A Rush of Blood

Fifty-two

‘Where’s that other guy?’ Arturus Luksa asked, his elbows on the table. His jacket was creased, and his shirt showed signs of having been worn for too long. He smelled stale, and his chin was dark with stubble.

‘He’s busy,’ Mario McGuire told him. ‘Why? Would you like us to get him back?’

‘No,’ said the prisoner quickly. ‘I just like you get my fuckin’ lawyer so we can get on with this.’

‘Your fuckin’ lawyer’s on his way,’ Neil McIlhenney drawled, ‘or at least his office says he is.’ He wandered across to the window of the first-floor interview room. ‘They said he drives a Jag. I told security to leave a parking space for him, but I don’t see any of those out there.’

‘How’s the lady?’

The superintendent’s expression darkened; he glared at Luksa. ‘Now, all of a sudden, you care.’ He stepped towards the table and sat, facing him. ‘Well, since you asked so nicely,’ he hissed, ‘she’s on a life support system; any minute now we could get a call telling us to charge you with murder, not attempted.’

The Lithuanian paled, his eyes widening. ‘But I hardly touched her,’ he protested.

‘What if I told you that you touched her enough to nick an artery, and that it was bleeding inside her throat? What if I told you that she collapsed, and by the time they got her to hospital, she’d almost drowned on her own blood?’

‘Naw!’

‘You see, you can have all the fuckin’ lawyers you like but they won’t impress us, or get you any sort of a deal. We’re even going to do you for running one of the Estonian girls, whether you had her or not. Hell’s teeth, I think we’ll do you for trafficking them all, all twelve of them.’

‘There was only nine,’ Luksa protested.

‘And how would you know that? You said you knew nothing about them, you never had one at your place. You know what I think? I reckon it was you, not Valdas, that brought them in. We’ve got one of the lassies under our protection. She was given a rough time, and right now she thinks we’re wonderful; if we ask her she’ll identify you like a shot.’

‘It was Valdas! Him and Marius.’

McGuire lowered himself into the seat beside McIlhenney. ‘Arturus,’ he said, slowly, ‘right now Valdas is a pork fucking scratching. He and his wife died in a fire in their house last night. He doesn’t figure any more. As for this Marius guy, he didn’t put a blade in one of our colleagues. We got you, babe, we got you. It’ll be a long time before you mount that feisty wee wife of yours again. She’ll be an old woman by then. . mind you, from what PC Johnston told us, she doesn’t look like the sort who’ll wait around.’

Luksa buried his face in his hands. The head of CID grabbed his wrists and slammed them on to the table.

‘You’ll look at us when we’re talking to you,’ he growled. ‘Who killed Linas Jankauskas?’

‘No’ me!’ the man wailed, fearfully. ‘You not going to do me for that as well.’

‘You couldn’t have killed him,’ McIlhenney chuckled. ‘You’re a pussy who goes for women rather than men. Plus, you’re an idiot, and whoever did Linas was an expert. So come on, who was it?’

‘I don’t know, honest I don’t. It had nothing to do with me.’

‘Why was he killed?’ McGuire snapped. ‘Do you know that?’

‘I guess it was because he was freelancing with his girl. He keep her in his own place, he drug her, he fuck her himself, he sell her to punters and he keep nearly all the money. Linas, he was real idiot: he asked for it. If Valdas found out. . Yes,’ Luksa nodded, ‘that’s it. Valdas found out; he killed him.’

‘No, that’s not it. We know where Valdas was when Linas was killed.’

‘How you be sure?’

‘Because he was with us at the time, you clown. Now don’t piss us about. We all know it wasn’t Valdas, so. .’ He glared at the prisoner. ‘Before you answer this, you should consider the situation, and ask yourself how, if that phone rings and we’re told the worst about our colleague, how we’re going to react. . or how that other man you saw is going to react. So. . who do you think killed Linas?’

‘I think it may be the new guy.’

‘New guy?’ McIlhenney fired back. ‘What new guy?’

