Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  They had been on the road for twenty minutes when McIlhenney pointed out of the window to his left, indicating a modern steel edifice, its clean lines sharp against the sky. ‘The Emirates Stadium,’ he announced. ‘Home of Arsenal Football Club.’

  ‘Are you a fan?’

  ‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘Spence, my older laddie, won’t allow it. He plays rugby, pretty well, they say, and I usually follow him on winter Saturdays. Not that we’ve had too many of them down here, not yet. Next season, though; he’s been accepted by London Scottish. Dads on the touchlines can be bad news at junior rugby, but they like me, being a cop.’

  And a brick shithouse into the bargain, Payne thought. ‘The stadium. Is that where we’re heading?’

  ‘Not quite. We’re going to the Gunners’ old home, Highbury. In fact,’ he paused as they made a turn, ‘there it is.’

  Ahead the DCI saw a tall building with ‘Arsenal Stadium’ emblazoned in red along its high wall, with a wheeled gun underneath.

  ‘Who plays there now?’ he asked. As he spoke he glanced forward and caught in the rear-view the constable driver giving him a look that might have been scornful, or simply one of pity.

  ‘Nobody, sir,’ he volunteered. ‘It’s been turned into flats and stuff. They weren’t allowed to knock down the front of the main stand . . . more’s the pity. Should have bulldozed the lot, if you ask me.’

  ‘I take it you’re not a follower.’

  ‘God forbid! No, I’m Totten’am, till I die.’

  ‘You don’t want to get into that, Lowell,’ McIlhenney advised. ‘Serious London tribalism.’

  ‘When you’ve been on uniform duty at an Old Firm match,’ the visitor countered, ‘nothing else can seem all that serious.’

  ‘Before I came down here, I might have agreed with that.’

  The driver indicated a right turn, then waited for oncoming traffic to pass. Reading the street sign, St Baldred’s Road, McIlhenney tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t turn in there. Pull over here and we’ll walk the rest; this vehicle would tell the whole neighbourhood that something’s up.’

  ‘Sir.’ The PC changed his signal, then parked twenty yards further on. The two detectives climbed out, and crossed the street.

  St Baldred’s Road told a story of comfortable middle-class prosperity. The Millbank family home was four doors along, on the left, a brick terraced villa, smart and well-maintained like all of its neighbours.

  A blue Fiesta was parked outside, out of place between a Mercedes E-class, and a Lexus four-wheel drive with a child seat in the back. Payne glanced inside the little Ford and saw two female uniform caps on the front seats. Discretion seems to be the watchword in the Met these days, he thought.

  The door opened before they reached it; one of the pair, a forty-something, salt-and-pepper-haired sergeant, stood waiting for them. ‘How is she?’ McIlhenney asked, quietly, as they stepped inside.

  ‘Shocked, but self-controlled,’ the woman replied. ‘She’s got a kid, little Leon. In my experience that usually helps to keep them together.’

  ‘The child’s here? Not in a nursery?’

  ‘He’s here, outside in his playground. Molly, PC Bates, my colleague, is looking after him. I’m Rita,’ she added ‘Sergeant Caan.’

  ‘Has she called anyone? Friends, family?’

  ‘No, not yet. She said something about having to phone her mother, to let her know. I said we could do that for her. She felt she had to do that herself, but she hasn’t got round to it yet.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Payne began, ‘if we’re right in our assumption that the husband worked for her family business?’

  Rita Caan nodded. ‘Yes, spot on. The mother runs it; Golda’s father’s dead.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s helpful; one less question for us. Have you picked up anything else?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Other than the fact that she’s four and a half months pregnant, no.’

  ‘Doctor on the way?’ McIlhenney asked.

  She sighed. ‘Of course he is. It’s standard in a situation like this. She didn’t want to bother him, but we persuaded her that he’d want to be bothered. He’s coming after his morning surgery.’

  ‘Good. Sorry, Sergeant. I wasn’t doubting you; I just had to know for sure. Let’s see her, then, before the doc gets here.’

