Game Over Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Portador Ltd

  The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2017 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Cover photo © Jim Bowie/Shutterstock

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 0573 5

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

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  50 Victoria Embankment

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  Also by Quintin Jardine

  About the Book

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  About the Author

  Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West: of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propaganda, and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb, he moved into the riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.

  Now, more than forty published novels later, he never looks back. Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.

  He can be tracked down through his website www.quintinjardine.com .

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  ‘A triumph. I am first in the queue for the next one’ Scotland on Sunday

  ‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer

  ‘Very engaging as well as ingenious, and the unravelling of the mystery is excellently done’ Allan Massie, Scotsman

  ‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald

  ‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’ The Australian

  ‘There is a whole world here, the tense narratives all come to the boil at the same time in a spectacular climax’ Shots magazine

  ‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News

  By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

  Bob Skinner series:

  Skinner’s Rules

  Skinner’s Festival

  Skinner’s Trail

  Skinner’s Round

  Skinner’s Ordeal

  Skinner’s Mission

  Skinner’s Ghosts

  Murmuring the Judges

  Gallery Whispers

  Thursday Legends

  Autographs in the Rain

  Head Shot

  Fallen Gods

  Stay of Execution

  Lethal Intent

  Dead and Buried

  Death’s Door

  Aftershock

  Fatal Last Words

  A Rush of Blood

  Grievous Angel

  Funeral Note

  Pray for the Dying

  Hour of Darkness

  Last Resort

  Private Investigations

  Game Over

  Primavera Blackstone series:

  Inhuman Remains

  Blood Red

  As Easy As Murder

  Deadly Business

  As Serious as Death

  Oz Blackstone series:

  Blackstone’s Pursuits

  A Coffin for Two

  Wearing Purple

  Screen Savers

  On Honeymoon with Death

  Poisoned Cherries

  Unnatural Justice

  Alarm Call

  For the Death of Me

  The Loner

  Mathew’s Tale

  About the Book

  When supermodel Annette Bordeaux is found battered and strangled in her Edinburgh flat, former Chief Constable Bob Skinner’s old team instantly have a global case on their hands.

  The victim’s husband, world-renowned footballer and recent Merrytown FC signing, is quickly discounted as a suspect. But there are others in the club with less watertight alibis . . .

  Two years out of the game, Skinner can’t help getting his hands dirty. And as his old team work to convict the prime suspect, his own daughter, Alex, is the lawyer tasked with leading the defence.

  The opposing sides must work to find the culprit while the press watch on. But in this game, no one can be trusted, and there are murkier deeds still to uncover before the final whistle blows . . .

  This is dedicated to the memory of Mira Kolar Brown,

  my friend, who passed away on March 4, 2016.

  A lady of great talent, and an even greater heart.

  One

  ‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world . . .’

  ‘What?’ Det
ective Sergeant Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock exclaimed, cutting across his boss’s incongruous murmur.

  ‘Eh? Oh, sorry,’ Detective Chief Inspector Sammy Pye replied. ‘Don’t mind me. Casablanca ,’ he explained. ‘My favourite film. Ruth and I watched the DVD last night. It’s Bogart’s line, and it struck a chord with where we are right now. Of all the crime scenes in all the towns in all the world, you and I have to walk into this one. This is going to be global, mate, and we are right in the spotlight, yet again.’

  Haddock’s forehead creased in bewilderment beneath the hood of his disposable crime scene onesie. ‘It’s a murder, gaffer, okay.’ He looked at the body on the bed, face purple, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s not nice, but we’ve been in situations like this before. Worse situations; think about the last one, that poor kid.’

  ‘I’ll never forget that,’ the DCI countered, sharply, then continued with barely a pause, ‘but . . . Sauce, man, are you a media-free zone? Don’t you know who this is?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘Not for certain, but I’m assuming she’s the occupant of this apartment.’

  ‘And her name?’

  ‘Fonter, the concierge said; Mrs Annette Fonter. At least that’s what I think he said; after finding her, he was in a hell of a state when I spoke to him, high as a kite. The cleaner he let into the flat was even worse; she was having kittens. The paramedics were talking about taking her to hospital.’

