‘Did you see Gregor Broughton?’
‘No, he’s away just now. I spoke to his new assistant, a woman called Lock. As soon as I’d closed the door behind me she went running off to Gregor’s boss, the Crown Agent.’
‘Joe Dowley? I don’t like that man.’
‘Me neither,’ the superintendent growled. ‘He had Lock call me back and threaten me with the chief’s carpet if I didn’t back off.’
‘What did you threaten him with?’ asked Skinner, laconically.
‘Emasculation, and I don’t think I was kidding.’
‘Pointless. Inappropriate. If the guy had any balls he’d have phoned you himself, not got a junior to do it. Bugger him; my time’s limited so let’s get on with it. Run through all the points of coincidence between the Dean murder and the others.’
‘One, the method of execution: single shot, back of head. Two, the victim is an artist. Three, the way the body was laid out, although after ten days we can’t be so sure about that.’
‘Points of diversion from the Ballester killings.’
‘The body was hidden. Stacey Gavin and Zrinka Boras were left in the open.’
‘Amy Noone wasn’t.’
‘Amy Noone was killed in her flat. She wasn’t an artist either: she was a potential witness. We believe that’s why Ballester killed her, and it’s why he killed Harry Paul, Zrinka’s boyfriend. Boss, you’re working up to asking us whether we think Sugar Dean was killed by a copycat with inside knowledge of the earlier murders. I know I speak for Neil when I say that, on balance, we do. Yes, the body was hidden and that’s different from the pattern, but this girl was shot around eight in the morning on the edge of a golf course. There were golfers out there already; they hadn’t reached that part of the course yet, but the green-keepers could have turned up at any time, so he had to get the body into the woods and out of sight.’
‘Yes, that’s about a fair assumption. So what about Weekes? What else do we know about him?’
‘He’s just one lead,’ McIlhenney reminded Skinner. ‘But we have checked him out. He was off shift when Sugar was killed. We know that much. We also know that he’s engaged again, this time to a fellow police officer, a woman called Mae Grey. They met when he was at Livingston; she’s still there. The problem with Weekes has to be motive; he and Sugar split two years ago. It might have been acrimonious then, but there’s no obvious reason for him to go back and kill her now.’
‘Not obvious, but it may be there, nonetheless.’
‘Yes, and we’ll look for it, unless he can give us a stonewall alibi. The thing that interests me most about him is that he’s stationed at South Queensferry; that’s where Stacey Gavin’s death was first reported. It’s possible that he was at the scene, and saw the body; Chippy Grade’s checking the duty rosters to find out.’
‘Okay. What else?’
‘Sugar’s most recent boyfriend, and he’s the real reason we needed to brief you on what’s happening.’
Skinner grinned. ‘I’d like to think that you’d be briefing me anyway, but I suppose it serves me right for promoting two independent-minded bastards like you. What about the man?’
‘Only just a man,’ said McIlhenney. ‘He’s eighteen, and until the week before last, he was a pupil at Stew-Mel. A promising artist, and she was coaching him in her spare time.’
‘Coaching him in what?’
‘Nothing against the rules, or so her head teacher and parents believe, but it’s pretty clear they were about to move on to that part of the tutorial.’
‘Is the boy a suspect?’
‘He’s somebody we have to interview.’
‘So?’
‘So his dad’s in the shadow fucking cabinet,’ McGuire drawled. ‘The boy’s name is Davis Colledge.’
‘Aah,’ said Skinner. ‘Son of Michael, last of the Conservative tough guys among the new user-friendly breed. Making waves?’
‘Not as yet; he’s been co-operative with Becky’s team in helping us try to reach his son.’
‘You can’t find the boy? Does that make him prime suspect?’ Pause. ‘God, I hate that fucking series!’
‘Me too,’ said McIlhenney, ‘but it doesn’t. Davis was last seen when he left to meet up with Sugar. They were supposed to spend a month together, painting.’
‘Cut the euphemisms and get to the point.’
The superintendent grinned. ‘Point is, we’ve located him, in France. Now we need to interview him, to take him out of the frame altogether.’
‘I’m with you. If you contact the French police, they’ll treat it as a “detain for questioning” request, and lift him, running the risk of Colledge senior becoming uncooperative, and sending in lawyers.’
‘Exactly, and then it could all go pear-shaped. Worst case, we might need to extradite him just to ask him where he was when Sugar was killed. Whereas. .’
It was Skinner’s turn to smile for the camera. ‘Whereas if you had a man on the ground, ready to interview the lad informally, maybe without the gendarmerie even being involved. .’
‘. . someone of sufficient seniority to impress even his dad. .’
‘Where is he?’
‘We have an address for him in a town called Collioure. He used his bank card there on Saturday.’
‘Collioure’s just up the road,’ said Skinner. ‘I’ve been there. Nice place; it’ll be crawling with punters at this time of year. I’ll do it, but it has to be with the knowledge of the French authorities.’
‘If it’s only an informal interview. .’ McGuire began. ‘Private investigators don’t ask permission when they cross frontiers.’
‘No, they don’t, but if things don’t go right for them they’re in trouble. Suppose young Davis proves you wrong? Remember, boys, I don’t do friendly chats. Suppose when I find him and ask him the straight questions that I’ll have to, he bursts into tears and says, “It was me, guv, wot dun it”? What can I do then? No, I’ll need someone with me with power of arrest, just in case.’
‘Point taken,’ the head of CID conceded. ‘We’ll make an arrangement and get back to you. When can you get up there?’
‘Now, if I have to.’
‘Let’s hold on that until tomorrow morning; I may not be able to tie up the French end before then.’
‘Okay, I’ll leave here at eleven, ten o’clock your time, whether I’ve heard from you or not. After that you can raise me on the mobile. Meantime, send me the address by e-mail, and a local map showing me where it and the local police office are. So long for now.’
Skinner clicked on the exit symbol on his screen to end the conference, then closed the lap-top and walked out into the evening heat. Aileen was lying on a lounger on the terrace, face down. He sat beside her on the tiles, picked up a bottle of Piz Buin and began to massage the lotion into her back.
‘Mmmmmm,’ she murmured languidly.
‘Feeling good?’ he asked.
‘Am I ever. .’ She twisted her head round and peered at him through a half-closed eye.
He beamed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘do you fancy coming with me to France tomorrow, while I interview a suspect in a murder investigation?’
Twenty-two
Sir James Proud had a hidden shame: it was known only to himself and to his wife, Lady Chrissie. . No-one ever addressed her by her proper name, Christine. None of their children were privy to it, and neither was Bob Skinner, his deputy, nor any other senior colleague. The truth, if it ever emerged, would not end his career, but it would make it impossible for him to see out its final months without the suspicion, even the certainty, that those who offered him smart salutes in the corridors of the headquarters building would be exchanging winks and smirks as soon as his back was to them.
Sir James Proud was an addict.
He knew well enough, because his rank required him to know, that he was not the only police officer to be in the grip of a private vice, or to have a skeleton from the past so serious, to its owner if no-one else, that it had to be hidden not in a cupboard but in a safe.