‘I’ve never doubted that,’ the chief constable told him. ‘However, I also give you both credit for being murderers, and not for patriotic motives.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Boras retorted. ‘Ah, let’s not get into a debate. I met the agent in Washington,’ he continued. ‘His name was Lazar Erceg, born in Tuzla to a British mother and to a Yugoslav, a professor of modern Balkan history. He was perfect for the job, and I could pass him off as an employee, no trouble, given his upbringing. When he was eleven the father managed to arrange a move to Cambridge, and young Lazar completed his education there. Then Yugoslavia exploded, Milosevic came to power and things were bad for anyone who wasn’t a Serb and for some who were. Professor Erceg went home, to help found Bosnia as an independent nation, became a member of the first government, and was promptly killed, shot by a sniper. They never caught the assassin, but nobody needed a picture to be drawn. Young Lazar was in the British Territorial Army. He wanted to go home to fight, but his mother said, “No way!” and he obeyed her. He stayed in Cambridge and became an academic like his father, within the same area, supplementing his income by writing scripts for the BBC World Service. By this time he sounded as English as I do, so he was never asked to broadcast, but he came to the attention of the Foreign Office, and eventually of other people as well.’
‘He was recruited then?’
‘He was never recruited. He volunteered, for any job, as he put it, that needed doing and for which he might be suitable. Then he waited; while the war ended, while the Kosovo insurgency happened, he waited. Not in Cambridge, though, not all the time; he went back home whenever he could. He visited the family he still had there, and he came to know the country his father had died to found. While he was there, he heard of Tadic, and what he did. It isn’t one of the most notorious atrocities, because the dead were numbered in dozens, not in thousands, but that didn’t matter to them, how many were piled into the mass grave. It was an ethnic Bosnian enclave, in Serbia; people in a couple of small villages, minding their own business when Tadic warned them to get out of the country. They ignored him. He didn’t give them a second chance. It was brutal, horribly brutal.’
‘Wasn’t he arrested as soon as the war was over?’ asked McIlhenney.
‘In Serbia, with Milosevic in power? No chance. Besides, no witnesses. That’s what Lazar Erceg was sent in to put right. And I was happy to help.’
‘You sent him in?’
‘I appointed him Balkans regional sales development manager of Fishheads Ltd. I gave him an office, and a supply of business cards. The name on them was Hugo Playfair,’ he pushed the photographs back towards Skinner and McIlhenney, ‘and that gentlemen is him.’
‘You’re sure?’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘You’re not just feeding us a line here?’
‘There is no doubt about it,’ said Boras, smiling. ‘Come on, Detective Superintendent, you think I don’t know my own employees?’
‘What happened to him between then and now?’ Skinner asked.
‘Search me. I never saw him again, and they didn’t give me operational feedback. All I know is that Tadic was eventually arrested, and put on trial before the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, to give it its full title. He was convicted. . must be at least two years ago. . and sentenced to life imprisonment, as in, not to be released until dead.’ Suddenly he winced. ‘If he wasn’t a genocidal bastard I might feel some sympathy for him, in my situation.’
‘So why should Playfair show up in Scotland, going round the country with a band of travelling people?’
‘I take it that question was rhetorical, Chief Constable,’ the prisoner exclaimed. ‘For I haven’t a fucking clue.’ He paused. ‘However, there is one person I can think of who might give you some more background.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘One of Tadic’s trial judges. From your own city, I believe: Lord Elmore.’
Seventy-one
‘This is a nice set-up,’ said Ray Wilding. ‘I confess that I’ve never been in a Viareggio deli before. Are they all like this?’
‘As far as I know they are,’ Sammy Pye told him. ‘They always were pretty classy, but since Paula took over from her old man, she’s moved them further upmarket.’
The sergeant whistled. ‘Why’s our head of CID in the police force if he’s part of the family that owns this? Why isn’t he in the business?’
‘I think he could have been, but he chose the police. So Neil McIlhenney told me.’ He pushed the door open. ‘Fancy lunch in the coffee shop?’
‘Sure. It’s going on one, and we might have to hang about anyway if this manager isn’t back soon from her family funeral.’
‘Let’s find out.’ Pye stepped up to the counter. ‘Is Miss Hammett in?’ he asked an assistant, showing his identification. ‘We’d like a word.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ the man replied. ‘Is Mickey back?’ he called to a colleague at the cash desk.
‘She’s back,’ a woman’s voice announced. The detectives looked around to see a black trouser suit approach, a hand within it outstretched in greeting. ‘Michaela Hammett. You the police?’
‘DI Pye, DS Wilding. We’re here to ask you about a particular box of cigars we believe was sold here.’
‘La Gloria Cubanas, cabinet of twenty-five. I had an email from my boss asking me to trace details of the purchase. Monday last week, that’s when the transaction took place.’
‘That’s impressive.’
The manager frowned. ‘That’s as impressive as it gets, I’m afraid. It was a cash sale, so I’ve got no credit card details for you, I’m afraid.’ She waved a hand to attract the attention of the counter assistant, then beckoned him across. ‘This is Eddie McBain,’ she said as he joined them. ‘He’s our cigar specialist, believe it or not.’ He smiled bashfully, interpreting her remark as a compliment. ‘Box of La Glorias,’ she said, ‘ten days ago. Your name’s on the sale slip.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you remember anything about the buyer?’ Pye asked him.
‘I remember he’d about five hundred quid in his bankroll. I saw it when he paid me; he peeled them off in twenties.’
‘Anything else?’
McBain frowned. ‘Thirty-something, maybe just, maybe a year or two younger, white; wore a blazer, as I remember, with a wee lapel badge, and a pale blue shirt with a white collar. Sharp guy, looked like a soldier rather than an office worker.’
‘Clean-shaven?’
‘No, he’d a moustache. His hair was neat too, dark and wavy, but he’d used foam on it. Aye, and he wore glasses, the kind that react to the light.’
Pye frowned, remembering. . ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s helpful.’
‘Do you no’ want his name?’ the assistant asked, surprised.
The inspector stared at him. ‘I thought it was a cash sale,’ he retorted.
‘It was, but when I gave him his change, I said tae him, “These are cracking cigars. I hope you enjoy them, Mr. .” and then I realised I didnae know his name, and felt daft, until he said to me, “Cockburn, the name’s Cockburn,” and left.’
The detectives exchanged glances. ‘I want you to think about this,’ said Wilding. ‘Instead of “Cockburn”, could the man have said “Coben”? Is that possible?’
Eddie McBain’s face lit up. ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘it’s more than possible, it’s likely. I just thought he was mumblin’ when he said it.’