‘We all ate with him the night before that,’ Skinner reminded her. ‘It’s as big a stunner to me, and to Sarah; I’ve just called to tell her.’
‘In that case, guys,’ said McIlhenney, the calmest person in the room, ‘since you were all involved with the deceased on a personal basis, it’s best that I put the questions that need asking. Strictly speaking Sammy Pye should do it, since you’ve put him in charge, boss, but he might just be a bit nervous interviewing you two.’
‘What do you think happened, Neil?’ Paula asked.
‘I don’t think anything,’ he replied. ‘It looks as if Inspector Mawhinney went down to the docks after he left you, found a length of heavy chain, tied it round his waist as a sinker, stuffed his pockets with stones to make sure, and jumped in. That’s what it looks like; but we have to establish his state of mind. So, how did he strike each of you? You first, sir.’
‘I only met the man twice, Neil, as you know,’ Skinner said. ‘The first time it was in official surroundings, so I hardly had a chance to consider him as a private individual. Even on Saturday, although I tried to make it a social night, I felt that he was a bit shy, a bit reserved. I won’t say he was humourless, just quiet. But on neither occasion did he make me think that he was considering walking the plank. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘Thanks. How about you, Paula? What did you think of him?’
She sniffed, then blew her nose on Mario’s handkerchief. ‘I thought he was just a lovely man, a very nice guy. He couldn’t have looked after us better in New York; he knew everything about the city and he went out of his way to make my visit interesting in the time he spent with both of us. He was a friend.’
‘Did he talk about his wife a lot?’
‘He never talked about her to me, and I didn’t like to ask him about her. Mario told me, of course, but I thought it was best left undisturbed.’
‘Last night,’ McIlhenney asked, ‘how much did he have to drink?’
‘He didn’t get pissed, Neil, if that’s what you think!’
‘I’m not suggesting that. I just want to know.’
‘Nothing excessive. We kept off the Amarone, stuck to Valpolicella. I got the Strega out later on, but Colin didn’t like that too much, so I gave him some Remy Martin. If he had been showing it, I’d have made him take a taxi back to the Malmaison.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No. He insisted on walking.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘Just after ten. We turned on the news on telly just after he left, so I remember.’
‘Fine. Thanks.’ McIlhenney turned to McGuire. ‘Now you, Mario. You knew him better than any of us. What do you think?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ his friend told him bitterly. ‘I think that if I’d walked back with him last night, if I’d gone back to my place, and seen him into the Malmaison, we wouldn’t be here now, having this bloody awful discussion. That’s what I think, and I’ll always fucking think it.’
There was a whiteboard on the wall of Paula’s office, with a ridged platform below it holding some magic markers and a long pointer. McIlhenney picked it up and handed it to McGuire. ‘What’s that?’ the superintendent asked.
‘It’s a big stick; you can beat yourself with that as well if you like. This was a grown man, Mario, a senior New York police officer. He didn’t need a chum home, and anyway, if he was planning to top himself, you seeing him to his front door wouldn’t have stopped him. So let me ask you again, but more specifically this time. What was your opinion of Colin’s mental state? Do you find it beyond belief that he should kill himself?’
McGuire walked over to the window; he looked out and along Commercial Street, back towards the dock where Mawhinney had been found. Finally he turned back to face McIlhenney and shook his head. ‘To be honest, I don’t. There was a great well of grief in the man, not far below the surface, and if finally he’s decided to jump into it, it wouldn’t, it doesn’t, astonish me. When I stood beside him the week before last in Ground Zero, and when he told me that as far as he was concerned we were standing on his wife’s grave, I had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t be bothered if he had to join her there.’
He went back to Paula and took her hand. ‘Maggie told me last week that she had a probable suicide on her patch but that there were a couple of unresolved doubts about it. If that’s how the fiscal wants to dispose of this one, he won’t have a problem with me.’
He handed the pointer back to his friend. ‘And by the way, you know what you can do with that.’
52
‘Why have I never heard of this bank, Stevie?’ asked Mary Chambers as they stepped from the lift into the beech-clad reception area. ‘My grandpa was a potato farmer in Lanarkshire.’
‘That’s not for me to say, Superintendent,’ Steele chuckled, ‘but I think this lot were after barley growers and big beef and dairy producers.’
‘Spuds weren’t good enough for them? Is that what you mean?’
‘I think that the founders of the Scottish Farmers Bank, and before that the Agricultural and Rural Building Society, regarded all root vegetables as beneath them. They were the posh people’s lender, until they found the competition in that sector too hot, and reinvented themselves as a business bank.’
The inspector walked up to the tartan-clad receptionist. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘I called earlier and spoke to Mr Easterson’s secretary. We’re expected.’
She smiled at him, brightly, professionally, and superficially, with the twinkle that reminded him of an ad for dishwasher tablets. ‘Yes, Mr Steele, I know. If you’ll give me just a second.’
She picked up a phone and dialled, then spoke briefly and in a whisper that he could not decipher. Hanging up, she pointed to the waiting area. ‘If you’ll just take a seat over there, we won’t keep you long.’
‘You’re bloody right you won’t,’ Mary Chambers muttered under her breath, as they walked towards the leather chairs and the table strewn with that day’s newspapers. ‘We’re the polis, hen.’
After only half a day with his new boss, Steele knew that they would work well together. Mary Chambers was a straight talker, and he welcomed that. He had seen that she felt awkward about raising the subject of his relationship with Maggie, but she had gone ahead anyway because she had felt it necessary; that was okay with him, since he had never beaten about too many bushes himself. There was a surprising humour about her too, bubbling beneath her plain exterior, looking for opportunities to show itself.
In fact they were kept waiting for five minutes. Steele was on the edge of annoyance, when a stocky, middle-aged man swept into the foyer and came straight towards them. ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long,’ he exclaimed, ‘but I had my chairman on the line. Unfortunately he’s not given to short conversations.’ He extended a hand to the inspector as the two detectives rose to their feet. ‘Superintendent Chambers, I take it.’
‘Does he look like a Mary?’ the new divisional CID commander asked cheerfully, managing somehow to intercept the handshake.
‘Terribly sorry,’ the man exclaimed, without convincing either of them that he actually was. ‘I’m Proc Fraser, the chief executive.’
‘I was under the impression we’d be seeing Mr Easterson,’ said Steele. ‘I made the appointment with his secretary.’
‘Yes. Indeed,’ Fraser muttered. ‘Come along to my office and I’ll explain.’
You don’t bloody have to, thought the inspector. It took her even less time than I thought.
He stayed silent, though, as they were led along the narrow corridor, and shown into an office, larger than that of the absent GMCB and more expensively furnished, although still stopping short of opulence. There was a jug of coffee on the meeting table, and three china cups; Mary Chambers wondered if he would ask her to pour, but he did that himself.