Fatal Last Words

Twenty-six

‘I’m as sure as I’ll ever be, Inspector Pye,’ Ian McCall declared. ‘As you can see, I pulled in four extra bodies to help, and we’ve sifted through the morass not once but three times. We’ve found no ampoule in there, and no needle. It looks as if whoever planted it was thorough, and took it away with them once they were done with the victim. We’ll do it again if you want, but. .’

‘No, Sergeant, that’s enough. You’re right. If you haven’t found it by now, it’s not there. You can dismiss your hired hands, then go and wash up. I know your shift ended officially a couple of hours ago, and I’ll sign your overtime claims for the extra, but I’d like you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve still got a lot of witnesses to interview from Dr Mosley’s list, and you can handle some of them. Don’t worry, I’ve fixed it with Jock Varley.’

‘They won’t all be around here, these witnesses, will they?’

‘Of course not, but telephone contact will be OK at this stage. If anyone comes up with anything significant, for example seeing someone follow Glover when he left the party with Ryan McCool, we can bring them in and sit them down.’

‘McCool’s not a suspect then?’

‘No. When he left the yurt he met up with another couple of journalists and they all went along to the Oxford Bar. One of them was waiting outside the yurt; I’ve been in touch with him, and he says he heard McCool speak to Glover as he left, and Glover answer. He’s in the clear all right.’ He paused, then looked at his watch. ‘Go on, the pair of you. See you here tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll need to tell Dr Mosley she can have this lot cleared away now.’

‘That’s OK, Ian, I’ll do that.’ Pye left the small pavilion where the detritus had been laid out and headed along the wooden gangway, making for the Book Festival office. The event was in full swing, and the gardens were full of people, some queuing for events, others perusing programmes, and more than a few heading purposefully towards the bars. He wondered how many of them were aware that they were in the middle of a crime scene, reckoning quickly that in the absence of an evening paper on a Sunday, the answer lay on the side of the minority. He was halfway to his destination when a voice called out, ‘Sir!’ The cry might have been aimed at any man there, but he stopped instinctively, looking towards the yurt. Framed in the gateway that led to it stood Detective Constable Harold Haddock, a tall, rangy young man, blessed with a nickname that he would carry throughout his career, all the way up to the Command Corridor at Fettes, some suggested.

‘Sauce,’ Pye exclaimed. ‘You got the word? That’s good.’

‘Yes, sir. What’s up? I mean I know about the murder inquiry. But why me?’

‘Because you’re available; and because I hear on the grapevine that you’re a half-decent operator. Come with me just now; I have to pay a call on the director. Once that’s done, I’ll bring you up to speed on what’s happening.’

The inspector led the way to the Book Festival office. As they drew close he glanced through its double glass door, and saw Randall Mosley, her back to him, in conversation with a tall, slim man, and a short, round-faced woman. Physically the two were diametric opposites, with only one common attribute: short, close-cut dark hair. The man wore chinos and a white, collarless shirt, while the woman was dressed all in black, save for a pair of red moccasins. As he looked more closely, Pye saw the shock registered on her face, and guessed what was under discussion.

‘Director,’ he said as he stepped into the pavilion.

She turned to face him. ‘Detective Inspector Pye,’ she responded. ‘How are things going?’

‘Steadily. We’re working our way through the list you gave us. We’re done with the rubbish, though; you can have it cleared away, all of it.’

‘Any luck. . or shouldn’t I ask that?’

‘We didn’t find anything of interest.’

‘Is that a setback?’

‘Not really. Our expectations weren’t high, and our investigation wasn’t dependent on it.’

‘And what does it depend on?’ asked the little woman fiercely.

Pye looked at her, and saw that the eyes behind her round spectacles were red-rimmed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured evenly. ‘You are?’

‘This is Sandy Rankin,’ the director told him. ‘She’s the lead reviewer for the Herald. Sandy was a very good friend of poor Ainsley.’ She looked up at the man. ‘And this is Denzel Chandler, my partner.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’ Chandler offered his hand; they shook. ‘This is a desperate business. I can’t tell you how hard it’s hit us.’ The accent was North American but soft, possibly Canadian, Pye surmised, although in truth he had no real idea.

‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘Did you know the dead man?’

‘Of course. I’m a writer too, but nowhere near as successful as Ally was.’

‘What’s your field?’

‘I work across a pretty broad spectrum. I do a bit of journalism, I’ve had a couple of works published, but up until now I’ve earned most of my serious bread as a ghost writer.’

‘Anyone I’d recognise?’

Chandler fired off half a dozen names: two musicians, two footballers, a golfer and a ‘celebrity,’ the source of whose fame was obscure.

