Lethal Intent (37 page)

The left trouser pocket held a small cell-phone. He withdrew it and tried to switch it on, but was asked for a passcode. He slipped it into his own pocket, for the technical people to explore, then bent over the body again, and rolled it on to its side. There was a back pocket on the right-hand side of the slacks. Even more gingerly, since Green had soiled himself in death, he felt it from the outside, then reached in with two fingers and slipped out a folded sheet of paper.

He opened it, carefully, and could just determine that it was a map, a street plan of the town of St Andrews. He frowned, peering at it, but it was dark inside the Transit and so he jumped out, back into the grey afternoon, where there was just enough of the fading daylight for him to see.

In fact it was only a section of a map, a graphic guide to the north end of the town. Landmarks and prominent buildings were shown in miniature and a seagull flew over St Andrews Bay. Lines across the top and bottom told him that it had been downloaded from the internet, then faxed. 'Why?' he asked himself, as his colleague joined him, looking over his shoulder. 'I doubt if he was planning any sightseeing while he was up here.'

'What are those marks on it?' Mackenzie asked, pointing.

McIlhenney followed his finger and saw that two circles had been drawn on the page. One was round the Sea Life Centre while the other encompassed a tiny illustration of St Salvator's College and its quadrangle. They were linked by a line, running along a street called The Scores. On the map, there was a cartoon of a boat in the bay, heading out to sea. It, too, had been circled.

The chief inspector cleared his mind and concentrated, the page hanging loosely in his fingers as he thought. And then he gave a long, soft whistle. 'Salvator,' he murmured, 'Salvator. Bandit, what was the Albanian word the Dutch lorry drive overheard? Remember?'

'Saviour, wasn't it?'

'That's right; probably what you'd come up with if you were translating Salvator into Albanian.'

'Yes, so?'

'David, my friend, what's St Andrews famous for, apart from golf?'

'Dunno.'

'The university, that's what. And who's its most famous student?'

Mackenzie's mouth fell open. Before it had closed, McIlhenney had his phone in his hand and was calling Bob Skinner.

Seventy-six

Stevie Steele had been expecting a report from Arthur Dorward, not a personal visit, so he was surprised when his red-haired colleague walked into his office. 'Hello,' he exclaimed, 'I didn't think that you Howdenhall lab guys could find your way to divisional offices any more.'

'We get precious little thanks when we do,' Dorward answered, 'so these days we only deliver the good news in person.'

'Good news? You bear good news?'

'I do indeed, my son. A double helping, in fact.'

Steele leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'Let me have it.'

Casually, Dorward tossed an envelope on to his desk. 'It's all in there, but this is what it says. First, the sock: as you suggested, we had another look at wee George's clothing, and knowing what we were after made all the difference. We took several fibres from his jacket; they were an exact match for the cotton in the sock that socked Mario McGuire. We checked the garment too. That wasn't difficult: it's a Marks and Spencer product, fits size eight to ten shoe, and it's from a range that was withdrawn only six months ago. Before you ask, it could have been bought in any of their stores but, still, it's a big step forward.'

'True. It eliminates half of the male population and one or two large females as well.'

'Get away with you. It changes your report on the boy's death entirely, and you know it. Would you like to know about the rock?'

Steele chuckled. 'I can hardly wait. Did you put your top geologist on it?'

Dorward looked down his nose. 'Naturally. It's a lump of grey granite from the north-east, the stuff that Aberdeen and a few other places are built out of; very hard, much tougher than sandstone. The interesting thing about it is that it's been machine cut. Superintendent McGuire must have a seriously hard head to have got up after being whacked with that.'

'He has, take my word for it. He'll be out of hospital by now.'

'He's lucky he's conscious by now,' the inspector said. 'If that weapon is what was used on young George Regan, the kid didn't have a chance.

'Now, the other. We went back to Ross Pringle's room, and we dismantled that heater. I put my best girl on it, and on one side of the loosened socket that caused the leak, she found a clear right thumbprint. We had to fingerprint Ross's body, I'm afraid, which I didn't like doing, but it allowed us to eliminate her. We took the lock on the door apart too. There were scratches inside it that my specialist thinks would have been made by a skeleton key. He also… and this is where he got really clever… found traces of two different types of lubricant inside the lock, which led him to speculate that the skeleton might have been oiled to make it work better.'

