‘I know. We listened to his interrogation by Stevie before we left. Don’t worry: I’m going to assume that he has bugs of his own installed and that he tapes everything that’s said in there.’
‘Won’t that make it risky, if you plan to accuse him?’
‘Maybe, but I’ll play it by ear. . almost.’ He took a palm-sized black box from his pocket and showed it to her. ‘Before we left, I got this from my technical people. It detects transmitters and hidden cameras. It’s a clever wee bugger. .’ he chuckled ‘. . or de-bugger, I should say. The warning is set to “vibrate” so it can be used as discreetly as the things it’s picking up.’
He concealed it and they headed towards the garage exit door, past a shirtsleeved man, in his late twenties, who was busy removing splattered insects from the windscreen of a new silver Rolls-Royce Phantom. A uniform cap lay on the roof. ‘Nice motor,’ said McGuire, casually. ‘The boss’s?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the chauffeur replied, in an accent that was not from anywhere in London. ‘I don’t care what anyone says, this is still the finest car in the world, and it deserves to be kept immaculate.’
‘He’s not kidding,’ the chief superintendent murmured, as they stepped through the door and found themselves facing an elevator.
Skinner pressed the button to summon it. ‘Why don’t you work on Paula to buy one?’ He suggested. ‘I’m sure that the shareholders of Viareggio PLC wouldn’t mind the chief executive having a vehicle worthy of her status.’
‘Sure, and the customers of the Viareggio delis would be really impressed too, to see one of those doing the rounds of our shops. Besides, she loves her Mini.’
The lift took them up to the foyer. The three officers stepped out, and Stallings walked over to the reception desk to announce their arrival. A middle-aged woman sat behind it. ‘Ah, yes,’ she replied, in cut-glass tones. ‘Mr Boras is ready for you. If you go up to the top floor, I’ll let him know you’re on the way.’
They did as they had been instructed. As the lift doors closed on them, and Stallings pushed the button, Skinner said to the head of CID, ‘When we get up there, you make the running.’
The building had fifteen floors; when they emerged on the top level, they found that its partitions and outer walls were made entirely of glass. Davor Boras was waiting for them, a cool smile on his face, his stocky frame encased in a powder-blue suit that shone like silk. ‘Mr McGuire,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m pleased to see you again, especially since you bring such, er, satisfactory news of your investigation … although,’ he added at once, ‘I was devastated to hear of the death of your colleague.’
‘We appreciate that, sir. Please let me introduce Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner, and Detective Inspector Becky Stallings, who’s our liaison officer with the Met.’
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, as they shook hands. ‘Come with me; let’s go into my hospitality suite. My office is far too formal.’ Skinner was taken by surprise, but he nodded; he was last in line as they followed Boras into a big square room, set on a corner of the building so that two of its sides offered a spectacular view across the rooftops to the Tower of London and the bridge beyond. As Boras closed the door, the DCC activated the box in his trouser pocket, and almost immediately felt it vibrate strongly against his thigh.
Their host looked towards a drinks table, with a laden ice-bucket sitting on it, and a small fridge beside it. A waiter stood ready. ‘Ms Stallings, gentlemen: may I offer you a drink?’ He laughed lightly, ‘Or don’t you do that on duty?’
‘Only when it’s formal,’ McGuire told him. ‘The inspector’s driving, so hers will have to be soft, but if that’s a bottle of Sancerre open in the bucket, the DCC and I will be very happy to join you.’
They stood in silence while the waiter poured the drinks, a Pepsi Max and three glasses, and handed them round. ‘Thank you, Neville,’ said Boras. ‘I’ll call you when we need refills.’ As the man left he showed his guests to a seating area, where leather armchairs were arranged to take maximum advantage of the view. As she settled down, it occurred to Stallings that it would make a very fine ceiling, if the building was just a little higher.
‘Well.’ The businessman fixed his gimlet eyes on McGuire, and gave another thin smile. ‘I’d have done it anyway, you know,’ he murmured, his voice barely carrying to the inspector who was placed furthest from him.
‘What’s that?’ the chief superintendent asked.
‘Make the donation to the Dependants’ Trust. You anticipated my announcement, although some have said that you forced my hand.’
McGuire beamed at him. ‘There will always be mean-spirited people like that, sir. Just as, happily, there will always be generous people like you. I was asked a straight question, and I gave a straight answer. You’re right, I anticipated your announcement, but I never had any doubt that in the circumstances you’d make your gift, if not to that charity then to another worthy recipient.’
‘Of course, I am aware of that, really. Samo vas zavitlavam, to use my native tongue. I was only swinging with you; pulling your chain, as we say in English. It is over, then?’
‘I believe that we can say that the investigation into your daughter’s murder is over. Our Crown Office, the Scottish prosecution service, is about to announce that, with Ballester’s death, we are no longer looking for anyone else in connection with the four homicides.’
‘Then I thank you, and I congratulate you. Again, though, I must express my sorrow at the needless death of your colleague, Inspector Steele. I was shocked by it, shocked; he was such a fine, dedicated officer.’
Skinner gazed at the man, looking for the faintest sign of insincerity in his eyes. Over the years he had stared down many guilty men, and he had been able to read their secrets as easily as if they had confessed them, as eventually virtually all of them had. Boras’s expression told him nothing, nothing at all. He had a strange feeling that what the man was saying was literally true. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said, addressing him for the first time. ‘I’ll convey it to Stevie’s widow.’
‘Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do for her, anything at all, you or she simply has to ask.’
‘That is also kind of you, but in my force, officers’ widows want for nothing.’
‘I’m sure. Will there be a court proceeding of any sort, Mr Skinner? A public inquiry into Zrinka’s death, and the others?’
‘There’s no statutory provision for it in Scotland,’ the DCC told him. ‘Formal hearings into fatal accidents and sudden deaths are only mandatory when a person is killed at work, or dies when in custody. Murder investigations result in prosecution when they’re concluded, but in this case, the Crown has nobody to prosecute. There is no suspect, other than Ballester, and he’s dead. He had motive, opportunity, everything, and we found the murder weapon in his house. We also found personal possessions that he had taken from three of the four victims. He did it.’
‘There is no chance that he could have been framed by someone else?’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a strange question, coming from you.’
‘I need certainty, sir, that my daughter’s killer is dead.’
‘Then you have it for, I promise you, that evidence simply couldn’t have been planted. Nobody knew where Ballester was, other than your guys, and neither of them could possibly have killed Zrinka, Stacey, Amy or Harry. Okay, you knew too, but you didn’t murder your daughter, Mr Boras, you loved her.’ The businessman’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but Skinner held up a hand.
‘The irony is that although Ballester was murdered himself, he was our man all right, not a serial killer as my officers suspected at first, but a rejected lover with a grudge, and into the bargain, a previous conviction for violence against a woman.’