‘When?’
‘You told us that you learned of Sugar’s death yesterday, from Mr Skinner. Davis, the café owner has said that at the end of your last session, you left in a highly agitated state.’
‘I’d had a big bet on a horse. I lost a lot more than I could afford. It must have been somebody else who was looking at the BBC.’
‘You were the only British user of the café last Tuesday. Most of the others were French; the rest were German and Czech.’
‘Tough. One of them must have spoken English.’
‘I have to point out,’ Michael Colledge murmured, ‘that you have no evidence of prior knowledge of Sugar’s death.’
‘How many juries have you known in your career, sir,’ asked the inspector, ‘who wouldn’t have accepted those circumstances as proof? But let’s leave that to one side,’ she went on. ‘Next morning, Davis, you left Collioure. You’ve told us that you went to Holland, to frolic among the sex workers of Amsterdam. We know that you flew there on Thursday. How many nights did you spend there?’
‘Three. I took the train back to France on Sunday, overnight.’
‘What was the name of your hotel?’
He blinked. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t believe you were ever there.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ Michael Colledge shouted, but Stallings could see uncertainty and fear in the little MP’s eyes.
She pressed on. ‘This is what I think happened,’ she said. ‘You never went to Amsterdam. Instead you crossed to the UK last Thursday, as a foot passenger on an overnight ferry. You did that rather than fly, to avoid airport security and to avoid leaving your name on a flight manifest. When you landed in Britain, you probably discovered that we had a man in custody in connection with Sugar’s death. Maybe that threw you a bit, but as soon as his court appearance was reported by our national broadcasting organisation, you knew that he was out on bail, and you knew who he was: Theo Weekes, the man you believe killed Sugar.’ She looked at him. ‘Care to comment?’
‘No comment,’ he answered.
‘Noted. So you headed north, having turned some of your euros into sterling, not using your debit card. We think you came by bus, and reached Edinburgh on Saturday. You knew where Weekes lived; the papers told you that. You know your way around Edinburgh, so you took a bus out to the west of the city. You probably hung about for a while, watching from a distance, getting the lie of the land. While you were there, John Dean arrived. You may well have seen his altercation with Weekes; if you did, it would have left you in no doubt about what your man looked like. The police turning up didn’t help you, but you were patient enough to wait. After a while, another man arrived, got out of his car and banged on Weekes’s door until he answered.’
‘Inspector,’ Michael Colledge intervened. She held up a hand to silence him, and continued.
‘That was when you made your move. You took the path that leads to the back of Weekes’s place. He had gone inside; the back door was open, and you waited, until the shouting inside had subsided and until you heard the front door slam. Then you went inside. When Weekes came into his kitchen, you were there, with a big diver’s knife that you had bought for the purpose. You stabbed him with it. He didn’t have a chance to defend himself, for you were all over him with the blade, stabbing any part he didn’t shield, and slashing at him. He staggered away from you, into the hall, and eventually went down, on to the carpet, where you cut,’ she made a sudden, violent movement, ‘half-way through his neck, causing the blood to gush like you’d struck oil. You stuck the knife in his eye for good measure, and that was that. You’d taken revenge for Sugar.’
‘Inspector,’ the politician repeated. His face was chalk white. ‘You can’t be suggesting my son did that. I’ll have your job, woman.’
Stallings picked up a bound folder from the table and tossed it to him. ‘That’s what he did,’ she told him. ‘Those are photographs from the crime scene and from the post-mortem. The autopsy report’s there too. Take a look.’
‘Brutal, I’m sure,’ said Colledge, ignoring it, ‘but not proof. Evidence, please, Inspector, Sergeant.’
‘We really don’t want to fuck up your son’s life,’ McGurk told him, sadly and sincerely. ‘I wish we didn’t have any. The trouble is, we do.’ He stood, and stepped over to a video-player and monitor, set up in a corner of the room. He pressed a button and a series of jerky images appeared on screen, people, some descending from a bus, some waiting, some stepping on board. A second bus appeared: more passengers stepped off. McGurk pressed a remote and froze the image of a tall young man. He wore a baseball cap, with the letters FDNY, cut-off jeans and a pale blue T-shirt, and carried a rucksack over his shoulder. ‘You, Davis,’ he said.
‘That could be anybody,’ the Shadow Defence Secretary exclaimed.
‘But it’s him.’ He ran the tape again, until he froze it at a second image. The same young man, same baseball cap, but wearing a black T-shirt and denim shorts. ‘And so’s that,’ he said, then reached down, took a clear plastic bag from under the table, and held it up: it contained two items of bloody clothing. ‘The first of those shirts was found yesterday, in a bin in George Street. The denims turned up this morning, in a skip behind a building in York Place. That’s Weekes’s blood, and in both garments we found some DNA traces that weren’t his. I’ll need a sample from you, Davis, but we both know what they’ll confirm, don’t we?’
The boy, for that was what he had become, stared stonily ahead.
‘You’re left-handed, aren’t you?’ McGurk asked him.
‘Yes,’ his father replied for him.
McGurk turned over a print that had been lying face down on the table. It showed the painting that Davis had created in Collioure, the one in which he held a gun. . in his left hand. ‘He caught the inter-city bus out of town on Saturday night,’ he said to the MP. ‘We have a witness who places him at the bus station, then there’s the driver. Ferry across the Channel, train back to Collioure and it all looks as if he’s been in Amsterdam getting his end away, just like the story he made up.’ He resumed his seat. ‘I’m sorry, kid.’ He sighed. ‘I really am.’
‘I’m not,’ the younger Colledge replied harshly. ‘Weekes is dead, and that’s all that matters to me.’
‘But, son,’ said Stallings, ‘there’s no evidence that he killed Sugar. In fact, we don’t believe he did.’
‘That doesn’t matter either!’ he retorted. ‘Even if he didn’t, if someone else did, don’t you think he thought about it? He was an animal, an evil bastard, Sugar told me. He deserved to die, and I’m glad I killed him.’
Ninety-one
The bar was empty of customers, and the bartender was absent. The two Scots found a table, out of the direct sight of the check-in desk, but from which they could watch it, reflected in a mirror.
The man was smiling, relaxed, as he signed in, and took his key card from the receptionist. He glanced to his left, in the direction of the elevators, then turned, with his companion, and walked towards them.
‘Well?’ Skinner asked, as he passed out of sight. ‘Was that him?’
‘If it is, he’s changed, or he’s been changed, a lot,’ said McGuire. ‘There’s the beard, for a start, and the glasses; his nose is different too, narrower, and his ears. You have to remember that I met the guy very briefly, and that he was sitting down all the way through our conversation. But the ears are the biggest change: Davor’s ears stick out, if you’ve noticed. They’re not quite in the Dumbo class, but pretty prominent. When I saw him, Dražen’s were the same. Now they’ve been pinned back, literally.’