17 - Death's Door Read online

  ‘I’ll remember that if I ever have to ask him to sign an overtime chitty.’

  ‘Do that. But first, I’m going to see what’s inside this tent. I want the SOCOs in here, Ray. Dorward’s been warned. He should be on his way down. Give him a call and see where he is.’

  ‘You’re not going into the thing, are you?’ the detective sergeant asked. ‘You’re not suited up.’

  ‘No, I’ll just look from the doorway. I won’t go any further in than the ACC did.’

  Before he had even started to move, another mobile sounded: his. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered, impatiently. ‘Steele,’ he snapped.

  ‘DC Montell, sir.’

  ‘Griff, what is it? I’m busy here.’

  ‘Sorry, boss, but I thought you’d want to know this: I’d have been on twenty minutes ago, but I’ve had trouble getting a connection. It’s about the dead girl: Alex knows her.’

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Alex Skinner. I’ve just been speaking to her. Well, when I say she knows her, she’s met her. She knows who she was ... and she knows what she was. Believe it or not, she’s an artist, just like Stacey Gavin.’

  ‘She’s sure about this?’ He was aware of Wilding and the two uniforms staring at him, caught by the sudden urgency in his tone.

  ‘Certain. Alex bought one of her paintings for her father. Direct from the victim, off her market stall.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Steele murmured. ‘Just fucking lovely. Griff, are we chasing an art critic, do you think?’

  ‘If we are, it’s a pity he doesn’t specialise in rap music instead.’

  ‘Don’t put that in your note. Write one up all the same, and add it to the investigation file.’

  ‘What’s Montell been up to?’ asked Wilding, a barb in his tone. From time to time, Steele thought he detected a touch of animosity in the sergeant towards their newest recruit, but there was no sign of it affecting the performance of their unit, and so he had decided that, for the time being, it was as well left to lie undisturbed.

  ‘He’s been up to getting a result, mate,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll tell you about that later. Meantime . . .’ He walked over to the tent, knelt under the small awning, as Mackie had done, taking care not to touch the rucksack, and opened the flap.

  He tingled, as he felt her presence inside, almost tangibly: it was as if she was haunting the space in which she had spent her last night on earth. A sleeping bag lay on the ground sheet, unrolled but crumpled: it looked big enough for two. Items of clothing were strewn around, jeans, bra, knickers and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, bright orange in colour, matching the description that the Thai waitress in North Berwick had given to Wilding during his second interview. Two KitKat wrappers and a Tetrapak of Sainsbury’s orange juice lay on the far side of the bag, alongside a used condom, knotted, and its torn foil capsule. ‘I hope he was worthy of you, kid,’ Steele whispered to the dead girl’s spirit. There was an unlit Tilley lamp against the far wall of the tent, and a flashlight close to where he knelt. Beside it, taking up most of the rest of the floor space, he saw a big black bag, a metre square with a zipper running round three of its sides. It was undone and, from what he could see, it was empty.

  He eased himself out of the space and returned to Wilding, at the entrance to the clearing. ‘What’s he left us?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Apart from a copious DNA sample, and almost certainly fingerprints, nothing that I can see. I’m not going to open it, that’s for Arthur, but I’ll bet you that rucksack over there is Zrinka’s.’

  ‘That’s a move forward, though. He left us nothing at the last scene.’

  ‘What makes you so sure that the boy’s our killer?’

  ‘Who else would it be, Stevie?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right; maybe it was him. But if it was, it’s a hell of a change in his behaviour. Stacey Gavin was killed clean as a whistle; even allowing for the fuck-up at the crime scene we weren’t left a single clue. Why would he advertise himself the way he has here?’

  ‘Maybe he was just lucky the first time.’

  Steele shook his head. ‘I don’t buy that, Ray. We’re good at our job: we’ve worked the Gavin investigation for two months and don’t even have any viable suspects, far less an arrest. You cannot get that lucky.’

  ‘We’d better get a description out, then.’

  ‘An e-fit if we can.’

