Last Resort (28 page)

Twenty-Seven

T
he uniforms beat CID to the scene but not by much, which was just as well, because an over-enthusiastic rookie constable was about to do her career prospects no good by putting my wrists into plastic restraints.

She’d ordered me to leave the apartment. I’d told her that the detectives would bring me back in as soon as they arrived, but she’d decided to use force.

‘Stop that!’ Acting Detective Inspector Jack McGurk bellowed as he stepped into the living room. He was followed by Tarvil Singh, and by two crime scene officers, all four wearing disposable tunics.

The PC ignored him and looked at her sergeant for guidance; he’d been in the kitchen and had missed our confrontation.

‘For fuck’s sake, Annie!’ he shouted. ‘D’ye no’ ken who that is? Get the fuck down the stairs and secure the entrance. Let nobody in except folk that live here and let nobody out, nobody at all.’

Annie shot me a look that said, ‘I’ll remember you,’ and left the scene.

‘Go and join her, Bill,’ McGurk told the sergeant. ‘We’re going to need room in here and, besides, you’re not sterile.’

The veteran looked up at him. ‘I wish your faither had been,’ he said, affably, then did as he was told.

I’d finished my search while I waited for their arrival. Linton Baillie was still a mystery, but he existed, that I’d established to my own satisfaction.

There was a roll-top bureau in the sitting room, alongside the window, with a high-backed typist chair tucked into the kneehole. I’d expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t; inside I’d found a stack of receipts and credit card slips against the First National Mutual Visa that Sauce had told me about.

One of the slips was clipped to a receipt for a laptop computer, an expensive piece of kit that he’d bought a year and a half earlier. Of the computer itself, there was no sign.

‘Question time, Alex,’ McGurk said, as he approached me. I was standing in the corner of the room that was furthest from the body, since I was the only person there who wasn’t in a tunic.

‘Before we go any further,’ he added, ‘do you want me to get word about this to the chief?’

‘Which one?’ I replied.

He must have detected a trace of bitterness in my voice, for he raised an eyebrow, and murmured, ‘Oh yes? Trouble?’

‘Let’s not complicate this situation further, Jack,’ I retorted, ‘by bringing my private life into it. I’ve already tried and failed to contact my father, but I’m not going to make life difficult for you by bringing Andy into this.’

‘Appreciated, but if I don’t tell him, he might go ballistic when he finds out. I’m only acting DI, remember, while Becky Stallings is on maternity leave. I don’t fancy torpedoing my chances of confirmation.’

‘You won’t,’ I assured him, ‘but if you have to, tell him I asked you specifically not to because I didn’t think it appropriate. Andy’s above and beyond this level of incident, so you’ve no reason to report it to anyone other than your line manager. Who is that, incidentally, under the new set-up?’

‘It’s still Mary Chambers, although the word is she’s going to Lothians and Borders and Sammy Pye’s taking over. Big changes all round,’ he added. ‘Maggie Steele’s the chief’s designated deputy and Mario McGuire’s the DCC in charge of all crime. Any word,’ he added, ‘on what your dad might do?’

‘When he decides,’ I said wryly, ‘I’ll be the first to hear.’

‘Mmm,’ Jack murmured, then he snapped into professional mode.

Singh had drawn the curtains and was standing beside the body as the DI joined him. ‘Cause of death’s pretty obvious,’ he observed.

‘Yes.’ Jack glanced back in my direction. ‘Was he dead when you arrived, Alex?’ he called out.

For all that I’ve known him for years, since his spell as my father’s exec, that made me shiver. He’s a good detective and he has to deal with what’s before him, regardless of the personalities involved. At that moment all he had to deal with was a dead body, and me in the same room.

‘Obviously,’ I retorted.

‘Not to us,’ he countered. ‘The pathologist will give us a time of death, but for the record, what time did you get here?

‘Just after eight.’

‘Your call was timed in at eight twenty-three?’

‘I know.’ I told him most of the truth; that I’d found the body, bolted in blind panic, then recovered my courage. I left out the part about searching the place.

‘Okay. Now tell me . . . who the fuck is this guy and what were you doing here?’ He grinned. ‘He doesn’t look your type.’

I’ve been around cops all my life, so I’m used to graveside humour. I can even play the game.

‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘he doesn’t look any worse dead than he did alive; maybe even better, because he wore a really bad hairpiece. His name was Thomas Coyle, but I didn’t think I was coming here to meet him.’

‘Explain?’

‘It’s a long and complicated story, but I’ll do my best. My father’s just discovered that he’s been stalked for the last few months by a private investigator. He didn’t know until he went to Spain, at short notice, and found her there ahead of him.’

