Dead And Buried bs-16 Read online

  Gina frowned. ‘You never told me that was on the cards.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s been a deep, dark family secret. They’re still not putting it too widely about, so keep it to yourself till you hear it from someone else. There will be talk, no doubt about it: all sorts of suggestions will be made, and if any of them are made to you I’d be grateful if you’d say they’re splitting up by mutual consent, no third parties involved.’

  ‘And is that true?’

  ‘In time it may not appear so, but it is.’

  Gina rubbed her hands together. ‘Ooow,’ she squeaked, ‘that means your dad’s back in the market-place. Talk about interesting older men!’

  ‘My dad is off limits, girlfriend, so no trying to pull him at my housewarming.’

  ‘Bitch. In that case I’ll have to make do with that new neighbour of yours. What’s his name again?’

  ‘Griff, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the man: very tasty.’

  ‘I think Spring might have something to say about that.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not: she’s his sister.’

  Alex gasped. ‘His . . . How do you know that?’

  ‘My firm did the conveyancing on his flat. I only found out about it yesterday when I mentioned to the partner involved that you had a new place. He spilled the whole tin of beans. Trust me, they’re bro’ and sis’, house-sharing.’

  ‘Mmm. He borrowed my corkscrew last night.’

  ‘Hey! How phallic can you get? Was it the first move, do you think?’

  ‘Highly unlikely, after he saw me saying goodbye to my unshaven one-night stand.’

  ‘Yes, slut,’ said Gina, cheerfully. She turned in her chair and called to a waiter: ‘Any chance of a couple of menus over here? We’ve come for lunch, not dinner.’ He scowled at her, but handed her two large plastic cards.

  ‘You know what I like about you, pal?’ Alex laughed. ‘It’s your subtlety.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I had to be subtle in tracking down my wayward cousin. I called Nolan and asked him where Raymond was. I’ve never known my favourite uncle be short with me before but he was. All he said was “I’ve no idea,” then hung up on me. I wound up having to phone round all the cousins. Eventually, one of them, Sugar . . . and before you ask, yes, that is her real name . . . came up with a mobile number for him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so I called it. I had a pint with him last night in a pub up in Nicholson Street; bloody freezing it was, by the way. The heating had packed in. We talked about this and that, and the next thing. I asked what he was doing with himself, and he said that he had some business on the go, an investment in a nightclub, and in a new one that’s opening down at the foot of Dundas Street.’

  ‘How did he look?’

  ‘Older than his years, but otherwise okay. Somewhere during the third pint, I finally managed to work your name into the conversation, to see how he’d react. I have to say that “disinterested” is the best description I can come up with. I told him you were doing really well with your firm. He just shrugged and said, “Surprise, surprise. I’ll bet she’s got them all by the balls.” Sorry, dear, that’s a direct quote.’

  ‘If I had they’d all be a bigger handful than his,’ Alex grunted vengefully.

  ‘Tut, tut! That’s my young cousin you’re speaking about. Anyway, I came out and told him that you’d been having nasty phone calls.’

  ‘Jesus, Gina, I just wanted you to track him down for me, not confront him with it.’

  ‘And how exactly were you planning to do that?’

  Alex’s reply was stalled by the surly waiter who came to take their orders. When he had gone to fetch two caprese salads, she said, ‘I hadn’t worked that out yet, but still . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s done. When I told him he just laughed and said, “Tough fucking luck.” I told him it wasn’t funny, and that when your dad’s guys traced whoever was doing it they’d have him for breakfast, lunch and high tea, then make soup with what was left. He didn’t have anything to say to that.’

  ‘So what do you think? Could it be him?’

  Gina frowned, unusually serious. ‘I’d love to say “No,” because he is my kin. I’d even like to say “Yes,” because then it could all be sorted. But honestly, love, I just don’t know.’

