‘Save it for your memoirs, pal,’ said Inspector John ‘Jock’ Varley tersely. He turned to the medical officer who had just certified that Ainsley Glover was indeed far more dead than any of the characters that he had killed off during his fourteen-year, twenty-book career. ‘You’re sure about your diagnosis?’ he asked.
The doctor stared at him, frostily. ‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ she said. ‘It looks like a massive coronary. The man was significantly overweight and, from what Dr Mosley tells me, had a history of cardiac problems.’
The inspector looked at the director. ‘Is that so?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t know him then, but I believe Ainsley had a mild heart attack a couple of years ago. A warning, he called it, when he told me about it. And he was diabetic; last night he asked me if I could find him a quiet place to inject himself.’
‘So how did he get in here, and how come he wasn’t found until this morning?’
‘The yurt isn’t usually locked until the site closes,’ said Gwyn Richards.
‘The what?’ McCall exclaimed.
‘The tent,’ Mosley told him. ‘It’s a Mongolian nomadic design, and yurt is their name for it. The Book Festival has used it as the author centre since long before my time; it’s become a tradition.’
‘And is it traditional to lock it for the night without checking that it’s empty?’
The voice that came from behind them was friendly, but there was something about it that commanded attention.
‘And you are?’ the director asked as she turned to face its owner, tall, with close-cut but lustrous, freshly washed grey hair, dressed in jeans and a pale blue check shirt. Then her face fell. ‘Not the bloody press,’ she moaned, glowering at Sergeant McCall. ‘I thought you told that young PC not to let anyone in here.’
‘Don’t blame the officers,’ the stranger said. ‘They’d have had trouble keeping me out.’ He extended his hand. ‘Bob Skinner, deputy chief constable. I passed by earlier, just as Ian was arriving; I thought I’d better check it out.’
Mosley was dark-skinned, but she felt a hot flush come to her cheeks. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I should have known.’
Skinner shrugged. ‘Why? You and Aileen may be friends, but we’ve never met.’ He looked at Gwyn Richards. ‘Security, yes?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the Welshman replied. ‘And to answer your question, my boys are supposed to check that all the buildings and venues are empty before they’re locked up for the night, but the yurt’s not that big, so to be honest they often just glance in then switch the lights out, without checking every inch.’
‘How many do you have on site?’
‘Me and two others, one of whom’s going to have a bit of explaining to do.’
‘Unless he did check, and the place was indeed empty.’ The big DCC grinned. ‘But let’s not over-complicate matters. You found the dead man when you opened up this morning?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I asked Gwyn to open the yurt,’ said Randall Mosley. ‘I found an email from Ainsley—’
‘Ainsley?’
‘The dead man is, sorry, was Ainsley Glover. He’s one of Scotland’s top-selling crime novelists. He’s more than that, really,’ she added. ‘He’s quite a public figure.’
Skinner nodded, his face suddenly sombre. ‘I know.’ He stepped forward and looked at the body. ‘As of a few weeks back, he’s been an MSP, directly elected to a constituency, not one of those who’re taken from a party list.’
‘That’s right,’ the director confirmed. ‘He stood as an independent anti-Trident candidate through in the west of Scotland; his election was quite a surprise.’
The big police officer looked towards the coffin as the attendants strained to lift it from the floor. ‘Not as big a surprise as this, though,’ he murmured. ‘Just leave that for a bit, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.’ The pair looked puzzled, yet at the same time relieved to lay their burden down.
He turned back to Mosley. ‘An email, you said?’
‘Yes. It was very short. It said that he was here, and . . . well, it was pretty clear he was in trouble.’
‘Was it timed?’
‘It hit my mailbox at twelve minutes past twelve.’
‘How did he send it?’
She pointed to the discarded device, which still lay on the floor. ‘He seems to have used that.’
‘But that’s a phone as well. Why didn’t he call you, call anyone, or even send a text?’
‘The man was dying,’ the medical officer said, sharply. ‘He’d have been in pain, afraid and probably very confused. What he did might seem illogical to you, but in the circumstances I wouldn’t really expect him to act normally.’
