"Further investigation over the weekend has revealed that Mr. Candela was a regular client of the Maybury Casino. He's a heavy gambler, and frequently complains about the house limit, even when he's losing.
"To sum up, sir, my belief is that Mr. Candela has extended his gambling by dealing privately on the currency markets, but he hasn't been using his own assets, he's been using those of Tubau Gordon. He's been getting into the currency department and running a private account, protected, no doubt by a code word known only to him, and one that no one could enter by accident. A bank audit over the weekend shows that the loss has been run up over the last couple of months. It would have been spotted this week; that's why the lot had to go up in flames last Saturday."
Skinner nodded; he glanced at the lugubrious Pringle, then back at Steele. "So why aren't you turning cartwheels, Stevie? Why do I sense that there's a big "but" coming?"
"Because we can't prove a bloody thing, boss," exclaimed the inspector, tersely. "All the solid evidence there might have been is melted. Any one of seventy people could have had access to that computer, and could have run up the loss. The only thing we have to link in Candela is that phoney fire in the Academy, which for sure he triggered himself at the exact moment he planned… and we have no way of proving either that he planted the device or triggered it."
Skinner pushed himself up from the sofa, walked over to his window and gazed out on to Fettes Avenue. After a minute he turned and looked back at his colleagues. "So what you're telling me, boys and girl," he said, 'is that we've got some clever fucking lawyer in Edinburgh who's committed the perfect crime."
"That's about it, sir," said Rose, "We know it's him, but there's no way we'll ever touch him for it. It looks as if he's done just that."
The deputy chief constable stretched his arms above his head. A wave of jet-lag caught up with him; he stifled a yawn. He grinned; a smile that they were all used to and that some of them had thought they would never see in that room again.
"No, Mags," he said. "He only thinks he has."
Sixty-three
The place was understated, if anything. It was a very plain house, conservative in its design, without the ramparts and turrets found all too often in folly dwellings of its age, built from locally quarried stone, and smaller than might have been expected in such extensive grounds. And yet, there was something about it that reeked of money, and old money at that, maybe two hundred years old. Andy Martin's staff had established that it had been in the same family's ownership since they had built it in the late nineteenth century.
Bob Skinner stopped his BMW just where the driveway opened out into a wide garden area in front of the mansion. He was blocking the narrow road, but that did not worry him; in fact it suited his purpose. It was well into the evening, but the day had been fine, and the summer sun was still bright.
As he looked around the grounds, they reminded him of Fir Park Lodge, but these were kept better. He could see the stripes on the close mown lawn, and appreciate the neatness of the flower beds, and the careful way in which the shrubs and bushes had been trimmed. Off to the back and to the left, he saw outbuildings; stables once upon a time no doubt, but now garaging for a russet-coloured Range Rover, which stood gleaming outside. He stood for a moment and listened; from somewhere not far away came the splashes of a river running. Even though the spate was over, it still sounded full and fast.
A small sign on the lawn asked him to "Keep off the grass', but he ignored it and marched straight across, towards the grey granite house.
He was several yards short of the heavy brown front door when it opened. A tall thin man appeared; he was wearing grey corduroy trousers from an age when fashion meant nothing, a green pullover with suede patches on the shoulders and elbows, and he was glaring at his visitor.
"Can't you read, man?" he barked, as Skinner approached. "And look where you've parked your car."
"Sure I can read," the policeman answered, "English, Spanish and French, in fact. But sometimes I like to ignore rules, if I think they're stupid. There's a bit of a rebel in me, you see. As for my car, I left it there because I didn't want it to disfigure your charming house." He walked on, unbidden, through the wide doorway and into a panelled hall; he stopped and looked around.
"Very nice," he said, amiably.
"Get to hell out of there!" the other man exploded. "Just who the hell are you and what do you think you're doing here?"
Skinner beamed at him. "Just imagine that I'm Michael Aspel, that this
Jiffy bag I've got under my arm is a big red book, and I'm saying, "David Candela, This is Your Life". Let's start off there."
Candela made a furious, exasperated sound. "You're a lunatic," he exclaimed, 'a well-dressed lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless. I'm calling the police."
Suddenly, Skinner seemed a little less amiable. "I wouldn't do that. I am the police."
"In that case I'll complain to your inspector."
"You'd be several ranks too low if you did that."
Candela blinked, then stepped into the hall himself, heading for a small silver box on the wall, beside a grandfather clock. "Don't do that either," his visitor advised. "I know what that is; it's a panic button linked to your alarm system. It would only be an inconvenience to your monitoring station if you activated it. There wouldn't be a response."
The lawyer stopped. "Very well," he said. A little uncertainty had crept into his voice, but he was still in control of himself and showing no sign of alarm. "If this is an official visit, you'd better come through to the drawing room. I've seen a few of you people over the last ten days or so; I have to say they were all a damn sight more polite than you."
Skinner smiled at him, cheerily. "This is me being polite, Mr. Candela," he exclaimed. "I'm nowhere near being rude, not yet, and rude's only a step along the way to nasty."
"Bloody lunatic," Candela muttered as he led the way into a long room, oak-panelled like the hall. It was furnished with big soft armchairs in flowery fabrics; a refectory table stood near the door, and three portraits, each carefully lit from above, were suspended from a rail along one wall. Windows looked out and down towards the river, and a double patio door opened out on to the grounds.
"Nice place," the policeman commented; a sincere compliment. "I suppose it's been in your family since the nineteenth century?"
"Yes, we built it," the lawyer snapped impatiently. "Look, do I know you?"
"You should; if you were serious about your precious firm and not just a fucking dilettante, you'd know me all right. You know my family, though; Candela and Finch has represented it for about thirty years.
And of course you have a personal connection with us."
Candela frowned. "Would you like to explain that?"
"I'll explain it by asking you something. How did my brother Michael die?"
The colour drained from the thin man's face in an instant. He looked towards the patio door as if he was about to run for it; Skinner forestalled any attempt by taking a step to his right, blocking the way. "You're…" he gasped.
"I'm Bob Skinner," said the policeman. "I'm pretty well known in
Edinburgh, but you're not really interested in the city, are you?
You're interested in the casino and in playing up here. For all you pretend, your position as senior partner is written into your firm's constitution. You don't actually manage it, one of the other guys does that."
He took the padded envelope from under his arm. "It really is all in here, you know, your whole exciting life."
Candela had gathered his thoughts. "I know nothing about your brother!" he exclaimed. "I read about his death in the newspapers, but that's all."