‘Where’s she from?’

‘Edinburgh, as far as I know.’

‘What’s her name? I know some of the licensed PIs around here. If she isn’t accredited, we’ll have her.’

‘Carrie McDaniels.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve come across her. She’s ex Military Police, and she does have a permit. She’s not great, but she’s dumber than I thought if she’s taken on a contract to snoop on the gaffer. Who’s her client?’

‘His name is Linton Baillie, and he’s an author. Coyle’s his agent. I thought I was coming here to meet Baillie.’

‘Why?’

‘To find out what he’s playing at, and put a stop to it, whatever it is. My fear is that he’s writing some sort of sleazy biography of my father. He’s already approached someone who was once close to Dad, trying to coerce her into meeting him.’ I hesitated, and he picked up on it.

‘And?’ he said.

I decided that I knew him well enough to confide. ‘He may have uncovered some very personal stuff, Jack.’

‘Are you going to tell me about it?’ he asked, gently.

‘I wouldn’t hesitate if I thought it was relevant to your investigation, but for now I’d rather not.’

‘It’s that personal?’ I nodded. ‘Okay, leave it for now. But Alex, this I must ask. If you were coming here for a serious talk with this Baillie man, why the hell are you dressed like a student?’

I explained how I’d introduced myself to Tommy Coyle, and his invitation to meet Baillie.

He considered my story, then voiced the question that I’d put to myself earlier. ‘Does this so-called writer really exist, or is he only a pen-name for Coyle?’

‘I’m pretty sure that he does, but I’ll grant you that Coyle could have created a second identity. You’ll have to decide that for yourself.’

‘What does he write, this guy?’

‘True crime stuff.’ I told him about my talk with Clarissa Orpin, and the story about the angry namesake of a deceased London gangster. ‘His bestseller is a so-called exposé about MI5; from what his editor said it’s done pretty well.’

‘Well enough for MI5 to want him silenced?’

‘Come on, Jack, I hardly think so, do you?’

‘Maybe not,’ he conceded, then he smiled. ‘I hope you took precautions.’

I stared at him.

‘I hope you wore gloves when you looked around this place.’

‘I . . .’

‘Come on, Alex, you’re a Skinner. You could never resist playing detective.’

‘No comment.’ I grinned back at him. ‘But I’ll bet you find that the clothes in the wardrobe wouldn’t fit Coyle, suppose you boiled him for a week in a sauna.’

‘So what was he doing here?’

‘There’s no fresh food in the kitchen, so it looks as if Baillie’s away, and Coyle had the run of the place. If that’s so, my assumption is that he had ambitions of doing me.’

‘From the sound of it, that’s a reasonable explanation. Does the gaffer know about this, Alex?’ he asked. ‘Does he know you were coming here?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, and I got the “Be careful” lecture. I came prepared.’ I showed him the contents of my bag.

‘You didn’t bring a length of cheese wire as well, did you?’

‘Don’t be funny.’

‘What makes you think I am?’ he countered. ‘If I was another officer, one who didn’t know you from Adam, I’d be thinking that on the basis of what I’ve been told so far, and what I’ve seen here, you’ve got a potential motive for this murder, and here you are standing over the body.’

‘Standing here, because I found him. I reported it. Would I have done that if I’d topped the bloke?’

‘It’s been known,’ Jack pointed out. ‘In fact, it’s pretty common; domestic homicides, arguments between friends that go too far, it’s often the perp who calls it in.’

Then he grinned again. ‘But this man is definitely not your type, so I’ll cross you off the suspect list . . . for now.’ He winked. ‘In this new set-up I might come under pressure for a quick result, in which case you’ll be a handy backstop. They say that our new chief constable’s turning into a megalomaniac.’

‘He can turn into a fucking frog, for all I care,’ I snapped.

‘Ouch!’ He winced. ‘I don’t want to know that.’ He paused, then went all cop. ‘Is there any other help you can give us? Did you see anyone when you arrived here?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. I saw nobody, and heard nothing, apart from the radio. I have to say, though, that in the short time I spent with him this morning, the late Mr Coyle didn’t strike me as a Shakespeare buff.’ The Bose was still playing; no one had bothered to turn it off.

‘You mean he might have switched on to listen to something else, and been killed before that started?’

‘Yes. If so it might help establish time of death.’

‘True. Good thinking.’

‘One other thing, Jack,’ I added. ‘I didn’t turn the place over completely, but I did find a receipt for a laptop in that desk over there. There’s no sign of any computer, though.’

