Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  He heard her sigh. ‘You’ve got me there. Stevie would. Hell, though, my in-tray’s stacked high here, and yours must be even bigger.’

  ‘True, but I didn’t just call you to shoot the breeze. I need your help in our top-priority investigation, Toni Field’s assassination. You weren’t really involved when it began, but are you up to speed now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘fully.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll know it all began when we found the body of a man in Edinburgh, having been directed by the people who left him there, his ex-soldier buddies. They’re now dead, having been killed on the scene after the Field hit. We’ve found their car, and what was in it, including the body of a well-known Glasgow hoodlum. Although we haven’t linked his death to them, but there was nothing there that referred back to Cohen. Everything that he had is missing. That includes a MacBook Air laptop . . . you know, the super-light kind . . . and that’s what we would most like to find.

  ‘It may no longer exist. Freddy Welsh told me he burned his clothes but he didn’t mention the computer. Maybe that went into the fire as well, but maybe not. Either way, Freddy needs to be asked; use Special Branch. Have George Regan go to see him. He’s been well softened up, so he’ll talk with no persuasion.

  ‘If he can’t help us, I would like you to institute a search, city-wide, but looking initially at the area near Welsh’s yard, where Cohen died, and around Mortonhall, where he was found. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Of course. What’s on the computer?’

  ‘I don’t know; his wife in London said his whole life was on it, but maybe that means nothing more than his iTunes collection and photographs of her and their kid. On the other hand, there may be the key that unlocks all the fucking boxes.

  ‘We know already all there is to know about Byron Millbank; that’s the alias he was given by somebody’s friends at MI5. If what the widow told Lowell Payne and Neil McIlhenney is literally true, the MacBook, if it still exists and we can find it, may tell us everything we need to know about Beram Cohen, including the name of the person who paid him to kill the chief constable of Strathclyde, and why.’

  ‘We’ll get on it right away,’ Steele promised.

  ‘Thanks,’ Skinner said. ‘It’s a long shot, I know, but if you don’t buy a ticket, you won’t win the raffle.’

  Forty-One

  ‘Where have you been, Sarge?’ Banjo Paterson asked, as Provan came into the room. ‘The DI was on the phone looking for you.’

  ‘Did ye tell her I’ll call her back?’

  ‘No. I thought you might not want to. It’s awkward with her being suspended.’

  ‘She’s not fuckin’ suspended!’ Provan yelled, flaring up in sudden fury. ‘She’s on family leave. If I hear that word used once more Ah’ll have your nuts in a vice, son.’

  The DC backed off, holding up his hands as if to keep the little man at bay. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Aye, well . . . just mind your tongue from now on.’

  ‘Understood. So,’ he continued, ‘where have you been? You went out that door like a greyhound. I’ve never seen you move so fast.’

  ‘Doesnae do tae keep the chief constable waiting,’ the DS said, a smirk of bashful pride turning up one corner of his mouth.

  Paterson whistled. ‘A summons from on high, eh? What did he want?’

  ‘He wants us to do a wee job for him. Ah need you to get intae your computer and find me a phone number for the equivalent of the General Register Office in the Republic of Mauritius . . . wherever the fuck that is.’

  ‘It’s in the Indian Ocean. Give me a minute.’

  Provan looked on as he bent over his keyboard, typed a few words, clicked once, twice, a third time, then scribbled on a notepad. ‘There you are,’ he announced, as he ripped off the top sheet and handed it over. ‘That’s the number of the head office of the Civil Status Division, in the Emmanuel Anquetil Building, Port Louis, Mauritius.’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘I make that fifteen seconds short of the minute.’

  ‘Since you’re that fuckin’ clever, can you access birth records through that thing?’

  ‘I doubt it, but I’ll have a look.’ He turned back to the screen and to his search engine, but soon shook his head. ‘No, sorry; not that I can see. You’ll have to call them.’

  ‘Will Ah be able to speak the language?’

  ‘Possibly not; it’s English.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ the DS growled, but with a grin. He dialled the number Paterson had given him. The voice that answered was female, with a musical quality.