‘The guy who told us all to meet him.’

‘When?’

‘Wednesday, in the morning, day after Jock tells us we’re closed for a while. I get a call at home from a man. He says I am to meet him in the Bruntsfield massage parlour, twelve o’clock, and that all the other managers will be there. I ask him who the fuck he thinks he is; he says he has a message for us all from Tomas. Now I don’t know at this time that Tomas is dead, but I do know that if Tomas says “Come”, you fucking do it.’

‘So you went.’

‘Too fucking right.’

‘Why Bruntsfield?’

‘Because it’s the biggest place, maybe, I dunno. Anyway, I go and the other guys are there, except Linas. I ask Marius where he is and he says Linas is a fucking idiot, he hasn’t turned up. Then this man shows us a piece of paper; it’s from Tomas and it’s signed by him.’

‘How did you know it was genuine?’

‘It was written in Lithuanian. The fella was Scottish. It was addressed to all us managers and it said that he has decided to get out of the business and that there’s a new owner. When we read it, Marius asks him, “Is that you, the owner?” He says no, but that we should treat him as if he is if we want to stand any chance of keeping our jobs. Then he tells us that we stay closed until he says to open again; he says if anyone asks, we say it’s as a mark of respect.’

‘This man,’ said McGuire. ‘What’s his name?’

‘He didn’t tell us, we didn’t ask.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘No, because when one of the guys says he’s going to ask Tomas about this, he tell us that Tomas is dead, and that if we don’t believe him we should check the papers in an hour or two. That shut us all up.’

‘This was at midday?’ McGuire murmured, almost to himself. Luksa nodded.

‘The man,’ said McIlhenney. ‘Describe him.’

‘Tough guy.’

‘So are we, but you wouldn’t be able to trace either of us on that description.’

‘He’s tall, but not a giant, maybe one metre eighty-five. Heavy built, big chest, thick waist.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Big chin, dark; maybe needed a shave, like me, or maybe that’s how he was.’

‘How was he dressed?’

‘Jeans, red and white shirt. . jacket with no sleeves. OK, that’s all I remember, other than reading in the paper yesterday that Tomas was dead right enough. That’s all I know now, all I can say. Honest. You tell the other man I’m sorry I no’ tell him this. And please God, don’t let the lady die. I pray for her, honest.’

‘You’d better do that,’ McGuire rumbled. He glanced out of the window, then grinned. ‘Heaven be praised!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look, Arturus, you’ve had an answer already.’ He pointed, in the direction of a female figure, walking down the slope from the main entrance to the headquarters building. She was stocky, and wore police uniform.

Luksa’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, he started out of his chair, before thinking better of it and subsiding. ‘You two are bastards,’ he hissed.

‘Oh yes,’ said McIlhenney, ‘we surely are. Now,’ he continued, looking at his watch, ‘I reckon we’ve waited long enough for Ken Green. We don’t need him here to charge you, and that’s what we’re going to do, formally, with the attempt to murder Superintendent Mary Chambers, in your house, yesterday evening. You’ve already been cautioned, and we don’t require you to say anything at this stage. You’ll appear in Edinburgh Sheriff Court this afternoon, where we’ll ask that you be remanded in custody. Mr Green can make his way there, or his firm can send a substitute. Failing that, you can be represented by any other solicitor you choose to instruct, or by someone appointed by the court, if that’s what you prefer.’ He pressed a button under the table; a few seconds later the door opened and two escort officers entered the room. ‘Take him back to his accommodation,’ the detective superintendent ordered, ‘and have a secure van standing by ready to take him up to Chambers Street. The fiscal’s expecting him in the cells there in fifteen minutes.’ He gazed at Luksa as he was pulled to his feet. ‘Some advice, pal; you keep your fucking mouth shut from now on, and do exactly what Ken Green tells you, unless he’s decided he wants no part of you.’

