‘I can do better than that,’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘Thanks, Brian. The boss was right, I do know what to do.’
‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then.’ He smiled, running a hand over his shiny dome. ‘Of course, if you need a senior officer to go out there and liaise. .’
‘I may have that covered. Cheers.’ He was reaching for the phone as Mackie left, and punching in a mobile number on the console. It took longer than normal for him to hear a ringtone, but only a couple of seconds for it to stop.
‘What now?’ Mario McGuire sighed.
‘Where are you?’ McIlhenney asked.
‘In the QVB, having a beer.’
‘QVB?’
‘Queen Victoria Building. Everything has an acronym here, mate.’
‘Is Paula there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then put her on.’
‘If you insist, but when the bean-counters spot the cost of this call. . Here she is.’
‘Neil, my love,’ Paula Viareggio exclaimed breezily. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, for now, but you’re going to kill me shortly, and I wanted to tell you why. There’s a dead man lying on the ground in Melbourne as we speak, he’s Scottish, and it’s almost certain that it relates to a murder investigation that we have under way here. I need your man to get on a plane as fast as he can, team up with the locals, take a look at the situation and report back to us. I’d send somebody else, I’d even go myself, but it would take a couple of days to get there, and this has to be handled now, right now. Sorry, Paulie.’
‘So far,’ she replied, ‘I’m taking this quietly, although from the expression on Mario’s face as he’s watching me, I might not be looking too pleased. Tell me more.’
‘The dead man’s name is Henry Mount.’
‘Henry Mount!’ she squealed. ‘Oh no. He’s one of my favourite authors, just like Ainsley Glover was one of Mario’s. I’ve read all his books; most of them twice. Of course he can go. What happened to him?’
‘That’s the damndest thing. Nobody’s sure. He was standing in a public place, happy as Larry, and next second he was on the ground. It seems as if he was shot, but nobody saw anything and nobody heard anything.’
He waited for Paula to reply, or to pass the phone to Mario, but there was only silence on the line. When she did speak, her tone was quieter, tentative. ‘Neil,’ she said, ‘this might be a strange thing to ask, but was he smoking a cigar?’
Fifty-three
Sammy Pye was mildly surprised when he was met by Gerry Crossley at the entrance to the command corridor and shown into the DCC’s room, since Ruth, his wife, was secretary to both the deputy and assistant chiefs, and he knew that she should be in her office. But he assumed she was involved in a task for Mackie, and put the thought out of his mind.
For once, Skinner was not seated behind his desk. Instead his frame was half-sprawled on a long sofa, set against the wall facing the window, and he seemed barely aware that he had company. He was frowning, gazing at the floor, with a mug in his hand, held so carelessly that Pye hoped it was nowhere near full.
‘Morning, sir,’ the DI ventured.
The big man blinked, and looked up, with a momentary flash of annoyance at being caught off guard. ‘Morning, Sam,’ he responded. ‘Sorry, I was miles away there. Grab yourself a coffee from the machine and have a seat.’
‘I won’t, thank you, sir. Ruth has me on a ration.’
Skinner grinned, and was himself again. ‘She’s tried that with me too,’ he said, ‘but since I control the means of production around here, she was doomed to failure. So go on; I won’t shop you.’
The inspector shrugged, poured himself a mug from the half-full filter jug, added a very little milk and lowered himself on to the sofa.
‘Have you spoken to Neil in the last few minutes?’
The DCC’s question took him by surprise. ‘Not that recently, sir. I called him about half an hour ago, but that’s all.’
‘Then you won’t know. The Glover investigation’s just gone global.’ Quickly, Skinner told him of the Melbourne incident, that a second of Edinburgh’s triumvirate of mystery authors had gone to the great publishing house in the sky.
‘We’re sure it’s not a sudden death?’ Pye asked tentatively.
‘From what I’m told, no chance of that. I know Henry Mount. . knew him. He looked after himself; OK, none of us have any certainty of continuing good health, but he didn’t abuse himself, worked out pretty well for a man of his age. . we belong to the same gym. . and he didn’t have any major vices. Yes, there were those cigars of his, but he never smoked cigarettes, and they’re the real killers.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir. I can tell you’re upset.’
Skinner nodded. ‘Yeah, I admit it, I am. I’ve just told you that it wasn’t natural causes, but when someone you know dies, someone who may not be a contemporary but who’s not that far off it, it’s always a reminder of your own mortality. And you know what, Sammy? The older you get, the sharper that reminder is.’
‘Stevie Steele.’
‘What?’
‘You made me think about Stevie. Young guy, walks though the wrong door and bang! that’s it. There are wrong doors waiting for any one of us, I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’ Skinner straightened himself on the sofa. ‘But you and I are still on the right side of ours, so let’s get on with it.’
‘Do you want me to contact the Australian police, sir?’
‘They’ve already been in touch with us. Neil’s handling the follow-up and he’ll let you know all that’s relevant to your investigation. I want you to take a look at this.’ He reached out, picked up an envelope from the coffee table and handed it to the DI. ‘It’s the list that Ainsley Glover gave Andy Martin, his distant cousin, for safe keeping. I retrieved it yesterday from Dundee.’
‘What is it? What’s the list?’
‘Four names, none appear to be British, and none means a damn thing to me. See what you can find out about them. They must be important, given the lengths that Glover went to to keep them hidden.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Pye mused. ‘Becky Stallings recovered a number of email addresses that Glover kept on his daughter’s computer. Some of them appear to be foreign.’
‘Then see if they relate to any of the names on the list.’ The DCC laid his mug on the table and rose easily to his feet. ‘But that’s for later.’ He checked his watch, retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. ‘We have another priority.’ He stood for a second or to, then stepped across to the window and looked out, checking the section of the driveway car park that was reserved for visitors. As he did so, there was a knock, the door opened, and Gerry Crossley entered.
‘Your visitors have arrived, sir,’ he announced. ‘I’ve put them in the meeting room, as you said. And there’s a dual recorder on the table, plugged in, with a clean mini-disk in each drive.’
‘Visitors plural?’ Skinner mused. ‘So Dr Anderson had the good sense to bring a lawyer with him. Wonder who it is? Can’t be the Barracuda, though; she must be in court with the bad Lady Walters around now, getting ready for some really unwelcome news from the Sheriff.’
‘I’m not sure it’s a lawyer.’
‘Then I’m not sure that whoever it is will be hanging around too long, not even if it’s the Duke of bloody Lanark himself. If Dr Anderson thinks he can piss me about, he’s making a big mistake. Come on, Sammy. Let’s go see him.’ He led the way into the command corridor and along to the small conference room at the far end. He opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped, so suddenly that Pye bumped into him. ‘Jim!’ the DI heard him exclaim. ‘You’re the last person I expected to be chumming our interviewee. Are you his confessor? Because if you are, I have to tell you, this will be on the record, and I’ll be deciding the penance.’ He stepped to one side. ‘Detective Inspector Pye, you know Dr Anderson, but I don’t believe you’ve met His Excellency James Gainer, Roman Catholic Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh.’