  Seventy-six

  ‘One of the great skills of police work, Jimmy,’ said Bob Skinner, his voice sounding weary on the phone, ‘and probably of life, lies in knowing, instinctively, which can is the one with the worms in it. Thus forewarned, you can decide whether or not you want to open it.’

  ‘That’s as cynical as I’ve ever heard you, my friend,’ the chief constable replied. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m tired, and I’m three thousand miles away from home. Most of all, I’m borne down by the knowledge that however hard guys like you and me labour to protect the innocent and bring the guilty to justice, there’s another level where different rules apply, and where expediency is all that matters. I feel dirty, because I’ve become a part of it myself, and worse, because I’ve dragged a pleasant, upright young woman into it with me and let her see things that she’ll have nightmares about for the rest of her life. She didn’t belong in the dark, and I brought her into it.’

  ‘That’s not your fault, Bob.’

  ‘Ah, but it is, it is. When Evelyn Grey asked me to do this investigation for him, I knew what was inside the can. Worms? Snakes, Jimmy; fucking cobras. I could have said, “No, thank you,” but I didn’t: I chose to open it.’

  ‘Have you killed them all?’

  ‘All but one. There’s a great big king cobra at the head of it all: I’ve still got to take care of him.’

  ‘That sounds like a tall order. Do you not want to call it quits and come home?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to finish it.’

  ‘How are you going to kill a king cobra?’

  ‘How else? I’m going to charm him. Then when he isn’t expecting it . . . I’m going to cut his damned head off.’

  As Proud listened to his friend, Kevin O’Malley’s report thrust itself back into his mind. To the chief he sounded lonely, more tense and strung out than he had ever known him. ‘Bob,’ he said, ‘your counsellor has recommended to me that you should be given time off: a six-month sabbatical, he called it, to get you out of the front line. I’m inclined to agree with him. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m not in the front line, Jimmy; I’m somewhere behind the fucking lines and I’m not even sure who the enemy is any more. Christ, I might be the enemy myself.’

  ‘Then maybe you should take some time to yourself and work it out.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it when I get back. But not sick leave: I will not take sick leave.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that: it’ll be a formal sabbatical. I’ll send you off to write a thesis on policing; I can arrange for Edinburgh University to publish it.’

  Three thousand miles away, Skinner yawned. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Apart from anything else, it would let me spend some time with the kids when they need it, to get them used to the idea of Sarah being gone. Like I say, we’ll talk about it.’ He paused. ‘So, this business of yours: you’ve spoken to the Friend woman, you said. How did she take it when you told her that you were certain her mother was dead?’

  ‘She was disappointed, more for her daughter than for herself. She’s never known her mother, and she’s a strong woman, so she’ll get over it. At least she’s found an aunt and uncle she never knew she had.’

  ‘And how about you? How do you feel, now that your investigation’s hit the wall?’

  ‘You don’t think we’re going to find him?’

  ‘No. Mario’s got you doing all the right things, but I’ll be surprised if trawling other unsolved crimes gets you a result. It’s a miracle that Bothwell got away with it three times: an obviously clever guy like him wouldn’t push his luck.’

  ‘But if he’s a serial killer, Bob, surely he c
ouldn’t stop himself?’

  ‘He isn’t a serial killer, not as the term is commonly understood. From what you’ve told me, he did it for money. His first wife was wealthy and her fortune disappeared with her; you know that Primrose was left money by her mother and you know that the Spanish woman’s father was in the hotel business. It’s quite possible that after he’d got as much out of her as he could, he killed her and moved on. Maybe he took Annabelle with him; she didn’t have a penny so she doesn’t fit the pattern. Maybe she was the love of his life. Maybe, somewhere, she still is.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just airing possibilities, that’s all. But that’s all they will ever be, for his trail’s gone cold, unless I’m wrong and your public appeal does get a response, or unless there’s something you’ve overlooked.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure there isn’t, and if there was, someone else would have noticed it.’

  ‘If it’s in the file, that’s true. I’ve got to go now, Jimmy. Why don’t you take some time alone, and think everything through. Goodbye now, see you soon.’

