The superintendent intervened: ‘No, I think he’s saying we can’t disprove it categorically. If Weekes is charged with murder, that’s what he’ll come out with in the witness box. Unless we can find the gun and put it in his hand, through a witness or through forensics, then at least eight of those fifteen people I mentioned earlier will see that hole in our case, and he’ll get off through the bastard verdict, as “not proven” was described by none other than Sir Walter Scott.’
‘Who’s he? A famous Scots lawyer?’
McIlhenney looked at her, shook his head sadly, and continued: ‘On Monday, our first reaction was that we were looking at a copycat. The defence will suggest that we still are, and who knows? They might be right.’ He frowned. ‘You can forget the accessory idea, by the way. You’d need to establish a link with someone else to make that stick. In this one, he either did it or he didn’t.’
‘So what do you want me to do, sir?’ Stallings asked.
‘I want you to make a choice,’ McIlhenney replied. ‘You can go downstairs and lay the murder on him right now, or you can go and see the procurator fiscal and ask for his opinion. As I said, at the end of the day it’s the Crown Office that does the prosecuting, not us.’
‘That would be the sensible thing to do, wouldn’t it?’ the inspector mused.
‘Pragmatic.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go up to Chambers Street this afternoon.’
‘No,’ said the superintendent, quickly. ‘Leave it until tomorrow morning. Gregor Broughton’s due back then; he’s got the soundest hands in that place. I wouldn’t trust anything to that new assistant of his. Be in his office as soon as he’s hung up his jacket, and tell him where we’ve got to. Before Weekes goes into court for his first formal hearing, Gregor can decide whether to proceed with the murder charge, and whether to oppose the bail application that Ms Birtles will undoubtedly make.’
Forty-four
‘What made you come to this place?’ the officer asked, in clear English. He wore three chevrons on his epaulettes, which told Skinner that he was dealing with a sub-inspector, a rank in the Mossos d’Esquadra that had no direct equivalent in Scotland.
He pointed back towards the town. ‘I have a house over there. Earlier today, I happened to look at this area through my binoculars and noticed the woman. A few hours later, I looked again. I saw that she was still here, and that she didn’t appear to have moved.’
‘You were watching her, señor?’ The policeman’s left eyebrow rose; so did Skinner’s hackles.
‘I was observing the scene, sonny. It’s a habit of mine; it comes with my profession.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I’m a police officer, in Edinburgh. In your ranking structure I’m a comisario. What’s your name, Sub-inspector? Como te llamas?’
‘Torres.’ Caution crept into his voice; Skinner guessed that he might be remembering hearing of a senior Scottish policeman who was in town.
‘Well, Señor Torres, I suggest that you stop playing the boy detective and get your arse into action. This lady is dead. That’s not in doubt; I’ve seen more dead people than you have officers in your local station, and I’m telling you she is. You need to find out how and why. You may have been the first available English-speaking officer to respond to my phone call, but now it’s time for you to follow proper procedures. You need to get a medic here, and you need to call in your specialist colleagues. Then you need to position your corporal colleague to prevent any curious people making their way down here to see what’s happening.’
Sub-inspector Torres came approximately to attention and saluted. ‘Yes, Comisario.’ He reached for the radio on his belt, then hesitated. ‘What should I say? She died of the heat, yes? Too long in the sun?’
Skinner sighed; clearly, Torres had spent much of his career in the administrative section of the Catalan force. ‘If she did,’ he said, ‘she committed suicide. And in twenty-five years’ police experience, I’ve never heard of anyone setting out to kill themselves by UV radiation. Look at her, man! She has no water. She has no sun-cream. She has no shade. She has no towel. Last, but not least, she has no clothes. That tells you what, Señor Torres?’
The sub-inspector shrugged, in a way that very few people can, other than Catalans.
‘It should tell you,’ Skinner continued patiently, ‘either that the seagulls have stolen everything she had, that she threw her kit into the sea, that she walked here naked and unburdened, or that somebody walked with her or followed her here, and took everything away after she was dead, after he had killed her.’ He looked at the man intently. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Sí, Comisario,’ Torres murmured.
‘Then get on your radio, and tell your criminal division they’re needed here.’
As the sub-inspector did as he had been ordered, Skinner stared down at the woman’s body. With his instructions being relayed, his thoughts returned to other images he had seen, photographs taken in other places, and the uncanny similarity to his own discovery.
He knelt beside the body once more, but this time he rolled the dead woman on to her side. It was difficult, as rigor mortis was advanced, even in the heat, but he had the strength to turn her and then to hold her in position with one hand, as he lifted the hair from the back of her neck with the other. . and looked at the impossible.
There, just above the hairline, in the centre of a patch of encrusted blood, was a single small entry wound.
He laid the body of the murder victim back as he had found her, then sat on the rocks. ‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered softly to himself, allowing all the implications of his find to flood into his mind.
Forty-five
‘I’d hoped for an earlier appointment,’ said Deputy Chief Constable Andy Martin, stone-faced. ‘It’s gone three thirty.’
The Crown Agent peered at him over a pair of half-moon spectacles. ‘You’re damn lucky I’m seeing you at all,’ he snapped. ‘This business has grown legs: it’s a damn nonsense. I tell you, Martin, the Lord Advocate agreed to co-operate with this against my advice. It’s a reflection on this office, and it’s a waste of my valuable time.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d repeat that for the tape, Mr Dowley, once Chief Inspector Mackenzie sets it up.’
‘Tape? What bloody tape?’
‘This is a formal interview. It will be recorded.’
‘Oh, really! This is too much. I’m Her Majesty’s Agent, man. You wouldn’t treat the Lord Advocate like this, or the Lord President.’
Martin remained impassive, as Mackenzie produced a portable mini-disk recorder from his briefcase and laid it on Dowley’s coffee-table. ‘The Lord Advocate has agreed to be interviewed,’ he said, ‘if it proves necessary. As for the Lord President, if Sir James Proud asked me to rake through his dustbin, I’d do it.’ Uninvited, he settled into a chair, and stared hard at his host until he followed suit. In his mind’s eye, he saw McGuire and McIlhenney, in similar circumstances, making barbed comments about the absence of coffee and biscuits.
He had done his homework in advance of the encounter, and was familiar with the man’s background. He had been in the Crown Office for over twenty years, having joined as an assistant fiscal after a short, unremarkable career in private practice, and had worked his way quietly through the ranks. His appointment as Crown Agent had come in the new age of openness and public accountability ushered in by the Scottish Executive. It had been a surprise, as few senior figures in the legal establishment had ever heard of Joe Dowley, but he had wasted no time in making his mark.
Looking at him, Martin saw a small man, with red cheeks that spoke of excitability and perhaps a touch of hypertension, and hair that seemed to fly backwards from a high forehead. In spite of the warmth of the summer day, he wore a three-piece suit with a watch-chain falling from one lapel of his jacket into its breast pocket, and a small circular gold badge on the other.