  He introduced himself, speaking slowly, as if to a child. ‘I am trying to find the record of a birth that may have taken place in your country two years ago.’

  ‘Hold on please, sir. I will direct you to the correct department.’

  He waited for two minutes and more, becoming more and more annoyed by the sound of a woman crooning in a tongue he did not understand, but which he recognised as having Bollywood overtones. Finally, she stopped in mid-chorus and was replaced by a man.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he began. ‘I understand you are a police officer and are seeking information. Is this an official inquiry?’ His voice was clipped and his accent offered a hint that he might have understood the lyrics of the compulsory music.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Provan replied, his limited patience close to being exhausted, ‘as official as ye can get. It’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘In that case, sir, how can I be of help?’

  ‘Ah’m lookin’ for a birth record. Ah don’t know for certain that it’ll be there, but ma boss has asked me to check it out. All we have is the name of the mother, Antonia Field.’

  ‘What is the date?’

  ‘We don’t know that either, just that it was two years ago, in the period between January and June. The lady took six months off work tae have the child, so our guess is that it was probably born round about May or early June.’

  ‘Field, you said?’

  ‘Aye, but when she lived in Mauritius she was known as Day Champs.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Day Champs.’

  ‘Are you trying to say Deschamps, officer?’ He spelled it out, letter by letter.

  ‘Aye, that’s it.’

  ‘Very good. I will search for you. If you tell me your number, I will call you back. That way I will know that you really are a policeman.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Provan gave the official the switchboard number, and his own extension, then hung up.

  With time to kill, he wandered into Lottie Mann’s empty office, sat at her desk, picked up the phone and dialled her number.

  She answered on the first ring. ‘Dan?’

  ‘Aye. How’re ye doin’, kid?’

  ‘Terrible. Wee Jakey isn’t buying the story about his dad any more. I’ve had to tell him the truth, and it’s breaking his wee heart.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be home soon,’ the sergeant suggested, knowing as he spoke how unlikely that was.

  ‘Get real, Dan,’ she sighed. ‘There’s more. On Sunday I gave Scott thirty quid to take the wee man out for the day. They went to that theme park out near Hamilton. It occurred to me, that’s a hell of a lot more than thirty quid’s worth, so I had a rummage in his half of the wardrobe. I found an envelope in a jacket pocket, with four hundred and twenty quid in it. The envelope had a crest on the back: Brown Brothers Private Hire.’

  Provan felt his stomach flip. ‘Lottie,’ he murmured. ‘What are ye telling me this for? Ah’ll have tae report it now.’

  ‘No you won’t. I’ve done that already, I called ACC Gorman and told her.’ She paused. ‘Here, did you think I was going to cover it up? For fuck’s sake, Danny!’ she protested. ‘Don’t you know me better than that?’

  ‘Aye, right,’ he sighed. ‘Ah shouldae known better. Sorry, lass.’

  ‘Have they interviewed him yet?’ she asked. ‘The big bosses?’

  ‘They’ll just be startin’ about now. A
h’m no long back frae seein’ the chief. He was just gettin’ ready to go down there, him and Bridie.’

  ‘Then God help my idiot husband. There’s no prizes for guessing who’ll play “bad cop” out of that pair, and I would not like that bugger sitting across the table from me. Why were you seein’ him anyway?’ she asked. ‘Are you telling me there’s been a development?’

  ‘No, just something he asked me to handle for him.’ As he spoke he heard a phone ring outside, then saw Paterson pick up his own line. The DC spoke a few words, then beckoned to him. ‘I think that’s ma contact now,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll need tae go. Ah’ll call ye if I hear anything from the interview.’

  Forty-Two

  The chief constable paused outside the door of the interview room. ‘Who’s his solicitor?’ he asked his deputy.

  ‘Her name’s Viola Murphy,’ Bridie Gorman told him. ‘She’s a hotshot in Glasgow, a solicitor advocate . . . that means . . .’

  ‘I know what it means. She takes the case the whole way through, from first interview to appearing in the High Court. I know about her too. She was one of my daughter’s tutors when she did her law degree. Alex couldn’t stand her.’

