by Val Penny
“Did you give George Reinbold’s name?”
“No, I didn’t have to. It was on the packaging. One of the assistants wrote it down, along with his address.”
“Did they indeed?”
“I just thought it was procedure, Boss. I didn't think anything of it,” Jane said
“You weren't meant to, Jane.” Hunter looked across at Tim. “But that’s our leak.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Meera stared at the results she had received from Forensics. Hope died inside her: the skinny little corpse found tied up in the boot of the car was without doubt Jenny Kozlowski. DNA confirmed that. Meera already knew – the reaction of Jenny’s mother had left her in little doubt – but now the strands from Jenny’s hairbrush were compared with DNA from the corpse, and the evidence was complete.
The cause of death (suffocation) did not surprise Meera, but what did surprise her was the high concentration of cocaine in Jenny’s system. The young woman had no history of drug abuse, but she had been bound and gagged and put in that boot with cocaine packed all around her. The high quality Class A drug flowed into her lungs with every breath she took. The beast who left her there, before he torched the car, knew she would die – and had even left a sealed packet of cocaine rather than move her. Callous brute. When as the car burned and the oxygen was sucked away from Jenny, she must have been terrified: gasping for air, struggling, trying to scream. What a horrible way to die, Meera thought. George’s death was wicked, but at least it was quick. She sent a copy of the forensic report to Hunter.
All of a sudden Meera did not like her job. She felt helpless, when all she had ever wanted to do was help.
***
In contrast to Meera’s misery, Colin and Nadia were almost dancing around the office. There was no doubt about the car: the registration matched that of the burnt-out vehicle Jane and Rachael had found, and they now had a picture of the driver. They had sat for hours in front of the screen with a bag of dried apricots between them, munching their way through the CCTV footage, and it had eventually yielded the information they needed. The driver had managed to drive from Folkestone to York without them getting a clear picture of him. Now they had one. Excellent. Unfortunately they did not know who he was. But at least they had his picture.
They watched as their glee turned to dismay when the driver parked in the multi-storey car park at Edinburgh Airport. They watched him exit the car park and walk smartly into the terminal. They followed his progress into the gents, but they never saw him leave.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Colin’s shout increased in volume as he stretched back in his chair.
“The big beard was a disguise, wasn’t it?” Nadia asked quietly.
“He was probably wearing a wig too. Who went in and who went out of that gents’ lavvy? Fuck!” Colin shouted again.
“Let’s see who picks up the car, shall we?” Nadia suggested.
They both looked at the screen and saw the car leave the airport premises. It was driven by a smartly-dressed man with a neatly-trimmed black beard and short black hair. He wore a grey pin-striped suit. Again, Colin and Nadia did not know the man, but they followed the car on the CCTV footage as he drove directly to Thomson’s Top Cars. The CCTV in the garage was not working, but they saw him turn off the main road towards the showroom. At that point Colin and Nadia decided to take a break.
“Shall I begin write this up for the boss, and you make the tea?” Colin suggested.
***
Jane and Bear visited Florence Roberts.
“Come in!” the old lady called from her living room.
“Good morning, Mrs Roberts,” Jane said.
“Oh it’s you, dear, how nice to see you. Just come in and take a seat. I leave my door unlocked during the day, that way I don’t have to get up if anybody comes.”
“It’s not very safe, Mrs Roberts,” Bear said softly. “It could be anybody.”
“It is anybody: I don’t know you.”
Jane smiled. “Mrs Roberts, let me introduce my colleague, Detective Constable Winston Zewedu.”
Bear went over and shook the old woman’s hand. She was sitting by the window in a large green chair decorated with old lace antimacassars. The window ledge was covered with plants that looked as if they needed a good watering. In front of her, Mrs Roberts had a trolley on wheels that bore the dishes from her most recent meal, her glasses, and more pens than Bear thought she could ever have use for. The old lady was neatly dressed in black trousers, a pink twin-set and pearls. Although the room was suffocatingly warm, she also wore a dark green blanket draped over her shoulders.
