‘Yes,’ the superintendent replied. ‘And the artist did a good job of removing his beard and most of his hair. He even did a third version, sans beard but with sunglasses. They’re all in place, with every newspaper and TV station in the country.’ He checked his watch. ‘The early editions will be on the streets pretty soon. They’ll be well used; the papers love this sort of thing.’
‘Good luck, then. You never know, we may get a result.’
‘You don’t sound too optimistic, Chief.’
Skinner winced. ‘The King is dead, eh. I wonder how long it’ll take me to get used to being called that.’
‘Could be worse, could be Guv.’
‘Not on our force. My first decree: the terms “Guv’nor” and “Neighbour”. . worse still, “Neebur”, the Taggart version. . banned. Optimistic? I’m hopeful, but the way this guy disappeared, and the fact that he’s left not a trace of himself behind, tells me that he’s going to be bloody difficult to find, if not impossible. On top of that. .’ He stopped abruptly.
McIlhenney persisted. ‘On top of what?’
‘I don’t want to put a damper on George Regan’s first major investigation as a DI, but I don’t honestly believe that finding Playfair would wrap it up.’
‘Come on. He’s the last guy the victim spoke to; their conversation ended in a public argument. Playfair’s the clear suspect. He had time to go back to his van, get a weapon, his hammer, then lie in wait for Mustafic.’
‘Granted. But if he’d bashed his head in, why did he hang around till morning, waiting until the body was found, before he buggered off?’
‘There’s a counter to that. Why didn’t he hang around to help Regan with his inquiries?’
‘Not necessarily because he was guilty.’
‘But he may have assumed he’d be our main suspect, and realised that he’d have trouble proving his innocence.’
‘Did Dorward’s team find any trace of Mustafic’s blood in his caravan? You told me it was all over the bushes round the body.’
‘No, I’ll grant you that. . but he could have gone for a swim in the sea straight after the killing.’
Skinner laughed softly. ‘You are good, Neil,’ he admitted. ‘When I think of the big DC that I first took on the team, and I listen to you now, I’m proud of us both, me for picking you out, but mostly of you, the way you’ve grown as a detective. I’ll give you that one. He could have. But. . Playfair is a barrack-room lawyer; he’s the sort of guy who will know very well that it’s about us proving his guilt, not the other way round. Let’s go back to that argument in the bar. What language were they speaking?’
‘I don’t know. But not English, according to Regan’s report.’
‘That’s what I thought. And that brings me back to the great unknown. What was the nature of the relationship between these two men? From the little we’ve found out about how they came to join the group, it seems to me that they were partners of some sort. Partners in crime? Maybe, but partners in hiding. If you ask me, these guys were on the run, and when Playfair found that Mustafic was dead, he did the obvious. . he kept on running, for his life. No, my friend, he’s not going to be easy to find.’
‘Who’s not?’ Aileen demanded. ‘Are you two talking shop?’
‘Comparing notes, that’s all,’ Bob replied defensively.
‘Well, stop it,’ she ordered. ‘Back to our place for coffee and a nightcap. The shop is closed for today.’
McIlhenney laughed. ‘It reopens pretty soon, though, Aileen. . in Australia.’
Sixty-six
As Mario McGuire and Michael Giarratano walked along Collins Street from the Grand Hyatt towards the complex that housed the Sofitel, Melbourne seemed to be coming to life. The morning was bright, but an Antarctic breeze was blowing in off the sea, and the Scot was discovering how cold winter can be in Australia. He checked his watch: eight thirty-five, twenty-five minutes to midnight in Edinburgh, same local time in Sydney, where he had wakened Paula from her first sound night’s sleep of the trip when he had called her an hour before.
The inspector climbed a few steps off the pavement, then led the way between two tall blocks into a courtyard filled with cafeteria tables, and round to an escalator that rose into the foyer of the late Henry Mount’s hotel. He walked up to the reception desk and showed his badge, then waited, while a key card was cut for him. ‘Forty-seventh floor,’ he said, as they stood in front of the lifts. ‘This hotel starts on thirty-five. The floors below are all offices.’
The elevator was lightning fast; McGuire felt his stomach flip as it came to a stop and was glad that he had skipped breakfast. As they turned into a corridor, open on one side and looking down on to a central area below, with a canopied bar, he spotted the author’s room long before he could read the number, from the orange tape that was stretched across it. Giarratano stepped up to the door and ripped it off, then slid the key into the slot.
The bed had been made up. ‘Housekeeping must have been in before it was sealed off,’ the Australian murmured. ‘I hope they haven’t screwed anything up.’ Nevertheless, before they stepped inside, the two men donned white, sterile gloves, as if they were as anxious to leave no mess as not to contaminate any evidence.
‘I’m only looking for one thing,’ the DCS told him as he stepped into the room, and saw the view through a wall of windows. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’ One side of the hotel looked out on to a great circular stadium surrounded by six floodlighting towers.
‘MCG, mate.’ Another acronym. ‘Melbourne Cricket Ground, the greatest stadium in the world, we reckon.’ Giarratano pointed to its right. ‘And that is the Rod Laver tennis centre, where they play our Open. The MCG’s used all year round; they play Aussie rules footie there in the winter.’
‘I didn’t know you had any.’
‘Winter? Come on, it’s freezing today.’
‘No, rules. I saw a sports paper in Sydney on Monday: before they got round to telling you the scores, they listed the weekend’s injuries.’
Giarratano grinned. ‘Maybe so, but the MCG holds a hundred thousand, and we can fill it for a game.’
‘So did the Colosseum, and the Romans filled that too. That’s blood sports for you. OK,’ he said, ‘let’s see what Mr Mount’s left behind him.’ Quickly and methodically the two detectives searched the room. McGuire checked the dead man’s suitcase, half-filled with fresh clothes, then picked his way through a plastic bag, crammed with used garments, but found nothing. The Australian checked drawers and wardrobes, but saw only a jacket and two pairs of trousers, draped over hangers, a pair of black shoes, and another bag, containing trainers and gym clothing. The room had a desk, by the window. On it sat a pile of books, a programme for the Writers’ Festival, a copy of the previous day’s Age newspaper, a notepad and two pens. But nothing else.
‘Did he have his passport on him when he died?’ the Scot asked.
‘No, but he could have left that with the concierge. Wedding ring, Breitling watch, wallet, change purse, mobile phone, cigarette lighter and a Fuji pocket digital camera; those were all the personal items he had on him. I checked the list this morning, before I came to collect you.’
‘No more cigars?’
‘No. That’s why I checked.’
‘Then they’re here,’ McGuire declared. ‘He’d another five days to go on this trip. This man would not run out of his favourite brand.’
‘We should try the safe deposit box.’
‘There is one?’
‘This is a five-star hotel, Mario; of course there is. The receptionist gave me the emergency unlock code. All we need to do now is find the damn thing.’
‘Let’s check the wardrobe.’ He stepped across, opened the unit that Giarratano had just searched, and looked in, seeing nothing at first. . until he moved the gym bag. ‘Got it. Damn thing’s on the floor.’