‘So what do we do? Regard the man Coben as a suspect?’
‘Nah, I can’t credit that. MoD intelligence don’t go bumping off people like Glover.’ He chuckled. ‘Not as a general rule, anyway.’
‘How do I proceed? This is not my usual line of work.’
‘It’s within your pay grade, though. Forget about Coben; I’ll handle that. You get that list, the one that Andy has in his safe. Take a look at the names on it and follow them up; do what you can to check their well-being. If anything’s happened to any of them, bring it back to me.’
‘Will do. Incidentally,’ the superintendent murmured casually, ‘you might be getting a call from Andy, about me. He and I had a disagreement. He didn’t want Sammy Pye in the room when he talked to me. It got a bit-’
‘You had your way, I hope.’
‘Yes, but there were things said, warnings given.’
‘Then forget them; and forget about getting that list. I’ll do that myself. Andy will be having a visit from me, tomorrow morning. He’s crossed the line a couple of times today, by trying to keep secrets from me and by having a go at one of my officers. I want to know why.’
Twenty-six
‘I’m as sure as I’ll ever be, Inspector Pye,’ Ian McCall declared. ‘As you can see, I pulled in four extra bodies to help, and we’ve sifted through the morass not once but three times. We’ve found no ampoule in there, and no needle. It looks as if whoever planted it was thorough, and took it away with them once they were done with the victim. We’ll do it again if you want, but. .’
‘No, Sergeant, that’s enough. You’re right. If you haven’t found it by now, it’s not there. You can dismiss your hired hands, then go and wash up. I know your shift ended officially a couple of hours ago, and I’ll sign your overtime claims for the extra, but I’d like you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve still got a lot of witnesses to interview from Dr Mosley’s list, and you can handle some of them. Don’t worry, I’ve fixed it with Jock Varley.’
‘They won’t all be around here, these witnesses, will they?’
‘Of course not, but telephone contact will be OK at this stage. If anyone comes up with anything significant, for example seeing someone follow Glover when he left the party with Ryan McCool, we can bring them in and sit them down.’
‘McCool’s not a suspect then?’
‘No. When he left the yurt he met up with another couple of journalists and they all went along to the Oxford Bar. One of them was waiting outside the yurt; I’ve been in touch with him, and he says he heard McCool speak to Glover as he left, and Glover answer. He’s in the clear all right.’ He paused, then looked at his watch. ‘Go on, the pair of you. See you here tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll need to tell Dr Mosley she can have this lot cleared away now.’
‘That’s OK, Ian, I’ll do that.’ Pye left the small pavilion where the detritus had been laid out and headed along the wooden gangway, making for the Book Festival office. The event was in full swing, and the gardens were full of people, some queuing for events, others perusing programmes, and more than a few heading purposefully towards the bars. He wondered how many of them were aware that they were in the middle of a crime scene, reckoning quickly that in the absence of an evening paper on a Sunday, the answer lay on the side of the minority. He was halfway to his destination when a voice called out, ‘Sir!’ The cry might have been aimed at any man there, but he stopped instinctively, looking towards the yurt. Framed in the gateway that led to it stood Detective Constable Harold Haddock, a tall, rangy young man, blessed with a nickname that he would carry throughout his career, all the way up to the Command Corridor at Fettes, some suggested.
‘Sauce,’ Pye exclaimed. ‘You got the word? That’s good.’
‘Yes, sir. What’s up? I mean I know about the murder inquiry. But why me?’
‘Because you’re available; and because I hear on the grapevine that you’re a half-decent operator. Come with me just now; I have to pay a call on the director. Once that’s done, I’ll bring you up to speed on what’s happening.’
The inspector led the way to the Book Festival office. As they drew close he glanced through its double glass door, and saw Randall Mosley, her back to him, in conversation with a tall, slim man, and a short, round-faced woman. Physically the two were diametric opposites, with only one common attribute: short, close-cut dark hair. The man wore chinos and a white, collarless shirt, while the woman was dressed all in black, save for a pair of red moccasins. As he looked more closely, Pye saw the shock registered on her face, and guessed what was under discussion.
‘Director,’ he said as he stepped into the pavilion.
She turned to face him. ‘Detective Inspector Pye,’ she responded. ‘How are things going?’
‘Steadily. We’re working our way through the list you gave us. We’re done with the rubbish, though; you can have it cleared away, all of it.’
‘Any luck. . or shouldn’t I ask that?’
‘We didn’t find anything of interest.’
‘Is that a setback?’
‘Not really. Our expectations weren’t high, and our investigation wasn’t dependent on it.’
‘And what does it depend on?’ asked the little woman fiercely.
Pye looked at her, and saw that the eyes behind her round spectacles were red-rimmed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured evenly. ‘You are?’
‘This is Sandy Rankin,’ the director told him. ‘She’s the lead reviewer for the Herald. Sandy was a very good friend of poor Ainsley.’ She looked up at the man. ‘And this is Denzel Chandler, my partner.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’ Chandler offered his hand; they shook. ‘This is a desperate business. I can’t tell you how hard it’s hit us.’ The accent was North American but soft, possibly Canadian, Pye surmised, although in truth he had no real idea.
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘Did you know the dead man?’
‘Of course. I’m a writer too, but nowhere near as successful as Ally was.’
‘What’s your field?’
‘I work across a pretty broad spectrum. I do a bit of journalism, I’ve had a couple of works published, but up until now I’ve earned most of my serious bread as a ghost writer.’
‘Anyone I’d recognise?’
Chandler fired off half a dozen names: two musicians, two footballers, a golfer and a ‘celebrity,’ the source of whose fame was obscure.
The detective knew them all. ‘That’s a pretty solid list; meets my definition of success.’
‘As I said, the money’s good.’
‘He’s being too modest,’ Mosley declared. ‘He’s a very gifted writer. A couple of the people he’s ghosted for are virtually brain-dead. Coaxing worthwhile material out of thickos like that is a skill in itself, and as for turning it into readable prose. . Happily it’s a talent that’s recognised. When the next collaboration is published-’
‘Hey,’ Chandler exclaimed. ‘We can’t talk about it yet.’
‘We can to the police.’ She patted his arm. ‘When that one’s done, it’ll move Denzel to another level altogether.’
‘Who’s the. .?’ The inspector paused. ‘What do you call them, the people you write for? Clients, subjects?’
‘With,’ the director corrected him. ‘Write with. You call them what they want you to if the money’s right, and it will be for this one. It’s the autobiography of a Scottish High Court judge, Lord Elmore. That might sound dull, but it won’t be. When he was a barrister he was very high-profile, defended a lot of notorious people and got most of them off. He was Claus Blackman QC then, and he was always in the press. Nothing much changed when he became a judge. He was a hard-liner and said some very pointed things about sentencing policy.’
Pye nodded. ‘I know the story,’ he said. ‘He was a top silk, and a popular judge with the police after he went to the bench; he knew when to make an example of someone. Eventually his profile got so high he was nominated for the Yugoslav War Crimes Tribunal at the Hague, and wound up trying some of the worst criminals in living memory. I noticed he was at your reception last night; in fact, he’s on my list for interview, eight thirty tomorrow morning at his house in Ann Street.’