‘How old are you, doctor?’ Skinner asked. ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced.’
‘Dr Rina Brookmyre, and I’m twenty-five . . . if that has anything to do with it.’
‘Your experience has. I’ve been a cop for longer than you’ve been alive, and I’m here to tell you that the prospect of imminent death usually gets your attention. If Mr Glover was able to type an email, then find Dr Mosley’s address in his directory and send it, he was surely capable of pressing the “nine” key three times, then the “call” button.’ He turned to Varley. ‘Jock, what brought you along here? Is the Gayfield Square office so bad that the duty inspector has to attend every sudden death?’
The inspector scratched his moustache as he returned his gaze. ‘Ian thought fit to call me, sir. Given the venue, and the fact that it’s going to be crawling with people in an hour or two, I felt that I should come along.’
Skinner nodded. ‘That was my thinking too, when I saw the car arrive.’ He looked down at the director. ‘Randall, I don’t want to make life difficult for you, but I need this area cordoned off for a while. I want nobody else in here until my CID people have checked the scene thoroughly. Thing is, I know this place is crawling with crime writers, but I really don’t like locked-room mysteries.’
Five
‘Why have we caught this one?’ Detective Inspector Sammy Pye asked quietly. ‘It’s a bit off our patch.’
Neil McIlhenney nodded agreement, as the two men stood in the centre of the yurt. ‘That’s true,’ the detective superintendent conceded, ‘but Gayfield Square don’t have the staff to handle this at the moment. Some clown . . .’ he said, jabbing himself in the chest with his right index finger, ‘who calls himself CID commander in Edinburgh inadvertently approved a holiday rota that left a DS in charge there for the second half of August. We’ve got a dead MSP in that plastic box on the floor; no way am I lumbering a detective sergeant with the investigation. You’re almost at full strength, apart from DC Montell, so you’ve got it. Besides, it’s the head of CID’s policy to put expertise and efficiency before territorial layout. If he was here, and not on bloody leave himself, he’d say that your diplomatic skills might be required.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of Montell, who’s he on holiday with?’
‘His sister, or so he told me; they’ve gone back to see their folks in Cape Town. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He was silent for a few seconds, as if he was weighing up whether to say more. Then he went on. ‘I’m never quite sure how things are between him and Alex Skinner, that’s all.’
‘What does the DCC say? He talks to you, doesn’t he?’
‘Not about his daughter’s love life, he doesn’t; not that he’d know anyway. He told me a while back that Alex had laid things on the line for him: he doesn’t ask her, and she doesn’t ask him. I suspect that my daughter will be taking the same line with me one of these days.’
‘What age is Lauren now?’
‘Still short of fourteen. She’s a great kid, though; she’s a big help to my wife with the baby. Wee Louis’ turning into a handful, and his mum’s finding out that having your first when you’re in your forties is a hell of a thing. Not just your first; in my case he’s number three, and it’s still quite an upheaval.’ Suddenly he smiled broadly. �
�Speaking of babies, I dropped in on Maggie Steele the other day. Her Stephanie’s a right little cracker, and Mags is looking great too. She’s finished all her chemo, she’s got the colour back in her cheeks, she’s looking fit, and her hair’s growing back in. She’s got a pageboy style; never seen her like that before.’
‘That’s great to hear,’ said Pye. ‘As for Montell and Alex, if there ever was anything, I reckon now they’re just good friends and next-door neighbours, and that’s how it’s going to stay. I thought I caught Alice Cowan giving Griff the eye a week or so back, and I didn’t see him look away.’ Pye glanced around the yurt. ‘Has the DCC gone?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He left just after I got here; and I’m off myself in a minute. I don’t see anything to keep me here. The young doctor’s adamant that Glover died of a heart attack, but the boss wants all bases covered. He’s not saying that it’s a suspicious death, but there are one or two questions that need to be asked and answered before we can wrap it up and report to the fiscal.’
‘There’ll be a post mortem, won’t there?’
