Fifty-two
Neil McIlhenney sat at his desk and brooded on his misfortune. The normal pattern of crime in the force area had made it unlikely that his time of deputising for the holidaying head of CID would be blighted by a homicide investigation. Murder tends to be a winter pastime in Edinburgh. ‘I should be so lucky,’ he hummed, ‘lucky, lucky, lucky.’ One death was bad enough, but two, that was calamitous. And for both to remain complete mysteries after more that twenty-four hours . . . he shook his head as he imagined Mario McGuire’s dark satanic smile fixed upon him.
‘Stuck in the fucking mud, mate.’ He could hear his friend’s gently mocking tone. Not that Mario would blame him, for he and his teams had done their best, but he had definitely fallen behind in the game of one-upmanship that had been played between them throughout their police careers. George Regan had just called him to advise him that not only had the chief suspect in the Mustafic killing, Hugo Playfair, vanished without trace, it seemed that he had never existed in the first place. Sammy Pye was on his way to Fettes, but would he accuse Bruce Anderson, or would he eliminate him? True, there were other leads, but none of them pointed to a quick conclusion.
‘Stuck in the fucking mud,’ he said aloud, just as his door opened and ACC Mackie, tall, bald-headed and shirt-sleeved, stepped into his office.
‘Are you indeed?’ he murmured. ‘In that case I don’t know whether I’m about to give you a hand out or push you deeper in.’
‘Go ahead, then,’ the superintendent challenged. ‘Things can only get better.’ My morning for dodgy pop songs, he thought.
‘Want a bet? The odds against a best-selling crime author being murdered at a major festival are pretty astronomical, you’ll agree?’ McIlhenney nodded, with a sudden certainty that the nineties group D:Ream had been entirely wrong, and that things were, in fact, about to get significantly worse. ‘In that case,’ Mackie continued, ‘what price against it happening twice?’
‘What?’ The big detective gasped, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Another killing in Charlotte Square?’
‘No. This one happened in Melbourne, Australia, at a similar festival there. The victim’s a man called Henry Mount, from Gullane. Apparently he was standing in a place called Federation Square, where they’re having their own festival, signing books for admiring readers, then next minute he was on the ground, stone cold bloody dead. I’ve just sent George Regan . . . hope you don’t mind me pinching one of your people, but tact and a gentle touch is required . . . to break the news to the widow, and I’ve just told the DCC. He and Mount were near neighbours and regular pub chums. Naturally, he’s distressed; he said you’d know what to do.’
‘Sure, but is there any evidence that this wasn’t a natural death?’
‘The Australian assistant commissioner who called me said that the hole in the back of his head points in a certain direction. Plus, if you’re going to shoot yourself you tend not to do it in a square full of people, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other.’ The ACC laid a note on McIlhenney’s desk. ‘These are the numbers for the Victoria State Police, main switchboard, and for the mobile of the lead investigating officer, Inspector Michael Giarratano. It’s pretty long distance . . . they’re nine hours ahead of us . . . but I imagine you’ll want to touch base.’
‘I can do better than that,’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘Thanks, Brian. The boss was right, I do know what to do.’
‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then.’ He smiled, running a hand over his shiny dome. ‘Of course, if you need a senior officer to go out there and liaise . . .’
‘I may have that covered. Cheers.’ He was reaching for the phone as Mackie left, and punching in a mobile number on the console. It took longer than normal for him to hear a ringtone, but only a couple of seconds for it to stop.
‘What now?’ Mario McGuire sighed.
‘Where are you?’ McIlhenney asked.
‘In the QVB, having a beer.’
‘QVB?’
‘Queen Victoria Building. Everything has an acronym here, mate.’
‘Is Paula there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then put her on.’
‘If you insist, but when the bean-counters spot the cost of this call . . . Here she is.’
‘Neil, my love,’ Paula Viareggio exclaimed breezily. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, for now, but you’re going to kill me shortly, and I wanted to tell you why. There’s a dead man lying on the ground in Melbourne as we speak, he’s Scottish, and it’s almost certain that it relates to a murder investigation that we have under way here. I need your man to get on a plane as fast as he can, team up with the locals, take a look at the situation and report back to us. I’d send somebody else, I’d even go myself, but it would take a couple of days to get there, and this has to be handled now, right now. Sorry, Paulie.’
