Fatal Last Words

Twenty-four

‘Where does that lot take us, Sarge?’ asked Alice Cowan.

Wilding shrugged as he placed a chair behind the extra desk that the Festival administrator had supplied. It had been sited just beyond the entrance and to the left, facing the area where Glover had died; that had been blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. At the back of the tent, a whiteboard had been set up, but it was virgin. ‘It rules out patricide, assuming Glover’s kids really were getting tanked up along the Royal Mile when he died. It tells us that he liked to keep his fan base at arm’s length. It tells us something about his circle of friends, lady friends at any rate. But in terms of a solution, it doesn’t take us any further.’

‘Wilkie’s a medical student.’

‘Sure, but not even they can be in two places at once.’

‘Carol’s a dentist; they do anaesthetics.’

‘But not with the drug that was used on the victim.’

‘Maybe it was a conspiracy; the two of them, and a third party. Their dad must have been worth a few bob.’

The sergeant sighed. ‘You spent too long in Special Branch, Alice. Or maybe you’ve been reading too many crime novels.’

She looked at him disdainfully. ‘I don’t read crime novels; they’re for saddos.’

‘Like me, you mean? So what do you read?’

‘Romance, mostly.’

‘Jesus, and you’re calling me a sad person.’

‘Not you,’ she said, backtracking. ‘You’re different. You’ve got a professional interest in the subject.’

Wilding laughed. ‘When in a friggin’ hole, Alice, stop digging. Are you saying that my approach to crime-solving is based on pearls of wisdom that I pick up from reading police procedurals? Do you think DI Walter Strachan’s my mentor?’ He winked at her. ‘Because if you do, you’re wrong; my professional style’s based on somebody else fictional, but he’s retired now, so I’m on my own.’

‘Excuse us.’

They turned, startled by a voice that came from the entrance to the tent. Cowan looked out and saw two men standing there. The younger, forties, she reckoned, was tall, over six feet, with a small head on a long body, floppy dark hair and a narrow build; he was dressed mainly in black. His companion was an inch or two shorter but with a bigger frame, clothed in jeans and a red T-shirt, emblazoned with a devilish face she took for that of a bull, a first impression confirmed, once she could read it, by the name ‘Cordoba’ stencilled below. What little was left of the man’s greying hair was cropped so close that at first glance he seemed totally bald, making it consequently difficult to guess his age.

‘CID?’ he asked.

‘That’s us,’ Wilding confirmed, stepping into view past the DC. ‘Mr Mount, is it?’ The bald man nodded. ‘And Mr Noble?’

‘That’s me,’ his companion confirmed.

‘I read your books,’ the detective explained. ‘You both look more or less like the photos on the cover.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Fred Noble with a tentative smile. ‘It means we haven’t aged much in the five years since they were taken. Randy Mosley said you wanted to talk to Henry and me about poor old Ainsley.’

Wilding nodded. ‘That’s right. We’re talking to everybody who was with him last night.’ As he spoke he noticed a thick and recently lit cigar burning between the first two fingers of Henry Mount’s right hand. ‘Sir,’ he murmured, nodding towards it, ‘I’m sorry, but even if it doesn’t look it, this is a workplace, so. .’

‘Of course; excuse me,’ the author responded. He lifted up his left foot, stubbed out the offending object on the sole of his shoe, and slipped it into his pocket. ‘My vice,’ he explained, his accent more than hinting at west of Scotland origins. ‘Deeply non-PC these days, but I look on it as an aid to weight loss.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a weak excuse, I’ll grant you, but it’s the best I can come up with. Wish I could give it up: they’re bloody expensive, even abroad, where you’re not giving most of the cost to that bastard in Eleven Downing Street.’

‘You don’t like politicians, Mr Mount?’

He looked at Cowan, appraising her, trying to read behind her question. ‘I used to work in the world of politics, lady. I don’t like politicians of a certain colour, especially not when they pursue policies that discriminate against the people they should be trying to help the most.’

‘Mr Glover was a politician.’

‘Hah!’ Mount’s guffaw filled the tent. ‘Congratulations, officer, you’ve just won Henry’s Golden Cigar for the unsubtle question of the week. My God, I could have written your dialogue. Come to think of it, I did; last book but one.’

‘I must read it,’ said the DC drily. ‘I might pick up some more tips.’

‘You do that; I can use the sales. Now, if you want a proper answer, I never regarded Ainsley as a politician, any more than he did. He was a sincere man, and when he got passionate about an issue, he could talk about nothing else.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Wilding intervened, ‘come round here and have a seat, so we can do this like a proper interview.’ He introduced himself, and his colleague, as the two writers each took a chair. ‘You were saying, Mr Mount,’ he continued.

