17 - Death's Door Read online

  McGuire winked at him. ‘Come on now, Doc, you know we always run ballistic comparisons.’

  ‘But maybe not as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Bugger off . . . with respect to your professional status, of course.’

  Brown smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Get her to the city mortuary as soon as you can. I’ll be ready, even if it means working this evening, so you’d better have your witnesses in place too. If I’m breaking my back over this I don’t want you lot holding me up.’

  As soon as the Irishman headed for his car, McGuire beckoned to a red-haired figure who stood waiting, amid a group of tunic-clad officers. ‘DI Dorward,’ he called out. ‘Your team can get to work now.’

  ‘Are we looking for anything in particular?’ the man asked, as he approached.

  ‘The day I tell you how to do your job, Arthur,’ the head of CID replied, ‘mine will really have gone to my head.’

  ‘Come on, boss, give us a clue.’

  ‘Well, first of all, we’d like to know who she is, so you should make identification a priority. Also, if you find a spent cartridge casing, that would be very nice.’

  ‘That’s assuming that the uniforms haven’t ground it into the sand . . . or you, for that matter.’

  ‘Give us credit for a wee bit of professionalism.’

  ‘Not after being in this job for the time I have.’ He glanced around. ‘Will this be a media-free zone?’

  ‘As free as we can make it. We can keep the beach clear, but anybody with the wit to hire a boat from North Berwick and run it along here will have a clear view.’

  ‘And they’ll do that too,’ Dorward muttered. ‘We’d better get cracking, in that case.’ He turned, signalling to his team to join him on the beach.

  ‘So where do we go from here, sir?’ Steele asked; the question was loaded.

  ‘I go back to Fettes,’ the detective chief superintendent replied, ‘back to Headquarters. You take charge of this investigation.’

  ‘It’s outside my area,’ the inspector pointed out. ‘It’s in East Lothian.’

  McGuire sighed. ‘How did I know you were going to say that? I don’t care where the fuck it is. This murder is identical in every respect to the Stacey Gavin killing two months ago, and you’re carrying the ball on that one. I’m not having two teams chasing the same person, you must realise that.’

  ‘I do, but will DCI Leggatt understand? He’s the divisional commander here.’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir? He’s relatively new in his position; put yourself in his place and you might fancy a nice high-profile murder, especially in a rural area. A quick result would make your name.’

  McGuire glanced sideways at his colleague. ‘Forgive me, Stevie, if I sound political, but this isn’t any old rural area. We are just outside the village of Gullane. Who lives here?’ He looked to the west. ‘Not a mile away, as the fly crows, or whatever.’

  ‘DCC Skinner.’

  ‘Exactly. Big Bob may be in the middle of this study break of his, but he’s still around. He’s been damn good so far about keeping away from the office, and letting us get on with our jobs; better than I expected, to tell you the truth. But I’m not so naive that I wouldn’t do him the courtesy of advising him of what’s happened on his own doorstep.

  ‘He might not interfere in the investigation, but as sure as God made Motherwell supporters, he will want to be sure that it’s being run to the best of our ability. That does not mean entrusting it to a new DCI whose biggest success to date, good collar though it was, is a white-collar scam involving a bogus property portfolio and some duped investors.

  ‘Stevie, your first task will be to identify the victim. There’s every chance she’s local, and every possibility that the boss knows her. So don’t you be too bothered about Graham Leggatt making his name; you concentrate on yours.’

  Steele winced. ‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’

  The head of CID smiled affably. ‘No. Custom dictates that you say, “Yes, sir.” Anyway, you know I’m right to keep the two investigations under one roof. Don’t worry about DCI Leggatt: I’ll explain my decision to him. And when I do, I’ll bet he bloody thanks me.’

  ‘Do I keep him in the loop?’

  ‘If you want to do that as a courtesy, I’ve no objection, as long as you make it clear that it’s in confidence. Otherwise, you report to Detective Superintendent McIlhenney, when he’s back from changing nappies, and to me until then.’

  ‘What about manpower?’