The detective knew them all. ‘That’s a pretty solid list; meets my definition of success.’

‘As I said, the money’s good.’

‘He’s being too modest,’ Mosley declared. ‘He’s a very gifted writer. A couple of the people he’s ghosted for are virtually brain-dead. Coaxing worthwhile material out of thickos like that is a skill in itself, and as for turning it into readable prose. . Happily it’s a talent that’s recognised. When the next collaboration is published-’

‘Hey,’ Chandler exclaimed. ‘We can’t talk about it yet.’

‘We can to the police.’ She patted his arm. ‘When that one’s done, it’ll move Denzel to another level altogether.’

‘Who’s the. .?’ The inspector paused. ‘What do you call them, the people you write for? Clients, subjects?’

‘With,’ the director corrected him. ‘Write with. You call them what they want you to if the money’s right, and it will be for this one. It’s the autobiography of a Scottish High Court judge, Lord Elmore. That might sound dull, but it won’t be. When he was a barrister he was very high-profile, defended a lot of notorious people and got most of them off. He was Claus Blackman QC then, and he was always in the press. Nothing much changed when he became a judge. He was a hard-liner and said some very pointed things about sentencing policy.’

Pye nodded. ‘I know the story,’ he said. ‘He was a top silk, and a popular judge with the police after he went to the bench; he knew when to make an example of someone. Eventually his profile got so high he was nominated for the Yugoslav War Crimes Tribunal at the Hague, and wound up trying some of the worst criminals in living memory. I noticed he was at your reception last night; in fact, he’s on my list for interview, eight thirty tomorrow morning at his house in Ann Street.’

‘That’s the man,’ Randall Mosley confirmed. ‘Well, he’s on the point of retirement and he’s been signed up for a book that’s not only going to lift the lid on his entire career, but it’s going to attack the entire culture of criminal prosecution in Europe. I’ve seen his agent’s synopsis and it’s going to be powerful stuff. Best of it is that Denzel will have front cover accreditation. That means he won’t be anonymous; the author billing will be “Claus Blackman, QC, with Denzel Chandler.” It’ll make his name properly and lead on-’

‘To an uncertain future, as with all authors,’ Sandy Rankin interjected.

‘You sound bitter.’

She glowered at the inspector. ‘Call me a cynic, a professional cynic.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a journalist, so that’s what I’m supposed to be. Isn’t it?’ Her gaze switched to Chandler. ‘Or shouldn’t it be, Denz? Should I have assumed that Claus Blackman would write his own fucking memoirs, and be shocked when I find out that he won’t? Nah, of course not. Because the whole fucking publishing business is sick, sick unto fucking death.’

‘Oh, come on, Sandy,’ Mosley protested. ‘Look out there, look at all those people; we’ll have up to a quarter of a million of them though this site over the next few weeks. That doesn’t speak of a sick industry.’

‘Randy, this is your first year, so you’ve still got to learn; that doesn’t speak of anything. They’re consumers; they’re not driving anything any more. They’re being fed what the retailers tell the publishers will sell best, and the publishers are nodding like fucking donkeys and going along with it. The whole fucking industry’s about volume sales now; the big retailers and the online companies are screwing ridiculous discounts out of the producers, small booksellers are being driven out of business because they’re not being offered the same deals so can’t compete, and the people at the start of the supply chain, the authors, the essential creatives, are being screwed worst of all. They’re being devalued. Randy, there’s lots of seriously good work out there, more of it than ever before, with no fucking chance of ever being published. You know that as well as I do, but do the punters? No they don’t. You go on about the size of your crowds, but you must have noticed that the people who sell out your big tent mostly aren’t the proper authors, they’re the celebs, like that girl with the ridiculous tits that calls herself a novelist, or the monosyllabic footballer of the month, or the tired old political has-beens like that wanker Bruce Anderson you had on last night. Yes, Director, you look out there, and you know what you’ll see? People who shed tears about the plight of Nicaraguan coffee producers and always buy the Fair Trade range at fucking Starbucks, but who wouldn’t dream of buying a hardback book unless it was remaindered or discounted down to less than the cover price of a paperback!’

Her voice had risen to a pitch just short of a yell; all work had stopped in the office, and its occupants were staring at her, but she was oblivious to their attentions. ‘No wonder poor old Ally was so fucking worked up about it,’ she ranted. ‘Only two things ever got him close to mad, in all the time I’ve known him. One was Trident, and the other was what he called the conspiracy between the big-volume booksellers and the publishers’ bean-counters to cut the balls off authors and their agents.’

