Aftershock

Forty

Since stopping work in the second half of her pregnancy, Maggie Steele had come to realise that many of the things she had taken for granted in her youth, in the days before she left for work early and returned late, had gone for good.

The one that annoyed her most was the unpredictability of the postal delivery service. Once she had been able to count on her mail being in the hall before breakfast. Latterly she had become used to finding it waiting for her in the evening. This was unacceptable, since she was used to an ordered life, to a daily timetable in which specific things happened at specific times. Thus she found it frustrating that her mail seemed to arrive at the whim of the postman or postwoman who happened to be on duty on any given day.

That morning she was lucky. It was five to ten, and she was loading the washing-machine, when she heard the thud of envelopes and packages from the entrance hall below, and the rattle of the closing letterbox flap. She threw in a detergent capsule, started her chosen cycle, then rushed downstairs.

When she carried the delivery into the kitchen, she saw that most of it was unsolicited, from computer companies, supermarkets and someone offering to cut the cost of her home insurance in half. Apart from those, there was a phone bill, a letter confirming her next dental appointment, and a large packet, with her address handwritten on the front and the logo of Levene and Company on the back. She tossed the rest on to a work surface and tore it open.

The annual report and accounts of Fishheads.com plc had been published almost four months earlier, when Dražen Boras, under his business pseudonym, David Barnes, had still been running the company, and when Stevie, her husband, the man he killed, had still been alive. For a few seconds, that thought overwhelmed her, but she pushed it away and focused on the document.

It was a thick, glossy publication, undoubtedly produced by a high-powered design house, with the aim of making a statement of success to shareholders, to bankers and to the financial world in general. She scanned the index. The accounts were of no interest to her, and so she went straight to the section headed ‘Directors’ Report’.

The text was sketchy, giving only headline descriptions of the company’s activities throughout the year. She guessed that the consultancy that had drafted it had taken the annual press release output and edited it into a single story. Most of the space was filled with photographs of the directors, out and about, at business meetings in Europe and further afield, in Asia and the United States. . or, rather, of two of the directors. Most of the captions began ‘Chairman David Barnes and director Ifan Richards. .’ The few in which Godric Hawker was seen were set in the firm’s London head office, confirming Maggie’s information that the finance director was the corporate equivalent of the footballer, Dennis Bergkamp, who never flew during the last ten years of his career. The counterpoint to this seemed to be that Barnes/Boras and Richards never seemed to travel separately.

She scanned the photographs minutely, using a magnifying-glass at times, trying to uncover anything that would take her search forward, without the vaguest notion of what that might be. Finally, she gave up. She pushed the report to one side, and thought, That was then. So what about now? Richards must be lonely.

‘Up-to-date information,’ she exclaimed suddenly, so firmly that it startled Stephanie in her carry-cot. ‘Aw, baby, I’m sorry,’ she said, picking up the infant and soothing her before her cries reached their full impressive volume.

‘Does she need feeding again?’ asked Bet, slouching into the kitchen, dressed in slippers and a knee-length T-shirt.

‘No, it was my fault.’ She looked at her sister. There were circles under her eyes, and she looked hung-over. ‘Did you creep out last night? Have you been off clubbing again?’

‘Are you nagging?’

‘No, my dear; what you put into your body. . or who, for that matter. . is up to you. I’m just concerned, that’s all.’

‘Sorry. No, I wasn’t on the batter. I had a sleepless night, that’s all, coming to a decision. Margaret,’ she continued, ‘once you’re a bit further into your treatment, do you think you’d be up to looking after me for a couple of weeks? I’ve been thinking about this consultant of yours, and the pre-emptive strike he wants to do on me. I’m going to talk to him, and if he persuades me, I’m going to go for it.’

Maggie placed Stephanie, restored to her slumber, back in the carry-cot. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me,’ she said. ‘I trust Mr Ronald absolutely: so should you.’

‘Okay. I’ll call him once I’ve had a shower and some breakfast.’ She shuffled back into the hall.

