Lethal Intent bs-15

by Quintin Jardine

  'Are you trying to threaten me?' Jay asked.

  'Not yet. This is just the warm-up. But if you want me to get to the heavy stuff, I will.' He glanced at McGuire. 'My colleague is present, Mr Jay, because this is about to become an official interview, at which certain allegations will be put to you.' The ex-detective's face took on a shocked expression as he was read a formal caution. 'Mario,' said Skinner, when it was done, 'would you like to carry on, even though you are officially on the sick?'

  McGuire rose from the couch and walked over to take the other straight chair, turning it to face Jay. 'Last Friday,' he began, 'Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye and I took a statement from Mr Malcolm Gladsmuir, licensee and manager of a pub called the Wee Black Dug in Leith. Mr Gladsmuir alleged that over a period of several years, he made you regular payments, in return for an understanding that there would be no CID surveillance of activity in his pub. However, the money did not come from Mr Gladsmuir directly but from his three employers. They hide their property holdings behind a limited company, unsurprisingly, for one of them has a conviction for armed robbery, while the other two also have records. All three are thought to be currently involved in organised crime. Do you deny the allegations?'

  'Of course I do,' Greg Jay blustered. 'You're not going to take that seriously, are you?'

  'I wouldn't have interviewed Gladsmuir in the first place if you hadn't warned me to lay off him, and if you hadn't then visited my cousin at her place of work and threatened her, an act I interpret as a further attempt to put me under duress. You ask me if I take it seriously. Too right I do.'

  'Then there's this,' said Skinner, taking a folder from his drawer. 'It contains a statement from a former prostitute named Joanne Virtue, claiming that at an earlier period in your career, when your duties included control of vice in the Leith area, you regularly elicited sexual favours from her, in return for a blind eye being turned. She directed us to three other street women who made similar allegations. Under a strict interpretation, coercing women into sex could be construed as rape.'

  'You're accusing me on the word of hoors?' Jay murmured.

  'These are sworn statements, man. Why shouldn't a prostitute's word be as good as a priest's?'

  'I want a lawyer. You will never prove any of that in court.'

  'Don't get ahead of yourself, Greg. If I have to, I will arrest you and hold you in custody, while the experienced officers from another force, with whom you threatened Paula Viareggio, go through your financial affairs. They will look at every penny you've ever spent and link it to every pound you've ever earned. Unless you've buried that money in your garden, and maybe even then, for if we have to we'll dig up every square foot of it, we will prove Gladsmuir's statement beyond any reasonable doubt. If at that point you plead guilty, I won't humiliate your wife by producing the women. If you force me to, I will.'

  He stood and walked to his coffee filter in the corner, filled three mugs, added milk and handed McGuire and Jay one each, then took his own back to his desk.

  'That's what you're looking at, Greg. I'd reckon it will be worth between five and seven years, given your rank at the time.'

  The former superintendent was convinced at last. He sat, broken, as his former colleagues looked at him sternly. 'Is there a way out?' he murmured.

  'There might be, for all of us,' Skinner replied. 'I don't give a stuff about you, but I don't want to embarrass this force or the honest men and women who work in it, any more than I have to. My problem is that Mario and I are police officers, and we've got an allegation of corruption before us: we couldn't ignore it even if we wanted to. However, if you make a full statement and admit to receiving payments from Gladsmuir, I won't arrest you, at this stage at any rate. I'll talk to the Crown Office, and we'll see what sort of a plea bargain they'll tolerate. Dig your heels in and I'll bury you. Accept, and once you've made your statement you can walk out that door.'

  He locked his eyes on to Jay once more. 'In return for that leniency I want only one thing: a full account of every order you've ever been given by Tommy Murtagh and of everything you've ever done for him.'

  As the cornered man nodded, the phone on Skinner's desk rang. Frowning his annoyance he picked it up. 'Sorry, sir,' said Jack McGurk, 'but DCI McIlhenney's here, and he says that he has to speak to you at once.'

