who signed them?'

  'Brindsley Groves.'

  'And the investigation?'

  'I didn't involve myself, but it was abortive,' said Greatorix, wearily. 'My colleague had a quiet word with the chief executive, behind Tommy's back, but there was absolutely no evidence of a fiddle.' He paused. 'Listen, Andy, if you're looking to dig up dirt on Murtagh, you're not going to find it in the council. In fact, I don't think you're going to find it at all. I've never seen anyone who can cover his tracks better than him.'

  'What about Groves?'

  'If you want my advice, be very careful around him.'

  'Funny,' Martin mused. 'The chief told me to be careful as well.'

  'Take heed, then. Brindsley's smart, and if he twigs what you're up to he'll be on to Tommy like a shot.'

  'What sort of a man is he?'

  'Dynamic would be a good word for him. He's not a bit like his father, young Herbert, was.'

  'Young Herbert?'

  'Aye, he was the second generation. His father founded the firm and he was named after him. The business was solid, but getting stagnant, until Brindsley took over control. When he was at university, he used to work on projects in his vacation. He studied every trade, until he could judge the quality of every piece of work on a job. After he graduated, he went into management straight away; in theory he was assistant to his dad, but after only a couple of years he persuaded him to take a back seat. He took accountancy in his degree, and one of the first things he did was to retire the finance director, and replace him with someone who knew what he was doing. By the time he was thirty, he'd taken Herbert Groves Construction from being a cosy wee Dundee company, and turned it into one of the most successful building contractors in Scotland.'

  'And somewhere along the line, he took Tommy Murtagh under his wing.'

  Greatorix smiled. 'Who else have you talked to about this?'

  'Diana Meikle.'

  The smile became a chuckle. 'She'll have marked your card, then. She hated Brindsley from the off. She reckoned that he supported Labour for business purposes, and that he sponsored Tommy for the same reason. She was bloody right, of course. I suppose she'll have told you about Brindsley and Rachel Murtagh too.'

  'Yes, and about their daughter.'

  'Ouch! That was naughty of her.'

  'You seem to know a hell of a lot about Brindsley Groves,' said Martin.

  'I should do,' Greatorix murmured. 'He's married to my sister.'

  The deputy chief constable gasped in amazement. 'Jesus, Rod,' he exploded, 'you might have told me that earlier.'

  'And spoil my big moment? Never!' He chuckled. 'Don't worry, Andy. None of this'll get back to him. I'm as worried as you at the idea of wee Tommy with all that power over the police.'

  'I guess that when Graham warned me to be careful, he meant in speaking to you.'

  'I guess; he probably assumed you'd know that Brindsley and I are related. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised that you've never met him. He's a pretty noticeable guy in Dundee. It's time I fixed that for you: come with me to the golf club tonight when we finish. He's always in the bar with his pals from about five thirty on; I'll introduce you.'

  'You're on. I'm curious to meet this guy now. Tell me, does he still have Murtagh in his pocket?'

  'He never did,' said Greatorix. 'Their relationship benefited them both. It wasn't just a case of Tommy using him as a ladder. As far as I can tell that's all in the past. Each one's served his purpose for the other, so they don't see each other at all now, or at least hardly ever.'

  'And what about Cleo, the daughter? Where is she now?'

  'I don't know, Andy, and I don't want to. I don't believe that my sister has any idea of her existence, and I want it to stay that way. She left Dundee long ago, and I've no idea what happened to her.'

  'Did Brindsley acknowledge her at all?'

  'From what I heard, he did; he provided for her, sent her to a good school and then to university. I wish he'd been as kind to my niece and nephew. Young Herbie can't stand him and Rowena couldn't leave home fast enough.'

  'From the sound of things, you're not all that keen on your brother-in-law.'

  'Frankly I'm not: to me, he was always a cold fish, and he's got worse in recent years. I think that Rachel Murtagh was maybe the only person he ever really loved.'

  Forty-six

  Paula Viareggio usually lunched alone, in her office, so Mario's call suggesting that they meet in a restaurant near his office had taken her by surprise. The place had looked unimpressive from the outside, but the food, if not delightful as its name suggested, had been good, and value for money too.

  'So what prompted this?' she asked, as they sipped the incredibly strong Turkish coffee.

  'Nothing,' her cousin-lover replied. 'Somebody at work mentioned it, and I thought it was time we gave it a try, that's all.'

  'Who owns it?'