He nodded. ‘Okay, thanks for that, Alex. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere. We’ll be doing a full search, obviously, as soon as you’re gone. We’ll need a formal statement from you for the murder book, but it needn’t be tonight.’

‘Do you want me to call into Torphichen Place?’

‘No, it’s okay. We can come to your office.’

‘I’m working from home just now,’ I explained.

‘Fine, we’ll come there, Err,’ he hesitated, ‘will there be any problem if it’s Karen Neville that does it?’

Detective Sergeant Neville is Andy’s ex-wife, back in CID and on Jack’s team. ‘You should ask her,’ I replied. ‘I’m fine with it. To make it easier for her I’ll draft something out. If she’s happy with it I’ll print it and sign it.’

‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll tell her to call first to agree a time. Off you go, then, and let us get on with things. The first thing we have to do is establish the victim.’

‘I’ve told you who he is.’

‘Yes, but that’s not what I mean. I walk in here and I see a man sitting in a comfy chair, my first thought is that he must be the householder. But if what you’re saying about the clothes is right, he’s not; he’s someone else. So I have to ask, and answer a question. Did the killer make the same mistake?’

‘Whatever,’ I said, ‘I hope you catch him. Tommy might have been a sleaze bucket, but that shouldn’t get you killed.’

I hoisted my bag on my shoulder, ready to head for the door. ‘One last thing, Jack,’ I added. ‘If you do find Baillie’s laptop hidden somewhere, my father and I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s on it.’

‘I can imagine,’ he agreed. ‘But do you want me to know?’

Twenty-Eight

I
n the aftermath, I was glad that I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Only a seriously maladjusted person could have enjoyed an untroubled night after an experience like the one I’d had.

By the time I made it home, my composure had more or less worn off. If there was ever a time I needed Andy, that was it. I came close to calling him, asking him to come round; I even thought about landing on his doorstep.

But in the end I was strong enough not to; I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d gone limping back to him at the first moment of crisis. Jack McGurk might never have forgiven me either, if the chief constable had taken a personal interest in his murder investigation.

Instead of all that I put on some calming music, and poured myself a calming glass of Rioja. As I sipped it I thought of Dad, in Spain. I’d called him first, of course, as soon as I was back in my car, but his goddamn mobile went straight to voicemail, as before.

What would he have done?
I thought. As a private citizen, probably much the same as I had. Then I changed the question.
As a cop, what would he be doing now?

He’d be trying to trace Mr Baillie through that address
, I decided.

It’s very difficult to live a completely secret life in a modern state, even one that’s fairly liberal and doesn’t go in for routine monitoring of its citizens. Just for fun, I switched on my computer and logged on to a website where you can trace registered electors.

I entered Baillie’s name and address: it came up blank. I tried another that checks the whole public record. There were plenty of the clan in Edinburgh, but not a single forename that matched.

That avenue was closed off; I tried another. Baillie had a credit card and it was active; that meant he had to be servicing it through a bank account. On my first search I messed up the name, but second time around I found the First National Mutual site. Yes, it did have a banking division. I tried to log on to it under the user name ‘Lbaillie’, with a made-up password. It was rejected, but only as ‘password incorrect’.

A small step, but if I could take it, Jack McGurk could go a lot further.

I was pouring my second glass of Rioja when I realised that there was someone I could call. If I couldn’t sleep, why the hell should Mia?

I hadn’t deleted her message from my voicemail, so I was able to retrieve her number. When I called it, I got her answering service. She’d left her mobile number on it; I noted it then dialled it on my own.

She wasn’t alone when I called; I could hear music in the background but other sounds as well, the clunk of glasses, other people’s voices. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked suspiciously, before I’d had a chance to speak.

‘It’s Alex. Sorry to interrupt your party.’

‘It’s not. I’m at a club.’ Suspicion turned to anxiety. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to Ignacio?’

‘No, he’s safe and sound. But Linton Baillie may not be.’ I explained what had happened.

‘And the police think whoever did this got the wrong man?’ she asked, when I was finished.

‘I don’t know what they think, not yet, but that’s the way it seems to me.’

‘Isn’t that a pity,’ she murmured. Her apparent indifference surprised me.

‘It is for Thomas Coyle, although . . .’

I paused to gather my thoughts, and to play back what I had seen in the flat, a detail that had seemed insignificant at first, yet which fitted with other pieces of the puzzle.

‘There was a hall table, and I noticed a few days’ worth of junk mail, addressed to “The Occupier”, lying there. Now, I reckon that Coyle picked them up on his way in, which would mean that Baillie hasn’t been at home for a while.’

‘So what?’ Mia asked.

