‘So what do you do next?’
‘That depends on Gregor Broughton. We have a likeness of him, a scan taken from a portrait painted by Stacey, that her dad says is absolutely spot on. We’ll need Crown Office authority to release it, but if the fiscal gives us the go-ahead, that’s what we’re going to do. Mario’s gone across to see him in Fife tonight; he lives in Elie, apparently.’
‘Does he indeed?’ Maggie murmured.
‘Yes. Rather him than me: it’s a ghost town these days. Anyway, as soon as he gives us the nod, and clears the press release that Alan Royston’s drafted, we’re ready to go. Let’s hope it flushes the guy out: otherwise we’re at a dead end.’
Forty-two
Paula had been in the last stage of her major kitchen reorganisation when Mario had finally made it back from Fife, twenty minutes after ten.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she had asked.
‘Hell, no! It implies that you’re going to do most of the cooking in this household and that’s fine by me.’
They had watched the late-night news on the ITN satellite channel, sharing a bottle of Morellino di Scansano, a strong cherry-scented wine from southern Tuscany that Paula had begun to import on Mario’s mother’s recommendation, and so it had been well after midnight before they had begun to sleep off the day’s exertions, after adding a few more.
The head of CID was still bleary-eyed, and ten minutes past his usual starting time of eight thirty, as he settled in behind his desk. He glanced up as his aide’s head appeared round the door.
‘Morning, boss,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Christ, do I look that bad?’
‘Put it this way, the staff are saying they’ve seen you looking better. In fact they’re even saying they’ve seen Dan Pringle looking better.’ McGuire’s predecessor had been a notoriously slow starter. ‘Alan Royston’s outside,’ Pye continued. ‘He wants to run through the media coverage with you.’
‘Aye, okay, tell him to come in. Hold the coffee, though: I’ve just left breakfast, and I’ve still got Paul Newman’s Colombian Especial coming out my fucking ears.’
‘Could be worse. It could be Kopi Luwak.’
‘What the hell is Kopi Luwak? Should the Viareggio delis be stocking it?’
‘I doubt it. It’s a very rare Sumatran product, made from beans found in the shit of a small jungle animal, the civet cat, after it’s eaten them. True.’
‘Jesus! I won’t ask what it does with the local tea leaves. Now please, Sammy, fuck off.’
The sergeant left with a grin on his face, and moments later Royston walked briskly into the room. ‘How have we done?’ McGuire asked him.
‘Very well. Yesterday was a slow news day, so the investigation is all over the front pages of all the Scottish papers. The early editions all led with Boras’s “million-pound bounty”, as the Sun called it, but later they all switched to the picture of Padstow, and to our release. The pattern was much the same with television.’
‘Yes, I know. I caught some when I got in last night, and again this morning. Good. That was well done, Alan, to get it round everybody so late on.’
‘Modern systems make that easy,’ the media manager replied.
McGuire grinned. ‘Shut up and take the credit.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve had requests for follow-up interviews with you from STV, Sky and Forth News; I’ll take the credit for them too.’
‘No, you can take the media flak for turning them down. I’ve got nothing to add to what’s in the release. Every word of that was cleared with the Crown Office, and I’m not going to risk compromising it by having others put into my mouth. I want you to pass that message down the line to Stevie and his team, just in case an enterprising reporter tries to doorstep them.’
‘I’ve done that already. I’ve told them that anything relating to Padstow must come out of my office or yours.’
‘Good.’ He paused as the phone rang, then picked it up. ‘Sammy, what is it?’
‘I’ve got Mr Keith Barker on the line, Mr Boras’s assistant. He’d like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like a few with him.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Barker,’ he said. ‘This had better be private, Alan.’
‘Pity, but I understand.’ He picked up his papers and left.
‘Okay, Sam,’ McGuire grunted, as the door closed. ‘You can put him through, and don’t listen in.’ He waited.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ A smooth, well-lubricated voice sounded in his ear. ‘Good morning to you.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ the detective snapped. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve calling me after that stunt you and your boss pulled yesterday.’
There was a silence. ‘Mr McGuire,’ Barker protested, eventually, ‘I’m not used to being addressed in that way. When you speak to me you are effectively speaking to Mr Boras.’
‘Fine, for he was fucking lucky that he left this building yesterday before I could get my hands on him. You can feel free to pass anything I say on to him. I can understand a man with his wealth and in his situation wanting to do what he did. I can’t understand, and I can’t accept, his pulling it out of the hat like a white fucking rabbit, without prior warning or consultation! You’re his adviser in this area: you must have known that.’
‘Mr Boras is a man of independent mind: he can be impulsive.’
‘And so can I, mate; another reason why you were lucky to get away unscathed. You’re supposed to be a professional, yet I’ve just had to send Alan Royston, your opposite number in my camp, out of the room so I could speak to you without him trying to grab the phone out of my hand to tell you what he thinks of you for letting your boss do that.’ He drew breath, to let his message sink in.
‘Now shut up and listen,’ he went on. ‘The money is stupid, because it won’t get you a result, and because it’s a distraction to my officers. It’s declared an open season for cranks. We’ve already had one medium on the line with the solution, only she doesn’t quite know who the murderer is. But what I’m really concerned about is the rest of what Boras said. I want to lay this out for you. I’ve reviewed the tape and I consider that there is a clear implication that he plans to interfere in our investigation. If he does, I don’t care who or what he is, I’ll charge him.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ Barker protested.
‘Let’s hope so, but if I’m not, be warned, on his behalf. Now, why are you calling me?’
‘I’m following Mr Boras’s instructions. He would like daily reports on the progress of the investigation.’
With difficulty, McGuire suppressed an explosion of spontaneous laughter. ‘He’d what?’ he said. ‘Hey, how about this? Would you like me to give you a desk in the inquiry headquarters? Then you can sit in, and see for yourself?’
‘Well,’ the aide replied, ‘not personally, but I could send a staff member.’
‘Aw, Jesus, man,’ the head of CID sighed, ‘I’m kidding. Listen to me: I have respect for Mr and Mrs Boras and their bereavement, just as I have for Mr and Mrs Gavin and for Colonel and Mrs Paul. I’ll give all of them any information I believe to be appropriate, whenever I can: I’ll give it to them, understand me, not to you. But there are legal constraints on what I can divulge, even to victims’ families. Right now, I suggest that you show your boss the latest press cuttings, for they reflect all that we know. Goodbye, and do not call me again.’
Forty-three
‘How are the phones going, Tarvil?’ asked Stevie Steele, as he hung his jacket over his desk in the main CID room. He only used the detective chief inspector’s empty office when there was a need for privacy or, as Ray Wilding put it, ‘a bollocking to be administered’, although only the sergeant himself had ever been in there for that purpose.