‘Of course,’ said the ACC, with a smile. ‘You must be very proud of her, Gregor.’
‘Pleased as Punch, my friend, and so are the boys. The thing that gives us all the biggest kick, is that she chose to use her married name as her judicial title, could have called herself Lady Anything-she-bloody-liked-within-reason, or used her maiden name. Frankly that’s what I expected, since she practised as Phyllis Davidson QC. I was delighted when she told me what she’d decided.’
‘There won’t be any conflict of interest, will there, with you being in criminal prosecution and her being a judge?’
‘None that haven’t been thought of; Phyl will never try a case where I’ve been involved, even if it’s only in the earliest stages. I’m a district fiscaclass="underline" my appearances are limited to the Sheriff Court, so there’s no chance of me ever appearing before her as a prosecutor.’
‘You have appeared in the same court, though, haven’t you?’
Broughton laughed. ‘You remember that, do you? Yes, once when I had a merchant banker in the dock pleading not guilty to his third drunk-driving offence. He’d retained senior counsel who came down with appendicitis on the eve of the trial, and the dean of the Faculty of Advocates, mischievous bugger that he was, parachuted Phyl in as a replacement. She gave me a hell of a time; Sheriff Boone was most amused, and let her get away with murder. . not that her client got away with anything at the end of the day.’ He slapped his desk. ‘Now, Brian, to business, since we’re both busy men: what can I do for you?’
‘A favour. You’ve got the Boras investigation on your desk, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ve just been looking at the post-mortem report, in fact. It doesn’t make pretty reading, especially with the Gavin investigation still open. But that’s not in your court any longer, is it? McGuire’s overseeing that in Bob Skinner’s absence, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but. . the victim’s parents are in Edinburgh, and I’ve been looking after them.’
‘Ahh. The very wealthy Mr Boras. Is he making waves?’
‘Not so far, but I have a feeling that he could if he tried.’
‘Would it cut any ice with you if he did?’
‘Not a single cube. No, Gregor, that isn’t why I’m here. The man wants to take his daughter’s body with him when he goes back to London. You can authorise that.’
The fiscal frowned. ‘Just forty-eight hours into the investigation?’ he murmured. ‘It would be unusual.’
‘Sure, but not unprecedented.’
‘What about the defence interests?’
‘There’s no guarantee of there being any defence. . not in the near future at any rate. It’s two months down the road in the Gavin inquiry and we don’t have a single suspect.’
‘No, but you’ll be looking for cross-overs between the two, won’t you?’
‘Sure, but McGuire and Steele tell me that this isn’t an ordinary criminal. His tracks may be well covered. But leaving all that aside, there are no unresolved issues relating to the cause of death in either case. You released Stacey Gavin’s body after eight days.’
‘True. When’s the man going back?’
‘He wants to leave today, after he’s faced the press.’
Broughton looked surprised. ‘You’re putting him through that ordeal, are you?’
‘He’s insisting on it. He has his media guru with him. They have an eye on the London Stock Exchange.’
‘Jesus,’ the fiscal gasped, ‘some people! You know, Brian, the longer I live the more cynical I get. Let me get this clear, you said you want me to do this as a favour.’
‘Yes, but not for him: I’m asking for me and for the guys in the investigation. I don’t want to give Boras any reason to hang around Edinburgh. I want him out of town as quickly and as neatly as can be managed.’
‘In that case, I’ll do it. But I’ll release the body only for buriaclass="underline" no cremation certificate will be issued. I must keep my arse covered to some degree, lest at some time in the future it winds up being kicked by one of my dear wife’s colleagues.’
Twenty-eight
In the twenty-first century the Caledonian Hotel may carry the name of an international chain, but to Edinburgh’s citizens it is still known, with simple affection, as the Caley. For over a hundred years it has stood at the west end of Princes Street, glaring along its length at its rival, the Balmoral, formerly the North British, with its red sandstone seeming to blush against the greyness of the rest of the famous thoroughfare.
For all that, the majority of Edinburghers have never set foot in its foyer, or been escorted by an usher to the lifts that carry guests to the five-star accommodation of its upper floors.
‘I thought the ACC would have come with us,’ said Stevie Steele, as they stepped out into a long, carpeted corridor.
‘No,’ Mario McGuire replied, ‘he reckoned that if he did it would look as if he was making sure we behaved ourselves. But reading between the lines, I suspect that he had enough last night of Mr Boras and his bag-carrier, Barker, to do him for a while.’
They counted off the numbers until they reached their destination. Steele checked his watch to make certain that it was exactly ten a.m., then rapped on the polished wood and waited.
A tall man, immaculately dressed and groomed, opened the door; both detectives knew at once that he was Keith Barker. Mackie’s description had been perfect: ‘So fucking smooth it’s a wonder the clothes don’t slide off him, and I’m sure he wears a touch of eyeliner.’
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, extending a hand first to McGuire in the assumption that as the older of the two he was the senior officer, ‘you will be the police officers.’
The head of CID resisted the urge to reply, ‘No, we’re the fucking chambermaids.’ Instead he nodded, then introduced himself and his colleague. Barker stood aside and ushered them into the suite.
Davor and Sanda Boras were seated in armchairs, he with the air of a monarch, or perhaps a Mafia don, she with the slightly vacant gaze of one who has been heavily sedated. Neither rose as the aide presented the two detectives and offered them seats on a couch that faced the couple.
A woman in a dark grey suit, worn over a black blouse, hovered behind Sanda Boras. McGuire glanced at her and then at Barker, who read his silent question. ‘This is Camilla Britto,’ he said, ‘Mrs Boras’s secretary.’
‘Okay,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘We had assumed that we would be conducting this interview in private. On balance, I think we’d prefer that.’
‘And we would not,’ Davor Boras snapped. ‘Miss Britto will remain, to attend to my wife’s needs as they arise. Mr Barker will remain to attend to mine.’
Steele glanced to his right, looking for the first signs of an eruption, but the head of CID simply shrugged. ‘If that’s how you wish it, sir,’ he replied.
‘I will start with a question,’ the stocky millionaire announced. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What’s not to understand? I’m asking what you are doing here, talking to my wife and me, when you should be out somewhere pursuing this man who has killed our daughter, and that other poor woman.’
McGuire drew a breath; he knew that command had brought with it an added need for patience and yet there were times when it ran up against his nature.
Steele read the moment. ‘You are part of the investigation, sir,’ he interjected. ‘We need to know everything that you know about your daughter, her recent life, her movements, her associates, because in there may be one tiny piece of information that will lead us to this man. This may seem intrusive to you, and it may even seem like a waste of our time and yours, but it is necessary.’ From a corner of his eye, he saw Barker look towards his employer and give a tiny nod.
‘Very well. If you say so. But how long has your investigation into the first death been running?’