Her sister was smiling as she picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Scotsman business,’ a familiar voice replied. Even in mid-morning it sounded tired.

‘Mo,’ she said, ‘it’s Maggie. Thanks for that contact you gave me the other day. It worked out well. Now I’m shamelessly in the market for another favour.’

‘If I can, I will. But I might ask for one in return this time.’

‘Likewise. If I can, I will.’

‘You go first.’

‘Okay. Do you ever receive press releases from Fishheads dot com?’

‘All the bloody time. It’s a very talkative company.’

‘And photographs?’

‘Yes. They like to show us what they’re up to as well as tell us. They’re not hard copy, you understand. Everything comes in electronically, these days.’

‘What do you do with them?’

‘Run the ones that are worth it: file them all for reference.’

‘Can I see them? All of them for the last three months.’

‘No problem. Do you have broadband? If not, I’ll print and post them.’

‘I’m on line.’ She recited her e-mail address.

‘Fine,’ said Goode. ‘I’ll do it after the morning news conference. Now my turn. The truth is, it’s not for me; it’s for a pal on the Evening News crime desk. He needs something for the next edition. Do you know about the Sugar Dean murder inquiry?’

‘Probably less than your mate. I’m not as clued up on CID as I used to be.’

‘Shit.’ The journalist sighed. ‘Maggie, I’m sorry. It was bloody tactless of me to ask you a question like that.’

‘It’s all right, Mo,’ she assured him. ‘I meant, being on the uniform side, that’s all. I wasn’t talking about Stevie. What is it?’

‘They’ve had a guy in the nick overnight. The press office has said that much, but they won’t give us the sniff of a name. However, there’s a rumour going round that it’s a cop. If that’s true, could you give me the nod?’

‘Let me make a call. I’ll get back to you.’

‘Thanks. Appreciated, even if you can’t help at the end of the day.’

She hung up and dialled Mario McGuire’s land line, hoping he was at his desk.

He was. ‘Hey, Blondie,’ he said, as he answered. ‘How’s your project getting on?’

‘Better than I could ever imagine. I think, or at least big Bob thinks, that I’ve found Dražen’s new identity.’ She told him about Ignacio Riesgo, the man of mystery.

‘That would fit the pattern,’ he said emphatically. ‘There’s an arrogance about the Borases, father and son, that beggars belief. So you’re chuffed with yourself, and quite right too. Is that why you’re calling, to show me you’re still a better detective than me?’

‘Nice of you to admit it,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘but no.’ She told him about Mo Goode’s favour, and heard him moan.

‘Bloody hell, Mags. They need you back there if Torphichen Place is going to be as fucking porous as that. We’ve got Andy Martin down here doing one leak inquiry as it is; I might have to start him on another.’

‘It’s not good, I’ll grant you, but I take it from what you’re saying that it’s true.’

‘Yes. The guy’s name’s Theo Weekes.’

‘I remember him. He was at Torphichen a few years back, wasn’t he? Big, good-looking lad. Fancied himself with the women.’

‘That’s him: and you’ve got him spot on. He’s in deep shit. They’ve placed him at the murder scene. They haven’t found the weapon, but they’ve got the jacket and jeans he was wearing; the lab’s giving them the full treatment, trying to find gunshot residue. Even if they don’t, he’s not going to walk from it.’

‘But?’

‘But nothing.’

‘Sure? You don’t sound a hundred per cent.’

‘Och, I am. It’s just. . The girl was shot with a silenced nine-millimetre pistol. When the hell’s a balloon like Weekes going to get his hands on one of them?’

‘Firearms amnesty,’ she suggested. ‘It could have been surrendered, then spirited away as a souvenir. It’s happened before, in other forces.’

‘Yes, that may well be it. Mags, I don’t mind giving the News a steer on this. If they use the phrase “believed to be a policeman”, we won’t deny it, but we can’t confirm or give them a name until he’s appeared in court.’

‘And he will?’

‘Oh, yes, one way or another, he will.’