He stood back as his smaller, nimbler colleague squatted beside the rectangular safe and keyed in four numbers, then swung the steel door open. He reached inside, fumbling, then smiled as he withdrew a wooden box and held it up for McGuire to take.
The DCS read the name on the lid aloud. ‘La Gloria Cubana, Medaille d’Or number two.’ He opened the box, and a rich odour seemed to explode from it. ‘Jesus, these are good,’ he murmured. He looked inside and counted. Originally it had held twenty-five cigars; there were twelve left.
‘Are you a smoker?’
‘Not any more, but when I was I never had the palate for these things. Papa Viareggio did, though. He loved his cigars; I suspect that if he hadn’t died when I was sixteen, he’d have done his best to get me hooked. He’d have loved these, I know.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But the thing is, Papa didn’t just smoke them, he imported them.’
‘Through the internet?’
‘Don’t be daft, Michael. I’m talking about way before that was created. No, he imported them and he sold them. The family business that he started began with fish and chip shops, but he diversified over the years, into cafés and delicatessens. In the delis, he always stocked good cigars, the kind he smoked himself; he reckoned it made good business sense. You got the cigar aficionados through the door, you got their wives afterwards.’
‘What happened to the business?’
‘When Papa died, Paula’s dad took it over, my Uncle Beppe. He didn’t ruin it, but he didn’t move it forward either. But then he died, Paula succeeded him, and she did. It’s bigger now, with property holdings as well as the shops. Yet it’s still family owned, and it still follows the model that the old man established, including the importing of cigars. If Henry Mount bought his Havanas in Edinburgh, there’s a fair chance he bought them from my family.’ He frowned. ‘But he didn’t get them with a special bonus, though. Somebody rigged this box, some bastard with a dark sense of humour.’ He looked inside. ‘These come without cellophane wrappers,’ he said, ‘and they’re handmade, so it would have been relatively easy to rig a bullet trap in one and put it back without Mount being any the wiser.’
‘So where does the sense of humour come in?’ Giarratano asked.
McGuire passed him the box. ‘Take a look,’ he told him. ‘The cigars are packed in three layers, eight, nine and eight. The top layer’s gone and there are four cigars left in the second. That means the one that did the damage was number thirteen. . unlucky for Henry.’
‘Shit.’ The Australian paused. ‘Are we going to fight over who gets this box, Mario?’
‘I hope we don’t have to. Obviously you have to look for prints and DNA other than Mount’s, but if you get a result I promise you that the match will not be in Australia but in Scotland.’
‘Unless your assumption is wrong, and he bought it here, or even in the duty free in Dubai.’
The big DCS grinned. ‘If they were duty free, it would say so on the box, but the rest is easily sorted. Bring it over to the window and hold it up.’ As Giarratano obeyed, he took a camera from his pocket. ‘Let me see the side with the bar code.’ He stepped in close, zoomed in on the black and white strip, focused and took a photograph, then a second, then a third, ‘For twice the luck,’ he said. ‘Find me internet access in this place. I’ll send these back to Edinburgh right now, and I’ll warn my people to expect them. I’ll copy them to you at the same time. You can both get checking, and by this evening we’ll know for sure.’
‘If it’s Edinburgh, do you want the box?’
‘At this stage, all we really need are any prints and DNA you lift from it. Did you bring an evidence bag, as well as these gloves?’
‘Yes.’ The inspector pulled a large clear envelope from his pocket, unfolded it and slid the cigar box inside. ‘Let’s take this back to my office. You can send your email from there.’
‘No chance, mate. I send it from here, then I go back to the Grand Hyatt and check out. I’m on the first plane back to Sydney. I’m on holiday, remember.’ He smiled. ‘But to be honest, I have one more job to do. Paula never travels anywhere without her tiny wee Sony laptop. I need her to use it to access her files back home and find out for sure if Viareggio and company sell La Gloria Cubana cigars.’
Sixty-seven
Gerry Crossley prided himself on being an early starter. His job description read ‘nine to five’, but he always made a point of being at his desk at least fifteen minutes before the appointed time, so that everything would be ready for the chief constable’s arrival. There had been heavy overnight rain, and a brief shower had caught him between the bus stop in Comely Bank and the headquarters building; standing in the corridor, he shook surface water off his raincoat before stepping into his compact office and hanging it on one of the two wall hooks. The other was occupied; a short car coat hung from it.
The connecting door to the chief’s room was slightly ajar. He popped his head round, to see Bob Skinner seated at his meeting table, with the daily newspapers spread out before him, and a mug in his hand. He looked up and smiled. ‘Morning, Gerry,’ he called out.
‘Morning, sir,’ the secretary replied. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘You’re not; I’m early.’ He paused. ‘And listen, we’ve got to get something sorted out. You’re a civilian colleague, not a serving officer, and you’re certainly not a servant, so don’t go “sirring” me all the time.’
‘How should I address you?’
‘In any way that makes us both feel comfortable. You want to call me “Bob” in private and “Mr Skinner” in front of the troops, I’m fine with that.’
‘I’m not sure the head of HR would approve of me being on first-name terms.’
‘The head of HR reports to me; her approval or disapproval isn’t of any consequence.’
Crossley stood for a few seconds, thinking. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘if it’s all the same to you, Mr Skinner, I’ll call you that, or “Chief”, as appropriate. That’s what you are now, to police and civilians alike, and that’s how I addressed Sir James.’
‘Fine. That’s agreed. Now, as for my daily routine, I plan to be here by eight thirty, partly because the traffic’s slightly easier, and partly because it’ll let me do what I’m doing now, catch up on what the press are saying, before this place comes alive. Once that’s done, I’ll look at any urgent mail, then at nine fifteen, with effect from tomorrow, I want a quick morning meeting with the deputy. . when appointed; until then Brian Mackie’s acting. . the ACC, head of CID, or in his absence Neil McIlhenney, and David Mackenzie. No agenda, just a review of current business.’
‘Understood. I’ll do a note for your signature, for circulation.’
‘Nah, do it yourself; I want you to be seen as an executive more than as a secretary. We’ll maybe give you a new title. “Chef d’équipe” sounds a bit flash, but something along those lines. Frame the circular “The chief constable requests,” and so on. It’ll have the same effect as if I sign it. Tell them I don’t anticipate it lasting any longer than fifteen minutes and that if anyone wants coffee or tea they can bring it themselves.’
Crossley grinned. ‘They’ll love that.’
‘They’ll have to. I’m not making it for them, and neither are you. However, I’ll cater for the head of HR this morning. Ask her to come and see me at nine thirty, to brief me on procedures for appointing the new deputy. It has to be advertised, but tell her I want to know whether we can frame it in such a way that if Brian Mackie’s promoted deputy, we can select an assistant to replace him from the same list of applicants.’
‘Will do, Chief. Will you want to talk to her about designating an acting ACC?’
‘No, Gerry, I’m not going to do that, not yet, at any rate; Maggie Steele comes back from maternity leave next month, and it’s going to be her. HR doesn’t need to be consulted on that, just told.’ The secretary said nothing, but his eyes expressed approval. ‘One other thing,’ said Skinner, ‘while I remember. I’d like you to check Brian Mackie’s leave sheet. Aileen and I will be taking time off in October, while Holyrood’s in recess.’