‘I was saying that while Ainsley might have been an MSP, he wasn’t part of any machine.’

‘Do you know if he had any enemies in Parliament?’

‘None he ever mentioned; he was a man who made friends, not foes.’

‘What about Dr Anderson?’

‘Anderson?’ Fred Noble spat the name out. ‘It’s an honour to have that man as an enemy. That’s one thing that Ally and I had in common: we were both on his shit list.’

‘Why?’

‘Same reason in each case: he accused each of us of modelling characters on him.’

‘And did you?’

‘I didn’t and Ally swore he didn’t either. Truth is, the guy’s ego is so big he couldn’t park it in an aircraft hangar.’

‘Were you aware that he and Mr Glover had an argument last night?’

‘Everybody in the bloody tent was aware of it. There was nearly another one after it. Henry was going to go across and nut him after what he called Ally, but I persuaded him that there are better ways of getting your name in the papers.’

‘Our poor old pal’s found the best way of all,’ said Mount gloomily. ‘You guys are quite certain that this is murder, are you? There are precedents for pathologists getting it wrong.’

‘The pathologist in question is Professor Hutchinson.’

‘Joe? No doubt then, it’s homicide, right enough. Are you going to tell us the cause of death?’

Wilding smiled, and shook his head. ‘I like wearing a suit to work. The uniform does not flatter me at all. How about you, Mr Mount? Are you on Dr Anderson’s shit list?’

The bulky author nodded. ‘I am, actually.’ Noble looked at him, surprised. ‘Not for anything in a book, Fred,’ he continued. ‘I do a monthly blog on my website; it makes up for nobody ever having asked me to write a newspaper column, and paying me for it. I comment on anything and everything under the sun. A couple of years back, there was a media story about some rich waster, a duke’s daughter, who got into bother in the US for possession of cocaine. Instead of banging her up for a few years, as they would have done if she’d been a hooker, they took her to the nearest airport and stuck her on a plane home. I wrote about it, said that although I don’t believe in the criminalisation of drugs, I believe even less in the rich being exempt from the law. I went on to comment on useless prats like her being allowed to adopt one of daddy’s old titles as a courtesy, and suggested that the best way to put a stop to the silly practice would be for the tabloids to stop referring to her as Lady Whatever. . Lady Anthea Walters, it was. . and just as plain Miss or, better still, by her surname alone, just like ordinary criminals and footballers and the like. That piece was very popular: I had a lot of positive feedback from readers, including several Americans, pissed off that she’d been turned loose. In among them, though, was a piece of vitriol from Bruce Anderson. It was threatening, only it wasn’t; it said that he was a man of influence, and that he would put it to work against me unless a full apology appeared in the following month’s blog, but it didn’t explain how he thought he could hurt me.’

‘How did you deal with it?’ asked Cowan.

A look came into Mount’s eye, as wicked as that of the bull on his T-shirt. ‘First I sent him a private response by email. I told him that from what I knew of him, he and I were adherents of the same political party, and that as far as I knew it was committed to freedom of speech. I closed by inviting him to get back in touch if there was any part of “Go and abuse yourself with a lavatory brush” that needed explanation. The next month I published both his message and my response.’

‘Was that the end of it?’

‘Not quite. He phoned me, at home.’

‘How did he get your number?’

Mount looked at the DC patiently. ‘Research Document Number One, hen: the phone book. Everybody assumes I’m ex-directory, but I’m not, never have been. My wife took the call. She always picks up after the fourth ring; if I’m busy I let it get that far. She came through to my study and said that an extremely rude man wanted to speak to me. It was Anderson, of course. He said that he’d half a mind to come out to Gullane and thump me. I told him that I knew he’d only half a mind, and that if he ever put down the lavatory brush and plucked up the courage, he could find me in the local gym most lunchtimes. I’m still waiting, but it’s been a while. I don’t think he’ll turn up now. He certainly didn’t want to know me last night.’

‘You live in Gullane?’ said Wilding. ‘So does our gaffer, DCC Skinner.’

‘Yes, I know Bob. We frequent the same local.’

‘Did you tell him about your run-in with Anderson?’

‘I mentioned it, one Friday night. He said that if I wanted to make a formal complaint about his threat of violence, he’d have someone visit him and give him a warning. I told him I wasn’t taking it that seriously.’

‘Did you ever find out why the guy got so worked up about this Lady Anthea?’

‘She’s his girlfriend, Ray,’ The quartet looked up as the newcomer spoke; they had no idea how long he had been standing there, in the entrance area. ‘Mr McIlhenney and I have just left the two of them,’ he added. ‘But don’t let me interrupt your interview.’