“Would you like to make us a cup of tea?” Jane asked Bear.
“Of course, Sarge. How do you take your tea, Mrs Roberts?” Bear asked.
“Just like you, son – sweet and black,” the old woman giggled.
Bear smiled and shook his head as he went away to make tea.
“Mrs Roberts, would it be all right to show you some photos to see if you recognise any of the men in them?” Jane asked.
“What, like the one what went to the door of the old man that died?”
“Yes, exactly like that. It could help us a lot. Would you mind having a look?”
“Ooh dear, you know I didn’t really see his face very well? But I was looking out for my carer, so I wasn’t wearing my glasses. Still, I’ll try my best if you think it will help.”
“That’s all we ask, Mrs Roberts. We appreciate your help. I’ll just wait until DC Zewedu comes back,” Jane said.
“He’ll be a witness to what I say, won't he? I watch Judge Judy and Judge Rinder so I know about that sort of thing.”
Jane smiled and they waited for Bear.
“Here’s your tea, Mrs Roberts,” Bear said as he came back into the room.
The old lady sipped the tea Bear handed to her and frowned in concentration as she stared at each of the photos in turn.
“Does this look like the man you saw?” Jane asked showing Mrs Roberts a photo of The Lizard.
“I don’t think so. The man I saw had a beard. This one just looks like he’s no’ shaved.”
“He could have had more of a beard and just shaved it in that picture, perhaps?” Bear suggested.
“Not sure,” Mrs Roberts said.
“What about this man?” Jane asked, showing a picture of Brian Squires.
“Good Lord, no! He looks like he’s had the first one for lunch! It’s no him.”
“That’s fine,” Jane laughed, but was disappointed when Mrs Roberts wasn’t sure about Max Merkel or Heinrich Reinbold either. So there were still three men of interest in relation to George’s murder.
***
Tim took Max Merkel and Rachael took Heinrich Reinbold. They sat down with computers and phones and set a challenge between them as to who could find out most on their given suspect first.
Rachael did not take long to discover that Heinrich Reinbold’s promotion to General Manager in Scotland had been offered rather than sought. When she spoke to the Human Resources department of Gemuetliche Erholung it was clear the man was held in high regard. He had been working for the company in a managerial role for over six years. When the plans to open establishments in the UK and Scandinavia started to come to fruition, the European General Manager’s role was split between North and South. Heinrich Reinbold was offered the Northern role.
“And it will probably be split again between East and West when we start opening in the Czech Republic, Poland and so on,” the woman with faultless but slightly accented English told Rachael.
“Did Heinrich ask for the post that covered Scotland?” Rachael asked.
“It does not say so here. Heinrich was appointed to the Northern role. He did say he had family in Scotland, though, when he secured the position.”
“Did he say what family?”
“We would not hold that detail, unless it was relevant to his work in some way, like for insurance, such as a wife or children. No
, it does not say.”
“Heinrich seems to be spending a great deal of his time in Scotland.”
“With three hotels opening there in the next two months, that does not surprise me. He will have a great deal to do. I have no doubt, after that, when we have a hotel opening in Oslo and one in Bergen, he will be in Norway for large periods.”
“I understand. That makes good sense. Thank you for your help, Magdalene.” Rachael rang off and turned to Tim.
“I thought you said Heinrich Reinbold didn’t know George was here.”
“That’s what he said to the boss and me.”
“When he got his promotion to the new General Manager position, he told the company he had family in Scotland.”
“He told us he believed he was the only surviving member of his family. So he lied to someone. How did he arrive here?”
“He travelled by Eurostar from Paris. Apparently, he chose to travel by train because of the amount of luggage he had.”
“Yes, could be. It would also be easier to dismantle a gun and hide bits in different pieces of luggage to avoid detection,” Tim mused.