  Unobtrusively he pointed a finger at a bald, stocky man standing behind a tiny bar in the far corner of the dining room. 'He does, or so I'm told.'

  Paula glanced around her. 'It's just as well his kitchen's better than his decor,' she muttered. The restaurant's predominant colour was red, with garish flock wallpaper that might have come from the seventies, and a thick acrylic-fibre carpet. Even the two overworked waiters wore red ties and aprons.

  'You should offer to give him a make-over.' He chuckled. Paula had been mulling over the idea of backing an ambitious young designer in the start-up of an interiors business.

  'Ah, but could he afford us? The place is busy, sure, but he's not making much from the lunch trade. Still, I suppose the idea is to entice people like us into coming back at night.'

  'Which we're not going to do; I was curious about it, but I won't rush back for a proper meal.' Mario finished his coffee and signalled for the bill. 'Don't base your business plan on it, love,' he advised her. 'Whatever your bright girl advised him, he'll always want this place looking like a harem.'

  'You're still not sold on the new venture, are you?'

  'If you've got your heart set on it,' he told her, 'I'll go along with it, but it's against my instincts, and Alex Skinner's advice. It's not a natural expansion for the Viareggio group, in that it bears no relation to our existing areas of business. You ask yourself, what would your father or our grandfather have said about it?'

  'Nothing,' she conceded glumly. 'They'd just have laughed. Okay, I'll drop it as far as the group's concerned, but… I might put some of my own money into it.'

  'Fine, you've got enough since you sold those saunas.'

  'Not all that much: your mother had an interest too, remember.'

  'That is something I'd rather forget.' He slipped two ten-pound notes into the folder that held the bill, and accepted their overcoats from the owner.

  'Thank you, sir,' the man said. 'Are you in business around here?'

  'Yes, we are.'

  'Then maybe we'll see you again.'

  Mario smiled at him. 'That could happen,' he replied.

  He held the door for Paula, and they stepped outside into Elbe Street. Snowflakes were drifting gently to the ground, a sign of worse to come, according to the morning's weather forecast.

  Her car was parked outside; she offered him a lift back to his office, but it was no more than a quarter of a mile away, and so he chose to walk. 'Are you going out with the boys tonight?' she asked, as she fastened her seatbelt.

  'I was, but Neil's working somewhere so he called off. He's asked me if I'll take Spence to the mini-rugby tomorrow.'

  'If it's on,' she pointed out. 'They won't let the kids play in the snow, will they?'

  'Probably not. But I've thought of that, and if it happens, I've got a fall-back plan for him, and Lauren too if she wants.'

  'But you're not doing anything tonight?'

  'No, so I'll make dinner at my place, yes?'

  She smiled. 'And breakfast.'

  She drove the short dis
tance to her office, and parked in her allotted space in the reserved section, on ground that the Viareggio Trust owned. Officially, she and Mario were joint trustees, but in practice they ran the family's enterprises as if they were directors of a conventional commercial group.

  She hurried out of the snow and took the lift up to the third floor, stepping out into the small reception area that doubled as her secretary's work-station. Danni was at her desk as usual, but she was not alone. A slim man, with muddy grey eyes, was seated on the couch reserved for visitors; he rose as she entered, stretching out to his full height. 'Hello, Paula,' he greeted her. 'Nice to see you.'

  She frowned at him. 'Mr Jay. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?'

  'A word in private would be good.'

  Paula made no attempt to hide her irritation at his presence. She looked at the wall clock and said, 'I can give you fifteen minutes. I have some important calls to make this afternoon.'

  He laughed. 'Come on, lass, you can spare me more than that. I'm important too, you know.'

  'Fifteen minutes,' she repeated harshly, 'and you're using them up. Come on through.'

  'Would you like coffee?' asked Danni.

  'No thanks: I've just had some and Mr Jay won't have the time.' She led the way into her newly redecorated office; it looked out on to the Scottish Executive office building and, from a certain position, to the new Ocean Terminal complex. As she settled behind her desk, she saw that the snow was starting to fall more heavily.

  'What do you want?' she snapped, as Jay settled into an easy chair, one of two selected by her designer protegee.

  'Don't be so tetchy, lass.'

  'Don't call me lass.'

  His false smile vanished. 'Very well, Miss Viareggio, if that's the way you want to play it. I'm concerned about your relationship with Detective Superintendent Mario McGuire.'

  She started out of her chair, but with supreme self-control, settled back down, fixing the man with a glare that would have chilled the snow outside. 'And what Goddamned business is that of yours?'