‘The calls you had, the one to the radio show and the one to your home, were both traced to an Edinburgh number. I’m wondering whether Coyle made them. In fact I’m sure he did.’

‘Which means that Baillie could be anywhere; is that what you’re saying?’

‘More than that,’ I replied. ‘It means that he really doesn’t want to be found.’

‘That would be very wise on his part. I don’t care where he is, as long as he stays there and doesn’t bother me again. Here,’ she exclaimed, ‘you don’t suppose he killed this man Coyle, do you?’

The notion hadn’t occurred to me. I doubted that Jack McGurk would fancy it either. Even if they had fallen out, or Coyle had become an embarrassment, to do someone in in one’s own front room did not seem like the act of a sensible man . . . or even a sane one.

I left Mia to her clubbing and tried to get some sleep, but as I’ve said, I didn’t get close. I gave up around 1 a.m. and spent the waking hours studying, then listening to music after my eyes ceased to focus properly, but my brain couldn’t shed the image of a dead man staring up at me from an armchair.

I’ve never felt as lonely as I did that night, and yet somehow, once it was over, I felt stronger too, and more independent.

As the day started to make its presence felt, I could see that it was pissing down outside, so a run wasn’t an attractive prospect. Instead, I took the car up to the Royal Commonwealth Pool, and swam for a good thirty minutes. I felt more awake after that, and a cold shower.

Back home, I put a pot of coffee on the stove, then fixed myself a couple of bacon rolls. When they were done, I settled down in front of the telly to catch up with current affairs on the BBC news channel.

I nodded off halfway through the second roll, and with the coffee untouched. I have no idea of how long I slept, but it must have been less than an hour, for I was wakened by the ringing telephone at five past ten.

My head was mush as I answered, but I did my best to sound alert. After all, it could have been a client . . . Easson Middleton has many friends.

It wasn’t. Instead it was a cool, measured female voice. ‘Alex, this is Karen, DS Neville for the purposes of this call. Jack McGurk’s asked me to call on you to take your statement about the suspicious death in Portland Street.’

She sounded very formal, I wondered whether she wasn’t too keen about having to pay a house call. ‘I’ll come to you,’ I offered. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘No, we’ll do it as the DI wants it. What time would suit you?’

God, I’d promised to draft something before she arrived, but it had slipped my mind in the course of the night.

‘How about eleven thirty? Would that be too late?’

‘I’ll see you then.’

All of the renewed energy I’d found in the pool seemed to have disappeared. I felt drained and crotchety. Indeed I was so narked that when my dad’s mobile still showed up unavailable, I rang the house number in L’Escala and left a terse message for him to await his return from his mystery trip to Madrid . . . whenever the hell that might be.

That done, I booted up my computer and keyed in an account of the previous day: my hunt for Linton Baillie, without elaborating on the reason for it, my ‘undercover’ visit to his agent, and the appointment that had led to me finding Coyle.

I finished it at five to eleven, leaving time to brew some more coffee ahead of time for my visitor’s arrival. I can’t deny that I was a wee bit nervous. The relationships between Karen, Andy and me have been complicated, but in the eyes of most people, mine among them, she has never been in the wrong in any sense. She was sinned against and he and I were the sinners.

However, in my defence, Andy and I sinned just the once. He was in Edinburgh, he visited me in my flat in Stockbridge, and what happened took both of us by surprise. If it had stayed between the two of us, then probably I wouldn’t be talking about it now, but it didn’t, thanks to some nasty snooping bastard who found out and spread the story, with pictures.

The marriage hung together for a while after that, and it was only after it had ended, on the ground of mutual indifference, I was assured, that Andy and I began a new relationship. As far as I knew, or rather as far as he told me, Karen held no grudges, but I’d never heard that directly from her.

She arrived bang on time. I buzzed her in, told her where the lifts were, then went to the landing to greet her.

She was dressed pretty much as I do for work: dark suit, skirt rather than trousers, high heels but not precipitous. I was dressed like a slob, in tracksuit bottoms, my Yes for Scotland sweatshirt, and sheepskin-lined slippers. Her hair was immaculate, mine was a mess, just combed through and pulled back in a ponytail. If she’d ever seen me as a femme fatale, that illusion was shattered.

I didn’t know how to play it as I showed her into my home. If she’d been planning on keeping it strictly professional, she cracked after a couple of seconds.

She looked round the place, nodding. ‘Very nice, Alex.’ She walked across to the doors that lead on to my tiny balcony and peered through the glass. ‘Lovely view, too.’

She turned and looked me in the eye, properly, for the first time since she’d stepped out of the lift. ‘Do my kids come here?’ she asked.

