‘Would he take to any of his daughter’s men? Fathers can be possessive.’
‘Do you speak from experience?’
The superintendent laughed. ‘Ask me in two or three years.’
‘John Dean isn’t. He likes Davis Colledge, for all that he’s nearly eight years younger than Sugar.’
‘How would Dean be as a judge of character?’
‘I hope he’d be good; he’s a head teacher.’
‘Let’s take a look at PC Weekes, in that case, formally.’
‘How hard do you want me to look at him?’ she asked.
‘As hard as you have to. But don’t do anything about him just yet. Let’s set him a test. I’m about to give a press briefing at which I’ll announce that we’ve identified the victim as Sugar Dean. There’s no last lingering doubt about that, is there?’
‘No. Jack’s just had a call from the mortuary: her dental records are a match, to back up the scar and the broken arm.’
‘Right. I’ll release her name, and confirm that this is a murder investigation, as the media are saying already. I’ll ask for people who knew Sugar to come forward with information. In these circumstances I’d expect a serving officer to come forward without being asked. If we haven’t heard from Weekes by midday tomorrow, we’ll pull him in.’
‘Where? Torphichen Place?’
‘No. We’ll rattle his cage harder than that. I’ll see him in my office, two o’clock. If DCS McGuire’s free, I might even ask him to sit in. Mario’s bad-cop act is something to see.’
Stallings heard a soft chuckle. ‘You’ve got me hoping that Weekes doesn’t volunteer information, sir,’ she said.
‘If Dean’s right about him, he probably won’t. Between now and then, I want you to contact as many of Sugar’s colleagues and friends as you can. Mention Weekes’s name to them and see what comes up.’
‘What about Dave Colledge? Should we ask about him?’
‘Of course. Okay, our gut says it’s not him, but I’ve been wrong before, and I’ll bet you have too.’
‘Maybe, but I’m a woman, so I’m not going to admit it.’
‘God, you sounded just like my late wife there. And her successor, for that matter.’
‘Thank you; I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should, Becky. Now, how do we get hold of the boy Davis?’
‘I was going to ask you for permission to have the French police locate him and hold him for questioning.’
‘That could be dangerous; they might bang him up in some dirty local police cell for a couple of days. I doubt if Daddy would fancy that much. No, we need somebody on the ground there when the contact is made. Remind me, where is Collioure, exactly?’
‘It’s on the French Mediterranean coast. According to the map, it’s practically on the Spanish border.’
‘In that case,’ said McIlhenney, ‘leave finding the boy to me. Mr McGuire and I are having a meeting soon that might provide a solution to the problem.’
Twenty
Maggie gazed at the computer screen as the web page unfolded. ‘Weird name for a company,’ she murmured to the still-dozing Stephanie. ‘Fishheads dot com. But you know what? Your dad worked out where it came from.
‘That’s right, Steph,’ she continued. ‘Your father had a photographic memory for apocrypha of all sorts. There was hardly a useless fact that wasn’t filed away in his brain. I remember he told me what Dražen Boras’s company was called, just after the name had come up in the investigation. I said to him what I’ve just said to you, and he looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Barnes and Barnes.” I said, “What?” and he told me that there was an iconic. . his word. . American rock band in the seventies whose only hit was a song called “Fishheads”. And since Dražen had changed his name to David Barnes, to get out from under his father’s shadow, there was the connection. Imagine, wee one, your dad knowing that sort of stuff off the top of his head.’
Which was where the grenade fragment that killed him went in. The thought thrust itself at her, bringing with it the images that still haunted her on her many sleepless nights. She focused her gaze on the screen until they vanished and all she could see was the bizarre Fishheads logo.
The company sold office supplies, exclusively over the Internet, to business and domestic customers. Its major selling point, emphasised on the page, was its cost structure, with cheap or even free delivery for relatively small quantities, clearly aimed at home businesses and at other self-managed enterprises.
Ignoring the display of headlined products, which included paper, furniture and even a water-cooler, she looked at the site contents, listed at the bottom of the screen. Using the mouse, she moved the cursor to ‘About Us’ and double-clicked. Within seconds a new page appeared, with a second set of choices: ‘Our People’, ‘Our Depots’, and ‘Our Terms and Conditions’. She selected the first, and watched as a list of names and designations appeared.
The absence of a name registered, just as another caught her eye. There was no David Barnes, or Drazen Boras, anywhere to be seen. She guessed that when the company had been set up he had been listed as its chairman or chief executive, or possibly as both. But now he was gone, into the dark world she was setting out to probe.
In his place, she saw the name Sanda Boras. ‘So his mum stepped in,’ Maggie whispered. ‘A stooge, I suppose. But where do her orders come from?’
She picked up her mobile and scrolled the stored numbers, until she found ‘Goode, M.’. She hit the green button and waited.
‘Scotsman business desk,’ a tired voice answered.
‘You sound like you can’t wait for the school bell to ring,’ she said. ‘Maurice, it’s Maggie Steele here. . Maggie Rose, as was. Remember me from when you did the crime beat?’
‘Maggie, of course.’ The journalist switched back to working mode. ‘How are you? Sorry about Stevie. That was just wicked. I heard you’ve got a daughter now. Is that right?’
‘Yes, and if I sound quiet, that’s why. She’s not far from me, and she’s asleep.’ As she spoke, she realised that he had not asked about her illness. She took that to mean that word had not leaked out into the wider world: Maurice Goode knew most of what was going on in town.
‘So how can I help you, Chief Superintendent?’ he asked. ‘How are you going to brighten up this drab world they promoted me into?’
‘I want to talk to a retail analyst, one of the best. It’s a personal thing,’ she added, choosing her words carefully.
‘Which retail sector?’
‘Office supplies.’
‘Office supplies; let me think.’ She let him. ‘You probably want Jacqui Harkness,’ he said eventually. ‘She’s Glasgow-based, works for a stockbroker firm called Levene and Company; it’s a small outfit, but don’t let that put you off. Jacqui’s as good as there is; you can tell her I said so, too.’ He recited her telephone number from memory.
‘Thanks. I’ll be on maternity leave for a while yet, but when I’m back at work, I’ll owe you one.’
‘I’ll remember that. Look after yourself, and the youngster.’
She hung up and dialled Levene and Company, hoping that the firm did not close at the same time as the London Stock Exchange, four p.m., relieved when her call was answered swiftly. She asked for Jacqui Harkness. ‘Who’s calling?’ the telephonist asked.
‘My name’s Margaret Steele, Mrs. Tell her I’m a friend of Maurice Goode and that he says she’s the best in the business.’
‘They all say that.’ The girl laughed. ‘Hold on.’
She waited, for almost a minute.
‘Sorry I took so long.’ The woman who came on the line had a strong Glasgow accent, and sounded middle-aged. ‘So you’re a pal of Mo B. Goode, are you? How do you know him, smarmy bastard that he is?’
‘From his days as a crime reporter; I’m a police officer.’
‘Polis?’ exclaimed Jacqui Harkness. ‘Fraud Squad?’
‘No. I’m a chief super, in uniform mostly, but just now I’m on secondment to Special Branch.’