‘It could,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t think it was. Do you? You’re the one who spoke of the Boras arrogance. Don’t you think that he’d show up with his new identity and his old signature to meet his mate?’
‘I’ll give you that,’ he murmured. ‘Go on. What’s the next stage?’
’We don’t waste time looking for Dražen,’ she said. ‘We concentrate on his mate instead. And we don’t write off Davor; we keep tabs on him too. We track every flight booking Richards makes, and every flight plan that’s filed for Davor’s private jet. If either of them heads for a place that has a Margaritaville, then so do we, and we check out the local hotels for a booking in the name of Ignacio Riesgo.’
‘That’s bordering on the brilliant, Mags, but. . forgive me for saying this. . “we” aren’t looking for Dražen. Stevie was murdered in Northumbria: it’s their investigation.’
‘And they’re stuck!’ she snapped. ‘They could have done this, if they’d been willing or able, but they’ve got nowhere. Their thinking doesn’t extend beyond the River Tees.’
‘But how are you going to do all of this keeping tabs?’
‘I’ve got a contact, through Bob. His name’s Adrian St John.’
‘Thames House?’ asked Mario, taken by surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve met him. In that case, you’ve got a chance. Those people probably know my shoe size. What happens when he gets a hit?’
‘I get on a plane.’
‘Mags!’
‘Just kidding,’ she said quickly. ‘When that happens I talk to you and Bob. Hopefully you can go to the Met, and ask them to arrange for the co-operation of the local agency, whatever that is.’
‘That’s a sound idea. Listen, kid, if we get that far, and I can swing it, I’ll get on that plane myself. Seeing Dražen in the dock has been your dream up to now, but I’m starting to buy into it.’
Fifty-six
Although Detective Inspector Becky Stallings was the senior police officer present in the elegant office, she felt at a disadvantage. She was the only person there who had not met Gregor Broughton, the area procurator fiscal. She looked at him, and saw a bulky man with a face that told of younger days spent in the front row of many a rugby scrum.
He seemed to sense her hesitancy, as she took her place at his conference table. ‘First time in the Crown Office?’ he asked her, with a reassuring smile.
She nodded.
‘First major case in Scotland?’
‘That too,’ she confessed, although she guessed that he had known already.
‘Don’t worry about it. The principles are exactly the same on this side of the border, but we’re better. The chain’s shorter, and you get to deal with me directly, round a table like this one, instead of sending your report up the line and waiting for some character in the Crown Prosecution Service to decide whether or not you’ve got a ninety per cent chance of getting a conviction.’
‘I know that scenario,’ said Stallings. ‘I’ve had a few sent back marked “no pro”, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Well, not here,’ said Broughton, cheerfully. ‘Here you’re dealing with real lawyers, experienced prosecutors, not some kid straight out of university who’s never been in a courtroom in his life. We’re braver, too. We’re not worried about percentages. A fiscal has one benchmark. Can I sell this to at least eight out of fifteen jurors?’ He glanced at McGurk. ‘What do you think, Jack? Can I convict Weekes of murder?’
The sergeant was impassive. ‘That’s the question we came to ask you, sir.’
‘Hah!’ the fiscal laughed. ‘It’s well seen you’ve spent some time in my friend Bob’s office. He’s shown you the ropes, all right.’ He looked to his left, where Weekes’s solicitor sat. ‘Well, Frankie,’ he asked, ‘how did you draw this one?’
‘He asked for me, Gregor,’ she replied. ‘I must have been doing something right these past few years.’
‘Your television advertising can’t do you any harm either. “Been arrested? Then call Frances Birtles.” Not too subtle, but effective, no doubt about that. Even a cop knew your number off by heart when he found himself in trouble.’ His smile vanished. ‘So?’ he asked abruptly.
Birtles had played the game many times before. ‘So what?’ she retorted.
‘I’ve read the papers in the case, and I’ve listened to the tapes. Your boy is teetering on the edge of the precipice. The jury at his trial will know he’s a police officer: that’s not going to win him sympathy, however clever you are at empanelling them. There’s enough there for me to ask them for a murder conviction. If I do that will you plead him guilty?’
‘It would be my client’s decision, Gregor. You know that. Plus, if I retain counsel, his or her view would have to be taken on board too.’
‘Frankie,’ said Broughton, ‘you’ve got rights of audience in the High Court. You can appear for Weekes yourself, and we both know you like the limelight that an acquittal brings. We both know also that you’ve got a bloody good record of “not guilty” and “not proven” verdicts, precisely because you have a talent for reading the evidence and then reading the jury’s collective mind. If you bring in an advocate to defend this guy on a murder charge, you’re as good as telling me you think he’s guilty. Come on. Are you going to plead him, and save us the cost of a trial?’
Birtles shook her head. ‘On a murder charge, no. . and I’ll defend him myself.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. And on the other charges?’
‘On those I’ll be offering mitigation.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Stallings.
‘It means,’ Broughton told her, ‘that Frankie knows when she’s on a loser.’
‘If I do that,’ the lawyer continued, ‘what’s the deal?’
‘I won’t ask the judge for more than five.’ The fiscal frowned again. ‘But we’re not there yet. I’m not afraid to face you in court on the murder charge.’
McGurk looked at Stallings, and nodded.
‘Before we go there,’ the inspector said, ‘we have some new information. I’m sorry you haven’t had advance sight of this, Mr Broughton, but we didn’t hear of it ourselves until this morning.’ She opened her case and took out a slim folder from which she extracted a print, an image of a woman, lying on a rock. ‘Her name’s Nadine Sebastian, she was an artist, and she was shot dead yesterday morning in Spain, within sight of DCC Skinner’s house there. He saw the body from his terrace and alerted the local police.’
As the fiscal studied the photograph, Stallings handed him another, showing the bullet wound. ‘It’s almost a perfect match for Dean, isn’t it?’ he murmured, then passed the sheets to Birtles. ‘Curious.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ the lawyer declared, after a few seconds. ‘You can’t nail my client for this one, and the similarity is striking. Has there been an arrest in Spain?’
‘No. But. . Remember Davis Colledge, Sugar Dean’s protégé slash boyfriend?’
‘Yes. The one you haven’t interviewed yet.’
‘We know he was in the area at the time of this incident, and we know that he caught a flight to Holland not long afterwards.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’ Broughton asked.
‘I’m afraid not. We’ve advised Customs to be on the lookout for him, obviously. We don’t think he caught a connecting flight out of Rotterdam, or Schiphol, but to be honest we can’t be sure.’
‘Have you checked with his parents? His father’s an MP, as I recall from your report.’
‘He was contacted yesterday,’ said McGurk, ‘and again this morning. Mr Colledge is still saying he hasn’t seen or heard from him since he left for France almost two weeks ago.’
‘But he will. Sooner or later he’ll show up at the family home, wide-eyed and innocent, and probably pleading ignorance of Miss Dean’s death.’ He turned back to Birtles. ‘Frankie, this changes things. The Spanish incident may have no connection to the Dean case, but until this young man is found and eliminated as a suspect, it would be unwise of me to proceed with a murder charge against your client. I’m still going to do him for attempting to pervert and the lesser charges, make no mistake about that, but anything more serious is on hold, without prejudice. We’ll stick him up before the sheriff as planned this morning, for the remand hearing.’