  Wilding whistled. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, boss. I’m not sure that my Thai witness will be up to that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but Montell’s bus driver might be: she gave him a far better description than your waitress gave you. Get on to him: tell him to find her and get it under way.’

  A small smile fleeted across the sergeant’s face. ‘With pleasure. I’ll tell him we want it for release tonight.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Steele. ‘I only hope we need it,’ he added.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Maybe we’re meant to spend time and resources looking for Zrinka’s boyfriend. Remember poor wee Rusty?’

  ‘You’re saying . . .?’

  ‘Last time he didn’t even leave a dog around as a witness. He shot it as it was running away in terror. If the boy didn’t do it, then . . .’

  ‘. . . then there’s every chance that the killer did the boy.’

  ‘Exactly; then hid him, and all his kit.’

  ‘Could he have chucked him in the sea, like he did to wee Rusty?’

  Steele frowned. ‘What do you think, Ray? He’d have had to drag him a good distance, through the bushes and across rocks. Even then the tide might not have been right; if it was still coming in, and from memory I reckon it would have been, it wouldn’t have taken him offshore. Nah, that would have been too risky all round: if the lad’s dead as well, he’s not far from here.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Wilding whispered. ‘We could be standing on him. It wouldn’t take long to bury a body in the sand.’

  ‘I reckon not,’ Steele agreed. ‘Let’s cover all the options. You have Montell re-interview his bus driver, and ask her to do us a likeness. While he’s doing that we’ll clear this area, and hold back Dorward’s team until we can get sniffer dogs in here.’

  Twenty-two

  Brian Mackie scanned the horizon to the south, looking across the Pentland Hills. From behind him came the roar of an easyJet flight taking off from the main runway, but he ignored it, scanning the skies for another aircraft, one that air-traffic control had assured him was on schedule.

  Edinburgh’s general aviation terminal was familiar territory for him; many VIP flights were routed there rather than to the principal airport, on grounds of privacy, security and ease of access. He had welcomed many official visitors, and in the process had come to regard himself as something of a connoisseur of private aircraft.

  The Boras plane came in low; he failed to pick it up until it was in the final stages of its approach. ‘Learjet,’ he whispered, but as the craft grew closer he became less certain. Its engines were distinctly rear-mounted and its lines were sharp and sleek. He gave in. ‘What is it?’ he asked the facility manager.

  ‘It’s an Embraer Legacy 600,’ she replied, ‘small executive jet of choice of the super-rich. It may not be a jumbo, but that thing will get you to New York, no problem.’

  He watched as the pilot made a faultless landing, then followed the guide car, which led him across to the section of the taxiway where Mackie stood.

  The assistant chief constable waited as the twin engines were cut and wound down, then as the aircraft door opened and its steps extended automatically. He was about to climb them when the doorway was filled by a stocky, heavy-shouldered man, who seemed at first glance to be almost as wide as he was tall. He was balding; the hair that remained was swept back from his forehead. His nose was the most prominent feature of his face, its size enhanced by two small, dark, piercing eyes, and by a tight-lipped mouth. If he had sported a small moustache, Mackie thought, he might have been taken for the television incarnation
of Hercule Poirot.

  That image vanished in the instant that his gaze fell on the police officer. There was none of David Suchet’s charm and bonhomie, only a cold, hard stare, full of rage. He paused for a moment, then trotted down the stairway.

  ‘From the look of your uniform,’ he said, as he approached, ‘I guess that you are the man in charge.’ There was no offer of a handshake.

  ‘That’s right. Brian Mackie, assistant chief.’

  ‘Don’t we rate the chief himself?’ The question, in flat, accent-free English, snapped out like a whip. For all that Davor Boras was a newly bereaved father, Mackie felt his hackles rise, but fought successfully to keep the fact from showing.

  ‘Rating doesn’t come into it, sir,’ he replied. ‘This has all happened very quickly. If I’d had time to brief Sir James Proud, I’m sure he would have come to meet you.’

  ‘You’re sure, are you?’ The little eyes blazed. ‘There is no doubt about this?’ he asked. ‘You are certain that this is my daughter? For let me promise you, if my wife and I have been put through this by mistake . . .’