  Proud hung up and called his secretary. ‘Gerry, ask Mr Haggerty to postpone our meeting for half an hour.’

  Seventy-seven

  McIlhenney stared across his desk at his friend. ‘I know this isn’t the first of April. I know this isn’t Friday the thirteenth. So why the hell are you sitting in my office taking the piss out of me?’

  ‘Would that I were; it’s all too bloody true. On his QC’s advice, Eddie bloody Charnwood has withdrawn his statement. He’s saying that it was extracted under threats made against his wife. Now he’s pleading not guilty to everything and he’s going to trial. I’ve just had the Crown Office on the phone breaking the bad news.’

  ‘Shit. Just when I was starting to look forward to Christmas.’

  ‘Aye, but there’s worse.’

  ‘There can’t be.’

  ‘There is. The Crown Agent is getting nervous about the evidence. He’s saying that Charnwood opened the safe of his own free will, which doesn’t exactly point to guilt. He’s also pointing out that Big Ming was a work colleague and Joe Falconer was a relation, so his prints could have been on their premises from perfectly innocent visits.’

  ‘Nobody goes to the Wild West innocently, man.’

  ‘I know that and you know that, but a gullible jury might not.’

  ‘They’re not going to let him walk, are they?’

  ‘No, they’re going to trial, but what they are saying is that, just to make sure, we need a witness.’

  ‘We had three, but they’re all dead.’

  ‘Yes; that’s why they don’t count. The Crown Agent wants one who still has a pulse.’

  Seventy-eight

  The good thing about Friday was that everyone had left the office on time to prepare for the corporate department Christmas do in the Dome. The arrangements were in the hands of Pippa, one of the secretaries, who had organised for everyone to be collected by taxi; in Alex’s case the pick-up time was eight fifteen.

  Before letting herself into her apartment building, just after five, Alex checked her letterbox to find a bill, a credit-card statement, a Christmas card with a Tayside postmark, and her waiter’s friend corkscrew, wrapped in a note of thanks from Griff and Spring. Damn, she thought, I was hoping he’d return it in person!

  There were messages waiting on the red-blinking phone, but she ignored them as she opened her mail. The card was from ‘Andy, Karen and Danielle Martin’: she smiled at the baby’s inclusion in the greeting, then realised that it was the first she had received from Andy since their split. She went straight to the Christmas list she had left lying on her desk and added the family’s name.

  As she finished, she glanced through the window: night had fallen, but there was enough light from the living room to let her see her narrow terrace, which stood out above the Water of Leith, fast-flowing with the recent snow-melt that flowed down from the Pentlands. In one corner she could make out a strange shape. Curious, she flicked on the weatherproof bulkhead light; involuntarily, her hand flew to her mouth as she saw that it was a sleeping black cat. How the hell did that get there? she asked herself.

  As she opened the glass door and stepped outside, she expected the animal to stir, but it stayed motionless. She bent to touch it, and as she did the light above her head was caught and reflected by its open eyes, shining on them as if on twin pools, tiny but unfathomably deep. She had seen such eyes before, when she was fifteen and had insisted on staying with her elderly and ailing Siamese, Shorty, as the vet put him to sleep. ‘It’s best like this,’ he had said. ‘Sometimes an old cat will creep from its home and hide when it senses it’s going to die. You wouldn’t have liked that, Alex, because you’d never have known for sure.’

  Yet this did not look like an old cat. ‘You poor wee thing,’ she whispered. She stroked its head, feeling no movement in return. She touched its collar; it was strange and rough on her fingertips. She frowned and tried to lift up its head, but it had stiffened in death, so instead she rolled it on to its side, and saw that it was no collar but a length of twine knotted round its neck. The animal had been garrotted.

  She jumped to her feet, shivering, stifling the urge to scream. ‘How the hell did it get there?’ she gasped. There was no way on to the terrace other than through her apartment, or through that of Griff and Spring, with which it adjoined. She backed away, into her living room, thinking as fast as she could. Could it have been theirs, her neighbours’?