  A sense of foreboding gripped Skinner, and a fear that he had tried to push aside returned. 'Tell him I'll be there in a minute.' He hung up and turned to McGuire. 'No conversation till I'm back.'

  McIlhenney was standing in the corridor outside McGurk's office as the DCC approached, with Amanda Dennis beside him, looking distraught. 'Green?' he asked.

  The chief inspector nodded. 'A white Transit van, registered owner Petrit Kastrati, has been found, abandoned, outside a warehouse in Newcraighall. There's a body inside. The officer who reported it says it looks as if he's been strangled. Divisional CID were on their way, but I stopped them. I thought you'd want me to.'

  'Good thinking, Neil. Tell them to go to Bassam's restaurant instead, not that there's a cat's chance he'll be there, but clear the place anyway. I want it torn apart. Meanwhile take Mackenzie and go to the warehouse yourself. Confirm the identification, then act as you think fit. I'm in some heavy business here. When or if I can I'll join you.'

  'I'll go with them,' Dennis declared.

  'You will not, Amanda.' He turned and leaned into McGurk's office. 'Jack, I want you to call Alice Cowan in Special Branch, tell her to come up here and take charge of Mrs Dennis. She is to be held incommunicado, and she is not to be left alone.'

  'Bob,' the MI5 officer protested, tears in her eyes, 'this is outrageous.'

  'Maybe so, but it's necessary: you of all people should know why. Stay with DS McGurk, then go with DC Cowan. I'll speak to you later.'

  He walked back towards his own room, motioning McIlhenney to follow.

  'What was that about?' the DCI whispered.

  'Coincidences. Samir Bajram wasn't the victim of a gang hit, like the tabloids are inferring. That's far too neat and convenient. We had a lead to him and he was killed to close it off. The same with Sean Green; someone told Bassam what he was. Within the very small group of people who know about this operation, Neil, we've got a leak, and the finger points at Amanda Dennis.'

  Seventy-four

  Willie Haggerty liked to think that he had a bit of cunning about him. He picked up the telephone in his office, trying to stop himself wondering why Bob Skinner had greeted Greg Jay like a bosom buddy, and why he had even let him into the building in the first place, and dialled a Glasgow number from a list on his desk. 'Max,' he said, as his call was picked up, 'how are things in Strathclyde CID?'

  'Is that you, Willie?' Detective Chief Superintendent Max Allan replied. 'I thought you'd forgotten about us.' Not so long ago, Haggerty had sat in Allan's chair, as the senior crime-fighter in Glasgow. He had enjoyed the job, and had achieved considerable success in it.

  'How could I do that, Maxie, when you're all over the front pages every day?'

  'You can talk. What the hell went on up at that ski centre on Saturday? Would I be wrong, or did I read between the lines that it was a policeman's kid the guy tried to snatch?'

  'If you did, you shouldn't have been able to, but you're right. It was Neil McIlhenney's son; our head of Special Branch.'

  'Good God! Was it political?'

  'We don't think so, but it could be connected to his service. Bob Skinner's detached one of our best DIs to run the investigation; I hear he's got someone in his sights already.'

  'Glad to hear it; I hope you nail the bastard good. Now, are you going to tell me what you want?'

  'I'm on the scrounge, as usual. We've got a couple of openings coming up through here, at sergeant level, and we're always out to strengthen our team. I was wondering if any of your people had itchy feet.'

  'There's always some, Willie,' Allan conceded. 'Are we talking CID?'

  'Among other things, yes.'

 
'Specialist?'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'I'll look into it, see who's applied for transfer lately and let you know.' Haggerty heard Allan chuckle. 'Here, talking about transfers, how's Bandit Mackenzie getting on through there?'

  'He's settling in fine, as far as I know. He reports to Bob, not me. You sound as if you might have been glad to get rid of him.'

  'Well, I'll say this: we sleep easier in our beds knowing he's with you. He's some boy, the Bandit. He always sailed closer to the wind than any other officer we had. You must remember that, surely, from your time here.'

  'I remember his clear-up figures… they were bloody impressive.'

