‘Would you like to hear the odds? Seven per cent of the population have A negative blood, so it’s thirteen to one on that it’s his. I’ll be able to tell you for certain once the DNA testing’s complete.’
‘Thanks, Arthur,’ said Stallings. ‘That’s a step forward: it tells us where the killer went after the murder. It’s a pity it doesn’t tell us any more about him, though.’
‘Don’t you be so sure. This man might be thinking he was clever cutting the labels off, but if he’d really been smart he’d have turned it inside out and removed his personal traces as well. When my people had a good look, they found four oxter hairs.’
‘What?’
‘Ah, sorry, Inspector. I forgot to make allowance for your Englishness. Oxters would be armpits to you. Three of the hairs have roots, which means they can be used for testing. Find me the guy, and I’ll prove he wore this shirt when he killed PC Weekes.’
Eighty-two
Her Majesty’s Honorary Consul in Monaco was not used to evening visits from British police officers, bearing copies of international warrants. Looking at the nervous little man, Skinner was not sure that he was used to anything disturbing his sunny days.
He was an expatriate named James Major, who maintained a small law office on the second floor of a building in rue des Orangers, not far from the port. The official crest above his nameplate at street level implied grander surroundings than those in which the Scot stood.
‘What is it you’re telling me?’ Major asked.
‘There’s a man we’ve been after,’ Skinner replied, ‘in connection with the death of a colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago. Since then we believe he’s found himself a new identity. His parents are flying down here tomorrow: we’re not certain, but we believe there’s a chance that he’ll show up here to meet them. If he does, I’m having him.’
‘Why are you telling me? This is a police matter.’
‘I’ll be meeting them in the morning. I’m talking to you to warn you that later this week, you could have a British citizen in jail here awaiting extradition. That will definitely be a Foreign Office matter. Unless I’m mistaken, in this part of the world, that means you.’
‘Extradition’s way beyond my remit,’ the man spluttered. ‘I’ll need to take advice from the consulate in Marseille.’
‘You can take advice from the Foreign Secretary’s mistress for all I care. If this man turns up here, I want him back in Britain as soon as possible after his identity is confirmed.’
‘Are you sure you have the authority to do this?’ asked Major, officiously.
Skinner stared at him. ‘Am I what?’ he whispered.
It dawned on the honorary consul that he might have drifted into dangerous waters. ‘It is rather off your beat, that’s all.’
‘Sunshine, this man killed one of my officers, someone I’ve known all through his career, someone I considered a friend. In his pursuit, there is nowhere, absolutely nowhere, that is off my beat.’
Eighty-three
‘Do you have anything planned for tonight?’ Becky Stallings asked.
McGurk smiled. ‘Do you mean, am I seeing Lisanne? If so, the answer’s no.’
‘Cooling off, or just getting your breath back?’
‘The latter, I hope. It’s taken us both by surprise.’
‘Have you spoken to Mary about it? I know your separation’s been friendly so far: you want to make sure it stays that way.’
The sergeant gave her a curious look. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t talk about it very often, but I was married once; it ended twelve years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘Your story in reverse; it was him that couldn’t stand the job. I nearly gave it up for him, but at the last minute I decided that I’d rather give him up for it. We agreed that it was best for us to go our own ways, and we separated formally. We were the best of pals for a while, and then it all went tits up.’
‘You went out with someone else and he threw a moody?’
Stallings shook her head. ‘Entirely wrong. He got himself a new girlfriend, about six months down the line. When he told me that he was in love with somebody else and planning to marry her when he was free, I just blew up in his face. I took myself completely by surprise: I didn’t want the guy, and yet I was jealous as hell. We barely spoke after that, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since the divorce went through. No Christmas cards, nothing: he could be dead.’
‘And if he was?’
‘Now? I wouldn’t care. Eventually I worked out why I reacted as I did. He had a new relationship going, but nobody had given me as much as a look. It kicked me right in the self-esteem. I went without for three years after that, mainly because I didn’t think there was any point in going out looking. So you be careful with your ex, Jack, if you want to keep her as a long-term friend.’
‘Thanks for the advice, Becky. If Lisanne and I do get serious, I’ll break it to her gently. But I think she’ll be all right. Last time I visited her, to pick up some stuff I’d made room for at my place, I had a headache and went looking in the bathroom cabinet for paracetamol. Didn’t find any, but there was a not-quite-new Gillette Fusion razor in there, and a can of shaving foam.’
‘What did you do?’
He grinned. ‘I was needing a shave at the time, so I had one.’
‘God, did she notice?’
‘Oh, yes. She blushed bright red, we had a laugh, and I wished her all the best. What about Ray? Does he know about your past?’
‘Yes, we had a tell-all session early on. Fancy a pint with us? I’m meeting him in Ryrie’s Bar.’
‘I’ll pass. There’s something I want to go back over.’
‘Okay. Mind if I go ahead?’
‘As if I could.’
She picked up her bag and headed for the door. McGurk waved her on her way, then picked up a videotape from his desk and walked over to the player. He was about to plug in the cassette when the phone rang. He picked it up: ‘CID, Detective Sergeant McGurk.’
‘Sergeant,’ said a clipped, cultured voice, ‘I’m glad I’ve caught somebody. This is Michael Colledge. I’m at Stansted Airport where I’ve just met my son. I’ve been told that you need to interview him. I understand that, but poor old Dave’s still shocked, having only just found out about Sugar. I propose to take him home with me tonight, and bring him up to see you tomorrow.’
‘That’s fine, sir.’
‘We’ll catch the midday shuttle. Should be with you about two, if you tell me where we should come.’
‘We’ll send a car for you, Mr Colledge.’
‘Not blue lights, I trust.’
‘No,’ McGurk assured him, ‘we’ll be discreet. Sir, the interview’s no more than a necessary formality, but would your son like legal representation?’
The Shadow Defence Secretary chuckled. ‘I’m a QC, Sergeant. I think I can fill that role myself.’
Eighty-four
The small piece of Margaret Rose Steele’s soul that remained incurably romantic was disappointed. When Bob Skinner had told her of Adrian St John’s discoveries, and of Davor Boras’s interesting trip to Monaco, she had seen herself flying south in the seat next to the DCC, headed for a confrontation that she had done much to create.
The rest of her, the greater part of her that a lifetime of personal tragedy had made dourly realistic, knew that she could go nowhere near it. She was recovering from major surgery, she had a child to look after, but most of all, she could not rely upon her self-control if their quarry was run to ground.
So she sat at home in Gordon Terrace and fretted. Bob had called her, as he had promised, reporting that he had put the honorary consul on standby, and that Mario McGuire had met with the commander of the Monégasque police, to advise him of their presence and of their purpose. She had been encouraged, and yet she had sensed that somehow he was less certain, less confident than he had been that morning.