  She shuddered at the idea of living next door to animal torturers, until she remembered something that Spring had said in the only conversation they had had, that they were sad because they had had to leave their pets behind in Cape Town . . . That was it, they were from South Africa.

  Could it have come from one of the four flats above, none of which had terraces? Maybe someone had had a bad-hair day, throttled the cat and chucked it out of the window without waiting to hear the splash as it hit the river. Hardly, but if so, what to do about it? Put a notice on the small bulletin board in the entrance hall? ‘Found, on Alex’s balcony, one deceased moggie. Will the owner please reclaim it.’ She stifled a slightly hysterical giggle.

  What to do? Should she call the police? And have them interview everyone in the place, with all the bad feeling that could create? Hell, no. She switched off the light and stepped back outside. She took a quick look across the river to make sure that there was no one on the walkway on the other side, then stooped quickly, grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, picked it up, and dropped it over the railing. ‘God bless you,’ she whispered; in her eyes, every creature deserved a benediction.

  Back inside, in the warmth, she locked the door and drew the curtains, shutting out the night. ‘I reckon drink is called for,’ she muttered, ‘but first . . .’ She walked through to her bathroom and washed her hands as thoroughly as she ever had, then headed for the kitchen. The cava had been returned to the fridge the night before, less the glass she had poured to go with her pizza, only to pour most of it down the sink before driving to Gullane; it was past its best, but there were still a few bubbles to be seen as she filled a flute to the brim.

  The red light was still blinking, insistently, annoyingly. She pushed the play button; the synthetic voice told her that the first message had been received at ten thirty-two; she started as she heard the voice.

  ‘Alex, this is Raymond Weston. My idiot cousin Gina sought me out last night. She told me you’ve been having breather calls, and without putting it in so many words, she left me feeling like I’m top of the list of suspects. So I’m calling to cross my name off: it wasn’t me. I don’t feel bad about you. Why should I? You’re still the best shag I ever had.’

  She hit the replay button and listened to the message again, trying to read his voice, as if she could measure his sincerity level, then played it a third time before moving on.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ the second message began, scrambli
ng her frayed nerves for a moment. ‘This is Santa, telling you that you are the lucky winner of a trip to Disney World.’ She allowed the computer-dialled, taped American voice to prattle on for a few seconds, before muttering, ‘Fuck off, Santa,’ and pushing the delete button.

  The third call had come in at four minutes past three. She recognised the breathing at once; she was on the point of wiping it, when he spoke. ‘I hate cats too,’ he hissed. Then the line went dead.

  An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. She sat in her swivel chair and hugged herself, as if she was trying to hold the warmth within her body. She stared at the red light, until her eyes misted over, and, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she gave in to tears.

  She was still trying to banish them when the phone rang again. ‘Hi, kid,’ said her father when she answered. ‘How’re you doing?’

  With a great effort, she stopped herself from telling him what had happened. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied.

  ‘No more crap? I’ve been worrying about you.’

  ‘Honest, I’m okay. Dad, hold on for a minute: there’s something on the cooker and I need to turn it down.’ She covered the microphone with her hand for a few seconds, until she had composed herself, then returned to the call. ‘Really,’ she continued, ‘it’s all right. Where are you?’ she asked, getting off the topic of her trouble as quickly as she could.

  ‘At the moment, we are just getting off a plane in Washington DC. That’s all I can tell you right now.’

  ‘When will you be home?’

  ‘As soon as I can. Are you really sure you’re all right?’

  She made herself sound annoyed by his persistence. ‘Dad, I’m fine. How are you? You sound tired.’

  ‘Jet-lag, kid, that’s all. I didn’t sleep much last night, and not at all on the plane; I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.’

  ‘Now you’re worrying me. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything like that. I wish you’d just turn around and come home now: with everything that’s happening in your life, you don’t need this.’