‘I reckon not,’ Steele agreed. ‘Let’s cover all the options. You have Montell re-interview his bus driver, and ask her to do us a likeness. While he’s doing that we’ll clear this area, and hold back Dorward’s team until we can get sniffer dogs in here.’
Twenty-two
Brian Mackie scanned the horizon to the south, looking across the Pentland Hills. From behind him came the roar of an easyJet flight taking off from the main runway, but he ignored it, scanning the skies for another aircraft, one that air-traffic control had assured him was on schedule.
Edinburgh’s general aviation terminal was familiar territory for him; many VIP flights were routed there rather than to the principal airport, on grounds of privacy, security and ease of access. He had welcomed many official visitors, and in the process had come to regard himself as something of a connoisseur of private aircraft.
The Boras plane came in low; he failed to pick it up until it was in the final stages of its approach. ‘Learjet,’ he whispered, but as the craft grew closer he became less certain. Its engines were distinctly rear-mounted and its lines were sharp and sleek. He gave in. ‘What is it?’ he asked the facility manager.
‘It’s an Embraer Legacy 600,’ she replied, ‘small executive jet of choice of the super-rich. It may not be a jumbo, but that thing will get you to New York, no problem.’
He watched as the pilot made a faultless landing, then followed the guide car, which led him across to the section of the taxiway where Mackie stood.
The assistant chief constable waited as the twin engines were cut and wound down, then as the aircraft door opened and its steps extended automatically. He was about to climb them when the doorway was filled by a stocky, heavy-shouldered man, who seemed at first glance to be almost as wide as he was tall. He was balding; the hair that remained was swept back from his forehead. His nose was the most prominent feature of his face, its size enhanced by two small, dark, piercing eyes, and by a tight-lipped mouth. If he had sported a small moustache, Mackie thought, he might have been taken for the television incarnation of Hercule Poirot.
That image vanished in the instant that his gaze fell on the police officer. There was none of David Suchet’s charm and bonhomie, only a cold, hard stare, full of rage. He paused for a moment, then trotted down the stairway.
‘From the look of your uniform,’ he said, as he approached, ‘I guess that you are the man in charge.’ There was no offer of a handshake.
‘That’s right. Brian Mackie, assistant chief.’
‘Don’t we rate the chief himself?’ The question, in flat, accent-free English, snapped out like a whip. For all that Davor Boras was a newly bereaved father, Mackie felt his hackles rise, but fought successfully to keep the fact from showing.
‘Rating doesn’t come into it, sir,’ he replied. ‘This has all happened very quickly. If I’d had time to brief Sir James Proud, I’m sure he would have come to meet you.’
‘You’re sure, are you?’ The little eyes blazed. ‘There is no doubt about this?’ he asked. ‘You are certain that this is my daughter? For let me promise you, if my wife and I have been put through this by mistake. .’
‘Mr Boras, if that turns out to be the case, I’ll take whatever flak may come my way and I’ll still be very happy for you. But, no, there is no doubt. Didn’t the Met show you a photograph?’
‘Yes,’ the man admitted, ‘but it had been altered. It might have been my Zrinka, it might not. I must see her for myself. Where is she?’
‘The body’s still in the city mortuary. I’ll take you straight there if you wish.’
‘In time.’ Boras glanced around. ‘Where are the cars?’
Mackie turned and pointed to two unmarked police vehicles, parked close by. ‘I hope those will be enough. I assumed that your pilots would be staying in Edinburgh.’
‘They are not my cars. I instructed my staff to have two limos waiting here for us to take us to the Caledonian Hotel. I must ensure that my wife is comfortable in her surroundings before I put her through this ordeal.’
‘You’re ahead of schedule,’ the facility manager pointed out anxiously, ‘and it can be difficult getting out of the city at this time of day. I’ll check the car park if you like. They may be waiting there; we wouldn’t allow them on the Tarmac, I’m afraid.’
‘Fuck them,’ Boras growled. ‘They’re not here, and that’s all I care about. My wife and I will travel with you, sir; my personal assistant will come too, in your second car, if need be. The pilots and Sanda’s secretary can come in one of the limos, if they ever arrive.’
‘Of course.’
The dark man turned, jogged heavily up the stairs and back into the jet; after around a minute he reappeared, followed by a slim, blonde woman. If there had been the tiniest sliver of a doubt in Mackie’s mind about the veracity of the identification of the body on the beach, it vanished as soon as he saw her.
A second man brought up the rear, ducking as he exited the aircraft. He was tall, dressed in a double-breasted suit that screamed Savile Row, with sandy-coloured hair so perfectly arranged that it might have been lacquered, and ginger eyebrows. The assistant chief constable had an excellent memory for faces, an attribute of most successful police officers, and he knew at once that this was one he had seen before.
‘My wife, Sanda,’ Boras said gruffly, in introduction. Close to, Mackie could see that the woman’s eyes were puffy; she clutched a handkerchief and he guessed that she had cried all the way to Edinburgh. He nodded to her, a brief bow. ‘And my personal assistant, Keith Barker.’ With the name, the ACC’s recollection was complete: formerly the business editor of ITN, Barker had gone, in the face of much criticism from his peers, from reporting on the Boras empire to representing it.
He and Mackie shook hands. ‘Shall we be going?’ he said. ‘I’d like to get to the hotel as quickly and as quietly as possible. There are people who make a career out of following the movements of Mr Boras; we gave them the slip when we left Gatwick and I’m anxious that we retain that advantage.’
‘Sure,’ the assistant chief replied. ‘Let’s head off.’
‘I’d like to travel with you, Mr Mackie, if I may,’ said Barker.
‘Yes,’ Boras barked. ‘That would be best.’
‘If that’s how you want it,’ Mackie replied evenly, ‘it’s fine with me. I’ll take the lead car with Mr Barker. You and your wife take the larger vehicle, please, Mr Boras. It’s more comfortable.’
‘No blue lights, I notice,’ Barker murmured, as the police officer slid after him into the back seat of their Mondeo, tapping the driver on the shoulder as a signal to move off.
‘No. There’s no point in attracting attention to Mr Boras. His daughter’s identity hasn’t been picked up by the media yet, and I want to keep it that way until the formal identification’s been made. As an ex-journalist you’ll understand that, I’m sure. Once the news breaks the family will come under intense scrutiny.’
‘Of course. But as I said earlier, Mr Boras himself is always under intense scrutiny. That’s why this business needs to be very carefully managed. There could be significant financial implications.’
‘In what way?’
‘The City’s a very sensitive animal, Mr Mackie. Although Continental IT has become a massive business, my employer remains extremely hands-on in its day-to-day management. I’m not saying that he is the company, you understand, but the financial markets recognise his importance to its well-being. Therefore anything that happens to distract him in his personal life will be seen to have a knock-on effect.’
‘And the share price might suffer?’
‘Exactly. This is why I wanted to travel with you, Mr Mackie: to make you understand the sensitivity of this situation, at all sorts of levels.’
‘I think I do already, but carry on.’
He did. ‘Make no mistake, Mr Mackie, Zrinka’s death is a tragedy for the Boras family; I cannot tell you how badly it has affected Davor and Sanda. What we must do now is ensure that it does not become a tragedy for others. Continental IT employs thousands, indeed tens of thousands of people across Europe and at our call centre in Mumbai; a crisis of confidence among the institutional shareholders could put many of those jobs at risk. For that reason, I’d like to work with your media people in preparing any public statements about Zrinka, and I’d like her father to be involved in every press briefing, so that he can answer questions directly and send out the right business message: so that he can be seen to be in control.’