  ‘Will she know you?’

  ‘Not personally. She might from the media, though.’

  ‘Of course, she’s bound to. How do you want to play this?’

  ‘Very simply. We’re going to walk in there and inside five minutes Mr Mann is going to be singing like a linty. He’ll tell us everything we want to know. And you know what? It might even be true.’

  Gorman was sceptical. ‘Mmm. I know Scott. He used to be a cop, remember, a DC. He’s interviewed people in his time, so he’ll know what’s going on in here. He’ll know that he has a perfect right not to say a single word, and you can bet that’s how Viola bloody Murphy will have advised him to play it.’

  ‘We’ll see. You keep her in her box and let me have a go at him. Remember, the right to silence goes both ways.’ He opened the door and stepped into the interview room.

  Scott Mann was seated at a rectangular table. His solicitor was by his side, but she shot to her feet. ‘I don’t appreciate being kept waiting like this,’ she protested.

  Skinner ignored her. He and Gorman took their places and she reached across and switched on the twin-headed recorder, then glanced up and over her shoulder to check that the video camera was showing a red light.

  ‘I mean it,’ Viola Murphy insisted. ‘I am a busy woman, and you’ve kept me sitting here for an hour and a half. I promise you, as soon as this interview is over I’ll be complaining to your chief constable.’

  Now there’s a real kick in the ego, Skinner thought. She doesn’t know who I am after all.

  ‘For the purposes of the tape,’ the deputy began, ‘I am ACC Bridget Gorman, accompanied by acting Chief Constable Bob Skinner, here to interview Mr Scott Mann, whose legal representative is also present.’

  Murphy glared at Skinner, but could not hide her surprise at his presence. He could read her mind. If the top man is doing this interview himself, my client is in much deeper shit than I thought.

  ‘Well? Get on with it,’ she snapped.

  ‘Ms Murphy,’ Gorman said, ‘you’re here to advise Mr Mann of his legal rights and to ensure that these aren’t infringed. But you don’t speak for him, and you don’t direct us.’

  As they spoke, Skinner fixed his gaze on Scott Mann, drawing his eyes to him and locking them to his as if by a beam. He held him captive, not blinking, not saying a word, keeping his head rock steady. The silent exchange went on for almost a minute, until the prisoner could stand the invisible pressure no longer and broke free, staring down at the desk.

  ‘Look at me,’ the chief murmured, just loud enough for the recorders to pick up. ‘I want to see what we’re dealing with here. I want to see what sort of person you are. So far I’ve seen nothing; a nonentity in the literal sense of the word. They say you were a cop once. They say you’re a loving husband and father. I don’t see any of those people; they’re all hiding from me. Look at me, Scott.’

  ‘Mr Skinner!’ Viola Murphy yelled, her voice shrill. ‘I won’t bloody have this! I protest!’

  His head moved, very slightly, and his eyes engaged hers. She stared back, and shivered, in spite of herself.

  ‘No you don’t,’ he told her, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘You sit there, you stay silent and you do not interfere with my interview. If you raise your voice to me again and use any more abusive language, I will suspend these proceedings and charge you with breach of the peace, and possibly also with obstruction. Then we will wait for another lawyer to arrive to represent both Mr Mann and you.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ she gasped.

  ‘I have a long and distinguished record of never joking, Ms Murphy. I advise you not to test me.’ He turned back to Mann who was looking at him once more, astonished. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I have your attention again.’

  He fell silent once more, then reached inside his jacket, and produced what appeared to be three rectangles of white card. He turned the top one over, to reveal a photograph, of Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann, then laid it in front of her husband.

  ‘For the tape,’ he said, ‘I am showing the prisoner a photo of his wife, a senior CID officer.’

  He turned the second image over and placed it beside the first.

  ‘For the tape,’ he said, ‘I am showing the prisoner a photo of his son, Jake Mann.’

  He turned the third over and put it beside the other, watching Mann recoil in horror as he did so.