  ‘Okay. She’s in the living room. This way.’ She led them to a solid wood door, as old as the house, tapped on it gently, then opened it. ‘Golda,’ she called out. ‘My colleagues have arrived. Chief Superintendent McIlhenney and Mr Payne, from Scotland. Mr McIlhenney is too, as you’ll realise very quickly, but he’s one of ours.’

  The widow was in the act of rising as they stepped into the room, which extended for the full length of the house, with double doors opening into the garden. As Payne looked along he saw a ball bounce into view, and heard a toddler’s shout, as Caan’s colleague retrieved it.

  ‘Don’t get up, Mrs Millbank, please,’ McIlhenney insisted. ‘I’m the local,’ he added, ‘he’s the visitor. First and foremost, we are both very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Golda Millbank, née Radnor, said. Her voice was quiet, but strong, with no hint of a quaver. ‘Please, can you tell me what happened to Byron? All that Rita could say is that it was a brain thing.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Payne confirmed. ‘An autopsy was performed; it showed that your husband suffered a massive, spontaneous subarachnoid cerebral haemorrhage. Death would have been almost instantaneous, the pathologist said.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Last week?’ she repeated. ‘Then why has it taken so long for you to tell me?’

  ‘When your husband’s body was found,’ the DCI explained, ‘he had no identification on him. It took the police in Edinburgh some time to find out who he was.’

  ‘What does Edinburgh have to do with it?’

  ‘That’s where he was found.’

  ‘But he was supposed to be in Manchester, then in Glasgow, at a jewellery fair, and then in Inverness, visiting one of our suppliers. I don’t understand why he would be in Edinburgh.’

  ‘When was he due home, Mrs Millbank?’ McIlhenney asked.

  ‘Not until today; I expected him back this evening.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘On the day he left for Scotland. Byron doesn’t like mobile phones; he won’t have one. When he’s away on business, I don’t expect to hear from him, unless he sends me an email. He tends to do everything through his computer. He has a laptop, a MacBook Air. It goes everywhere with him; he says that all his life is on it.’

  ‘When did you meet him?’ The DCS kept his tone casual.

  ‘When he came to work for my parents’ business; I called in there one day, a few months after he started. Neither my father nor mother were there but he was. He introduced himself and,’ she smiled, ‘that was that.’ She shook her head. ‘He was such a fit, strong man. I can’t believe this has happened.’ She stared at McIlhenney, and then at Payne. ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she asked. Her voice was laden with suspicion. ‘Has somebody killed my husband?’

  It was Payne who replied. ‘No, absolutely not. I assure you, his death was completely natural. I can get you a copy of the post-mortem report, if it’ll help you. I can even arrange for you to speak to the pathologist, Dr Grace. She’s one of the best in the business, I promise you. If there had been any sign of violence, or anything other than natural causes, she’d have found it.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘You two, you’re detectives, you’re not wearing uniforms like Rita and Molly. And you, Mr Payne, you’ve come all the way from Scotland. Would you do that if there was not something more to this?’

  ‘When he died, Mrs Millbank, he was unattended, not seen by a doctor,’ the DCI explained. ‘That makes it a police matter; nothing sinister, a formality really, but we have to complete a report.’


  ‘Very good, but such things must happen every day. For a senior officer to come down to London . . . please, Mr Payne, don’t take me for a fool.’

  He glanced at the DCS, who nodded. ‘Very well, there is more to it,’ he admitted. ‘Can I ask you, Mrs Millbank, how much do you know of your husband’s background, of his life before you two met?’

  ‘I know that he was born in Eastbourne, that he never knew his father and that his mother is dead. He spent some time in Israel, was a lieutenant in the army, but left because of his opposition to the Iraq war, worked in mail order and finally for an investment bank, before he joined Rondar . . . that’s our family business.’

  ‘How about friends, family? Did you ever meet any of them?’