‘They have done,’ I admitted. ‘Before you ask,’ I added, ‘when they have been, those doors were locked . . . always.’

I frowned, slightly. ‘It’s not something you need worry about from now on,’ I said, as I walked towards the tray where I’d put the coffee pot and two mugs.

‘Does that mean . . .’ she began, as I poured, but stopped short. ‘Sorry, none of my business what it means.’

‘Of course it is, Karen,’ I told her. ‘I’ve seen a lot of Danielle and Robert at the weekends, since you’ve been back in Edinburgh, and back in the job. You have a right to know about it. So go ahead, ask.’

She did. ‘Are you moving too?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m going nowhere. I was asked . . . in fact it was implied that I should.’ I felt an involuntary half-smile as I added milk to the mugs and handed one to her. ‘I didn’t react well to the lack of consultation, I’m afraid. We’ve had a bust-up.’

I thought I might see a little triumph in her eyes, but I didn’t, just genuine concern. ‘You’ll patch it up, surely.’

‘No, we won’t . . . at least I won’t. We should never have got back together.’

I paused, then added, ‘And here and now I apologise to your face for what happened between us when you and Andy were married. That was not planned, I promise you; I’m ashamed of it.’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, as we seated ourselves. ‘I got over that a long time ago. There was history between you two, I know that; unresolved issues. Plus, Andy, for all his faults, was never a serial adulterer, and I don’t think you are either. The kids like you, and they tend to be good judges. They’ll miss you.’

‘And I’ll miss them.’ As I spoke the words, I realised the truth of them. ‘However, Andy is right; we’re two career-driven people. That was the problem first time around, and it’s happened again.’

‘That’s a pity.’ She grinned. ‘How did he take it?’

‘Not well,’ I admitted.

‘He wants me to move too.’

That took me by surprise. ‘But you’ve only just come down here from Perth,’ I exclaimed.

‘That doesn’t matter to Andy. He’s buying a house in Glasgow and he wants me to do the same.’

‘Just like that?’

She nodded. ‘Just like that. He’s even pointed me at a DI post I should apply for. The damnable thing is I probably will. There’s nothing to keep me here, and it will make things easier for the children.’

‘No new relationship?’ I ventured.

Karen laughed. ‘Hell, no. I did think I might have had something going, last summer. I was seeing a guy, but it ended in disaster. He was a widower, so we took it gently. Not gently enough, as it happened; the first time we got naked, he burst into tears. He just sat there on the edge of the bed and said he couldn’t do it. That was bloody obvious too, from what he had on show. I beat a hasty retreat. So much for Internet dating.’

‘I’ll make a note to avoid it,’ I promised. ‘Good luck, whatever you decide.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now to business, yes?’

‘Sure.’ I went to my desk and retrieved the draft statement that I’d printed. ‘I’ve put that together for you. If you’ve got any additional questions, fire away.’

She read it through, carefully, then looked up at me. ‘Everything?’ she asked.

‘Everything . . . including the part where I admit to having a look around the place while I was waiting for the police to arrive.’

‘In that case it’s fine. Print out another copy, we’ll sign both, and I’ll leave one with you.’

‘Okay,’ I agreed, then took her by surprise by asking if she had a business card on her. She did, and handed it over.

I went back to my computer and ran off the second copy. While I was there, I did something else.

As I returned to my seat, Karen looked up at me. ‘Jack says I can share some things with you,’ she announced. ‘He told me your father has an interest in what this man Linton Baillie’s been up to.’

‘That’s good of him. Dad’s in Spain just now, and out of touch, but when he does contact me again, it’s the first thing he’ll ask me. What have you got?’

‘We’ve established that the council tax on the property is paid by direct debit, drawn on an account with the First National Mutual bank, the holder being Linton Baillie. The same’s the case with the utilities bills, gas, leccy and phone. They’re all settled through the same account. Everything’s done online.’

None of that surprised me, but I didn’t tell Karen.

‘We’re looking elsewhere,’ she added. ‘Passport Agency, DSS and so on, but those buggers take their own time.’

‘You didn’t find a computer?’

‘No, but you didn’t expect us to, did you?’

‘Not unless he’d hidden it in the toilet cistern, like they did with the gun in
The Godfather
. It does confirm something, though, doesn’t it? Or rather its absence does.’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘It knocks on the head the outside chance of Coyle and Baillie being one and the same. Coyle was in the flat, but the laptop wasn’t. I’ve been in his office; he has a computer there, an old Windows thing. Baillie’s laptop, the one described in the receipt I found, is an Apple; hardly compatible, so I doubt you’ll find it there.’

‘Wherever the laptop is, so is Baillie?’