“You have a devious mind, Tim Myerscough.”
“I thought we went to special detective classes to develop just that,” he smiled.
“Any info about Max Merkel?”
“Not much. He arrived by plane from Frankfurt to London, initially, then flew up with British Airways, via Heathrow. Two large suitcases and one piece of hand luggage. Met at the airport by a pre-arranged limo driver who took him to The Bruce Hotel in Belford Road where he had reserved the suite on the top floor. That’s where he was when we spoke to him.”
“So everything hangs together for him?”
“Not quite. He said he didn’t know that George lived here, but he asked his driver to take him to the hotel via Gilmerton.”
“That’s a strange route.”
“The driver told him that, but Merkel was adamant he wanted to go that way.”
“Merkel asked the driver to stop in George’s street. He said an old friend of his father lived here and he wanted to be able to find the place again.”
“Really?”
“The driver said he took a picture of a front door as they moved away.”
“George’s door, no doubt.”
“I’d think so. But the driver couldn’t be more specific than that. You want a coffee before we write this up?”
“Tea for me, please, Tim.”
***
Hunter and Mel strode along George Street towards the Edinburgh office of Katz and Roundall. They would visit them before stopping by to see Jamie and Frankie.
The wide New Town streets were busy for this time of day. In the elegant New Town, where the buildings that were now shops, bars and offices had originally been built as fine Georgian town houses. People of great wealth and influence would have lived in those homes where the buildings lined broad avenues and open squares. The bustle of the city seemed civilised in these elegant surroundings. They watched shoppers going in and out of the upmarket boutiques and designer stores, and office workers and affluent residents going to enjoy food and drinks in chic hotels and atmospheric cocktail bars.
Hunter had always liked the New Town area of the city. Today, he enjoyed the feeling of the fresh spring air on his face. Perhaps the cool breeze would calm his rage. He was angry. He was sure that somebody within the respected auction house of Katz and Roundall had let slip about George’s book collection. He didn’t know what their ulterior motive was, but he was sure they had one – and that thought made him furious.
His calm expression belied the turmoil he felt inside as he entered the auctioneer’s elegant office. The quiet interior contrasted starkly with the bustle of the street outside. Hunter showed his identification at the desk and introduced Mel. The office manager appeared promptly to remove the police detectives from public view.
Hunter explained that Katz and Roundall had valued a book at this office. It had been delivered to a murder victim, and the police needed to confirm the valuation shown on the insurance declaration.
“Your staff were made aware that further valuations might be required, as the victim owned an extensive collection of first edition books.”
“We would always take an interest in such a collection, and are delighted to be able to assist the boys in blue with such valuations as might be needed,” the bumptious little man laughed.
“That’s as maybe. Why did your staff member take a note of the victim’s name and address?”
“That would only be required if we were asked to carry out the formal valuation, Detective Inspector Wilson. I have no note of that instruction, and those details are not on our file, so I think your colleague was mistaken. We have taken no such information.”
“May I speak to June Dormer, who carried out the valuation, please?” Hunter asked impassively.
“I’m sorry, she’s not available.”
“Why not?”
“She is advising on art works for a new hotel chain in the city. Her husband also has important business here, so I do not expect her to be back this afternoon.”
“Is she working at the Gemuetliche Erholung, who took over The Bruce Hotel in Belford Road?”
“Possibly. What makes you think that?”
“Get her to call me as soon as she is available,” Hunter handed over his card, then he and Mel left promptly.
“Would you like some lunch, Mel?” Hunter asked. “We could pop into The Livingroom? My treat.”
“That’s really kind of you, but won’t that take a bit too long, Boss? It’s a bit fancy, and waiter service.”
“I am certainly due many hours from when I have worked through my lunch breaks, and I believe you are too. Let’s stop in. It won’t be the full three courses and coffee, mind,” Hunter smiled.
“That would be very nice, Sir, thank you.”