  'Maybe so, but there was always that terrible fear that he'd become a statistic himself one day. Here, that reminds me: his old sergeant, Gwen Dell, put her name in for a move last week. I'm not keen to let her go, though. She's a good operator, and a lot less reckless than Mackenzie.'

  'That wouldn't be hard. If you do decide to go along with her request let me know and we'll see whether she fits what we've got. Now I'd better let you get back to work and catch those bombers of yours. We can't have the druggies blowing each other up: they could hurt too many innocent people.'

  'How did you know they were druggies?' Allan asked. 'We didn't release that.'

  'Do me a favour. Who do you think you're talking to?'

  'Point taken. You're right, of course: three victims blown to bits. We've identified two of them as Frankie and Bobby Jakes, former asylum-seekers, and now former everything. We haven't a clue who the third guy was, although the barman in the Johnny Groat, where they'd been drinking, said he sounded foreign. Whoever he was, we found his arse in the car… a big flashy American thing, it was. The rest of him was all over the place and what was left was pretty well crisped, but the pockets of his jeans were crammed full with what had once been white powder.'

  'Supply cut off at source, you might say. At least that's a bonus for you, if not for them.'

  'Mmm,' DCS Allan muttered, 'but there's a downside. We're not telling anyone this either, but it wasn't a bomb that blew them up. My ballistics guys have been working all night on it, and they tell me they're pretty much certain that it was a missile, an American Javelin anti-tank weapon, they reckon.'

  'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Haggerty. 'I've never heard of them in Partick before.'

  'Me neither. But at least we've got somewhere to start looking. There were two guys in the pub. They'd been seen talking to the Jakes boys, and when they left, this pair went out just after them. They were seen making a very sharp exit from the scene just after the explosion. We reckon they might have fired the missile from their car.'

  Haggerty felt his scalp tingle. 'How do you know they weren't just punters?' he asked.

  'We know for sure they weren't. They were heard telling Jakes, and a woman, that they were porters at the Western. Only they're not. The hospital's never heard of them. We reckon that they were the hit team, and right now, finding them is our absolute top priority. We're putting E-fit pictures out on television tonight. Hopefully, they'll lead us to them.'

  Seventy-five

  The two officers who had found the body in the Transit were still there, but a uniformed inspector had arrived from divisional headquarters in Leith and taken charge. McIlhenney eyed the two youngsters. A tight lid would have to be put on the situation; he wondered whether they could be trusted, and how strong their loyalty to the force was.

  Dottie Shannon, the inspector, saw them as soon as they stepped out of Mackenzie's car, which he had parked in the roadway outside the warehouse. She was a contemporary of the Special Branch commander, and he had no worries about her discretion.

  'No press around?' he asked.

  'Not a sign. We've made as little fuss as possible, as you asked; I've even let the warehouse stay open. You'll see that the vehicle was left well away from the business entrance, so we've cordoned it off and let them carry on as usual, in the meantime at least'

  'That's fine.'

  'The only thing that concerns me, Neil, is that we don't have a medical examiner here.'

  'Is he dead?'

  'Oh, yes, he's dead all right.'

  'In that case, unless you can find me one who specialises in resurrection, we don't need a doctor. Dot, I don't need to spell anything out here, do I?'

  The inspector looked up at him from under her cap. 'You've done that already.'

  'What about the kids over there? How much have they seen?'

  'Hardly anything: the girl looked in the van but from what she says, she didn't hang around to see much detail. The other officer wasn't that curious; he took the word of the warehouse manager and called it in.'

  'Do you know them?'

  'Yes. They're both sound; they'll accept what you tell them.'

  'Do they know who I am?'

  'No.'

  'They don't need to find out, then. Tell them that this is a suicide, that the guy's a copper from another force, and that there is to be no talk about it. I'll deal with the manager.' He turned to Mackenzie. 'Bandit, let's take a look.'

  The two chief inspectors walked round and into the car park. 'Hey, Neil,' Mackenzie said quietly, as they approached the van, 'something's just occurred to me. Shouldn't Amanda Dennis be here? This is her guy, after all.'

