‘A few days,’ Skinner muttered.
‘I can find him,’ the lieutenant offered. ‘I can put out an order to all the stations in the region to look out for him. We can find out if he uses a credit card.’
‘We can, but then we’ll have started a manhunt. We’ll have made it look as if he’s a murder suspect, and I don’t want that. Let’s take a look. Maybe there’s another way I can play this.’
The Frenchman nodded, took the keys from the corporal and unlocked the door, then held it open for Skinner. He stepped inside.
‘The studio’ was exactly that, a big living area, with a kitchen in a corner to the left, a double bed against the wall on the right and a sofa and armchair in the middle. In the furthest part of the room a door lay ajar, revealing a basin and mirror. Two wider doors, half glazed, lit the apartment; they opened out on to a roof terrace.
The place was a mess. The bed was unmade, and the area was littered with pizza boxes. . Skinner counted four. . beer cans. . Davis Colledge appeared to be a Kronenbourg drinker. . and discarded wine bottles. But all that was incidental.
In the middle of the room there stood an easel, supporting a large canvas. The picture seemed to be complete: it was a woodland scene and in the centre was a female nude, slim, fair-skinned and dark-haired, with heavy, brown-nippled breasts. In the background, to the left, a young man stood, observing her. Skinner moved closer. The male figure was also naked, with a shock of fair hair and an erect penis. It was a beautiful piece of work, spoiled by only one thing; the woman’s face had been obliterated, wiped out by a great black smudge that gave the painting an air of menace. Skinner moved closer, examining its detail. The female form had a small pink scar on the right side of the abdomen. He made a mental note of that, then looked at the self-portrait of Davis Colledge. As he studied it, he whistled. The young man’s eyes were vivid, and his mouth was a slash across his face. He held something in his hand. Unmistakably, it was a gun.
Skinner reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small digital camera. Using its LCD screen to frame the image, he photographed the picture.
‘Lieutenant,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m going to leave my business card and a note for Davis, if he comes back here, asking him to call me as soon as he finds it. But I hope it doesn’t get to that stage. I’ve changed my mind about your looking for him. I think you should. If this picture represents his state of mind, then he is a very troubled young man.’
Twenty-nine
‘What the hell is this?’ asked PC Theo Weekes. ‘Why couldn’t I have given you my statement at the mobile HQ? What’s wi’ dragging me down to Torphichen Place?’
‘Shut it, Constable,’ said DS Jack McGurk. ‘You’re in no position to complain. You’ve kept us waiting for information we should have had yesterday.’
‘And much good will it do you. I know fuck all about this. I went out with Sugar a couple of years ago, and now she’s dead. That’s a pity; I’m really sorry. But I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Whoever said you had?’
‘You’re treating me like a suspect,’ the constable snapped, as the door opened.
‘Not yet,’ said DI Becky Stallings, as she stepped into the interview room. ‘We’re treating you like a witness for now. You’ve made a voluntary statement and that’s good, but there are some questions we’d like to ask you.’
She reached for the tape-recorder on the table, then paused, her hand hovering above it. ‘Before I switch this on, I want you to know something. Mr McIlhenney called me, so I’m aware of the story you told him, about why you and Miss Dean split up. That’s being checked out separately, but at this stage it’s not going on the record.’
‘Did those two no’ believe me?’
‘Don’t be dense, Weekes. You spin them a story about your station inspector’s wife giving you the clap and you think they’re going to take it at face value? But even if it’s true, it may not be relevant to this inquiry: so what I’m saying to you, and what I believe Mr McGuire said to you also, is that I don’t want any reference to it while this tape is running. Understood?’
‘Fine by me. Can we get on wi’ it? I was due off shift half an hour ago.’
‘In that case, let’s be brief,’ said Stallings, coolly. She switched on the twin-deck recorder, announced the venue, date and time and identified the three people in the room.
Jack McGurk took over. ‘Constable Weekes, you’ve given us a voluntary statement about your former relationship with the murder victim. In it, you said that it terminated because you had second thoughts about marrying her. Why did you have your first thoughts?’
‘Eh?’
‘Why did you ask her to marry you in the first place?’
The constable pursed his lips as he considered the question. ‘Dinnae ken. I suppose I liked her.’
‘You liked her? Is that your criterion for a wife?’
‘Eh?’
‘Criterion. Singular of criteria. Is that all you need to marry someone, that you like them?’
‘It’s a start. From what I’ve heard your wife disnae like you much.’
McGurk stiffened: his eyes hardened as they locked on to Weekes. Stallings leaned forward as if to intervene, but he held up a hand. ‘I’m impressed, Constable,’ he said, ‘not by you, but by the power of the police-force grapevine. Mind you it’s not always accurate. My wife and I are separated, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like me. As it happens, we’re very fond of each other. No, more than that; we love each other, only not enough. We have a problem living together, and we can’t get over it. Did you love Sugar?’
‘Ah suppose.’
‘You’re as certain as that? She must really have swept you off your feet.’
‘Well, like I said, Ah liked her. We got on.’
‘After your split, did you keep in touch?’
‘I called her a couple of times.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah dinnae ken. Just to see how she was doing, I suppose.’
‘And with whom?’ asked Stallings.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you want to know how she was getting on without you? Whether there was a new man in her life?’
‘Dunno. Maybe.’
‘Did you ever ask her?’
‘Ah suppose I must have.’
‘And was there?’
‘Not that she told me.’
‘When did you meet?’ the inspector probed.
‘About four years ago.’
‘Where?’
‘The Tap o’ Lauriston.’
‘The top of where?’
Weekes looked at her scornfully, as he repeated the name. ‘It’s a pub,’ he replied. ‘Up near the art school.’
‘How did that come about?’
‘There was a wee bit of bother up there: outside, like. I was stationed here then, and my mate and I went to sort it out. Sugar was there, trapped in the doorway by the rammy. It was controlled quick enough, but even after the van had taken the hooligans away, she was scared to walk across the Meadows. She was living in a flat then, up Warrender place. It was a wild night; lots of drunks about and such. So my mate and I, we ran her home. He drove, and Sugar and I got talking. When we got there, I walked her up the stairs and we made a date.’
‘And you went on from there?’
‘Aye, the usual thing, Ah saw her a couple of times a week, depending on my shift pattern. I was moved out to Livingston not long after that, but we still kept on.’
‘Where did you live then?’ asked McGurk.
‘Gorgie.’
‘With your parents?’
Weekes scowled at him. ‘With my wife.’
‘I see.’ The sergeant smiled. ‘Did you like her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why were you going out with Sugar?’
‘I liked her too.’
‘When did you and your wife split up?’
‘We were divorced two years ago.’
‘Why?’
Weekes glared across the table. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do wi’ you, Sergeant?’
‘Constable, you’re on tape,’ Stallings reminded him.