  ‘Use the same core team that’s on the Stacey Gavin investigation, but you can augment it out here with locals as you need them, for door-to-door enquiries and the like. I’ll square that with Leggatt as well.’

  ‘What about the mobile HQ unit?’

  ‘There’s no point in bringing the van down here, even if we could find somewhere flat to put it: this is too isolated. You’ll have the odd beach rambler, like the man who found the body, and a few family picnics at weekends, but nobody else will come by here. If we have to you can set up the mobile unit in the village, but maybe we can borrow a public building for the purpose. Whatever suits you best.’

  Steele nodded back towards the bents. ‘The road I drove down to get here: is that public? Is it a right of way?’

  McGuire chuckled. ‘To the likes of you and me, maybe, but even then only by invitation or under warrant. It runs across Muirfield golf course, and that’s strictly private.’

  ‘So,’ the inspector scratched his chin, ‘only golf-club members would know about it.’

  ‘In the main, yes.’

  ‘And there’s no other vehicle access?’

  ‘There might be one through the Archerfield estate, but you’d need a tractor to get across here.’

  ‘So if we’re wrong and the victim was brought here, not killed here . . .’

  A broad, piratical grin spread across the head of CID’s face. ‘I see what you mean, Stevie. Your first port of call will be the golf club itself. In that case, take my advice: walk very carefully.’

  Two

  ‘I’ve just checked the weather forecast,’ Neil McIlhenney murmured. ‘It’s set fair well into May. It looks as if I picked a good time to exercise my new politically correct rights.’

  ‘Are you dropping a hint of cynicism about gender equality?’ Paula Viareggio asked.

  ‘Not me,’ the new father replied. ‘I am but a humble servant of the people. If it’s their will . . . or at least the will of about a quarter of them, if you look at the percentage of the apathetic buggers who actually turned out to vote for the present government . . . that I should have two weeks’ paid paternity leave, then who am I to say that they’re wrong? Who am I to say that it’s another burden upon hard-pressed employers struggling to keep their businesses afloat, or that it’s another cost to be borne by the public purse?’

  He held his three-week-old son to his barrel chest, and rubbed two fingers, very gently, between his shoulder-blades. ‘Seriously, though, Paulie, I know that grumpy old bastard of yours thinks of it as an example of the nanny state at work, but seen through my eyes at this moment, it’s a great innovation. My wife and I have two weeks in which we need do nothing but welcome wee Louis into the world.’

  ‘And spoil the hell out of him,’ came a retort from across the room.

  ‘You can’t spoil a baby, McGuire,’ McIlhenney retorted. ‘All you do is feed them when they yell, burp them . . .’ he paused, ‘right on cue, wee man, well done . . . and change them when they yell some more.’

  ‘Aw, look,’ exclaimed Paula, standing behind him, ‘he’s smiling at me.’

  ‘They say,’ Louise McIlhenney told her, ‘that at his age, when he does that it’s just wind. Don’t you believe it: he smiles at us too, and at Lauren and Spence. He has done since the day he was born. Do you want to hold him?’

  ‘If I do, will I get broody?’

  ‘There’s been no sign of it yet, has there?’<
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  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never held one of those before.’

  Even Mario looked surprised. ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘You’ve never held a baby? What about your nephews, Ryan and David?’ He glanced at McIlhenney. ‘You’d never guess their dad was a Man U fan, would you?’

  No,’ Paula confessed. ‘I never got to play with either of them. My sister hardly ever went out when they were very young, and when she did she always asked Mum to babysit. My nephews and I have never been close: no way was I getting stuck with the maiden-aunt tag.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Neil. ‘Take a chance.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ McGuire muttered.

  ‘Ah, you be quiet. You can have a turn too if you like.’ The smiling father leaned over and placed the baby gently into Paula’s arms, as she settled herself against the arm of a big, soft sofa, showing her how to hold him and how to support his head.

  ‘God,’ she whispered, as she looked at the tiny round face. ‘God. Hello there, wee Louis. I’m your auntie Paula. Will you and I be friends?’ The infant blinked up at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, to form what might or might not have been a smile. ‘Looks like it, eh?’

