Lethal Intent (20 page)

'I've no doubt they are. The university'll be all over it, but I've told Jack to get one of the technicians from our forensics lab out there to examine it.'

McIlhenney sighed. 'What a bloody week we're having,' he exclaimed. 'First George Regan's lad, and now this.'

'I meant to ask Dan about the Regan investigation this morning. I'd better give Mary Chambers a call instead.'

'She'll tell you that they're ready to send the file to the Fiscal as an accidental death. At least that's what Maggie told Mario yesterday.'

'Mmm,' Skinner murmured. 'I'm glad that's sorted. I'm desperately sorry for George and his wife, but a formal verdict is probably the best way for them to get closure. That could be a long way off for Dan and Elma, though, I reckon.'

'Maybe, but I'm not so sure he'll recover as well as George Regan. He's older, and he's tired, plus…'

Skinner nodded. 'I think I know what you mean. Dan's quite a volatile guy under the surface and, let's not mince words, we all know he likes a drink.' He frowned. 'Neil, if it comes to it, you know about bereavement counselling; could you give him any advice?'

'If I thought he'd take it from me, sure, but given that he and I aren't close, it might be better if you suggested it to him… and to George, for that matter. There's an organisation called Cruse; it's national, but it has branches here. All its people are trained to a pretty high standard.'

'Do they help?'

'They helped me.'

'Give me the details, and I'll pass them on.'

'You could get the human-resources people to do it,' McIlhenney suggested.

'I know I could, but there are some things I don't delegate.'

'There are many things you don't delegate.'

'So it's been said,' the DCC admitted, with a brief smile. 'Anyway, you wanted to see me. What's up?'

'It's the Albanian thing, and it might be as well if Amanda Dennis was here.'

'She and Green are using a room along the corridor. I'll ask her to join us.' He made the call; the two men sat and waited for around a minute, until the door opened and the MI5 officer stepped into the room.

'Thanks, Amanda,' said Skinner, once she was seated. 'Neil's got something for us. Fire away, Chief Inspector.'

'Yes, sir. My wife and I had dinner with Mario McGuire…' he looked at Dennis '… he's a friend of mine, a detective superintendent in Leith… and Paula last night, and he and I had a private discussion. Don't worry,' he said hastily, 'I didn't spill all the beans, but I did ask him if he knew of any contacts. He gave me a lead, to a bloke who runs an allegedly Turkish restaurant down in Leith, only he's not Turkish by birth, he's Albanian. He goes by the name of Peter Bassam.'

'Indeed?' He had Dennis's attention. 'Have you had him checked out?'

'First thing this morning. Alice Cowan ran him down with the DSS and the Home Office immigration section; she found out that he's here because he's got a German passport, thanks to his grandfather, an SS officer who deserted to Albania from Greece when the Germans got out of there, and sired his mother. He applied for citizenship through the German embassy in Turkey four years ago and it was granted.'

'So he's legit: he has a right to be here?'

'Yes, he's a European Union citizen.' McIlhenney smiled. 'But there is one thing about him that caught my attention, thanks to young Alice, who dug deep enough to find it. He calls himself Peter Bassam, but that's not the name on his passport. His given name is Petrit Bassam Kastrati.'

Skinner chuckled. 'Is it indeed? I can understand why he doesn't use his surname, but why did he change the other, I wonder?' He looked at his colleague. 'Sounds as if he bears investigation. Any ideas?'

'I've got one. While Alice was doing her research, I took a run down to Elbe Street and checked out his place. It was closed, of course, but he's got a sign in his window saying that he's looking for a waiter.'

'And you were thinking?' Dennis asked.

'I was wondering, to be more accurate, whether Sean Green has any experience in that line of work.'

She looked at Skinner. 'Sean's experience is pretty broadly based. He's been under cover in pubs before now; I'm sure he'd be prepared to play the waiter. Is this a formal request?'

The DCC considered the question, then nodded. 'I reckon it is. Do you have to clear it?'

'Only with Sean; I never force people into undercover assignments.' She smiled, fondly. 'He's never turned one down, though.'

'Okay, ask him. He'll need a new identity, references, and the ability to back them up. How long will that take?'

'That can be in place tomorrow. But what about the state of his face? Won't that invite questions?'

