Quintin Jardine - A Rush of Blood

‘What do you do here?’ Haddock asked. ‘What does Lietuvos Leisure own?’

‘It has pubs and clubs, plus a couple of restaurants; it’s a successful, growing business. The other company’s very profitable too: Lietuvos Developments Limited, that handles our property activities.’ He opened a drawer, took out a brochure and tossed it across the desk. ‘That’s some of its portfolio. Mind you,’ he added, ‘we’re sitting on our hands, like every other developer right now, waiting for the market to get its balls back.’

The young DC picked up the document and glanced at it. ‘And the massage parlours?’ he said, quietly.

Gerulaitis shook his head. ‘They have nothing to do with me, and their acquisition wasn’t funded by either of the companies.’

‘So legally, who or what owns them?’

Suddenly he seemed a little less friendly. ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Detective,’ he said.

Haddock grinned. ‘That’s Detective Constable, sir; you’re making us sound like LAPD. If we were interested, which I’m not saying we are, we could find out in no time from the property register.’

‘Then you’ll have to do that, or ask Tomas’s lawyers.’

‘Who would they be?’

‘The same as this company, I suppose, although I don’t know for sure. . Curle Anthony and Jarvis, that’s who we deal with.’ Suddenly, all humour left his face. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘The obvious thing would be for you to ask Tomas himself, not come questioning me. What’s up? Has he been arrested?’

‘No, sir.’ McGurk looked at him solemnly. ‘I can assure you that he hasn’t. When did you see him last?’

‘Yesterday; he was here till after six, apart from a break in the afternoon when he went out. After that Laima. . that’s my wife. . and me went to eat in Portofino, one of our restaurants. The manager’s just hired a new chef, and we wanted to check him out. Tomas was supposed to be coming with us, but at the last minute he told us to go on our own. I guessed he might still be upset.’

‘About what?’

‘His wife left him. She took the girls too.’

‘Was it sudden, her departure?’

‘She was supposed to be coming last night as well, when the arrangement was made.’ Gerulaitis leaned back in his chair. ‘But look, why are you asking this?’

‘We’re trying to establish his state of mind, sir.’

‘His state of mind?’

‘Yes, how did he seem yesterday?’

‘A bit edgy, after Regine did her runner. A bit moody, but that’s typical Tomas.’ He frowned. ‘A bit like the old days,’ he added quietly.

‘What do you mean, like the old days?’

‘When Tomas was younger, he was very volatile, unpredictable. As he’s got older, that’s disappeared, and he’s got a lot more controlled. But now you make me think about it, that’s how he was yesterday.’ Gerulaitis leaned forward, he frowned, and for the first time he seemed impatient. ‘But come on, gentlemen, out with it. What the fuck is this visit about?’

‘A body was found this morning, sir,’ Haddock told him, ‘right up on top of Arthur’s Seat. Male.’

The Lithuanian’s face paled, instantly. ‘Are you saying it was Tomas?’ he whispered.

‘We think it was, but identification isn’t straightforward. Cause of death appears to have been a contact wound inflicted by a sawn-off shotgun, so. .’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Gerulaitis’s mouth fell open; he covered it with his right hand.

‘Do you know if your cousin had a sawn-off?’

‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had.’ The man recovered some of his composure. ‘Was there a tattoo?’ he asked.

McGurk nodded. ‘Yes. Lithuanian national crest, back of his hand.’

‘Then it’s Tomas; nobody else would have one.’

‘Probably not, but still. .’ He paused. ‘Did he have any other distinguishing marks that you know of?’

‘There was another tattoo.’ Gerulaitis tapped his right arm, just below the shoulder. ‘Just there; his wife’s name, entwined through a heart. Was it there?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ the sergeant admitted. ‘We haven’t seen the body, or any photographs. Easily checked though. Do you know where Mrs Zale. . sorry, Mrs Zaliukas, is? We have to find her; if I’m right in assuming they’re not divorced, she’s next of kin.’

‘No, and Tomas said he didn’t know either. My wife and I are not close to them as a couple. I know Regine is French, and that she comes from a place south of Bordeaux. . I leave remembering place names to Laima; I’m lousy at it. . but not a lot more about her than that.’

‘How will she live? What will she do for money?’

‘No problem there. With dividends, she takes a hundred and fifty thousand a year out of the companies. She has her own bank account, so access to cash won’t be a problem for her.’

Haddock glanced at McGurk. ‘We should be able to trace her through her withdrawals, Sarge. Which bank is it, sir?’ he asked the Lithuanian.

‘We’re with what used to be Bank of Scotland, but Regine had her own arrangements. You’d better ask the lawyers.’

‘We’ll do that. Do you have a contact there?’

‘The man I deal with is called Willie Conn.’

‘Thanks. We’ll pay him a visit. Meantime, since you’re a blood relative, we have an unpleasant task for you. Your cousin has to be formally identified.’

Gerulaitis shuddered. ‘Maybe Laima should do it. She never liked him; it’d serve her right.’

Detective Constable Griffin Montell leaned back in his chair, linked his fingers behind his head and let out a sigh so loud that it was almost a bellow. ‘Hey,’ he said, to the room in general, ‘do you ever feel that when some people go missing we should simply say, “Thanks, God, for that one,” rather than open a bloody file on them?’

DC Alice Cowan glanced at him across their facing desk, frowned, and continued with the witness statement that she was keying into her computer. Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding swung round in his chair. ‘Got anyone particular in mind?’ he asked.

Montell sat upright once more and slapped the folder in the centre of his desk, between two piles. ‘This guy here,’ he replied. ‘Maurice Glazier; reported missing almost two years ago, in April. He’s got a record as long as my. . It goes all the way back to when he was eight years old. He’s such a boon to society that it took six months for his partner to report him missing, yet here we are spending police time trying to find him.’

‘And have we?’

‘What?’

‘Found him.’

‘Not a trace.’

‘No, and we won’t either.’

‘Are you saying he’s dead?’

‘Hell no, I’m saying that he’s done a runner and doesn’t want to be found.’

‘You know the guy?’ Montell’s accent pointed straight to his South African origins.

‘Wee Moash?’ Wilding chuckled. ‘Sure. Everybody who’s been around for a certain length of time knows wee Moash. The only reason his record started when he was eight is because that’s the age of responsibility in Scotland. “Habitual” or “recidivist” aren’t good enough words to describe him. His criminality’s genetic, it’s in his DNA. He was born a thief, simple as that. His girlfriend probably took so long to report him missing because she thought he was in the nick, or with his other woman. He had two, one in Granton and the other up near the Old Town.’

Montell nodded. ‘Spot on there. That’s what her statement says; that he was quite often away for a few months, for either of those reasons.’ He laughed. ‘She also said that she finally reported him missing after she decided he’d never have stayed away from his greyhound that long.’