‘Of course, as soon as you can dig up two pathologists to carry it out. You’d better see if Professor Hutchinson’s available, since the deceased is a public figure . . . it’s sad but true, you don’t stop being a celebrity just because you’re dead. If old Joe can do it, he’ll bring in his own assistant.’
‘What about the scientific team? Should we call them?’
‘What’s your view?’ McIlhenney countered.
Pye frowned. ‘Dr Mosley?’ he called to the director, who was standing alone at the entrance to the yurt, looking harassed, and possibly impatient also. ‘Has this place been cleaned since yesterday?’
‘No,’ she replied as she stepped towards them. She glanced at her watch, which told her that it was twenty minutes before eight. ‘The contractors are due on site in about five minutes.’
‘Since the Festival began,’ the DI continued, ‘how many people have been in here?’
‘We only started yesterday, but even at that . . . my staff, authors, their publicists, editors, sales people, media, caterers . . . there must have been well over a hundred.’
Pye glanced at the superintendent. ‘Then it’s a forensic haystack. If we were looking for something specific, maybe, but we’re not, so it would be a waste of time and money.’
‘Then don’t bother,’ said McIlhenney. ‘Just get on with interviews. Do you have enough people? If you feel you haven’t, and you ask me nicely, I will stay and help.’
‘No, boss, I can manage. We both know this is a formality anyway.’
‘Then get it done as quickly as you can. Move the body to the morgue, and let Dr Mosley’s cleaners in so she can be ready to start the day’s programme.’ The director looked up at him gratefully. ‘Give me a call once the autopsy confirms the cause of death,’ he told Pye, a parting shot as he headed for the side exit, beyond which the black mortuary van was parked, ready for its sad cargo.
Six
‘You know what I’d like to see on your government’s agenda?’ Bob asked as he took the right turn on to the dual carriageway that headed out of Edinburgh, to the east and the south. ‘You should make this road motorway right down to the border. Perhaps that would shame the English into upgrading their side, and go some way into cutting the number of deaths on the damn thing.’
Aileen had heard the complaint before, not only from him but from opposition MSPs. ‘Give me the money,’ she replied, ‘and I’ll do it.’
‘Raise your own taxes and you’ll be able to,’ he countered.
She stared at him. ‘You know, your politics bend with the wind. Most people think you’re right-wing; eventually I pin you down as left of centre, now you’re turning bloody nationalist on me.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he protested. ‘I’ll always support you. But there’s a compelling argument for cutting ourselves free—’
She laughed. ‘. . . from the oppressive yolk of Westminster, were you going to say? Are you sure you’re not writing speeches for my opposite number in the Parliament?’
In spite of himself, he grinned. More and more he was finding it difficult to maintain a serious discussion with her; whenever she wanted she seemed able to deflate him, and to steer them back on to comfortable ground.
‘That’ll be the day. Did you enjoy last night’s event?’ he asked, changing the subject with no pretence of subtlety.
‘Very much,’ she said. ‘Sir James Proud’s last occasion as host at an ACPOS dinner; it was an honour to be invited.’
‘Yours and ours, my dear. Mind you, I’ve a confession to make: Jimmy engineered it. The rest of us insisted that Chrissie should be there. Although we have women members, he wanted another female guest, and who better for the Association of Chief Police Officers Scotland to invite along than the First Minister?’
She wrinkled her pert nose; it was a trademark gesture. ‘I’m not fussed. I’ll turn up for a decent dinner even if I am window dressing. It was good to see Andy Martin there too. Why didn’t he take up your offer of a bed at the residence, do you think?’
‘By the time I asked him, he’d booked his hotel. Also, I suspect he knew that we’d be up and off at the crack of dawn.’
‘He knew that you would, you mean. It’s a pity he wasn’t there this morning. You could both have gone across to the square. That would really have made Randy Mosley’s day.’ She paused, and took a sip from the water bottle that Skinner always carried in a holder in the central console of his car. ‘Why were the police there, by the way? You never did tell me; just rushed me off when you got back.’
