Quintin Jardine - Fatal Last Words

‘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.’

‘ 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.’

‘ What did you think of him, then?’

McIlhenney glanced momentarily to his left from behind the wheel; he had volunteered to drive back to Edinburgh, and Skinner had accepted. ‘I think he’s a remarkable man; if he hadn’t been influenced by his corrupt and wicked father. .’

‘He’s a murderer, Neil. He didn’t plan to kill Stevie. . that’s not in doubt. . but he had killed already and the trap he laid was set for somebody else.’

‘Granted,’ the superintendent acknowledged, ‘but he’s locked up now, the evidence against him is strong, and that’s that. What I was going to say is that he gave me the impression of an inner strength that I haven’t encountered too often before. There’s a calmness about him that’s almost monastic.’

‘He’s no monk.’

‘He might as well be, in that place. I can understand why nobody’s had a go at him; he looks bloody dangerous. There’s an aura about him that will let him come to terms with his sentence. How long will he get, do you reckon?’

‘That’ll depend. His defence counsel will probably argue that Stevie was collateral damage, an innocent victim of a trap laid for villains. If the judge buys that, I could see a tariff of as little as fifteen years. But if he takes the hard line, then recent precedent says it could be as much as thirty-five years. Do you see him meditating his way through that?’

‘Maybe. Look at the Birdman of Alcatraz.’

Skinner laughed. ‘You’ve been watching your wife’s favourite movies again. There’s no comparison. Stroud, the real Birdman, was a murderous bastard who caused chaos in American prisons. My guess is that Dražen’s so calm because he’s been told by his very expensive legal team that they’ll be able to cast reasonable doubt on the forensic evidence that we expect to convict him. But they’re all Londoners, and they’ve never seen Arthur Dorward in the witness box. You wait till he’s convicted; see then if he still has that aura about him.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘you misunderstood my original question. What I meant was, what did you think of what he had to say? Did you believe him, or was he spinning us a yarn, knowing that we’ll probably never be able to check it out?’

‘Yes, I believe him. I accept the idea that his willingness to help us is penance in some way for Stevie’s death. He knows Playfair, and he gave us his real name. It shouldn’t be hard to check, starting in Cambridge, so he knows we’d see through a lie very quickly.’