‘So far,’ she replied, ‘I’m taking this quietly, although from the expression on Mario’s face as he’s watching me, I might not be looking too pleased. Tell me more.’
‘The dead man’s name is Henry Mount.’
‘Henry Mount!’ she squealed. ‘Oh no. He’s one of my favourite authors, just like Ainsley Glover was one of Mario’s. I’ve read all his books; most of them twice. Of course he can go. What happened to him?’
‘That’s the damndest thing. Nobody’s sure. He was standing in a public place, happy as Larry, and next second he was on the ground. It seems as if he was shot, but nobody saw anything and nobody heard anything.’
He waited for Paula to reply, or to pass the phone to Mario, but there was only silence on the line. When she did speak, her tone was quieter, tentative. ‘Neil,’ she said, ‘this might be a strange thing to ask, but was he smoking a cigar?’
Fifty-three
Sammy Pye was mildly surprised when he was met by Gerry Crossley at the entrance to the command corridor and shown into the DCC’s room, since Ruth, his wife, was secretary to both the deputy and assistant chiefs, and he knew that she should be in her office. But he assumed she was involved in a task for Mackie, and put the thought out of his mind.
For once, Skinner was not seated behind his desk. Instead his frame was half-sprawled on a long sofa, set against the wall facing the window, and he seemed barely aware that he had company. He was frowning, gazing at the floor, with a mug in his hand, held so carelessly that Pye hoped it was nowhere near full.
‘Morning, sir,’ the DI ventured.
The big man blinked, and looked up, with a momentary flash of annoyance at being caught off guard. ‘Morning, Sam,’ he responded. ‘Sorry, I was miles away there. Grab yourself a coffee from the machine and have a seat.’
‘I won’t, thank you, sir. Ruth has me on a ration.’
Skinner grinned, and was himself again. ‘She’s tried that with me too,’ he said, ‘but since I control the means of production around here, she was doomed to failure. So go on; I won’t shop you.’
The inspector shrugged, poured himself a mug from the half-full filter jug, added a very little milk and lowered himself on to the sofa.
‘Have you spoken to Neil in the last few minutes?’
The DCC’s question took him by surprise. ‘Not that recently, sir. I called him about half an hour ago, but that’s all.’
‘Then you won’t know. The Glover investigation’s just gone global.’ Quickly, Skinner told him of the Melbourne incident, that a second of Edinburgh’s triumvirate of mystery authors had gone to the great publishing house in the sky.
‘We’re sure it’s not a sudden death?’ Pye asked tentatively.
‘From what I’m told, no chance of that. I know Henry Mount . . . knew him. He looked after himself; OK, none of us have any certainty of continuing good health, but he didn’t abuse himself, worked out pretty well for a man of his age . . . we belong to the same gym . . . and he didn’t have any major vices. Yes, there were those cigars of his, but he never smoked cigarettes, and they’re the real killers.
’
‘I’m very sorry, sir. I can tell you’re upset.’
Skinner nodded. ‘Yeah, I admit it, I am. I’ve just told you that it wasn’t natural causes, but when someone you know dies, someone who may not be a contemporary but who’s not that far off it, it’s always a reminder of your own mortality. And you know what, Sammy? The older you get, the sharper that reminder is.’
‘Stevie Steele.’
‘What?’
‘You made me think about Stevie. Young guy, walks though the wrong door and bang! that’s it. There are wrong doors waiting for any one of us, I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’ Skinner straightened himself on the sofa. ‘But you and I are still on the right side of ours, so let’s get on with it.’
‘Do you want me to contact the Australian police, sir?’
‘They’ve already been in touch with us. Neil’s handling the follow-up and he’ll let you know all that’s relevant to your investigation. I want you to take a look at this.’ He reached out, picked up an envelope from the coffee table and handed it to the DI. ‘It’s the list that Ainsley Glover gave Andy Martin, his distant cousin, for safe keeping. I retrieved it yesterday from Dundee.’
‘What is it? What’s the list?’