  ‘I’m sure they were all like you say. But I’m fairly sure of this too: as soon as they get themselves together, one or the other of them will be on the phone to the tabloids. Man, this is going to splash on every Sunday newspaper in the country . . . and beyond. When we came through the living room, did you notice the photographs? Big ones, framed, on the wall?’

  The young DS raised a trademark eyebrow. ‘How could I have missed them? A bit showy, I thought.’

  ‘They meant nothing to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does the name Annette Bordeaux mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Even muffled by a mask, the bark of Arthur Dorward, the head of the forensic investigation team that was hard at work on the crime scene, carried across the room. ‘Even I know that,’ he exclaimed. ‘Annette Bordeaux is a supermodel. Hers is one of the best-known faces on the planet. She’s been on the cover of Vanity Fair , Elle , and most of the other glossy women’s mags. And that’s her, lying there dead, in front of us.’

  Haddock looked at the body anew; he leaned over the bed, peering at the dead face, its skin the colour of coffee, but dull, without pallor, looking into the bulging eyes, their whites mottled with the tiny haemorrhages that he had seen before in other asphyxiation victims. As always, he steeled himself, willing himself to remain dispassionate. It was a skill he had been advised to master from his earliest days in CID, advised by the big man himself, his mentor. Just as Bob Skinner had never quite succeeded, neither had he; the little dead girl in the car park, that had been bad. He had held himself together at the scene, but a few hours later, at home with Cheeky, his partner, he had been wrecked.

  He closed his eyes, visualising the framed images in the living area of the penthouse, and feeling himself go cold inside as he compared them mentally with the cover of the current issue of Cosmopolitan that Cheeky had left on the coffee table.

  ‘Oh my!’ he whispered.

  ‘You get it now?’ Pye said.

  He nodded. ‘So, where does the name Fonter come from?’ he asked.

  ‘From her husband: Paco Fonter. He’s a Spanish footballer, currently playing for Merrytown, through in South Lanarkshire. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but football’s not my game.’ The DS paused, as a question formed in his mind. ‘Hold on: how can a Scottish football club afford a foreign player with a supermodel for a wife?’

  ‘Because of its Russian owner,’ his boss explained. ‘He bought a controlling stake at the end of last year. The club’s his personal project. He’s promised to get it up there alongside Celtic and Rangers, money no object. He bought in a whole raft of foreign players, and hired a top manager, a guy called Chaz Baker.’

  ‘Now him, I do know. Cheeky and I were guests at an invitation golf event at Archerfield Golf Club. The place was full of football people. He was there too; somebody pointed him out to us.’

  ‘You ask Cheeky who Annette Bordeaux is. She’ll know for sure.’ Belatedly, Pye frowned at his sergeant, as an obvious thought reached to him. ‘How did you two, a polis and an accountant, get invited to a gig like that?’

  The young detective flushed slightly. ‘Through Cheeky’s grandpa. The invite was his originally, but his new wife’s not interested in golf. So, seeing as he and Cheeky both have the same name, Cameron McCullough, and he knows I play, he passed it on. The organiser didn’t mind.’

  ‘From everything they say about your partner’s grandfather, I imagine the organiser knew better than to mind. I thought you kept Grandpa McCullough at arm’s length,’ he added.

  ‘I do,’ Haddock retorted, quickly. ‘I’ve never met the man, not face to face. Cheeky understands that cops can’t associate with gangsters, alleged or otherwise. She’s never put pressure on me about it.’

  ‘And when you get married? Will he be absent from the wedding?’

  Sauce winked. ‘Everybody will. We’ve agreed that if we ever do, it’ll be in Vegas.’

  ‘But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,’ a female voice pointed out, breaking into their conversation, in a soft New England drawl.

  Both detectives turned to face her as she stood in the doorway. ‘Then maybe we will too,’ Haddock countered. ‘It’s a damn sight warmer than Edinburgh in September. Good morning, Professor. You’re looking . . .’

