‘At this stage, no, we aren’t. We were advised by the pathologist of this new development only twenty minutes ago. Our first priority is to interview everyone who was in Mr Glover’s company at the Book Festival’s launch party last night. Once we’ve done that, we’ll go forward from there.’
‘Could you tell us how he was killed?’
‘Yes, but I’m not going to.’
‘Neil,’ another voice broke in; Martin thought he recognised it as that of Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire newspaper, someone who’d been around long enough to be allowed familiarity. ‘Ainsley had a barney with Bruce Anderson at the party last night. I know that for sure because I was right next to them. Does that mean you’ll be interviewing the former Secretary of State for Scotland?’
‘Have I not just said so?’
‘Will you be interviewing him as a suspect?’
Martin could picture the gleam in McIlhenney’s eyes. ‘Jock,’ he said heavily, ‘you and I are both too old for you to be trying to put words in my mouth. If you were as near Mr Glover as you say you were, then we’ll be interviewing you as well. If you’d prefer that to be under caution we’ll oblige you, otherwise it’ll be as no more than a witness, just like Dr Anderson.’
The journalist chuckled. ‘You can keep your handcuffs in your pocket. Do you have any idea of a motive?’
‘At this stage no, but that’s one of the reasons why we’re interviewing everybody. That’s all I can say for now, ladies and gentlemen. DI Samuel Pye is the lead investigator. Any further information will come from him.’
‘Do you expect an early arrest, Superintendent?’ Rhiannon Purvey asked.
‘I don’t have any expectations at this stage, only hopes. It remains to be seen how quickly they’re fulfilled. Now, if you’ll excuse me. .’
Andy Martin reached out to switch off the radio, whistling softly as he did so, then took his phone from its hands-free socket and trawled through his contacts list for Neil McIlhenney’s mobile number. He pushed the call button.
‘Andy,’ the superintendent exclaimed briskly. ‘Have you just been listening to the radio?’
‘Yes indeed. What happened to him?’
‘I can’t speak right now.’
‘I understand; too many people in earshot. But I do need to talk to you.’
There was a brief, loaded silence. ‘You mean as a witness?’
‘Yes. Look, I’m halfway home just now; I’ll call Karen and tell her I’ll be later than I thought, then I’ll head back to Edinburgh.’
‘You don’t need to do that. Give Sammy a call when you get home and let him have whatever information you’ve got.’
‘No, this has to be face to face; you and me. Maybe Mario, too, but that’s it.’
‘Mario’s in Australia, on holiday with Paula. How about Bob, although he won’t be available for a while; he’s picking his kids up from the airport.’
‘Then it’s just the two of us for now; no Sammy, not yet at any rate.’
‘Is it that important?’ asked McIlhenney, a trace of doubt in his tone.
‘It could ruin your whole fucking day,’ said the deputy chief constable grimly. ‘That’s how important it could be.’
Twenty
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ asked Mario McGuire.
‘By my reckoning it’ll be about half past ten at night where you are,’ Neil McIlhenney replied calmly.
‘Exactly. We’ve not long finished dinner, we’re sitting under a space heater in an open-air bar, with drinks in our hands, looking across Sydney Harbour at the bridge, and at the moonlight on the water, and it’s bloody magnificent even if we are both half asleep, practically falling off our stools. We haven’t got to grips with the jet lag yet. Paula says hello, though.’
‘And hello back to her. What’s the weather like in Aussie-land?’
‘It’s OK, considering that in our climate terms it’s the middle of February. It’s dry, it’s sunny and it’s quite warm during the day; cold at night, though, hence the space heater.’
‘How much longer are the pair of you spending in Sydney?’
‘Three more days after this, then we’re going up the Gold Coast on Thursday. It’ll be warmer there, I’m told, even though it’s still their winter. How’s it back home?’
‘Sunny and warm. I had planned to take the kids to the beach this afternoon. I might still do that.’
‘What’s holding you back?’ asked the head of CID. ‘You’re allowed Sundays off, aren’t you?’
‘That’s a nice concept, but at the moment I’m sitting in an effing Mongolian tent at the Book Festival, waiting for Andy Martin to arrive and tell me something that’s supposed to be for my ears only.’
‘Oh yes? Suddenly, I get the impression that this isn’t a social call. What’s up? Why are you at the Book Festival, and what the hell has our pal the Tayside DCC got to do with it?’
‘I can’t answer your last question yet, but as for your first, somebody’s won the Festival some extra publicity by bumping off a crime writer. And to give the media a bonus, this one happens to be an MSP as well. You asked me to let you know if any heavy stuff happened; I reckon you might hear about this on the BBC World Service telly, so best you get it from me first.’
‘You said an MSP as well as an author. It’s not Ainsley Glover, is it?’
‘That’s the guy.’
‘Aw shit,’ McGuire moaned. ‘I’m a big fan of his; I’ve read all his books. I met him once, at a signing. I asked him if his Strachan character was based on Willie Haggerty. He didn’t admit it, but he didn’t deny it either.’
‘That’s a laugh,’ said McIlhenney. ‘I know people who think he was based on you, and that Glover only put him in Glasgow to cover it up.’
‘That’s bollocks. You and I were both plods when he wrote the first book, so it couldn’t have been me.’
‘I know that, but other folk don’t. I’m only telling you what’s been said to me.’
‘But Walter Strachan’s a rough so-and-so; he bends the rules and he’s ugly with it.’
‘Like I said. .’
‘You’re pulling my chain, you bastard,’ McGuire growled.
‘A wee bit,’ McIlhenney laughed. ‘But come on, Mario, you were flattered; admit it.’
‘Not in the slightest.’ The holidaying detective paused. ‘What happened to the poor sod?’ He listened as his colleague explained how and where Glover’s body had been found and ran through the sequence of events that had culminated in Professor Hutchinson’s eventual findings. ‘It’s just as well you got him to do the PM,’ he said, when McIlhenney was finished. ‘Another pathologist might not have been as thorough.’
‘I agree, but as it is, old Joe’s a bit embarrassed that it took two examinations before he got the whole picture.’
‘He did get it, though, in the end, like he always does. Who’s in the frame?’
‘We’re not looking hard at anyone at the moment; we’ve a bit to go before we get there. Mr Glover seems to have been a guy with no enemies. . bar one.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Dr Bruce Anderson; apparently he had a grudge against the guy. He had a verbal go at him at the Festival party last night, just before Glover was killed.’
‘Did he indeed? I can see the headlines being written right now. “Ex Secretary of State banged up for murder.” The red-tops will go pure crazy. Mind you, I can think of one man who’d just love it if that happened.’
‘Aye, me too. But I can’t see it. This killing was very carefully planned; it was absolutely not spur of the moment. My thinking is that if Anderson had set it up, he’d hardly have drawn attention to his feud with Glover just before he bumped him off.’
‘On the other hand, perhaps he would, knowing that your conclusion’s the one simple polis like us are likely to draw.’
‘In that case, Sammy can put that to him when he interviews him.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Pye, who was studying the list of party guests that Randall Mosley had provided.
‘Sammy?’
‘Yes, he’s lead investigator on this one. With Stevie Steele gone, he’s pretty much our top DI,’ he said quietly, not wanting his assessment to be overheard by its subject. ‘I’ve brought him and Ray up from Leith. Alice Cowan too; she and Wilding have gone back out to see Glover’s daughter, to take a formal statement from her.’