  'She's otherwise engaged.'

  They reached the Transit: a foul odour wafted out to greet them through the rear doors, which lay very slightly ajar. McIlhenney glanced around to make sure that they could not be seen from the road outside the compound, and opened them to their full width. He sensed his colleague flinch beside him as he saw Sean Green's purple face, and his dead bulging eyes. 'Easy now,' he murmured. 'He might look scary, but he's not going to bite you. Poor guy: he paid a heavy price for chibbing Andy Martin's jacket.'

  'I'm supposed to be the flippant one around here,' Mackenzie reminded him. 'We knew this man. How can you talk like that?'

  'I find that it helps.' He gulped a lungful of relatively fresh air then squeezed himself up on to the platform of the van, for a better view. He saw that Green was wearing what he assumed was his waiter's uniform, black trousers and a white shirt. It was buttoned all the way up to the neck, as if his tie had been ripped off and used to strangle him.

  'Was he killed in the van?' his colleague asked.

  'I don't think so. Sean would have been trained to handle himself, and the space in here is limited. My bet would be that it happened in or near the restaurant, given that he's still in his working clothes.'

  'What do we do now?'

  'You call in for a black van to take him to the city morgue. I'll check to see if there's anything on him that might help us.'

  A little gingerly, he reached inside Green's right trouser pockets; he found a wallet and withdrew it. On flipping it open he found that it contained thirty-five pounds in cash, two credit cards and a photographic driver's licence, all in the name of John Stevenson. He handed it to Mackenzie, who stared at it, looking puzzled. 'They didn't take it?'

  'They couldn't have needed thirty-five quid,' McIlhenney replied, tersely.

  The left trouser pocket held a small cell-phone. He withdrew it and tried to switch it on, but was asked for a passcode. He slipped it into his own pocket, for the technical people to explore, then bent over the body again, and rolled it on to its side. There was a back pocket on the right-hand side of the slacks. Even more gingerly, since Green had soiled himself in death, he felt it from the outside, then reached in with two fingers and slipped out a folded sheet of paper.

  He opened it, carefully, and could just determine that it was a map, a street plan of the town of St Andrews. He frowned, peering at it, but it was dark inside the Transit and so he jumped out, back into the grey afternoon, where there was just enough of the fading daylight for him to see.

  In fact it was only a section of a map, a graphic guide to the north end of the town. Landmarks and prominent buildings were shown in miniature and a seagull flew over St An
drews Bay. Lines across the top and bottom told him that it had been downloaded from the internet, then faxed. 'Why?' he asked himself, as his colleague joined him, looking over his shoulder. 'I doubt if he was planning any sightseeing while he was up here.'

  'What are those marks on it?' Mackenzie asked, pointing.

  McIlhenney followed his finger and saw that two circles had been drawn on the page. One was round the Sea Life Centre while the other encompassed a tiny illustration of St Salvator's College and its quadrangle. They were linked by a line, running along a street called The Scores. On the map, there was a cartoon of a boat in the bay, heading out to sea. It, too, had been circled.

  The chief inspector cleared his mind and concentrated, the page hanging loosely in his fingers as he thought. And then he gave a long, soft whistle. 'Salvator,' he murmured, 'Salvator. Bandit, what was the Albanian word the Dutch lorry drive overheard? Remember?'

  'Saviour, wasn't it?'

  'That's right; probably what you'd come up with if you were translating Salvator into Albanian.'

  'Yes, so?'

  'David, my friend, what's St Andrews famous for, apart from golf?'

  'Dunno.'

  'The university, that's what. And who's its most famous student?'

  Mackenzie's mouth fell open. Before it had closed, McIlhenney had his phone in his hand and was calling Bob Skinner.

  Seventy-six

  Stevie Steele had been expecting a report from Arthur Dorward, not a personal visit, so he was surprised when his red-haired colleague walked into his office. 'Hello,' he exclaimed, 'I didn't think that you Howdenhall lab guys could find your way to divisional offices any more.'