‘He could send it down with a courier.’
‘I know he could, but like I said, I want to talk to him about a few things, including his trampling uninvited all over our patch, and the Coben visit. That in particular is something for me.’
‘Do you take it that seriously?’
‘As I said, not in the context of your investigation. Yet the intelligence community seems to have taken Glover seriously enough to threaten a senior police officer. That’s worth looking into. And nobody’s warned me off, or tried to, not yet at any rate.’
‘I’ve been sent to ask whether you two are ever going to join us.’
Wrenched from their conversation, the men turned, so see Lauren McIlhenney standing in the kitchen doorway.
A child no more, Skinner thought, and more like her mother every day. ‘There’s only one answer to that one,’ he said. ‘Come on, Neil.’ He led the way across the hall, and into the garden room.
‘Was that fun?’ Louise McIlhenney asked them. ‘You’ve tired the kids out, that’s for sure, even Spence.’
‘That was our purpose,’ said Bob. ‘But I’ll bet my three will waken in the middle of the night, nonetheless.’ He smiled. ‘But then so will Trish, so she can get on with it. And how about you two ladies. . sorry, Lauren, you three. Got all your catching up done?’
‘That’ll never happen,’ Aileen told him, ‘not when you guys are the subject under discussion.’ She held out a slip of paper, offering it to him. ‘You had a phone call, about half an hour ago. A Mr Aislado; says you know him, didn’t want to leave a message, but would appreciate a call. That’s his direct line.’
Bob frowned as he took the note from her hand. ‘I know him all right, and so do you. Big Xavi; he’s the editor of the Saltire, remember. You should; his paper supported your party in the election — remarkably, given what it’s called.’
‘Now you mention it, I do. But that’s a funny name for a Scottish journalist, isn’t it?’
He laughed. ‘Come on, you’re from Glasgow, and your name’s de Marco. You of all people should know that there’s no such thing as a typically Scottish name any more. Aislado’s. .’ he paused, ‘Xavi’s short for Xavier, by the way. . his grandfather was a refugee from Spain in the thirties, at the start of the civil war, but he was born here, so that makes him just about as Scottish as you and me. Grandad made a small fortune in the pub trade. When he died, Xavi’s dad Joe carried on the business and doubled it in size, then, when Franco died, he sold up, went back to Spain and invested in newspapers and radio stations. Xavi stayed in Scotland, though; he was a pro footballer for a while, with the Hearts mainly, and then he became a journalist. When he went to work for the Saltire, it was on its last legs, and being run into the ground by a crook. But just when it looked as if the paper was going down the toilet, Xavi went to see his old man. . although as I understand it, he can’t stand him. . and got him to buy it. He was installed as managing editor, and the thing’s never looked back since.’
‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘Let’s find out.’ He picked up a cordless phone from the coffee table and punched in the number.
The call was answered at once. ‘Aislado,’ said a deep slow voice.
‘Xavi, it’s Bob Skinner. What can I do for you?’
‘First of all, thank you for calling me back.’ The accent was Scottish and yet not quite, not one hundred per cent. There was a hint of his Spanish ancestry hidden there. ‘I’m looking at a story here, Bob, filed by one of my people. It’s about Ainsley Glover’s murder, and it’s got quite a bit of detail that I do not recall Detective Superintendent McIlhenney mentioning when he made his statement earlier on today. My reporters are good, as you know, yet I’m surprised by this piece, since the writer is a member of my sports staff.’
Skinner looked at his colleague, meaningfully, beckoning him closer. ‘Xavi,’ he said ‘Neil’s with me now. I’m going to put you on speaker mode, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course.’
He pressed the hands-free button. ‘Could you repeat what you’ve just told me?’
‘Sure.’ The editor told his tale once more.
‘So what does your story say?’ On the couch, Aileen and Louise were listening, intently but silently.
‘It claims that Glover was murdered by a massive injection of glucose after being paralysed by an anaesthetic drug. And it says that you are looking for a killer with specialist medical knowledge. Bob, I was at the party last night, and I heard Dr Anderson shout at the man.’
‘Does your story attribute this information?’
‘It refers to police sources, plural.’
‘What is the reporter’s name?’ asked McIlhenney.
‘Ed Collins. He’s my top football writer.’
‘Shit,’ the superintendent exclaimed, ‘that’s Carol Glover’s boyfriend. Wilding and Cowan went to tell her the cause of death, in confidence, and he was there. He left before they could interview him and discover for themselves that he was a reporter.’
‘So the information’s correct?’
‘We can’t deny it, Xavi,’ Skinner admitted. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself an exclusive.’
‘Will it inconvenience you if I run it?’ The editor’s question took the police officers by surprise.
‘It would let certain people have information we’d rather keep to ourselves for now.’
‘Would that include Anderson?’
‘Yes, it would.’
‘In that case I’m prepared to omit the sensitive elements from the story. Collins’ relationship to the victim’s daughter is enough of an exclusive for me. I’ll tell him to do a piece from that angle.’
‘Will he take that?’
‘He’ll take it from me,’ the editor rumbled. ‘He came by the information through a sin of omission. He should have told your officers immediately that he worked for the Saltire. I’ll tell him that, forcefully, and I’ll impress upon him that if he even thinks about passing the story on to a pal, he’ll be yesterday’s news as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Thanks, Xavi,’ said Skinner, sincerely. ‘That’s another one our force owes you.’
‘Forget it,’ said Aislado, with just a hint of a very rare chuckle in his voice. ‘I don’t like that man Anderson either.’
Twenty-eight
‘Jesus, Sammy,’ said Ray Wilding, ‘that’s a bit embarrassing. Are we in the shit? How are the bosses taking it?’
‘Remarkably well, all things considered. They’re taking the view that Collins should have made it clear to you that he was a journo.’
‘Nonetheless, we should have found that out for ourselves.
Schoolboy error, boss; I’m sorry.’
‘Noted. The truth is, Mr Aislado’s attitude probably let you off the hook. If he’d splashed it without warning the DCC, then there might have been an explosion.’
‘I’ll buy his paper from now on,’ Wilding vowed. ‘That seems the least I can do.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful; his circulation’s on the up from what I hear, but every sale counts. Now, where are you?’
‘We’re at Glover’s house,’ the sergeant told him, ‘in his office, as I speak. And we’ve got a problem: somebody’s beaten us to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The place has been gone over, expertly. Wilkie, the son, brought us here. He’s downstairs just now. When he let us in, the first thing I noticed was that the alarm wasn’t set. I came here earlier, remember, with Carol, to collect his insulin ampoules. When we came in, there was a warning tone, and she cancelled the system. When we left, she reset it. I watched her punch the numbers into the keypad. When we unlocked it, no tone, no nothing.’
‘Maybe she missed something out and it wasn’t set properly. She was under stress, remember; she’d just had a hell of a shock.’
‘Sure, that was my first thought too, until I got up here, into the office. Wilkie showed us his dad’s filing cabinet. His personal records were there, payment slips, receipts, bank statements, all that stuff, but the file we really wanted, his correspondence, it’s missing. There’s a folder, sure, but it’s empty.’