  ‘He has no family, and as for friends, when he left the army, he left them behind too. We have friends, as a couple, but that’s it.’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned a man called Brian Lightbody, from New Zealand, or Richie Mallett, an Australian? Or have you ever heard of either of them indirectly?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Those names mean nothing to me. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because we know that your husband ate with them in a kosher restaurant in Glasgow, on the day he died, and that they were all registered in the same hotel, and that the other two told staff they were there for the jewellery fair.’

  ‘So?’ she retorted. ‘That’s your explanation surely. I don’t know everybody in the business, and if they were jewellery buyers also, they do tend to be in the same place at the same time.’

  ‘Sure, but . . . Mrs Millbank, Lightbody and Mallett weren’t jewellery buyers, and those weren’t their real names. I’m not free to tell you at this stage who they were, but we do know, and we do know their real business.’

  ‘Are you saying they killed Byron?’

  ‘No,’ Payne insisted, ‘I am not, but they were with him when he died. There is physical evidence that one or both of them tried to revive him after he collapsed. When they failed, they removed all the identification from his body, including his clothing, and concealed him. Then, after a day or so, they called the police and told them where he could be found.’

  Golda Millbank opened her mouth but found that she could not speak. She looked towards Rita Caan, as if for help. ‘Is this . . .’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t know any of it,’ the sergeant told her. ‘It’s not what I do. Molly and me, we’re only family support, honest.’

  ‘It’s true, Mrs Millbank,’ McIlhenney said. ‘We’re here to find out everything you knew about your husband and about what he did.’

  ‘I know all about him,’ she insisted. ‘He was a good husband and a faithful family man. Or are you trying to tell me that he had a piece on the side?’

  ‘Not for a second, but suppose he did, that wouldn’t be our business. Let me chuck another name at you. Beram Cohen; Israeli national. Mean anything?’

  Both he and Payne gazed at her, concentrating on her expression, looking for any twitch, any hint of recognition, but neither saw any, only utter bewilderment.

  ‘No,’ she declared. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’ She rose from her chair. ‘I have to phone my mother. She needs to know what’s happening here.’

  ‘Where will she be at this moment?’ the DCS asked.

  ‘She’ll be at work.’

  ‘In that case, I’m sorry, but we’d rather you didn’t contact her.’ He paused. ‘Look, Mrs Millbank, I’m as satisfied as I can be that you know no more about your husband than you’re telling us. But let me ask you, how successful is the family business? I could find out through Companies House, but if you know, it would save time.’

  She took a deep breath, frowning. ‘I can tell you that. I’m a director, so I know. Frankly, it’s been on its last legs since my father died three years ago. We’re being out-marketed by other companies and we don’t have the expertise in the company to reverse the trend. Mummy’s trying to sell it, but there are no takers.’

  ‘Byron wasn’t a director?’

  ‘No, Mummy wouldn’t allow that. She didn’t want a situation where she could be outvoted. There’s just the two of us on the board; I’m unpaid of course.’

  ‘How about Byron? Was he on a good salary?’

  ‘Thirty-five thousand. He had to take a pay cut at the beginning of last year, down from fifty.’

  ‘In that case, living in his house must be a stretch,’ McIlhenney suggested. ‘This isn’t the cheapest part of London, from what I’m told. How long have you lived here?’

  ‘We bought it when Leon was on the way, and moved in just after he was born. But it’s okay, we get by easily, because we don’t have a mortgage.’

  ‘Lucky you. Did your father leave you money?’

  ‘No. It was Byron. He made a pile in bonuses working with the bank, and never spent it. He wasn’t the type to buy a flashy sports car or anything like that. No, one way or another we’ve always been comfortably off.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying . . .’

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ the DCS replied. ‘I’m asking. We’re trying to build up a complete picture of Byron. To do that we need to search, where he lived, where he worked, everywhere we can. Was he a member of a sports club, for example?’

  ‘He played squash, but otherwise he wasn’t the clubbable sort. He ran, on the streets, he cycled and he did things like chins and press-ups . . . he could do hundreds of those things . . . but always on his own.’

