Death's Door

Fifty-two

‘You’ve had three murders in four days,’ said a woman in the second row, ‘and you’re telling the public not to panic.’ She was new to Fettes briefings, a London journalist parachuted into Edinburgh in the wake of the sensation caused by Zrinka Boras’s murder and her father’s million-pound reward.

The chief superintendent looked at her as if he was trying to decide whether she deserved scorn or pity. ‘Would you like me to?’ he retorted, stone-faced. ‘Would your readers prefer me to declare a state of emergency and to advise people not to go out unless they have to?’

She shrugged, a gesture that annoyed the detective even more. ‘I’m only asking a question. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, love,’ he replied (he knew that Paula would kill him for using the term, if she saw the exchange on television, but he could not have stopped himself, even if he had tried), ‘you didn’t ask a question, you made a statement, designed no doubt to fit somewhere into a knocking piece you’re planning to write. I’m not going to play your game.

‘For the benefit of the serious people here, I’ll repeat for the avoidance of doubt that, on the basis of what we know at this moment, we do not believe that any of these three killings, or the earlier, related, murder of Stacey Gavin, took place at random. All four victims knew each other; that’s fact. Obviously they each had a wider circle of friends and family. I don’t believe the threat extends to them, but they’ve all been given advice on personal security, and offered police surveillance if they want it.’

‘Is anybody under police protection?’ asked John Hunter, from his usual front-row seat.

The question did not surprise McGuire; he and Alan Royston had agreed that it might be asked, and had agreed that there was no point in deflecting it. ‘Yes,’ he told the old reporter, ‘but purely as a precaution. . and don’t bother asking me who it is.’

‘Chief Superintendent,’ came a voice from the back row. It belonged to Grace Pretty, a Scotsman reporter with whom Royston was on particularly good terms. ‘I’ve just been advised by my London office,’ McGuire glanced at the media manager, seated by his side, and saw him wince slightly at the lie, ‘that Keith Barker, who sat in on yesterday’s press briefing with Mr Davor Boras, has been arrested by the Metropolitan Police. Are you aware of that?’

The head of CID held on to his deadpan expression. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell us whether it has anything at all to do with this investigation?’

He looked at her over the heads of the people between them. ‘Grace, you know me, and you know that I like to give straight answers whenever I can.’

‘Yes.’

‘No comment.’

He waited until the buzz subsided.

‘You’re not saying that Keith Barker is a suspect, are you?’ the woman in the front row demanded.

‘Is there anything about “no comment” that you find hard to understand?’ he replied. ‘Any other questions?’ As he spoke, he saw that Alice Cowan was approaching his table; he paused as she slid a note in front of him, then scanned it quickly. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as she left, looking up once more at his audience. ‘Yes?’

‘Dominic Padstow,’ a television reporter intoned, ‘the man we’re all assuming is your prime suspect. Have you made any progress towards tracing him since you issued his image to the media last night?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ McGuire answered, pocketing the note and beginning to rise, ‘as of this minute, we may know who he is. That’s all, folks.’