‘We’re almost finished, Sammy.’ Wilding turned back to the two authors. ‘Did Mr Glover say anything to you last night that struck you as odd? Did he give any hint that he felt threatened in any way?’

‘No,’ Mount replied, ‘he was fine. A bit pissed towards the end, but that happened with him sometimes. He was looking forward to today, in fact. June, his other half, was coming up from London.’

‘June Connelly?’ Cowan asked. ‘His agent?’

‘She was a bit more than that. Didn’t you know that?’

‘His daughter thought that might be the case but she couldn’t say for certain.’

Noble frowned; the expression seemed to add to the overall sense of blackness that emanated from him. ‘Poor June,’ he sighed. ‘This’ll be a bigger shock for her than for any of us. Henry,’ he asked, ‘can you remember when Ally said her train was due?’

Wilding replied for him. ‘Two thirty. But it’s running half an hour late. DC Cowan’s going along to meet it.’

‘Hell no!’ Noble exclaimed. ‘With respect, that won’t do. She doesn’t know you, Constable. If she’s heard on the radio on the way up, she’ll be in a hell of a state, and if she hasn’t. . it’s better if that sort of news is broken by friends. Henry and I will go along there,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘straight away.’

Mount grimaced. ‘Wish I could, chum,’ he sighed, ‘but I’m off to Melbourne this evening, remember.’

‘Of course, I’d forgotten that. I’ll do it myself, then.’ He looked at the detectives. ‘I imagine you’ll want to interview her.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘As soon as she’s up to it.’

‘Give me your number and I’ll phone you. I’ll take her up to my place; she can hardly go to Ally’s now.’

‘That’s fine.’ Wilding rose, and Cowan followed his lead. ‘We won’t detain you further, gents,’ he said, handing Noble a card bearing his office and mobile numbers. They waited as the odd couple left the yurt. As soon as the door had closed, Pye came across to join them.

‘Where’s the super?’ Wilding asked him.

‘He’s gone home, to try and rescue some of his Sunday and keep a rash promise he made to his kids. The older two are back at school in a few days, so he’s under pressure.’

‘Lucky him. Still, I suppose he didn’t have to come in at all. You could have handled Anderson.’

‘Maybe, but I was glad he was there in the end. Big Neil’s a calm guy, mostly, but when somebody winds him up, he doesn’t take any prisoners.’ He described the interview of Anderson, and McIlhenney’s exchange with the former Secretary of State.

‘Ouch!’ Alice Cowan grinned. ‘What’s she like, this aristocratic junkie girlfriend?’

‘Pale and not very interesting, I’d have said. She doesn’t like us, that’s for sure; she looked at me like I was one of her dad’s pheasants.’

‘You mean peasants?’

‘No, I mean what I said; she looked as if she’d like to shoot me.’

‘Where did you leave it with them?’

‘Unresolved. Anderson says he was home when Glover was killed.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Wilding asked pointedly.

‘That doesn’t matter; with nobody to say different, a jury would believe him when Lady Anthea confirmed that he was.’ He paused, then went on briskly, deflecting attention from his own persistent vision of Dr Anderson creeping silently out of the Darnaway Street flat, retracing his steps back up the hill to Charlotte Square, and ambushing the unsuspecting Glover. ‘How did you two get on with the daughter?’

‘And the son,’ the sergeant volunteered. ‘He was there too; and the boyfriend, Ed Collins.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Nothing, other than the fact that he was in the pub with the Glover kids when the father was killed. We interviewed Carol and Wilkie — that’s the lad — but Collins nipped off without telling us, before we could talk to him.’

‘Did he know you’d want to see him?’

‘To be fair, he probably didn’t; we didn’t ask him to wait. Carol said he had to get to Tynecastle for the game.’

Pye gasped. ‘His fiancée’s dad’s just been bumped off and he goes to see the Jambos?’

‘That’s football for you,’ said Cowan cheerfully. ‘One of my aunts died a couple of years ago; the funeral was on a Monday morning, and in the evening my uncle flew out to the Ukraine for a Celtic Champions’ League game.’

‘Ah well, I don’t suppose it matters. If you’re happy he’s not in the frame, we can catch up with him later. Did you learn anything worth knowing about Glover?’

Wilding shook his head. ‘Not really. You picked up on the close relationship with his agent. Also he seems to have been pally with a lady journalist, Sandy Rankin, although there’s no suggestion they were any more than friends. That’s about it.’

‘Apart from him using his daughter’s place as a postal address,’ Cowan pointed out. ‘And setting up a guest screen name on her email, to keep potential stalkers at bay.’

The inspector stared at her. ‘Run that past me again,’ he said.