'Sure, but that won't be difficult. Couldn't you build it into his cover story, as a reason for being sacked?'

'Screwing the chefs wife at his former place of employment, for example? Good idea: he could certainly pull that off. It would be quite in character in fact. My only small doubt is that he's been exposed in this city only recently.'

'We can take that chance,' said McIlhenney. 'Clubbers don't eat Turkish in Leith. They hang out in the yuppie bars in George Street and go on from there.'

'In that case, I'm convinced. We'll give him a hair-dye job and spectacles as added cover, just in case, but let's go. He'll need an address, but I can do that. Let's just hope that sign hasn't gone from the window by tomorrow.'

Thirty-six

Andy Martin had the greatest respect for his chief constable. Graham Morton had been in post for almost as long as Sir James Proud, although he was still a few years short of the compulsory retirement age, and he was regarded as one of the leading figures in the Association of Chief Police Officers Scotland.

Nevertheless, Martin was cautious as he faced his boss across the desk of his office in Dundee. 'What line do you think that ACPOS will take over the First Minister's new appointment?' he asked.

Morton leaned back in his chair, scratched his square, bald head and considered the question. 'I think that at the next meeting there will be a lot of huffing and puffing. I expect that Dees will lead the charge: he says that the moment he heard about it he decided to retire.'

'And do you believe that?'

'Not for a minute.' The veteran chief constable chuckled. 'Geoff told me in private six months ago that he was planning on spending Easter with his son in South Africa, and maybe not coming back till the summer. His resignation's been in for a fortnight, and he's persuaded his board, which does not have a Labour majority, to fill the post as soon as possible.'

'I'm told that Murtagh's planning to take a greater interest in the police service,' said Martin, 'and that this appointment's just an opening shot.'

'It wouldn't surprise me. Even when he was on the council here, wee Tommy was a bit of a control freak.'

'You know him well?' asked Martin.

'Well enough; I was in post all that time, remember. I confess that I was quite relieved when he left to become a Westminster MP for a constituency over in Fife.'

'What sort of man is he?'

'Take the following three words: cunning, ambitious and bastard. They just about sum him up.'

'You missed out "talented".'

'So I did,' the chief constable admitted, 'and I should have included it. I can't deny him that. Mr Murtagh has a talent for climbing. He started off as a labourer on a building site, and in no time at all he was a general foreman.'

'A wee chap like him? Building sites can be hard places.'

'Don't let his size fool you, Andy. He's as hard as nails; the legend was that a big brickie had a go at him one day and wee Tommy laid him as broad as he was long. Real foreman material from the start, you might say. Anyway, he gave that up pretty soon and went to Dundee University as a mature student; he did a degree in politics and economics. He was elected to the council in his final year, and when he graduated he went back to work for his old firm, Herbert Groves Construction, with the title of contracts manager.'

'And did his firm win many council contracts?'

'They got their share, but Tommy always declared an interest at every stage, and the officials always noted these in the minutes. But the fact was that he didn't need to vote in the debates: the council was heavily Labour, and his colleagues voted the right way. To be fair, most of them were competitive tenders and Groves came in with the lowest quote.'

'Insider knowledge?'

'There was never any evidence of that, and none of the unsuccessful firms ever complained.'

'What was Councillor Murtagh's lifestyle like?'

'Pretty decent, but the company was successful. So why did he give it up to become an MP? That's what you're going to ask next, isn't it?'

'I suppose so.'

Morton smiled. 'He never said, but we all just assumed he'd outgrown Dundee. I wasn't sorry to see him go; there was talk of him becoming chair of the police authority, and I did not want that to happen. You see, he was anti-police even then, Andy.'

'Why?'

The chief constable raised his eyebrows, 'I'm damned if I know.' He paused. 'I do know this, though: you've been picking my brains.'

'No, I haven't, Graham,' Martin protested. 'We've been talking about something that concerns you as much as it will everyone else. What I began by asking, if you remember, was what you think ACPOS will do if he comes after us. You still haven't answered.'

'You're right, I haven't. Okay: ACPOS will talk around it behind closed doors and then we'll decide to do nothing at all. I had Jimmy Proud on the phone this morning, dropping the same hints you are, and trying to talk me round to the view that we can't afford to have a public fall-out with the First Minister.'