‘Four names, none appear to be British, and none means a damn thing to me. See what you can find out about them. They must be important, given the lengths that Glover went to to keep them hidden.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Pye mused. ‘Becky Stallings recovered a number of email addresses that Glover kept on his daughter’s computer. Some of them appear to be foreign.’
‘Then see if they relate to any of the names on the list.’ The DCC laid his mug on the table and rose easily to his feet. ‘But that’s for later.’ He checked his watch, retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. ‘We have another priority.’ He stood for a second or to, then stepped across to the window and looked out, checking the section of the driveway car park that was reserved for visitors. As he did so, there was a knock, the door opened, and Gerry Crossley entered.
‘Your visitors have arrived, sir,’ he announced. ‘I’ve put them in the meeting room, as you said. And there’s a dual recorder on the table, plugged in, with a clean mini-disk in each drive.’
‘Visitors plural?’ Skinner mused. ‘So Dr Anderson had the good sense to bring a lawyer with him. Wonder who it is? Can’t be the Barracuda, though; she must be in court with the bad Lady Walters around now, getting ready for some really unwelcome news from the Sheriff.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a lawyer.’
‘Then I’m not sure that whoever it is will be hanging around too long, not even if it’s the Duke of bloody Lanark himself. If Dr Anderson thinks he can piss me about, he’s making a big mistake. Come on, Sammy. Let’s go see him.’ He led the way into the command corridor and along to the small conference room at the far end. He opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped, so suddenly that Pye bumped into him. ‘Jim!’ the DI heard him exclaim. ‘You’re the last person I expected to be chumming our interviewee. Are you his confessor? Because if you are, I have to tell you, this will be on the record, and I’ll be deciding the penance.’ He stepped to one side. ‘Detective Inspector Pye, you know Dr Anderson, but I don’t believe you’ve met His Excellency James Gainer, Roman Catholic Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh.’
The man with whom the DI shook hands was mid-forties, as tall as he was, and more heavily built, with big shoulders and a thick neck. He wore blue chinos, and a light cotton jacket hanging open over a white T-shirt with the simple message, ‘Souls saved; apply within’, printed in two lines on the front. Pye had heard tales of the charismatic priest, stories of a wild youth, redemption, and of late-night cruising round the city on a high-powered motorcycle. He had written them off as media fantasy, but as he looked the man in the eye, he realised that they were almost certainly true.
‘My pleasure,’ said the archbishop with a smile, then turned back to Skinner. ‘Bruce doesn’t take confession,’ he went on, ‘any more than you do. He isn’t one of mine either, any more than you are, but I like to think that we all play in the same team, just in different positions, that’s all. I’m here because he’s asked me to be, to help him out with a little ethical difficulty he has.’
‘Ethical? Jim, we’re investing a breakage of the sixth commandment. As far as I’m concerned, that sets all other considerations aside.’
‘I wouldn’t quote commandments if I were you, chum,’ Gainer chuckled. ‘You break the third one all the time. I don’t agree with your statement either; there are areas of unshakable confidentiality reserved for doctors, as Bruce is, and for priests, like me. You’ve got a murder on your hands. We’re here to help you, but you have to understand his position.’
‘His position would have been easier if he hadn’t lied to my officers.’
‘I know that, Bob,’ said Anderson. ‘But I had a reason. Can we explain it to you?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Let’s hear it.’ He moved towards the square table in the centre of the room. ‘Take a seat, you two back to the door, us facing.’ He touched the black recorder box as he sat. ‘I was going to do this formally, under caution, but your presence changes that, Jim. We’ll leave this thing switched off for now. If I feel the need to go on the record, we can do that later.’ He looked at Anderson. ‘Tell us about Saturday night.’
‘From the beginning?’
‘No, your argument with the dead man has been well covered. Let’s start from when Lord Elmore and his wife saw you walking away from Charlotte Square.’
‘OK. I did go home, be in no doubt about that. I didn’t want to bring her into this but if you need reliable confirmation, my daughter can provide it. The light was still on in her room; when I looked in, she was reading. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, as I recall. I told her to turn it in and go to sleep. Then I went to my own room; Anthea was asleep already . . . although given what I’ve learned since, I suspect she may have had help.’
‘We don’t need to go into Lady Walters’ problems,’ said Pye.
‘We might later,’ Anderson countered.
