‘Who?’ Keith Barker exclaimed.
‘The procurator fiscal; that’s the Scottish legal title for the public prosecutor at local level. He’s a part of the Crown Office, which is headed by the Lord Advocate. . that’s the Scottish equivalent of the Attorney General.
‘I should explain that in criminal investigations the police act as agents of the fiscal, and report to his office. So Zrinka is in his care, not ours. I should warn you, though, that in homicide investigations it’s quite common for the body to be retained for some time. Once an arrest’s been made, there could be circumstances in which the defence requires a second autopsy.’
‘This can’t be!’ Boras protested. ‘I can’t allow this.’
‘Let’s deal with that later,’ said Mackie, firmly. ‘First things first: let’s get the formal identification over with.’
He opened the front passenger door of the car and stepped out into the small courtyard in front of the square, grey single-storey building on the Cowgate, at its junction with Infirmary Street. He could understand the father’s distress. The mortuary was an ugly building, bleak and forbidding. He hated having to take family members there to see the remains of their loved ones, but since the council’s so-called refurbishment of the building there was usually no alternative.
He led his two companions to the door, opened it, and held it for them. Walton Blackwell, the mortuary superintendent, was waiting for them; he had been fully briefed about the visitors. ‘Mr Mackie, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we’re ready for you. The viewing room is this way.’
Boras stepped forward; his personal assistant made to follow him, but his employer put a hand on his sleeve. ‘No, Barker, this I do myself.’
‘Mr Blackwell and I have to come with you,’ Mackie explained gently. ‘It’s part of the formality: your identification has to be witnessed.’
‘I understand that.’
The superintendent led the way into a small windowless chamber; there was an extractor fan set in the ceiling, whirring noisily. A trolley lay directly below it, and on it, a human figure, under a white sheet.
‘Ready?’ asked Blackwell. As Boras nodded assent, he drew back the cover, to reveal the dead face. ‘Is this the body of your daughter, Zrinka?’
The question was unnecessary, they all knew why they were there, but Mackie had to put it. He gazed at the man, expecting him to crack, to break down, as most visitors did in there at such a time. But Davor Boras held himself upright, his face impassive and his broad shoulders square; he gazed at the pale, lifeless girl for several seconds, and then he said, ‘Yes,’ crisply, turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
The ACC followed, expecting him to stop in the reception area, but he did not. With a gesture of command to Barker, he strode into the courtyard, opened the car door and slid inside.
‘I’ll need you to sign a formal statement,’ Mackie told him, when the three were together once more.
‘Of course. Now take us back to the hotel, please. I must be with my wife.’
‘Sure. Wattie, take us to the Caley.’
‘You will speak to your fiscal, Mr Mackie,’ Boras exclaimed. ‘You will tell him that my daughter’s body must be returned to her family. Her mother cannot see her in this place and, besides, we must take her home.’ For the first time, a trace of an Eastern European accent sounded in his voice.
Assistant chief constables are unused to orders, especially from civilians, but Brian Mackie had sympathy with the man. ‘I’ll be happy to put your request to him,’ he replied. ‘In this case, I can see no good reason not to release her. There are no grounds for dispute that I can see: the cause of death is very clear and there were no other physical injuries. However, I have to repeat that it’s his decision.’
‘If he is difficult, then go to his boss, this Lord Advocate.’
‘That I can’t do.’
‘Then I will. I am a man of influence, sir. I have friends in government.’
‘But possibly not in the Scottish government. Look, sir, let’s not go looking for problems before they happen. I know the fiscal well, he’s a reasonable guy and he usually takes police advice. It’ll be okay, I’m sure.’
‘It had better be.’ Boras frowned, then fixed his piercing eyes on the police officer. ‘Tell me everything, sir. Tell me everything about how my daughter died. Don’t soft-soap me; don’t play things down. I want to know exactly what was done to her.’
‘She was found yesterday morning, on a beach about twenty miles east of Edinburgh, near a village called Gullane.’
‘That is where the golf courses are?’
Mackie was taken by surprise. ‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘Golf is my one form of relaxation, now that I am too old for more strenuous games. I am a member of the new Archerfield Club, and I have played all the other courses there.’
‘When you played there, was your family with you?’
‘Not every time, but the first time, yes. I played on Muirfield fifteen years ago and we took rooms in Greywalls Hotel.’
‘Can you remember whether your wife took your children to the beach while you played?’
‘Yes, she did. I recall that they crossed the course to get there. Is that significant?’
‘It may explain why Zrinka chose to go there. She was last seen alive on Monday night in Gullane, getting off a bus she had caught in North Berwick, with a male companion. They camped overnight in the bushes, near the beach. We found their tent this afternoon.’
‘This man; he killed her?’
‘No.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘He’s dead too. We found his body this evening, hidden in the bushes. We haven’t had time to examine him, but I’m sure we’ll find that he was shot too.’
‘Shot?’
‘Yes. Your daughter was killed by a single shot to the back of the head, Mr Boras, fired at close range. For what it’s worth, the officers who attended the scene believe that she never knew a thing, and the autopsy bears that out. There are no marks on her body, nothing that would indicate a struggle.’
‘Thank you, I will tell my wife that.’
‘I hope it helps.’
‘It will not, but I will tell her anyway. What progress have you made?’
‘We’re still trawling for witnesses, people who might have been on the beach yesterday, around the time of the murder. So far, we haven’t found any.’
‘Do you expect to?’
‘To be honest? No, I don’t. We believe that we’re confronted by a very resourceful, efficient murderer, someone who takes great care to leave no trace of himself at the scene. That’s not easy, these days, given our forensic resources, but so far he’s succeeded.’
‘Could this be a professional hit, Mr Mackie?’ asked Barker.
‘I thought we’d dealt with that earlier,’ the ACC replied, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘It isn’t, at least not in the sense you mean. The person who shot Zrinka has killed at least one other woman that we know of.’
‘When?’ Boras snapped.
‘Two months ago, on the other side of Edinburgh. Like your daughter, she was killed on the seashore early in the morning.’
‘You’re telling me that you had two months to catch this animal, but you failed. You allowed him to remain at liberty, you allowed him to kill my Zrinka.’ His voice rose, climbing to reach a crescendo of rage.
‘I can’t deny any of that, sir,’ Mackie admitted. ‘Our priority now is to find him before he does it again.’
Twenty-six
‘Seven thirty!’ Alex exclaimed, as she opened the front door. ‘Bloody cops: you’re all the same.’
‘Sorry,’ said Griff Montell, hanging his head like a guilty dog. ‘I did phone; you have to give me that.’
‘Yes,’ she retorted, ‘and I told you that by eight thirty I’d be long gone from here. So what the hell are you doing ringing my doorbell?’
‘Spring said that she hadn’t heard you go out,’ he told her bravely, if a little tentatively. ‘So why the hell are you still here?’