  McIlhenney turned to his friend. ‘Time for your feed as well?’ He walked across to the bar, which stood in a corner of the living room.

  ‘Well, if you’ve got something open . . .’

  ‘Since it’s you, I’ve got some nice Valpolicella here.’

  ‘Perfect.’ He watched as Neil poured two glasses, held one out towards him, then picked up the other. ‘I thought you were off that stuff,’ he said.

  ‘Not completely. Lou isn’t drinking alcohol while she’s feeding the wee one, and Paula said she’s driving. As for Lauren and Spence upstairs, we do give them a taste occasionally, but very little and never during the school week. So if I don’t give you a hand you’ll finish the bottle all on your own, and probably want to start another.’

  ‘True,’ Mario muttered. ‘Fuckin’ spoilsport, aren’t you?’

  The two men wandered through to the kitchen, where Neil had prepared a bowl of salad, ready to accompany four steaks, which he had seared earlier. He switched on the eye-level gas grill, and sipped his wine as he waited for it to heat. ‘What was that on Scotland Today,’ he asked, ‘about a suspicious death in East Lothian?’

  ‘We aren’t allowed to talk shop,’ Mario reminded him. ‘I’d cross many people, but not your wife, not ever.’

  ‘She can’t hear us.’

  ‘I’m not going to take that chance. You just concentrate on those fillets.’

  The cook fell silent as he laid the four steaks on the grill tray, and slid it under the flame. ‘Near Gullane, was it?’ he ventured, at last.

  McGuire gave up. ‘Just by Muirfield; you know, the golf course where half the Supreme Court judges are members.’

  ‘Mmm. On the golf course itself?’

  ‘No, on the other side.’

  ‘On the bents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On the beach, then.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mmm.’ McIlhenney peered into the grill, concentrating on the steaks. ‘Does Paula still like hers well done?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m trying to wean her off burned meat; she’ll have it just shy of medium like the rest of us.’

  ‘That’s good. I can turn them all at the same time, then.’ As he spoke, a pinging sound began and the microwave indicator display flashed. ‘That’s the spuds baked,’ he said, as he switched it off. ‘Sweet potatoes.’

  ‘Yummy,’ Mario murmured, deadpan.

  Neil wore a concentrated frown as he flipped the four steaks over, then slid them back under the grill. ‘Another few minutes and they’ll be fine. I’ll be doing six, before you know it: it can’t be long before Lauren won’t be put off with early supper and insist on joining us. And that’ll mean Spence too.’

  ‘You’ll be doing seven soon.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That wee boy through there, mate. He’ll be your height before you know it.’

  ‘Jesus, man, don’t wish his childhood away.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not, really; as a caring godparent, if I could keep him in a time warp of innocence I bloody well would. But life ain’t like that.’ Mario’s face grew dark. ‘I saw an angel today, pal; cut off in her prime.’

  ‘That’s the job.’

  ‘Sure. But she had a father too, just like wee Louis.’ He shook his heavy shoulders. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘You know it always affects me like this when I visit a murder scene.’

  ‘Good. I’ll start to worry about you the day it doesn’t.’

  ‘Yeah. Be sure to tell me, too.’

  ‘In a loud voice.’ Neil peered into the grill once more. ‘Not long now.’ He opened the microwave and used a glove to lift out the baked yams on the revolving glass tray. ‘The dishes are warming in the oven. Do you want to get them out?’ he asked rhetorically, as he carried them across to a work surface.

  ‘Sure.’

  When the plates were laid out, Neil laid a baked potato on each, slit it open and dropped in a spoonful of mustard mayonnaise, then returned to the grill and waited for the steaks to cook to his satisfaction.

  ‘Did you brief the big man?’ he murmured casually.

  ‘Bob Skinner? Of course I did,’ McGuire replied. ‘I’m not daft. I looked in on him before I went back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He thanked me, and wished us well with the investigation.’

  ‘Does he expect daily reports?’

  ‘No. He never asked.’

  ‘Jesus!’ McIlhenney gasped. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen him?’

