Quintin Jardine - A Rush of Blood

‘And she told him, just like that?’

‘She says she refused, at first, but he pleaded with her. He said it had nothing to do with any of his clients; that this was a matter of his personal security, and if she didn’t want to get caught up in it herself or, worse, get young Kenny involved, she’d tell him. So she did.’

‘Was that all he asked her?’

‘No, he asked if she could get him a copy of the new will. She said she couldn’t, because it had been drafted, printed and witnessed by Veronica Drake. The copy was in her safe and Mrs McKean doesn’t have access.’

McIlhenney frowned. ‘She didn’t know what was in it?’

‘She said not, and I believe her. Does that make a difference?’

‘It might, if the boss’s theory is right: that the Gerulaitises were killed by Desperate Dan and his mate Dudley, after Laima had been forced to sign away her inheritance from Tomas, the interest in Lituania SAFI. If they didn’t find out he’d left it to her from Ken Green, through his ex-wife, then who the hell did tell them?’

‘Who the hell knew?’ asked McGurk.

‘Veronica Drake knew. And, eventually, we did.’

‘And who else?’

‘That’s what we need to find out.’

‘Do you want me to go back up to the law firm and interview Drake?’

‘No. Because somebody else knew too, the day before the couple died.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Who told us about the contents of the will?’

McGurk winced. ‘Alex Skinner.’

‘Precisely. No, Jack, you will not go charging into CAJ. If anyone’s going to take that further it’ll be me, and it’ll be with her dad, not with Alex.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said McGurk, sincerely. ‘You go and get some sleep now,’ he added, as the superintendent headed for the door.

‘Fuck off, Sergeant,’ he replied, as his mobile rang. He took it out and checked the incoming call; the number showed ‘unknown’. ‘McIlhenney,’ he grunted.

‘Neil, it’s Andy.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In my new office, but I’ve just had a call from Rod Greatorix, up in Perth.’

‘Oh yes? Did he say when we can pick up the women?’

‘Yes and no. At half past eight this morning a lawyer turned up at the office where they were being held, saying that she’d been instructed to defend them. Not any old legal hack either; no, it was Susannah Himes.’

‘The Barracuda?’

Seated at his desk, Sauce Haddock’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the name; he had met her before, and been impressed.

‘That’s right. She asked for a private interview with her clients, and of course that had to be allowed. They went straight into court when it was over. When they were called, Himes told the sheriff that her client, Inez McCullough, would be entering a plea of guilty to the possession offence, and that she’d be cooperating with police in Edinburgh and around Scotland over several other current investigations. But she also said that Inez had told her that her daughter Cameron had no involvement in any of these, and that she’d gone along last night thinking that she was helping her mother pick up stuff that the golf club had agreed she could have.’

‘What?’ McIlhenney shouted. ‘Did the sheriff swallow that crap?’

‘From the Barracuda? Hook, line and sinker. She applied for bail; we opposed it, but it was useless. As they left, Susannah told Rod that if you want to interview either of them, you’ll have to do it through her. The fiscal reckons it’s the start of a bargaining session. Inez will plead to the lot if there are no proceedings against Cameron. Otherwise, it’s a trial.’

‘You know what the outcome will be, don’t you?’

‘Sure; the Crown Office will take the deal. I know where Inez’s orders came from too: her father’s mouth to her ear, via Ms Himes.’

‘The boss is going to love that, I don’t think.’

‘Do you think I fucking like it? I’m going to talk to Grandpa, at the first opportunity. Bob might want to come with me. Where is he?’

‘Gone. Red-eye flight this morning. McGurk says I look half dead, so Christ knows what state he’s in.’

‘ I’m sorry we’re later than arranged,’ said Mario McGuire as Regine

Zaliukas opened the door, ‘but as I said when I called you earlier, someone wanted to join us, and we had to wait for him.’

‘That’s no problem,’ she replied. She was dressed casually, as she had been the evening before, in slightly more formal day wear, but with the same fluffy carpet slippers on her feet. ‘What happened to him?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t he turn up?’

As she spoke, a figure stepped into view from the side of the doorway, to stand alongside Becky Stallings. His face was lined with tiredness and his clothes were creased from travel, but his eyes were clear and alert. ‘No, I made it,’ he told her. ‘It was a bit of a rush, everything ran to time.’

She peered at him for a second or two. ‘It’s Mr Skinner, isn’t it?’ she murmured.

He nodded, smiling as he extended his hand. ‘It’s been a while, Regine. You look barely a day older; I wish I could claim the same.’

She shook his hand, and stood aside. ‘Please come in.’

‘Where are Mork and Mindy?’ McGuire asked, as he stepped into the hall, after Skinner and Stallings.

‘Max and Zaki?’ She laughed softly. ‘They’ve taken the girls to Agen, to the cinema.’ She looked at the chief constable. ‘Why are you here, Mr Skinner?’

He ignored her question. ‘How old are they now?’

‘Aimée is eight, and Lucie is newly six.’

‘Have you told them about their father?’

‘No, not yet. I need quiet time with them before I can break that kind of news. Too many things have been happening.’ She moved towards the sitting room, and beckoned them to follow. ‘Come through and sit.’ The three police officers followed; McGuire and Stallings took seats on the sofa facing the widow in her chair, but Skinner stood, beside the garden door.

‘OK, Regine,’ he said. ‘It’s time to tell us what happened.’ He stopped abruptly and frowned. ‘But first,’ he continued, ‘. . you’re not alone in the house, are you.’ Statement, not question. ‘Yesterday evening you felt unsafe, so Mario and Becky told me, yet this afternoon your bodyguards have gone out with the kids. . and left you alone? No, you feel safe now, don’t you?’

She shrugged. ‘I should. You’re here.’

‘It’s nice to know we have your confidence, but I reckon you’ve got a little added insurance. Come on, call him, or do I have to go looking?’

‘No, you don’t.’ The accent was thick, but the words intelligible. The voice came from the opening that led to the kitchen, at the top of the steps, where its owner had appeared, a man in his early thirties; clean-shaven, dressed in jeans and a fresh white T-shirt with a caricature image of Nicolas Sarkozy on the front. He was smaller than either police officer, but the definition of his musculature said that he was no less formidable.

‘You’ll be Jonas, I take it,’ said the chief constable. The newcomer nodded. ‘In that case, Regine will be fine.’ His eyes narrowed, imperceptibly. ‘But she’ll be fine now anyway, won’t she, Colonel?’ The surviving Zaliukas brother returned his gaze, but quizzically, suggesting mystification.

He turned back to the woman. ‘OK, let’s begin. In your own time. There is no pressure on you here. We need to know the circumstances that led to Tomas’s death, but be sure, lass, that we regard you, I regard you, as a victim too.’

She nodded, and seemed to relax a little. ‘Where do I begin?’ she murmured.

‘Let’s start with the massage parlours, and the company known as Lituania SAFI. How did your husband come to be involved in that?’