The detective constable repeated Carol Glover’s story. ‘It makes sense when you think about it,’ she said. ‘If I was in the public eye like that, I wouldn’t want people to get too close to me.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, Alice. But maybe this bloke was more worried about. .’ Pye stopped in mid-gaffe, but it was beyond retrieval. They were both ex-Special Branch and she picked up his meaning at once.

‘Are you saying he thought he was under surveillance?’ she exclaimed. ‘Come on, sir. If he’d thought that, he’d have told his daughter surely.’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ Pye snapped. Cowan responded with an intake of breath, and a look that might have frozen the mercury in the thermometer mounted on a pillar behind her head. ‘What did he do with this correspondence?’

‘I can’t say for sure. I assume he took the letters away with him, and I suppose the emails will be in Carol’s computer, unless he deleted them.’

‘Then find out, and retrieve what you can. How do you know there’s nothing in that material that’s relevant to our investigation? Answer: you don’t till you’ve seen it. I know it’s Sunday, Alice, but try to pretend it’s just another working day and stay on the ball.’

‘Yes, sir!’ She strode out of the yurt, making no attempt to hide her anger.

‘Hey,’ Wilding murmured when she had gone. ‘I thought that kicking the DCs was my job.’

‘Do you think I’m being hard on her, Ray? Well, now it’s your turn. The pair of you are equally at fault. Hell no, what am I saying? Ultimately you’re the one to blame, for you’re the senior officer. There. Now do you want to go and cry in the toilet as well?’

The reproved sergeant laughed. ‘Sammy, if you think that’s what she’s doing, you don’t know Cowan very well; more likely she’s making a wax model of you and getting ready to stick pins in its eyes. Fact is, we’ve got a long list of people to interview. My judgement was that that came first, and I’m standing by it. But that outburst of yours just now, that had fuck all to do with the notion that Glover’s killer might have been sending him threatening letters or emails, had it? You do think he was being bugged, don’t you? Or do you know it for a fact? Is that it?’

‘Leave it, Ray.’

‘No, sir. We’re supposed to be a team, and this is a murder investigation. No information that might relate to it can be on a need-to-know basis.’

As he looked at his colleague, Pye found himself recalling how McIlhenney had faced down Andy Martin on his behalf, over exactly the same point of principle. And he realised that he had learned another lesson. ‘Go find Alice,’ he said, ‘if you can, and bring her back here — once she’s cleaned the wax off her hands, that is.’

‘Sure, boss.’

As he waited, the young inspector thought of calling his senior officer for clearance, then remembered something else he had said in that earlier confrontation. He was the lead investigator, and he would rely on his own judgement.

Wilding returned in no more than three minutes, with Cowan at his heels looking as angry as before. ‘Found her in the bog, with a box of Kleenex.’

‘That’ll be the fucking day,’ she hissed.

‘Alice,’ Pye began, ‘let me make something clear to you. The next time you show me insubordination, either by word or attitude, you’ll be back in uniform so fast it’ll set a record.’ He waited.

Gradually, the tension in her lessened and the flame in her eyes dimmed. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said quietly.

‘OK, that’s fine. Now, I apologise, to you and DS Wilding. The late Mr Glover was indeed being watched, not by our lot but by an outside agency. I’m telling you this on the same confidential basis that I was let into the loop. It doesn’t go outside the inquiry team, and. . I can’t stress this enough. . no hint of it can ever be dropped to the family. Now, I have no reason to believe this surveillance is connected to his murder, or that the people involved are, but you’ll agree that the fact of it puts the arrangement he had with Carol in a different context.’

‘Too right,’ Wilding grunted. ‘Sorry, boss. You were right earlier, we should have been covering this.’

Pye smiled. ‘We’re not going there again, Ray. You took a view, and in the knowledge you had at the time, you were right. But we do need to recover the back-door correspondence Glover received. That means we need to get into Carol’s computer, and into Glover’s house. I’m going to ask the duty inspector at Torphichen Place to put uniforms outside it, front and back, then as soon as we’ve got the family’s permission, and the keys, we need to get in there. That’s going to stretch our resources.’ He glanced at Wilding. ‘Do you think that DI Stallings would agree to lend me that bright young DC of hers, Haddock?’

The sergeant nodded. ‘I reckon so. . although there’ll be a price to pay in the future, I’m sure.’

Once again, Pye thought of Andy Martin, and his threat to McIlhenney. ‘I’ll pay it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be worth it. Give her a call, then if she okays it, raise the lad, wherever he is, and tell him he’s come into an overtime windfall and to get his carcass along here. Then get back out to the daughter’s place and get her co-operation for what we need to do.’ He smiled. ‘While you do that, I must pay a visit to Sergeant McCall and PC Knight, to see whether they’re still up to their elbows in crap.’›