  ‘Not since February. That’s the last time he was at our Thursday-night football; I had to go straight home afterwards, so we didn’t have time to talk. He visited Lou in the maternity, of course, the day after the baby was born; brought him a very generous present. But I was in the office so I missed him. How’s he looking?’

  McGuire’s eyebrows rose. ‘Fit as hell. To be honest, I haven’t seen him looking better in years.’

  ‘Did he say what he’s been up to?’

  ‘He said, and I quote, that he’d been farting about on some study projects he’s been putting off for years. He was in Toronto during the Easter holidays while the kids were with their mother in Connecticut; he didn’t go into detail, but I got the impression that it might have been job-related. I think he’s been writing too.’

  ‘So the marriage break-up with Sarah isn’t getting to him?’

  ‘Why do you ask? You’re closer to him than I am.’

  ‘Not so close that he pours out his soul to me.’

  ‘As far as I can see, he’s over it. Who knows? Maybe he’s well out of it. Maybe they both are. Besides, he’s involved elsewhere, isn’t he? The story’s all over town.’

  Neil turned off the grill. ‘How do I put this? He’s involved discreetly? No, that isn’t the word: the deputy chief constable doesn’t do discreet very well. Yes, he is, but he’s trying his best to keep it low-key; that just about sums it up. I heard that one tabloid was going to run a feature on him and his new lady, until he phoned the editor and squashed it. Whether it was by threat or blackmail, I don’t know, but neither would surprise me.’

  He carried the steaks across and laid one on each plate. ‘Graham Leggatt’s going to have to be careful, I guess. Interviewing some of those Muirfield members will call for a bit of diplomacy.’

  ‘Not from him. Stevie Steele’s fronting the investigation.’

  ‘Mmm.’ No more than a whisper. ‘I’ll take the girls’ steaks through to the dining room. You bring the salad.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Louise’s voice came from the doorway: she was smiling as she stood there with the big glass bowl in her hands. ‘I’ve got it. And what did I say about talking shop? It’s like telling the sun not to set.�
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  Three

  ‘Most times it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding. His face was pale in the neon light of Edinburgh city mortuary’s observation gallery.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cause of death.’

  ‘So?’ Stevie Steele challenged.

  ‘So it doesn’t make any difference. They still go through the whole rigmarole, and it still takes a hell of a long time. I had a victim once; he was brought in here with a knife stuck in his chest, wedged right in his sternum like the sword in the fucking stone, and yet it was four hours before they were done with him. Look at this poor lass . . .’

  ‘The pathologist’s name wasn’t Arthur, was it? Arthur King?’

  Wilding stared at the inspector. ‘No, it was Sarah Grace, the DCC’s ex-wife. There isn’t one called Arthur King, is . . .’ He broke off, as the point struck home. ‘Very funny. Anyway, as I was saying, look at this lass. She’s got a bullet hole in her head, but you can bet they’ll open her up, take all her bits out . . .’

  ‘Enough, for Christ’s sake!’ Steele protested. ‘I don’t need a commentary. However clear-cut it looks, it’s all necessary. What if they go in there and find the bullet lodged in bone? What if it didn’t kill her, and she died of something else? I read of a politician in Ireland, years ago, who was shot five times in the head and survived.’

  ‘His brain must have been so small they couldn’t hit it,’ the sergeant growled. ‘What odds are you offering against this girl having died of a gunshot wound?’

  ‘That’s not the point. The autopsy report goes beyond immediate cause of death because that’s how the procurator fiscal wants it. The Crown has to build a complete case: by the time the thing comes to court there just can’t be any questions that it can’t answer. Look at it another way: it’s an important part of our own investigation; a full examination can throw up all sorts of things that might help us.’

  ‘Like what? She had sand under her fingernails?’

  ‘A hell of a lot more than that, Ray, and you know it. Okay, her clothing was undisturbed and there was no sign of sexual assault when she was found, but the likelihood is her killer was known to her; that’s true of most homicides. Maybe they had consensual sex, and maybe he left his DNA inside her.’