Thirty
‘Is this going to be the norm?’ Alan Royston whispered.
‘Ours not to reason, mate,’ Mario McGuire replied.
They were standing in the office of Chief Constable Sir James Proud, by a side door and far enough away not to be overheard as the head of the force extended welcoming hospitality to Davor Boras and Keith Barker. ‘I do not like these affairs,’ the media manager continued. ‘Why did you agree to it? Having parents at our press conferences, getting emotional and so on; I always feel uncomfortable.’
‘You’re a control freak, Alan, that’s your problem.’
‘Too fucking right I am, especially when we’re briefing on a very difficult homicide, with nothing positive to say.’
‘Hey, come on. Stevie and I got new lines of enquiry from our interview with the parents, and I’m going to tell the media as much.’
‘Why did the mother not come? Is she flaky, or half comatose with Valium?’
‘No, she’s together, but she’s a background player in this family. He’s the main man, or has to be seen to be at any rate.’
‘Okay, but what’s that smarmy bastard Barker doing sticking his nose in? This is the first time I’ve ever had to clear a press release with someone outside the official circle.’
‘The ACC says that’s the way they wanted it, and that he saw no good reason to interfere. Did you moan to him about it?’
‘No,’ Royston confessed.
‘Would you have moaned to big Bob if he was here, and had given it the okay?’
‘No.’
‘So why the fuck are you moaning to me?’
‘Sorry, Mario. It strikes me as unprofessional, that’s all. It has a showbiz feel about it.’
‘Now you’re getting to the heart of it. Brian Mackie didn’t say as much, but Boras’s presence isn’t about the girl. It’s about business. It’s about the stock-market analysts, letting them see that whatever happens in his private life, he’s still very much in control.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Royston hissed. ‘His daughter’s been murdered and he’s more concerned about his fucking company?’
‘That’s the way it looks to me.’
‘I’ve seen it all now.’
‘I used to think that too, but I know I never will.’ McGuire checked his watch. ‘That’s it. Twelve on the dot. Time to go downstairs and get the event under way.’
Barker caught the gesture, rose from his seat and crossed the room towards them. ‘You’re clear about how this is going to run?’ he murmured to Royston. ‘You introduce Mr McGuire, he reads the announcement for the camera, then I introduce Mr Boras and he makes a personal statement.’
‘No,’ said the head of CID, firmly. ‘It’ll just be me and your boss at the top table.’
‘But your assistant chief promised me. .’
‘I doubt that he was that precise and, anyway, he’s far too shrewd to be here. I’m running this thing, and I’m telling you how it will be.’
Barker’s sandy hair seemed to quiver. ‘I’ll ask Sir James to override you,’ he hissed.
The big detective smiled at him. ‘You try that and two things will happen: one, the chief will tell you very politely to fuck off; and two, I’ll take it personally. Trust me, both of those events would be unfortunate for you.’ He patted the aide on the shoulder, as if in consolation. ‘Mr Boras,’ he called out, ‘if you’re ready. .’
‘Yes.’ The man stood, and shook hands with the chief constable, who wished him luck, then followed McGuire out into the command corridor. An unfeasibly tall figure waited outside the door, Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk, Bob Skinner’s executive assistant. ‘I’ve just had word from Dr Brown at the mortuary, boss,’ he said. ‘We’ve confirmed the identification of Harry Paul. It seems he had a steel plate put in his right leg after a motorbike accident when he was eighteen. They took an X-ray of the body, and found it.’
‘Okay.’ He looked up. ‘You ready for Monday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about Monday?’ asked Royston, as the party moved on.
‘I’m sending Jack to CID at Torphichen Place, working under George Regan as acting DI. Mary Chambers needs reinforcements while she’s covering for Maggie. I did think about sending my guy, Sammy Pye, but my needs are greater than the DCC’s at this moment.’
The quartet walked downstairs and took a left turn along another corridor, which led them directly into the briefing room. ‘Mr Boras,’ said McGuire, ‘if you’ll accompany me, we’ll begin.’
Barker gave his employer a look that was more of a plea than anything else; it was ignored.
Seated behind a table, and before a backboard carrying the force logo, the detective chief superintendent looked around the room. He saw five television cameras, but did not bother to try to count the number of reporters gazing back at him.
‘Good afternoon,’ he began. ‘I’m Mario McGuire, head of CID. You have our press release, but for the record I’ll state that we are now in a position to name the woman found shot dead on a beach near Gullane on Tuesday. She was Miss Zrinka Boras, aged twenty-four, a full-time artist, the only daughter of the businessman Mr Davor Boras and Mrs Sanda Boras. Miss Boras had lived in Edinburgh for around two years prior to her death. She spent Monday night camping above Gullane beach, with a male companion. That young man was also found dead near the scene, yesterday evening, and a postmortem examination has confirmed that he was shot with the same gun that killed Miss Boras.’ He paused, for only a second, but time enough for a chorus of questions to be fired at him.
He held up a hand and waited for quiet. ‘Now for what isn’t in the press release. As of two minutes ago, I’m in a position to name him as Mr Harry Paul, aged twenty-three, a musician, of Aberfeldy, Perthshire, the son of Travers and Marietta Paul. I’m also prepared to tell you that these murders are linked beyond doubt to that of Stacey Gavin, of South Queensferry, who was found dead two months ago, on the shore near her home. Stacey was also an artist.’ He gazed out at his audience.
‘I know that’s going to lead to many columns and broadcast hours of media speculation. That’s up to you: I understand it, but we’re not going to comment on it in any way. We’ll be too busy looking at the links between these brutal killings, the obvious and the less obvious, until we find the thread that will lead us to the person who carried them out. I’m not going to set specific times for future briefings. When we have something to tell you, we’ll call you, be sure of that.
‘Now, before you all start shouting at me again, I want to introduce the gentleman on my left. As I’m sure many of you are aware, he is Zrinka’s father, Mr Davor Boras, and he has a statement that he would like to make.’
This time, as McGuire stopped speaking, the room remained absolutely silent. Boras straightened in his chair, flexed his shoulders and gazed, coldly and deliberately, into each television camera, one after another. Finally, he let his eyes rest on the journalists in the front rank. Most were strangers to Edinburgh, and McGuire realised that the man knew some of them. He understood, without asking, that they had been summoned there by Barker, who had taken a seat at the end of the row.
‘I am a strong man,’ Boras began. He carried no notes, and spoke either spontaneously or from a memorised speech. ‘I am a successful man. I am a rich man. Yet the strongest, most successful and the richest man can be brought down by a tragedy such as my wife, my son Dražen and I have suffered. I am here today to tell you that I will not be brought down.
‘I am also a determined man,’ he continued, ‘and I find myself made even more determined by my daughter’s death. You will know that in my business career I have created not one but two globally successful companies. I pledge to you that the same energy which enabled me to do that will be placed behind the search for my Zrinka’s murderer, and I pledge to you that it will succeed.