'Whose speciality would that be?'

'Apart from a locksmith? A joiner? A mechanical engineer? A policeman? We're scientists, Stevie, we only go in for guessing when it's founded on something concrete.'

'Have you eliminated the engineer who did the last service on those gas appliances?'

'Gimme a break! Of course we have. Match that print and you've got your man.'

There was a knock at the door. Steele looked up and saw, through the glass, Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding. He beckoned him in, as the smiling Dorward stood. 'When we catch this guy, I'll buy you a beer, Arthur. So will George, Dan and Neil, I'm sure.'

The two officers passed in the doorway and Wilding took the seat that the inspector had vacated. Steele had taken up Skinner's suggestion that he bring him into the investigation and had found him only too willing. 'You're looking pleased with yourself too, Ray,' he said.

'So will you be in a minute, Stevie. I've found Chris Aikenhead for you, and he's right on our doorstep.'

'Yes!' Steele hissed.

'I read through the file on the investigation, and I found a reference to him, saying that he worked off-shore with a Scottish-owned company called Oriental Petroleum, so I checked with them. He still does. He worked on their platform in the North Sea at the time, and for three years after his wife's suicide, until he was moved to an installation off Venezuela. He remarried out there and stayed until September, when he came back to a job in the Edinburgh office as development manager. The personnel officer was very co-operative: she gave me his address.'

'Hold on, Ray. What if she tells him that the police have been asking about him?'

'I asked her not to do that, in case she alarmed him unnecessarily. I told her that something had arisen that related to his late wife's case, and that we wanted to advise him of it. She promised me she wouldn't say anything to him.'

'Let's hope she's as good as her word. Where does he live?'

'In the Buckstone area.'

'Christ, that's close to Neil, and Dan Pringle.'

'And the ski centre.'

'It gets better. What was his trade on the rigs?'

'He was an engineer.'

'It all fits. We pay a call on him, Ray, but first we get a warrant. We might need to search his house for a sock that's in want of a partner.'

Seventy-seven

Skinner was turning into Elbe Street when his cell-phone sounded in its hands-free socket in his car. He hit the answer button.

'Boss,' Neil McIlhenney exclaimed. 'Got you at last. I tried the office, but Jack said you'd gone. This is the third time I've called your mobile.'

'That's the trouble with technology,' the DCC grumbled. 'It never works when you need it. What's up? Are you still at Newcraighall?'

'Yes.'

'It was Green, then?' The question was tinged with resignation.

'Yes, but there was never any doubt about that, was there? Are you on your way here?'

'No. I decided that I'd go to the restaurant instead. I'm just pulling up outside in fact.'

'Good, I didn't want you driving when you heard this. We've found something on Sean's body that might be the answer to everything.'

As McIlhenney described the map of St Andrews, Skinner, for all that he had seen and done in his career, felt his blood chill. 'What do you still have to do there?' he asked.

'Nothing. The van's just arrived to remove the body, and we've spoken to everybody we need to. We've managed to convince the warehouse manager that it was a suicide, and that Sean managed to strangle himself with his own tie.'

'Okay. I want you to get Bassam's address, and go there. No chance he'll be there, but check it out, and then come here, as fast as you can.' He switched off the cell-phone, took it from its holder, and jumped out of his BMW.

A uniformed constable was guarding the door of the restaurant. For a second he moved to bar Skinner's way, but recognised him just in time and stepped aside.

There were no diners inside, only DS Sammy Pye and two other CID officers, four very confused staff members and one angry chef. 'Who you?' he demanded, before the door had even closed behind Skinner.

'Deputy chief constable,' he replied. 'Now who are you?'

'I Sukur. I cook here. We have customers; no boss, no head waiter, but we working still, then you people come and tell us we have to close. When Mr Bassam come back, you hear about this, I tell you.'

'Where is Mr Bassam right now?' Skinner asked him.

'I no' know.'