‘But go on for now,’ Skinner told him. ‘Lady W’s in the land of nod.’
‘Yes. I wasn’t remotely tired, so I was a little annoyed that she hadn’t waited up for me. However, I had set the television to record Match of the Day, so I went off to catch up on that. And then the phone rang.’
‘The phone rang,’ Pye repeated. ‘Going on for midnight?’
‘Yes. It happens. I have calls at all hours of the day, and sometimes at night.’
‘Professional?’
‘To do with my profession, yes.’
‘That’s a carefully worded reply, sir.’
‘True.’ Anderson shifted in his seat.
‘So who was the caller?’
‘It was me, Inspector,’ said Archbishop Gainer.
‘You, sir?’
‘Yes. Someone I know needed help, so I rang Bruce, knowing that if he was available, he’d provide it.’
‘How long have you been an addiction counsellor, Dr Anderson?’ Skinner asked.
‘I’ve been doing it for years, since my days as a GP in Glasgow, even when I was a Member of Parliament. A few of my colleagues at Westminster, and some party staffers, had problems, and I helped them, very discreetly though. When I dropped out of politics and went back into medical practice in a limited way, I went back to counselling in my old stamping ground in Glasgow, and worked with charities too.’
‘How did you come to take your services upmarket? It was news to me, I have to admit.’
‘I have always been discreet, Bob. I have never mentioned that side of my work to anyone, always taken pains to keep it confidential. I take the view that these people are ill, and as such they have the same right to medical confidentiality as any other patients. Of course, when I helped colleagues in politics, that was never going to be an issue. Front-bench spokesmen are
never going to own up to a drug problem, are they?’
‘Not while they’re still there, that’s for sure,’ Skinner conceded.
‘That said, it was one of those people who made me broaden my patient base, if I can use the term. An MP I had helped to get himself clean found himself on the board of a quoted company; its managing director had a bad cocaine habit. They thought about sacking him, but if they had, the share price would have dived. As a last resort, my friend approached me. I arranged to treat him in a clinic in the borders that’s best known for providing a haven for rich alcoholics. I got him straightened out, and afterwards the clinic asked me if I’d continue to work with them. I do, and they’re the only patients from whom I take fees. All the others are pro bono, as lawyers call their freebies.’ He paused. ‘I met Anthea through the clinic. Archie . . . that’s her father . . . went there looking for help for her, about three years ago, and was referred to me. We had a chat, he brought Anthea along, and I put her on a withdrawal programme. She was badly hooked, so I had to stay very close to her. When she was in recovery, I carried on seeing her, and eventually moved into her place in Darnaway Street.’
‘And yet you’ve still kept this part of your life a secret?’ the DCC exclaimed. ‘I’m astonished.’
Anderson shook his head. ‘It hasn’t been that difficult. I’m known in the clinic as Andrew Bruce, and it’s Mr, not Dr. Many of my patients never get to know my real name; those who recognise me realise very quickly that we have a mutual interest in confidentiality.’
‘There’s no threat implied, is there?’ asked Pye.
Anderson scowled at him. ‘You mean do I threaten to “out” them if they “out” me? Certainly not, and I resent the suggestion.’
‘Nothing’s being suggested, Bruce,’ the DCC intervened. ‘It was a legitimate question, and you’ve answered it.’ He glanced at the archbishop. ‘How did you two meet?’ he asked.
‘I have a parishioner,’ Gainer began, ‘and a friend, a very well-known and respected public figure, who has an addictive personality. You name it, he’s ingested it. I can’t tell you how I found out about it; I’ll just leave you to speculate. When I did, I spoke to another parishioner, who is on the board of the clinic. He mentioned Mr Andrew Bruce to me, and I facilitated a meeting. My friend was rescued; in the aftermath Bruce and I had a number of meetings and I became involved in his charity and public sector work, as an additional counsellor. Sometimes we even work together. On Saturday night, I had a call from my friend. He had relapsed, and he was in a bad way. His cry for help was more of a scream; I called Bruce, and asked him to come with me to see him. He agreed, but he’d had a couple of drinks, so couldn’t drive. Rather than be seen picking him up in the house, I agreed to meet him in George Street, at midnight.’
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