They walked into the busy restaurant and were shown to middle of the room where their small table had a crisp, white table cloth and linen napkins.
Hunter chose the fish & chips washed down by a large diet coke, while Mel settled on a salad with a side order of fries and a soda water and lime. As they waited for their meals to arrive they chatted quietly about Jane and Rachael’s forthcoming union. Then Hunter suddenly fell silent and stared across the room. Mel’s eyes followed his gaze.
“Who is that, Sir?”
“That is Kasim Saleh having lunch with The Lizard. Blow me down!”
“It doesn't look friendly. The Lizard seems to be very angry.”
***
Hunter and Mel ate quickly so they could leave The Livingroom without The Lizard or Saleh noticing them. Hunter drove them to meet with Jamie and Frankie at Thomson’s Top Cars.
“Mel, darlin’ always good to see you!” Jamie called over. The lad completely ignored Hunter.
“Good afternoon, Jamie.” Hunter said. “Is Frankie in too?”
“Yes, why? Am I not enough for you now, DC Grant?”
“Jamie, we have some photos,” Mel said. “We wondered if either of you had seen any of these men before.”
“We’ll have a look. I’ll go get Frankie.”
Jamie went to the office at the far end of the building and walked back across the showroom with his cousin beside him.
Mel watched the two young men walked together, in step, and noticed that Frankie was wiping a fingernail on his trousers. She saw a small spot on his chin was bleeding, always a sign he was nervous. What did he have to be nervous about? She noticed he looked at the ground as he walked, that contrasted with the confident swagger in Jamie’s step. Then, as Frankie got closer, she saw his face was red and sore. Poor Frankie and his bloody acne.
“Right, Frankie, let’s see what we can do to help the police,” Jamie smiled.
“We don’t say that very often in our house,” Frankie said.
“It’s all for you, DC Grant,” Jamie said to Mel.
Both Jamie and Frankie immediatel
y identified the first two photos as Brian Squires and Lenny The Lizard Pratt. These were the men who had broken Jamie’s arm. Hunter already knew this.
“Okay, Jamie, those are the easy questions,” Hunter said.
Jamie then surprised Hunter by identifying the third photo as being the man who came into the showroom to test-drive the Bentley.
“Are you sure that’s the same man?” Hunter asked for confirmation as he stood staring at the photo of Heinrich Reinbold.
“He didn’t do ought wrong,” Jamie said defensively. “He had a driving licence and he only wanted a test drive.”
“Is it all right with you if we decide who broke the law, Jamie?” Mel asked.
“No need to be smart,” Jamie frowned.
“My thoughts precisely, Jamie. Now, have a look at these photos, will you, boys?” Hunter asked.
“Never seen them,” Jamie said.
“He was the one who came in as I was leaving,” Frankie pointed to a picture of Max Merkel. “Or could it be him?” Frankie asked pointing back to the picture of Heinrich Reinbold.
“Well which was it, Frankie?” Mel asked gently.
“It canny be him, he was with me, mind,” Jamie said, pointing again to Heinrich’s photo.
“No, I think it was this man, if he had a beard. Could he have had a beard and shaved it off?” Frankie asked.
Hunter stared miserably at the picture of DC Colin Reid that he had put in to cause confusion. He realised now that, with Frankie, artificial confusion was not required.
“No, I think it was him,” Frankie pointed again to Merkel, but not in a way that left Hunter with any confidence.
Mel arranged to stop by the showroom the following day for Jamie and Frankie to sign their statements.
***
Hunter was pleased to make his escape back to his flat. He had so many overtime hours accrued to him that he did not feel a bit guilty clocking off an hour or so early today. He wanted everything to look as good as it could for this evening, himself included.
He tidied the living room, ran the vacuum over the floors, washed all the dishes that were lying in the kitchen and changed the bed. He thought about polishing the furniture, but settled on spraying the polish into the air to give a fresh smell. There were limits to his housework enthusiasm.