  ‘Mr Boras, if that turns out to be the case, I’ll take whatever flak may come my way and I’ll still be very happy for you. But, no, there is no doubt. Didn’t the Met show you a photograph?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man admitted, ‘but it had been altered. It might have been my Zrinka, it might not. I must see her for myself. Where is she?’

  ‘The body’s still in the city mortuary. I’ll take you straight there if you wish.’

  ‘In time.’ Boras glanced around. ‘Where are the cars?’

  Mackie turned and pointed to two unmarked police vehicles, parked close by. ‘I hope those will be enough. I assumed that your pilots would be staying in Edinburgh.’

  ‘They are not my cars. I instructed my staff to have two limos waiting here for us to take us to the Caledonian Hotel. I must ensure that my wife is comfortable in her surroundings before I put her through this ordeal.’

  ‘You’re ahead of schedule,’ the facility manager pointed out anxiously, ‘and it can be difficult getting out of the city at this time of day. I’ll check the car park if you like. They may be waiting there; we wouldn’t allow them on the Tarmac, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Fuck them,’ Boras growled. ‘They’re not here, and that’s all I care about. My wife and I will travel with you, sir; my personal assistant will come too, in your second car, if need be. The pilots and Sanda’s secretary can come in one of the limos, if they ever arrive.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The dark man turned, jogged heavily up the stairs and back into the jet; after around a minute he reappeared, followed by a slim, blonde woman. If there had been the tiniest sliver of a doubt in Mackie’s mind about the veracity of the identification of the body on the beach, it vanished as soon as he saw her.

  A second man brought up the rear, ducking as he exited the aircraft. He was tall, dressed in a double-breasted suit that screamed Savile Row, with sandy-coloured hair so perfectly arranged that it might have been lacquered, and ginger eyebrows. The assistant chief constable had an excellent memory for faces, an attribute of most successful police officers, and he knew at once that this was one he had seen before.

  ‘My wife, Sanda,’ Boras said gruffly, in introduction. Close to, Mackie could see that the woman’s eyes were puffy; she clutched a handkerchief and he guessed that she had cried all the way to Edinburgh. He nodded to her, a brief bow. ‘And my personal assistant, Keith Barker.’ With the name, the ACC’s recollection was complete: formerly the business editor of ITN, Barker had gone, in the face of much criticism from his peers, from reporting on the Boras empire to representing it.

  He and Mackie shook hands. ‘Shall we be going?’ he said. ‘I’d like to get to the hotel as quickly and as quietly as possible. There are people who make a career out of following the movements of Mr Boras; we gave them the slip when we left Gatwick and I’m anxious that we retain that advantage.’

  ‘Sure,’ the assistant chief replied. ‘Let’s head off.’

  ‘I’d like to travel with you, Mr Mackie, if I may,’ said Barker.

  ‘Yes,’ Boras barked. ‘That would be best.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it,’ Mackie replied evenly, ‘it’s fine with me. I’ll take the lead car with Mr Barker. You and your wife take the larger vehicle, please, Mr Boras. It’s more comfortable.’

  ‘No blue lights, I notice,’ Barker murmured, as the police officer slid after him into the back seat of their Mondeo, tapping the driver on the shoulder as a signal to move off.

  ‘No. There’s no point in attracting attention to Mr Boras. His daughter’s identity hasn’t been picked up by the media yet, and I want to keep it that way until the formal identification’s been made. As an ex-journalist you’ll understand that, I’m sure. Once the news breaks the family will come under intense scrutiny.’

  ‘Of course. But as I said earlier, Mr Boras himself is always under intense scrutiny. That’s why this business needs to be very carefully managed. There could be significant financial implications.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The City’s a very sensitive animal, Mr Mackie. Although Continental IT has become a massive business, my employer remains extremely hands-on in its day-to-day management. I’m not saying that he is the company, you understand, but the financial markets recognise his importance to its well-being. Therefore anything that happens to distract him in his personal life will be seen to have a knock-on effect.’