  ‘So all his private life was here in this house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have a computer here?’ Payne asked.

  ‘We have one, yes, but it’s mine and he never used it. I’ve told you, he had his laptop, his MacBook, and he took that with him when he left.’

  ‘Can we look in your machine nonetheless? Just in case he was able to access it without you knowing about it.’

  She let out a sigh, of sheer exasperation. ‘Yes, if you must, but honestly, Byron wouldn’t do that, any more than I would look in his. That’s assuming I could get into it. He used to laugh about it and say that breaking his password was as likely as winning the Lottery.’

  ‘If that’s so,’ McIlhenney said, ‘I wouldn’t like to try to access it, just in case it spoiled my luck for the jackpot.’

  ‘No worries of that happening,’ Payne pointed out.

  ‘You mean you didn’t find it,’ the widow asked, ‘among his effects?’

  ‘I told you, we didn’t find anything, Mrs Millbank. Not even his clothes.’

  She shuddered and for a second her eyes moistened, her first sign of weakness. ‘How awful,’ she whispered. ‘Robbing a dead man. How could they have done that? Of course I’ll help you in any way I can. What do you need to see?’

  ‘That computer for a start,’ the DCS replied. ‘If you could take us through it, looking for any files you don’t recognise, and at its history, its usage pattern. Then if we could look though his belongings, and examine any area where he might have worked at home.’

  ‘There wasn’t one. He never did. But you can look. If it’ll help, you can look; anything that’ll help you find those so-called friends of his.’

  ‘Oh, we know where they are,’ Payne said.

  ‘Then what are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those situations where we won’t know until we find it. And if we do,’ he added, ‘we might not be able to tell you, for your own protection.’

  Her forehead wrinkled. ‘That sounds a little scary. You can’t tell me anything?’

  ‘No more than we have already.’

  ‘Nothing? What about that name you mentioned, the Israeli man, Beram Cohen. Where does he fit? Who is he?’

  The DCI looked at his escort colleague, raising his eyebrows, asking a silent question. McIlhenney hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Millbank,’ Payne replied, ‘but he was your husband.’

  Forty

  ‘Thanks, Bridie,’ Skinner said, as the ACC rose f
rom her chair at his meeting table, their morning briefing session having come to an end. ‘I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready to start interviewing Scott Mann. He can stew for a bit longer.’

  ‘His lawyer’s not going to like that,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Then tough shit on him. The Supreme Court says he has a right to be there, but we still set the timetable, up to a point, and we haven’t reached that yet. He can wait with his client.’

  Gorman liked what she heard; her smile confirmed it.

  ‘Do something for me,’ he continued. ‘Ask Dan Provan to come up here, straight away. With Lottie being stood down, he’s carrying the ball, and I need to speak to him.’

  The third person in the room was on his feet also, but the chief waved him back down. ‘Stay for a bit, Michael, please. I’d like a word.’

  ACC Thomas frowned, but did as he was asked.

  ‘I want to apologise to you,’ Skinner began as soon as the door had closed behind Gorman.

  ‘For what, Chief?’ For which of the many ways I’ve been offended? he thought.

  ‘For asking you to attend Toni Field’s post-mortem. It’s been suggested to me since then that your relationship might have been more than professional. If I’d been aware of that at the time, no way would I have asked you to go.’

  ‘Even if the suggestion was untrue?’

  ‘Even then, because I wouldn’t have been quizzing you about it. If you and she had a fling away from the office, so what? When I was on my way up the ladder, and widowed, I had a long-standing relationship with a female colleague. Nobody ever questioned it and if anyone had they’d have been told very quickly to fuck off.’

  ‘Then I accept your apology, and I appreciate it, sir . . . although it wasn’t really necessary, since it was my duty as a senior officer to attend the autopsy.’

  Skinner grinned. ‘Which means, by implication, that if it was yours, then it was mine even more, and I shirked it.’