Quintin Jardine - Death's Door

‘Whenever necessary; that was why there was a small alarm when Ballester first surfaced. Boras’s first thought was that he was a Serbian spy, but the Americans, through their UK front organisation Aeron, soon established the truth, that he was a radical, slightly crackpot journalist, with a penchant for bringing down big names.

‘He wasn’t after Boras the spy; he was after Boras the businessman, whose dealings in that sector were not always kosher, as witness Mr Barker’s “Jack Frost” account and his dealings with the man Dailey, and several others. When this was uncovered, Ballester was set up by CIA operatives in Paris, with the assistance of MI6, who owed somebody a favour at the time.

‘After his public humiliation, he dropped out of sight for much of the time. In truth, he was almost forgotten, until Dominic Padstow’s real name came out, through your investigation. The CIA believe that his involvement with Zrinka, and finally, vicariously, through her friend, was a last attempt to get to Boras. When it failed. . well. The man had a kink, and a history of violence; poor girls, poor lad, poor Stevie.’ She looked across the table. ‘There’s no doubt that he did it?’ she asked.

‘Not a shred. There is no way this could have involved the people you’re talking about, or anyone other than him. Items were recovered at the scene that only the killer could have possessed. Skinner frowned. ‘So who did it?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Boras sent Spicer and Brown up there to be killed. Did the CIA sanction the murder of two of their own, as a favour to Boras?’

‘No: Boras has been operating independently. They’re not pleased about it, but there’s nothing they can do. As I gather you know, they’ve made the two men, and the entire Aeron operation, disappear already.’

‘Have you known about Aeron all along?’

‘Of course. We live with these things, as long as they observe certain niceties.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not killing British citizens, for a start. That’s why eliminating Ballester permanently wasn’t an option for them. Bob, the CIA do not know who killed the guy.’

Skinner shook his head. ‘That’s why I don’t rate them, when it comes down to it. Boras is very clever: he was fireproof, and he wanted to stay that way. He was determined to execute his daughter’s murderer, as soon as the Aeron people told him where he was. But when they did, that made them potentially dangerous to him. So he sent somebody outside the intelligence community, someone he could trust absolutely, to take care of the whole situation.’

‘Who?’

‘Somebody who’d be just as intent on killing Ballester as he was; I reckon he sent his son.’

’Dražen? But he and his father barely speak.’

‘The man loved his sister; her death would have brought them together, even if it was only a temporary truce.’

‘That’s possible, I’ll grant you.’

‘Anyway, whose word do we have for their rivalry? Theirs, and second-hand confirmation by the desperate Keith Barker, that’s all. If I was in Boras’s situation, running a business that was tied into the intelligence community, and I had a son that age, I’d want to protect him by keeping him well away from it.

’Dražen, or David Barnes, as he calls himself now, has no connection with his father’s company; in fact, he’s one of his rising competitors. There’s even talk of Davor feeling the pinch, thanks to him, and looking to sell out again. That may be a family at war, but it’s also a bloody good cover story to protect the son, if his father is ever exposed.’

‘Why should you doubt them?’

‘Because I’ve got twenty-five years’ experience in this business and when I’m investigating I doubt everything until I see unshakeable proof that it’s true.’

‘Bob,’ she began, then paused, like someone risking a trump too early in the game, ‘even though Boras was acting outside the intelligence community, the Americans still have to protect him, because of their own involvement with him, and they would not like you going after his son.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because they told me so,’ she murmured.

‘Are you telling me that he’s a CIA asset too?’

‘They didn’t say that, not outright, but the implication was clear.’

‘Why else would they even mention him? Jesus,’ Skinner exclaimed, ‘of course he is: stun gun, grenade, that’s not stuff your ordinary yuppie businessman can get his hands on too easily.’

Dennis shrugged her shoulders. ‘Bob, the bottom line is this. These people are valuable to the Americans, and I’ve been asked to persuade you to call it a day. I’ve even been asked to have someone order you, if necessary.’

Skinner threw his head back and laughed. ‘But you’re not going to bother, are you. Because I’m Scottish, and outside Home Office control, only my chief constable can give me that order, and you know he won’t. Let me ask you something, Amanda. If this was an MI5 operation, in your home country, and the Yanks were telling you to pack it in, what would you do?’

Dennis drew a long, deep breath. ‘I’d tell them to piss off,’ she admitted.

‘Then will you tell them that for me, please? If I can prove that Dražen Boras killed Stevie Steele, I’m going to have him.’ His smile vanished. ‘However, if you want to give them some comfort, you can tell them that I’ll have a real problem doing that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because right now I’ve got two detective constables giving him an alibi.’

Maggie settled into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. For much of the day, Stevie’s father had been declaring that he and his mother would stay for another night, to look after her, as he had put it. ‘Stevie would have wanted us to,’ he had said more than once, until finally she had taken him aside and had told him that a house could only hold so much grief, and that in fact Stevie would have told them to go back to Dunfermline and allow her some space.

Margot Wilding had phoned her at eight thirty, expecting to be told that the start of her new job would be postponed, but she had asked her to come as agreed. Her bright presence had brought some light into the morning, but Maggie knew that it would be only a brief respite before the things that had to be done.

Mr Steele. . she rarely called him anything else. . had come with her to the undertaker’s in the patrol car that had called for her at noon. She had felt a sense of intrusion then too, but she could not have forbidden him.

Bob Skinner had been right: Stevie’s body had been unmarked, when she had seen him lying there in his coffin.

But he hadn’t looked like Stevie either, only a pale likeness of someone very young, a waxen model, in his cremation garb. Of course she had broken down, and at that time she had been grateful for her father-in-law’s strong support, glad that she had let him come.

Once that desperate part was over she had to put some purpose into her day, by discussing funeral arrangements with the undertaker, settling for Friday, at Mortonhall Crematorium, the easiest for Stevie’s family and friends to access from Fife. There had been a reception to arrange at the Braid Hills Hotel, and she had done that too, ready and willing to use police transport to get there and finally to return home.

Her father-in-law, a good man, no doubting that, had made an evening meal, since his wife was still incapable of anything. They had eaten together, and then the Steeles had left, still a little reluctantly. ‘Are you sure now?’ Stevie’s dad had said, even as she was closing the door on him.

As the day had worn on it had begun to worry her that she did not feel exhausted. But as she sank down into the soft upholstery, and the last of the adrenalin had worked itself out of her system, tiredness caught up with her. She put a hand on her bump and whispered, ‘Just you and me now, kid,’ as her eyes grew heavier.