'And did he succeed?'

'Of course he did, because he's right. I don't trust Tommy as far as I could chuck you, but he's a persuasive wee sod, and he knows which of the public's buttons to push, and when. We might not like him, but we can't oppose him overtly. I suspect that you know that too.'

It was Martin's turn to grin. 'And that's why you were feeding me all that information about him?'

'Was I? And here was me thinking we were just passing the time of day.'

'Of course we were, Graham. Is there anyone else I could pass the time of day with, anyone who knew him better than you in the old days?'

The chief constable paused for thought. 'His worst enemy on the council was Diana Meikle, the Tory leader. She's out of politics now, like most of the rest of the Tories, but she's still around. She lives up in Broughty Ferry, if you want a chat with her.'

Martin nodded. 'Thanks.'

'And then there's Roy Greatorix. Our head of CID's been around for as long as I have, and there's nobody has his ear closer to the ground. It'd be worth talking to Roy, but…'

'But what?'

'But be very careful, and trust no one. I can read what's going on, and I can guess who's behind it. Just remember, the guy's network is everywhere, and it's still at its strongest here. You've got a fine career ahead of you, son, even if it's not going to be on Tayside in the long term, or maybe even in the short term. I'd hate to see your head being one of the first that Mr Tommy Murtagh sticks on a pole.'

Thirty-seven

Willie Haggerty liked being home. As he drove along Argyle Street the old song rang out in his head: 'I belong to Glasgow, dear old Glasgow town…' He did too. He had been born in Rotten Row, the city's bizarrely named maternity unit, and brought up in a council house in the Garngad, a part of the city that spawned few policeman.

Leaving the place had been a wrench, but he had spent his career waiting for an offer he could not refuse, and when the ACC job in Edinburgh had been offered to him on a plate, he had gone for it in an instant. Truth be told, it was not the attraction of working with Jimmy Proud and Bob Skinner that had lured him across the country. No, it was the fact that service at command rank in another force would make it easier for him to achieve his dream, his ultimate ambition, to command the Strathclyde Police Force, Britain's second largest after the Met. It was still a long shot, he knew, but the Dumfries and Galloway post, if it came off, would take him one step closer. Service at chief constable rank was a prerequisite for the top job, and with a couple of years under his belt…

Haggerty thought through his rivals and came up with only two names, both of whom he knew well: Skinner himself, and Andy Martin. Yet he had heard Bob mutter often enough that he had no ambition to be sidelined, as he put it, into a chief's office. As for Andy, if he was ever to land the Strathclyde job, given his age it would almost certainly be after his own turn had come and gone.

There was something else. He had been sanguine about his chances of landing the post… two of them, slim and none, as Muhammad Ali had said famously… but the events of the current week had made him think again. At first he had been as outraged as Skinner and the chief when he had been told, in confidence, of Tommy Murtagh's plan to take effective control of the police, until another thought had come to him.

Was the First Minister a politician? Yes. Did politicians, by the very nature of the word, love populist gestures? Yes. So how much more populist could you get than by appointing a boy who had escaped from the war-torn Glasgow housing schemes as head of the city's police force?

It was a thought that he had kept to himself, yet it was preying on his mind.

He pushed it away as he swung into Kelvinhaugh Street, then took another turn to his left a little further along. It was still there, and as he had suspected it had not seen a lick of paint in the three years since his last visit. The Argyle Kebab Parlour stuck out on the corner of its neglected street like the last tooth in a derelict's mouth. Haggerty wondered if the doners were still as good as he remembered.

He parked his car directly outside the scruffy shop… so that it would always be in his sight… and walked inside. He smiled as he looked at the posters on the wall; they were a mix of Galatasaray and the Turkish national squad, revered in some parts of Scotland since their baiting of the English side in a European qualifier. It was well before noon and so there were no customers, just a young man behind the counter firing up the gas jets below the great roll of meat, on its vertical spit, the trademark of Turkish takeaways. The boy, who was no more than seventeen, turned and stared at Haggerty, as if he resented his intrusion. 'Can ye no' read?' he asked. 'It says on the door we're no' open till twelve.'