  Sarah Grace smiled at his hesitation. ‘Pregnant, Sergeant; I’m looking pregnant. They say that one size fits all with these crime scene clothes, but I feel as if I’m about to prove them wrong. Are your people finished in here?’ she asked, switching into a brisk businesslike tone.

  ‘The video guy’s done,’ Pye replied. ‘As usual we’re still waiting for the forensic team to finish up. I preferred it when they were our people rather than a central service.’

  ‘I’m not one of your people,’ she pointed out, ‘so why should they be? Move back, please; let me have a look at her.’

  The pathologist stepped up to the hotel-sized bed on which the body lay, crosswise. Annette Bordeaux had died in her underwear, simple black bra and pants. Her face and upper torso were smeared with blood from her battered, misshapen nose, and a brown leather belt encircled her neck, with the end pulled through its silver buckle. It hung loose but her neck bore a vicious, collar-like mark.

  ‘It took a lot of force to do that,’ Grace murmured. She reached down to the battered face, feeling the nose. ‘Broken,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Knocked out then strangled?’ the DCI queried.

  ‘Hit, certainly, and hit hard, but would she have been rendered unconscious? I doubt that.’

  ‘She could have been doing cocaine,’ Haddock volunteered.

  Grace looked up at him, quizzically. ‘Not really relevant, but what makes you say that?’

  ‘The CSIs found what could be the leavings of a line in the bathroom, in a crevice between two tiles.’

  ‘Point one,’ she asked, ‘how do you know it’s coke? Point two, how can you tell that she was snorting it? Look at the blood smears on her face. It all came from her nose, but I can see no traces of powder there.’ She frowned. ‘But let’s not speculate, boys,’ she said, as she turned the dead woman on her side and pulled down her pants.

  Pye winced as she took the rectal temperature; Haddock looked away.

  ‘Time of death?’ the chief inspector asked quietly, when she was finished and had checked the thermometer.

  ‘Not a precise science, as you know, Sammy, but . . . This room has a maintained temperature of twenty-one degrees Celsius, accordi
ng to the dial by the door. Then I have to factor in her size. She was a slim, fit woman, and given her profession, her body fat index would be pretty low.’

  ‘You know who she is?’ Haddock exclaimed.

  She stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? There was a feature on Annette Bordeaux in the Sunday Herald a couple of weeks ago. The photography was done in this very apartment.’

  ‘I must get out more,’ the DS muttered.

  ‘The long and the short of it is,’ she continued, glancing at her watch, which showed two minutes before midday, ‘applying the conditions here to the rate of cooling, and the fact that rigor mortis is still established, I’d say she’s been dead for not less than sixteen hours and not more than twenty. She was killed between four and eight p.m. yesterday.’

  Haddock looked at Pye. ‘Do we go get the husband?’

  The DCI shook his head. ‘He’s got an alibi. I can think of at least one good reliable witness who’ll testify to it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Me. Between eight and ten last night Paco Fonter was playing for Spain in Valencia in a friendly against Argentina. It was on Sky Sports. He scored in the first ten minutes then went off injured.’ He frowned. ‘They have another match next Tuesday, but he’ll be missing it now. Sauce, get on to Chaz Baker. Tell him what’s happened and ask him how we get word to Fonter. While you’re doing that, I’ll call the deputy chief.’

  ‘You may have a problem there,’ Sarah Grace observed. ‘Mario McGuire and his family left for Italy on Thursday, to visit his mother. I know, ’cos Bob and I invited them to dinner tonight.’ She patted her bump. ‘My last chance for a while to be a hostess.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing for it,’ Pye sighed, ‘but to break into the chief constable’s Saturday morning. Wish me luck.’

  Two

  ‘Johnny,’ Bob Skinner said, patiently, ‘you might be my cousin, but I’m not a cop any more, and even if I was, that wouldn’t cut you any slack with the prosecutors, not in this case.’

  The squat little man looked up from his seat at the conference table in the office of Alexis Skinner, Solicitor Advocate . . . as the still-shiny sign outside proclaimed. His heavy black eyebrows were hunched, like his massive shoulders.

  ‘You cannae just make it go away?’ he challenged.

  ‘Not a prayer. You put the guy in Wishaw General Hospital.’