The Glimmer Twins sat in silence for a few seconds after the door had closed behind the prisoner. ‘That was good thinking,’ said McGuire at last, ‘feeding him that nonsense about hidden arterial bleeding. You almost had me believing you; yes, it was worthy of the big fella himself. Are you going to tell him we got more out of Luksa than he did, or will I?’

‘I think neither of us will brag about it.’

‘Maybe not, maybe not.’ The chief superintendent frowned. ‘But our friend Arturus really is truly stupid. He fancies himself too. Know who he reminds me of? That Spanish barman in Hotel Babylon, on the telly. Mind you, was that description he gave us familiar, or was it not?’

McIlhenney nodded. ‘The boy’s not a Dandy reader, is he? Otherwise he’d have mentioned Desperate Dan too. It’s a spot-on match with the one Montell got from the receptionist.’

‘Absolutely, and he gave us lots more than that. The letter Desperate showed the managers: the one from Tomas. How did he get that? Assuming it was genuine, that is. Maybe Valdas wrote it.’

‘I don’t buy that. No, Tomas Zaliukas wrote it, he gave it to Desperate and then went up Arthur’s Seat and killed himself.’

‘Then get someone back into his house,’ said McGuire, ‘to copy all the files off his computer then look for one that’s in Lithuanian and was created on or before Tuesday evening. If we get a result, find a translator.’

‘But how did he know him in the first place? Who is he and what’s the connection?’

‘Wait a minute, though,’ his friend countered. ‘We know who the new owner was. It was Laima, Valdas Gerulaitis’s wife.’

‘And now fellow pork scratching. You’re bloody right. And Tomas changed his will in her favour just before he died. So what was her connection to Desperate?’

‘Christ knows. Do we know how the will read before that?’

‘No,’ said McIlhenney, ‘but I’m sure we can find out.’

‘Have McGurk and Sauce do that; Alex should be able to help them. Meantime that leaves us with this guy Marius. Thanks to our friend we can now have a serious talk with him about trafficking young women for prostitution. He’s not going to like that at all.’

‘Can we prove it, though? Anna might have identified Valdas and Linas, but did she ever see him?’

‘Time will tell,’ said the head of CID, ‘but right now I just want to find out what he knows. We need to trace the rest of those girls. They’re my greatest worry, mate; they might just have become too much of a liability. I’ll tell you what; you’re on a roll, so you take Marius, but don’t delegate it to Becky, you go for him yourself. You’re doing that, I’ll go up to the Sheriff Court and make sure that our friend Luksa’s remand hearing goes according to plan.’

‘OK.’ The superintendent frowned. ‘You know what’s liable to happen with him, don’t you?’

McGuire nodded, sagely. ‘Sure, I can read that script. A good QC will portray him as a frightened man, cornered by police who invaded his home without a warrant, picking up the first thing that came to hand and lashing out blindly. Charlie and Mary will be good witnesses, and the forensic backs them up, but when Luksa’s lawyer offers a guilty plea to a charge of serious assault, the Crown Office will take it. Unless Bob leans on them.’

‘He won’t though; I reckon he’ll be more likely to pass word discreetly to the judge, whoever that is, that he’s not pleased. In that case Luksa’ll still be looking at a right few years inside, and maybe a fine alongside that.’

‘Probably,’ the head of CID conceded, ‘but that’s down the road. For now, let’s get on with what we’ve got to do.’

He was heading for the door when his mobile sounded, and vibrated in the pocket of his shirt. He plucked it out, and looked at the number, but it registered as ‘anonymous’. ‘McGuire,’ he answered.

‘Mario, my boy.’ Professor Joe Hutchinson sounded cheerful, possibly even triumphant.

‘Prof. What can you do for me?’

‘I have some interesting findings to throw your way. I have a prodigy on my hands. One of my students, a young lady called Kneilands, has excelled herself.’

‘How come?’ the chief superintendent asked, intrigued, fired up instantly by the pathologist’s enthusiasm.

