Aftershock

Seventy-three

Bob Skinner was up and running, in the truest sense. The day on which he had planned to be back at work had dawned, but he found himself still in exile, banished by a set of circumstances stranger than any he had ever experienced. He had never been one to lie and brood, and so, when Aileen’s alarm had sounded at seven fifteen, he had risen with her, donned shorts, a sweatshirt and trainers and had set out to work off his frustrations, as far as he could.

His route took him down the hill into Gullane, then westward out of the village, following the Edinburgh road for the best part of two miles until he reached the solid pedestrian bridge that led across the Peffer Burn into the nature reserve. Tranter’s Bridge, the locals called it, after the beloved author and historian who had crossed it every day until the end of his long life, plotting his latest work as he walked, and making notes that would be turned in time into chapters.

As he ran across the wooden structure it occurred to Skinner that in a way he was following in Tranter’s footsteps, literally and metaphorically, picking his way through a story as strange and even as fascinating as his had been, if more brutal than most of them. But that was where the similarity ended, for this was a mystery in which he was entangled, right at its very heart, and for the author it was no fantasy, but a deadly reality. Not far from the path that he trod, a woman had died, killed in a way that was almost ritualistic, as if she had been offered up as a sacrifice. There had been two others, and they had all been photographed in death, their images found on Daniel Ballester’s computer.

Had Ballester killed them, as he had believed, with all of his colleagues? If that was the case, had someone else out there happened upon the pattern and decided to carry it on, putting him in the frame in the process? Or was it all mere circumstance? Had Nada Sebastian been the victim of a particularly ruthless mugger, after all? There were enough of them around: the opening of eastern Europe’s borders had been marked in Spain by an increase in petty crime and roadside prostitution. Had Theo Weekes, obsessively possessive with his women, killed Sugar Dean after all, in his acknowledged rage over her relationship with Davis Colledge? The only certainty in all of that was that Theo Weekes would be admitting nothing more.

On the other hand, he reasoned, as he ran round the outer reaches of Gullane Golf Club’s three courses, if he, McGuire, McIlhenney, Stevie Steele and everyone else involved in the investigation had been wrong about Ballester, if he was not the murderer of Stacey, Zrinka and the others, then they had been cleverly deceived. The evidence against him, the murder weapon, pictures and other trophies taken from the victims, had been found at his cottage. The photographs of the victims had been found in files on his computer. If he had not been guilty, he had been not only murdered but framed as a murderer. And who could have done that? Who had known of Ballester’s hideaway?

Only one man: the man who, they knew beyond doubt, had killed Ballester in a fake suicide and had set the trap that had caught Steele. ’Dražen,’ Skinner said. ‘Dražen fucking Boras,’ he shouted, as he pounded towards the high sand dunes that guarded the beach beyond.

Ballester had been a campaigning journalist, out to make a name for himself. He had been digging ruthlessly into the Boras empire, even cultivating Zrinka as a route to its secrets. Dražen and his father, Davor, had every reason to eliminate him. But that would mean, kinner reasoned as he ran … that Dražen had killed his own sister. ‘In that family,’ he said aloud, to the morning breeze, ‘who knows?’

He sprinted on, legs pumping hard as he climbed a grass-topped sand-hill, his stride lengthening as he plunged down the other side on to the curving beach, which stretched eastward for more than half a mile. It was isolated and deserted, as he had expected: the tide was less than full, and so he ran below the high-water mark for a better footing.

He was half-way along when his mobile rang in the pocket of his shorts and his hands-free headset buzzed in his ear. He reached up and pressed the receive button, slowing as he did so. ‘Yes,’ he said, breathing heavily.

‘Jesus, Bob, have I interrupted something?’ Amanda Dennis exclaimed.

‘Nothing involving anyone else,’ he replied, ‘or otherwise embarrassing. I’m on the beach, trying to put myself in a decent mood for the rest of the day. Are you in Thames House already?’

‘The state never sleeps, my boy. But the truth is, I don’t like the London rush-hour. There’s been a development; one of Adrian’s feelers has had a response. Continental IT, Davor Boras’s company, has made a booking for two nights, Tuesday and Wednesday, in the Hôtel de Paris, Monaco.’

‘Very interesting.’

‘There’s an “and” that will make it even more so. They’ve booked not just one suite, but two, one of them with two bedrooms. No names provided, but you might surmise from it that Davor and his wife no longer sleep together and will be using the larger, and I’m sure you being you will make a wildly optimistic guess about the occupancy of the other.’

‘Amanda,’ said Skinner, ‘you’re a treasure beyond price.’

‘You’d better believe it.’

‘You know what? I’ve got some time on my hands this week, and my partner’s gone back to running the nation. I think I might just fly south for a couple of days.’