‘So he was her counsellor first?’ said Skinner.
‘Initially he was, before they became partners. If you’re worried about the ethics of the relationship, I’m not. He did her good for a while, even though he’s a bit volatile himself. If you ask me, he never had a good counsellor himself when he needed one. Don’t be too hard on him, Mr Skinner. Thank you and good day. I look forward to entertaining you.’
The DCC was thoughtful as he replaced the phone, still surprised by the Duke’s unexpected attitude, and wondering if there was another way of looking at Bruce Anderson. He was so preoccupied that he almost forgot the business that had been on his mind earlier. Almost.
He took out his most private diary, and ran through the list of numbers that he would not trust to a computer; it included several with no names attached, and it was one of those he dialled, on his secure telephone.
‘Yes? How can I help you?’ The call was answered by a woman, her voice pleasant but completely bland.
‘I’d like to speak to Piers Frame. This is Bob Skinner, up in Edinburgh. If you have a problem, call me back; Piers has my number.’
‘No problem, Bob.’ He was picked up instantly, and the Scot could tell that he had been on speaker-phone. He wondered how many other people were in the room, but was put at his ease instantly. ‘It’s OK, I’m clear to speak. What’s up? Have my unruly Ministry of Defence colleagues been annoying you again?’
Piers Frame was one of the most senior intelligence operatives in the country; when the matter of the Glover surveillance had broken surface, he had helped Skinner root out the truth.
‘Christ, I hope not,’ the DCC replied earnestly. ‘The guy they were watching was murdered at the weekend. Very cleverly, a pro job, I’d say, one that we might well have put down as an accidental death. Way too subtle for the soldiers.’
‘Stone me!’ Frame exclaimed. ‘I. . No, no, no; no way would they be involved in something as drastic as that.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so either, but the housekeepers have been at work since then. Someone broke into his house and stole the guts of his computer, and his back-up hard disk. I don’t imagine for a moment that they took him out, but if they heard about it and decided on a precautionary clean-up, then I don’t appreciate that. Apart from the commercial value of what’s been stolen, Glover’s files might be essential to my investigation and I fucking well want them back.’
‘Understood. If they did that, it sounds like excessive zeal, even if they were working in association with the Americans. Leave it with me and I’ll make some discreet noises.’
‘Fine, thanks. By the way, while I’ve got your attention, have you ever heard of a man called Coben, or of anyone who might on occasion use that name?’
‘Coben? Not one of this department’s, I can tell you that. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s more likely to be military than one of yours. Don’t worry about it; he’s just someone who came up on my radar. That said, if your MoD friends do know of him, it might be worth warning him that he doesn’t want to show up there again. If he does, I won’t appreciate that either.’
‘In that case, if he is connected to HMG in any way, he will definitely be told. I’ve seen what you can do when you’re annoyed. I’ll be in touch.’
Forty-eight
George Regan was still getting to know his new patch, and Gullane was a sensitive area for him. Normally one of his first acts on moving into an area would have been to put himself about, to make his face known. He had done as much in Musselburgh, Tranent and Haddington, but the coastal townships had a low priority, not least the one where the deputy chief lived.
He parked opposite the Old Clubhouse Inn and looked across at it. The design of the building indicated that once it had been what its name implied, a starting point for golfers, before the construction of larger and more opulent premises at the west end of the village. Even on an early Monday evening it was busy; the tables set outside, with chairs and ashtrays for smokers driven into the open air by the law, were all occupied, with space heaters. . little used in August, Regan guessed. . scattered between them like elongated mushrooms.
He pulled his key from the ignition and stepped out of the car, locking the door electronically a bare second after it had closed behind him. He headed for the pub, but had not taken more than two steps before his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took it out, checked the caller and put it to his ear. ‘Yes, Lisa,’ he said, turning and stepping off the roadway.
‘I’ve just had a call back from the Department for Work and Pensions,’ the sergeant told him, without preamble. ‘They’re emailing me a list of all the people in Britain called Hugo Playfair, with national insurance numbers and current known addresses. There aren’t a hell of a lot, and only three aged between thirty-five and forty-five, which we reckoned were age band outer limits for our guy. One of them is drawing full disability benefit and lives in Dorset, so we can rule him out. I’ve cross-referenced the other two with the passport agency, and I’m waiting for photographs. I’ve also run an NCIS check like you said. It’s blank.’
‘How can you pick up an email down there in the van?’
‘Cleverly. One of the people in a house across the way has a wireless set-up and he’s let me piggy-back on it with my laptop.’
‘He won’t have access to your files, will he?’
‘No, they’re secure.’
‘In that case, good thinking. Any sightings of Playfair’s Peugeot?’
‘No, and all the station parks have been checked. If he has dumped it, could be at the airport.’
‘Aye, but which one? He’s had time to get to Newcastle by now. Gimme a call if you get anything positive. I’m just about to start my trawl of the pubs.’
He pocketed the phone and crossed the street, picking his way between the tightly packed tables and into the Old Clubhouse. Inside, he had to blink hard before his eyes became accustomed to the light and he could see that the saloon was empty, apart from himself and a lone barman.
The man was massive, not exceptionally tall, but with the frame of a weightlifter, dark-skinned with a spectacular cascade of dreadlocks that suggested West Indian origins, an impression that was confirmed by his accent.
‘What can I get you?’ he asked, with a welcoming smile that Regan read as sincere.
‘Do you know how to make a rock shandy?’
‘Which kind you like? Mine has ginger beer, bitter lemon, angostura.’
‘That’ll do it.’ Regan frowned as he looked at the man. ‘Have we met?’ he asked.
‘Could be,’ he conceded, ‘if you ever went clubbing in Edinburgh. I used to do door security there.’
Regan scanned his past. ‘Buster Brown’s when it was called that?’
‘Among others. You wouldn’t be a policeman, would you?’
He nodded. ‘I was uniform in those days. Do you remember me?’
‘No, but you remember me; that tells me enough. If you’d been a punter, chances are you’d have been too pissed to recall it.’ He reached out a hand. ‘My name’s Tony Bravo, by the way.’
As they shook, the police officer expected his hand to be crushed, but the big man’s touch was soft. ‘George Regan, detective inspector. Have you heard about the discovery near the beach this morning?’
‘Word got around. Who was he?’
‘A gypsy, from the camp down on the bents. We reckon he was attacked on his way home after a night out drinking.’
‘And you reckon he might have been here?’
‘Yes. Were you on duty last night?’
‘Sure, all the evening, through to midnight, and then after, cleaning up. Do you have a photo of the guy?’
‘Not one that you’d like to see. He was a little guy, skinny, badly dressed.’