Bob’s eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘I’ve been saving that one. If I’d told you straight away, you might have insisted on going across there to see for yourself, and they’re going to be busy enough.’
She twisted in the passenger seat, to look at him directly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a sudden death,’ he told her. ‘One of the guests at the opening party went off into the green room and turned purple. He seems to have taken a heart attack and died, at least that’s what the doctor says. He was locked in through someone’s mistake, and wasn’t found until this morning, when Randall turned up to open the site.’
‘That’s terrible. But what makes you think I’d have wanted to see? It’s not how I’d choose to begin a Sunday, or any other day for that matter.’
‘Maybe not, but this is going to break into your day. The dead man’s known to you.’
Her mouth hung open for a second or two. ‘Who is it . . . or who was it?’ she asked. Her eyes widened. ‘Bruce Anderson was speaking there last night. It isn’t him, is it?’
‘Hmm,’ Skinner grunted. ‘Not him, or I’d have been grinning all over my face when I got back. No, it was Ainsley Glover, best-selling crime writer turned populist Member of the Scottish Parliament.’
‘Oh no,’ she sighed.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘There’s no mistake?’
‘My darling, when I said he’d turned purple in the hospitality room I was speaking the truth. He couldn’t have got any deader if he tried.’
‘What a pity. I didn’t have much of a chance to get to know him, but he seemed a nice man.’ She fossicked in her bag for her phone. ‘I must call the duty press officer and tell him to put out a statement of regret, expressing sympathy to the family.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, what a shame; I was really looking forward to seeing him perform in Parliament. You know, I was even thinking of offering him a job in the administration. He got in on his anti-Trident ticket, but he seemed to be shaping up as an ally of ours.’
‘I’d have marked him out as the opposite, given his views.’
‘Not necessarily; in fact, the Parliament’s pretty solidly anti-Trident. Most of my people are, all the Nats and even one or two Tories, in private. No, Ainsley was quietly socialist. The truth is, he used to be a member of our Edinburgh Pentlands constituency party. We found that out during the elec
tion, but I made our campaign managers keep quiet about it. It was pretty clear that the seat he was fighting was going to be between him and the Nationalists, and sure as hell we didn’t want them to win.’ She gasped, then let out a low moan. ‘Oh Jesus! That’s just what I do not need.’
‘What?’
‘There’ll have to be a by-election. And if the Nats win this time, they’ll have the same number of seats as us. Remember your interesting suggestion earlier on, that I should run a minority government? If Glover’s seat goes to them, they’ll have just as much right to do that as we will. You might just find yourself marrying the Leader of the Opposition, not the First Minister.’
He reached out his left hand and ruffled her hair. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m marrying you, not either of those.’
Seven
‘What we need to do, Dr Mosley, DS Wilding and I,’ said Sammy Pye, ‘is to establish who were the last people to speak to Mr Glover before his death.’
‘Why?’ the director asked. ‘The doctor says he had a heart attack. He was fat and he was diabetic. I’m sorry he’s gone; he was a nice man, a very talented author and it’s tragic, but I’ve got a Book Festival to run. As we’re sitting here my staff are coming on site, and we’re due to open to the public in twenty minutes.’
‘We appreciate that,’ Ray Wilding told her, ‘and yes, all the indications are that it was a sudden death, no more, but it was unattended, no witnesses, and so procedure says it’s a police matter. Plus, there’s another issue. We need to get in touch with Mr Glover’s next of kin. We always prefer if formal identification can be made before the post-mortem. The information will be on file in the Parliament, I’m sure, with him being an MSP and all, but it would save time if you could help us.’
Mosley seemed to soften. ‘OK,’ she sighed. ‘Next of kin: it’s my understanding that Ainsley was widowed a few years ago, and that he’s lived alone ever since, in a big house out in Barnton. I believe also that he has two children, a son and a daughter.’ She paused for a second, then nodded. ‘Yes. In fact I’ve met the daughter: Ainsley brought her to the programme launch party in June. She’s in her mid-twenties, and I’m pretty sure . . . that’s right, he said she was a dentist.’
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