  ‘For the tape,’ he said, ‘I am showing the prisoner a close-up photo of the body of Chief Constable Antonia Field, taken after she was shot three times in the head in the Royal Concert Hall, Glasgow, on Saturday evening.’

  He paused, as the shock on the prisoner’s face turned into something else: fear.

  ‘What I’m asking you now, Mr Mann,’ he continued, ‘is this. How could you betray your wife and compromise her career, how could you condemn your wee boy to the whispers and finger-pointing of his school pals, by being part of the conspiracy that led to Toni Field lying there on the floor with her brains beside her?’ His gaze hardened again; in an instant his eyes became as cold as dry ice. He reached inside his jacket again and produced a fourth image. It was grainy but clear enough.

  ‘For the tape,’ he said, ‘I am showing the prisoner a photograph of himself in the act of handing a parcel to a second man, identified as Mr Basil Brown, also known as Bazza.’

  He glanced at the solicitor. ‘To anticipate what should be Ms Murphy’s next question, we know that Mr Mann was not receiving the package because that image was taken from a CCTV recording that shows the exchange. However, Ms Murphy, your client did receive something from Mr Brown and that is also shown on the video.’

  His hand went to his jacket once more, but this time to the right side pocket. He produced a clear evidence bag and slammed it on to the table. ‘For the tape,’ he announced, ‘I am showing Mr Mann an envelope which his wife discovered today in their home and sent to us. It bears the crest of Mr Brown’s taxi firm and contains four hundred and twenty pounds.

  ‘It hasn’t yet been tested for fingerprints and DNA but when it is we’re confident it will link the two men. We can’t ask Mr Brown about this as he was found dead in Glasgow on Sunday. However, Mr Mann, we don’t need him, or even that evidence. We’ve recovered the paper from the package you handed over and we’ve got your DNA and prints, and his, from that. We can also prove that the package contained two police uniforms, worn as disguises by the men who assassinated Chief Constable Field.’

  He stopped, and locked eyes with Mann yet again. His subject, the former detective, and veteran of many interviews, was white as a sheet and trembling.

  ‘All that means,’ Skinner continued, ‘that we can prove you were an integral part of the plot to murder my predecessor, and it is our duty to charge you with that crime.

  ‘You’ll be lo
nely in the dock, Scott; it’ll just be you and Freddy Welsh, the man who supplied the guns. Everybody else in the chain is dead, bar one, the man who gave the order for the hit, recruited the planner and funded the operation.’ He paused. ‘I think we’ve reached the point,’ he went on, ‘where you bury your face in your hands and burst into tears.’

  And Mann did exactly that.

  Skinner waited, allowing the storm to break, to run its course and then to abate. When the prisoner had regained a semblance of self-control, he asked him, ‘What’s your story, Scott? For I’m sure you have one.’

  ‘My client,’ Viola Murphy interposed, ‘isn’t obliged to say anything.’

  The chief sighed, then smiled. ‘I know that as well as you do,’ he replied. ‘And you know as well as I do that given the evidence we have against him, if your client takes that option and sticks to it, then the best he can hope for is a cell with a sea view.

  ‘Silence will be no defence, Ms Murphy. The best you will be able to offer will be a plea in mitigation, and by that time it will be too late, because once he’s convicted, the sentence will be mandatory. I’m offering the pair of you the chance to make that plea to me now, and through me to the fiscal, before he’s charged with anything.’

  ‘He said he was only borrowin’ them,’ Scott Mann blurted out. ‘He said he would give me them back.’

  ‘Okay,’ the chief responded. ‘Now for the big question. Did he tell you why he was borrowing them?’

  ‘He said it was for a fancy dress dance, for charity. He told me that he and Cec wanted tae go as polis, and that they wanted it to be authentic.’

  Skinner leaned forward. ‘And you seriously believed that?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I chose to. The fact is, sir, Ah didn’t want to know what they were really for, because I didn’t have any choice.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? You had a very simple choice. You could have told your wife that Bazza Brown had asked you to acquire two police uniforms for him, and let her handle his request. Jesus, man, even if your half-arsed story is true, by not telling Lottie and co-operating with Brown, you condemned a woman to death.’