'Has he been in at all this morning?'

'No, but I have keys. Usually I open up.'

'Did Mr Bassam lock up last night?'

'How should I know? I go after we serve the last people. He no' here then, though. New head waiter say I could go.'

'Who was here when you left?'

'John, the new guy, and him.' The chef pointed to one of the two waiters, the Asian.

The man nodded. 'But I left after that,' he said, quickly.

'So John was alone?'

'Yes.'

'Where was Bassam?'

'I don't know.'

The DCC turned back to the chef. 'Do you?'

'No' here,' the truculent Sukur grunted. 'He went out before that'

'When?'

'Earlier on.'

'Don't try my patience,' Skinner warned him. 'At what time?'

'I dunno, maybe eight, maybe earlier.'

'Did he tell you where he was going?'

'The boss no' tell me anything. He just leave me to run the kitchen.'

'But you knew he had gone. Does that mean you saw him leave?'

Sukur nodded. 'I see him through kitchen window. He get into van.'

'What van?'

'Mr Bassam's van: an old thing he uses to go to the cash and carry. He keep it at his house and sometimes he bring it here. It was here last night, parked out back. He get into it with the other guys.'

Skinner's eyes narrowed. 'What other guys?'

'I no' know who they are; they friends of his, though. Not Turkish, but then neither is he.'

'What do you know about them?'

'Nothing. They been living upstairs, but they don't come in here, ever.'

'What's upstairs?'

'The boss have a flat upstairs; he used to stay there, till he bring his family over and buy his house.'

'Do you have keys for it?'

'No. The boss keeps those.'

'How long have these people been there?'

'I dunno; not long, a few weeks maybe.'

'Come on,' said the DCC, 'show me where this place is.' He turned to Pye. 'Sam, with me.'

The chef, still scowling, led them through the kitchen, and out into Delight's back yard. A flight of stone stairs, on the outside of the building, led to a green-painted door. 'There,' he grunted.

The two police officers climbed the worn steps, coming to a square landing on top. Skinner tried the door handle, then, finding it locked, kicked it open effortlessly with the sole of his right foot.

'Sir,' Pye exclaimed.

'It was stuck: the wood must have been warped.'

'Yes, but…'

'Ah, you think they might be in there, do you, Sam? Not a cat's chance, but there's one way to find out.' He stepped into the flat.

All four doors off the hall were open: two led into bedrooms, each with twin beds, a third to a bathroom, and the last into a large living room, with a kitchen area against the far wall. The place was a mess: discarded cigarette packets, bottles and food wrappers lay everywhere.

'Not exactly Good
Housekeeping,'
Pye muttered.

'Looks a bit like your wife's desk from time to time.' The DCC chuckled. The sergeant was married to Ruth, his secretary. He walked over to a small dining-table positioned at the window. It was strewn with crumpled sheets of paper, which seemed to have been torn from a pad. He picked one up, and saw a few words jotted down. Whatever the language was it was unknown to him.

'Sir.' Skinner glanced across at Pye. He was standing by a small side table, looking at a heavy black machine. 'It's a fax,' he said.

'Do you think it might have been used?'

'If it has, it might have a log that tells us.'

'Try it'

The sergeant bent over the device, pushing a button repeatedly as he read the menu. 'Got it,' he whispered, finally, then straightened as a humming sound began, and a sheet of paper started to emerge from a slot below the key-pad. He caught it before it could fall to the floor, and handed it to the DCC.

He read it, his eye scanning down a list of numbers and dates. Only two entries had any currency, and both showed messages received from the same number. 'Oh two oh seven,' he murmured. 'Thanks, Sam,' he said. 'That was good thinking. Now go back to the restaurant, please, and wait for DCIs McIlhenney and Mackenzie. When they arrive, send them up here.'

As soon as he was alone, Skinner took his palm-top computer from his pocket and turned it on, using a security code. He opened his personal directory and chose the letter 'A', quickly finding the phone number he sought.

He switched on his mobile and dialled. His call was not picked up directly; instead he heard a click and the dialling tone change pitch. At last a voice answered. 'Yes, Bob,' said Major Adam Arrow.