  ‘And the share price might suffer?’

  ‘Exactly. This is why I wanted to travel with you, Mr Mackie: to make you understand the sensitivity of this situation, at all sorts of levels.’

  ‘I think I do already, but carry on.’

  He did. ‘Make no mistake, Mr Mackie, Zrinka’s death is a tragedy for the Boras family; I cannot tell you how badly it has affected Davor and Sanda. What we must do now is ensure that it does not become a tragedy for others. Continental IT employs thousands, indeed tens of thousands of people across Europe and at our call centre in Mumbai; a crisis of confidence among the institutional shareholders could put many of those jobs at risk. For that reason, I’d like to work with your media people in preparing any public statements about Zrinka, and I’d like her father to be involved in every press briefing, so that he can answer questions directly and send out the right business message: so that he can be seen to be in control.’

  The assistant chief constable frowned. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mr Barker, and I’ve got no problem with putting Mr Boras in front of the press. But I’d like to check our perspectives here. I suppose that Zrinka’s death is a tragedy for you too . . .’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Barker exclaimed, a little too quickly.

  ‘. . . being so close to the family, so maybe your professional thinking is affected. As I understand it, Continental IT is a hugely successful company. Last year it returned profits of more than a half a billion euros. Or am I wrong?’

  ‘No, that’s correct.’

  ‘In addition to that fifty-five per cent of the shares are held by an investment trust owned by the Boras family; so, although it’s a public company, effective control still lies in their hands.’

  The ginger eyebrows rose. ‘You have been doing your homework. You’re an unusual policeman, if I may say so.’

  ‘I like to know who I’m dealing with. But I’m not so unusual: I had a good teacher. What I’m getting around to saying is that, from where I’m sat, you’re anticipating a crisis that isn’t going to happen. Okay, so some institutional shareholders get a bit twitchy, short term. That isn’t going to affect the employees’ interests at all, and long-term it isn’t going to affect the company’s stock-market value.’

  The ex-journalist shifted in his seat, glancing out of the window at the Gyle shopping mall as the car cruised through the roundabout that led into it. ‘Ah, but with respect,’ he ventured, ‘the issues are greater than you know.’

/>   ‘So enlighten me.’ Barker winced, slightly, and nodded in the direction of the driver. Mackie caught the implication. ‘Don’t worry about PC Cash,’ he said. ‘In this car he never hears what’s said in the back seat. Isn’t that right, Wattie?’

  A voice came from the front. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  Boras’s assistant frowned. ‘On that basis, then.’ Nonetheless his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘At this moment,’ he continued, ‘Mr Boras is negotiating an agreed takeover of Continental IT by a very large American company. In these circumstances the share price is of paramount importance. Nothing can be allowed to destabilise it, even in the short term. That’s why it has to be clear to everybody that it is business as usual for Davor Boras, in spite of his grief.’ He sighed. ‘This couldn’t have happened at a worse moment.’

  ‘Is there an ideal moment for a father to lose his daughter, Mr Barker?’ asked Mackie, quietly.

  ‘Of course not, but happening when it has, so close to the takeover, I’m tempted to wonder whether the two events might be connected.’

  The police officer gasped. ‘Are you suggesting that the Americans might have arranged a hit on Zrinka to devalue her father’s business?’

  ‘Dark things happen; you must know that.’

  ‘Yes, but in this case that isn’t one of them. Ms Boras’s murder has got nothing to do with Continental IT. We may not know who killed her, not yet, but we know that much. Mr Barker, you can have everything you ask for in terms of the media. Our PR manager, Alan Royston, will clear our statement with you. When we brief the press, your boss can sit beside our head of CID. All that’s fine.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘In return . . .’ he paused ‘I . . . want Mr Boras, and his wife, if she’s up to it, to be available for interview by our investigating officers tomorrow morning. We need to talk to them about their relationship with Zrinka.’

  ‘They may not like that.’

  Mackie made eye contact and held it. ‘I may not give a fuck,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what’s going to happen.’