‘I told you, I think, that I had left my disciples to complete the detailed examination of the remains of the Gerulaitis couple. Well, Ms Kneilands really got into the detail. She has established that every one of the fingers on Valdas’s left hand, and the thumb and index finger on the right were dislocated prior to his death, at the knuckle and at the major joint.’

‘And?’

‘And?! What do you mean “and”?’

‘The guy was trapped behind a locked door, Joe,’ McGuire reminded him. ‘He must have gone frantic battering it, trying to get out. Surely hand injuries aren’t surprising?’

‘These are. If he’d done that, I’d have expected fractures, rather than dislocations, or certainly as well as, but there are none, none at all. And why are only seven fingers damaged? In your scenario he’d have been battering so hard that. .’ Hutchinson stopped, and McGuire heard a sigh. ‘OK, I suppose that under oath I’d have to concede that was possible. But there’s another thing, his right hand seems to have been slightly larger and more muscled than the left, indicating that he was right-handed. So, if the injuries were sustained as you suggest, why was the left hand more badly damaged than the right?’

‘So what are you saying to me? What’s your clever student’s hypothesis? ’

‘That these injuries were not self-inflicted,’ the pathologist declared.

‘Could he have been in an accident before he died?’ the head of CID asked him.

‘And sat down at the supper table as if nothing had happened? Don’t be absurd. He’d have been in extreme pain; he’d have been unable to hold his cutlery. And by the way, neither victim had eaten anything for some time before death. If they were at table when disaster struck, then they must have been saying grace. Mario, this man was tortured; that’s what I’m saying to you. . although not to a jury, not without qualification, at any rate.’

‘Immediately before death? You are quite certain?’

‘Yes. There is evidence of fresh bleeding within the displaced joints.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Now that’s the reaction I was expecting.’

McGuire ignored the professor’s exclamation. ‘Back to the cause of death, Joe. You said smoke inhalation?’

‘Yes. They suffocated. Was the room carpeted?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it must have been treated with some sort of compound, for the traces in their lungs were thick and black. Alternatively, was there furniture in the room? Armchairs, sofas, with big cushions? I’ve seen photographs but I couldn’t discern anything.’

‘No.’ The head of CID hesitated. ‘Joe,’ he murmured into the phone, ‘you realise you’re standing everything on its head, don’t you?’

‘There’s nothing I like better.’

‘Then why am I not surprised? Report please, Prof, to the last detail. Everything you’ve just told me, and you’d better give me a statement from the clever Ms Kneilands as well to back it up.’

‘Soonest. God,’ the old man chuckled, ‘I love my job.’

‘What the hell was that?’ asked McIlhenney, as his colleague ended the call.

‘Gold dust, chum. Absolute gold dust. Hang on.’ He scrolled through his directory for the fire and rescue switchboard, then pressed his call button. ‘Frances Kerr, please,’ he said as he was connected. ‘Tell her it’s DCS McGuire.’

‘Be patient,’ the investigator said as she came on line, but with a smile in her voice ‘You’ll have your report this afternoon.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he told her. ‘Frances, straight up, what odds would you give me against smoke inhalation being the cause of death in both cases?’

‘Honestly? Five to one, but I wouldn’t advise you to take the bet.’

‘Then don’t go into the bookie business, for that’s exactly what it was. They both inhaled enough thick black smoke to kill them before the fire did.’

‘There was nothing in that room to produce thick smoke of any colour.’

‘You sure of that? No treated carpet, upholstery?’

‘There was nothing of that nature, I promise you.’

‘In that case, it looks as if they were killed somewhere else, and left where they were, before the fire was started.’

‘Hold on, I’m dead right about how the fire started.’

‘Then somebody’s an expert. Did your sniffer dogs do their stuff?’

‘Yes,’ the fire investigator declared, vehemently. ‘They went all over the room; not as much as a bark.’

‘Then get them back, and get yourself back along there too, please, soon as you can. If you need help from our people, call them in without bothering to refer back to me. I need you and those dogs to go over the whole damn house. Something else happened there, Frances, something we don’t know about. I need you to tell me what it was.’