Pye sensed that the time had come to channel her anger. ‘Ms Rankin,’ he said, ‘I wonder if DC Haddock and I might carry on this discussion in private. We’re interviewing all of Mr Glover’s friends as part of our investigation.’

His intervention put an end to her tirade. ‘How long will it take?’ she asked. ‘I’ll need to do an obituary on Ally for tomorrow’s paper. If I don’t file it soon, the editor will give the job to one of the feature people or, worse, to one of the political staff.’

‘We won’t keep you long.’ The two detectives led the journalist through to the makeshift investigation headquarters. As she looked around, they sensed her professional instincts coming back into play.

‘This is where Ally died, isn’t it?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes. He was found lying in the area that’s been taped off.’

‘Isn’t that a first, having the murder room in the crime scene itself?’

Pye raised an eyebrow. ‘My idea was that we’d be doing the interviewing.’

Rankin returned his gaze. ‘If I’m on the record with you, so are you with me.’

‘In that case, I’ll let you speculate about that, because I honestly don’t know. However, we will ask all the questions for now. Beginning with, how close were you and Mr Glover?’

‘We were friends of long standing.’

‘How long exactly?’

‘Twenty years; twenty years and one month, to be even more accurate. Earlier in my career, I worked on the Saltire, as a business reporter. I was on a story that needed an objective quote from an eminent accountant. Somebody suggested him; I got in touch, and he did the needful. After that, every time I needed that sort of involvement, I went to him.’

‘How old were you then, Miss Rankin?’ asked Haddock.

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with it?’ she retorted.

‘It’s one of the things we’re supposed to ask interviewees,’ the young DC replied, unruffled. ‘You know, occupation, date of birth, and so on.’

She softened. ‘I see. And that was you being subtle, son, was it? Fair enough; it’s a standard journo question too, although I’ve never really understood why. For the record, I’m forty-eight years old, but my birthday was last week, so if I’d answered your original question and you’d done your wee sum, you’d have got it wrong. People like you and me, we must always be precise. If we’re not. . journalists can get sued, detectives can get their arses kicked by defence counsel and judges.’ She smiled. ‘Like Claus Blackman, for example,’ she mused. ‘Imagine Denzel landing his biography; can’t get over that.’

‘So,’ Haddock continued, ‘for the sake of clarity, what was the precise nature of your relationship with the deceased?’

‘That’s better, son. Latterly, pure friendship, but there was a time, after Ally’s wife’s death, it was more than that. Not for long, though. It was never going anywhere on his part, and as for me, well,’ she caught the detective’s eye, ‘I bat for both teams, as they say. You can note that down as “bisexual” in your wee book. Eventually we drifted back to being pals again, closer than before. Ally’s writing career started to motor properly, I moved to the Herald, June Connelly came on the scene, and everything settled into a nice wee rut.’

‘You say his career was motoring,’ Pye pointed out, ‘yet when you were talking to Dr Mosley you implied that he was unhappy with the way it was going.’

‘He wasn’t alone. Ally did all right, no mistake about that; as well as Mount, not as well as Noble, but all right. He was successful in Scottish terms, but down south, he was a name but not at the top of the A list, not by quite a way. It’s those fucking supermarkets, y’see. A while back they decided to sell books, but not in a considered way, as just another commodity. So now they stock new titles and they’ll sell them discounted. They don’t keep an author’s back catalogue and they only handle the top tier of authors, but that’s enough to make a big hole in the profits of the proper booksellers. So they shout for discounts too, and they get them.’

‘But don’t authors get a percentage of cover price?’

‘Yes, but that percentage declines with the discount, and unless you’re lucky enough to be a supermarket author, it’s never made up by increased sales.’

‘And that frustrated Mr Glover?’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Was he in financial difficulty?’

Rankin shook her head. ‘No, he was well fixed, but not only from writing. His book sales were fine, and yet he could see his royalty income declining, the market being as it is. There’s a bottom line, though; his advances were big enough for him to be able to forecast minimum income for a few years ahead. And, of course, for the last few months he had an MSP’s salary coming in. Ach, Ally was rolling in it, truth be told, but he wasn’t a man to get angry for himself. Last time we had dinner, he went on at some length about the silent majority, the authors who are being driven back to part-time writing or out of the business altogether. They were his. . his second constituency, you might say.’

‘And what about his first? His political career? How did he feel about that?’

The journalist laughed softly. ‘Bewildered. When he stood for Holyrood, he never expected to get elected. He did it because he wanted to be a focal point for Scottish opposition to the nuclear deterrent, but that was all. He didn’t anticipate that the Labour vote would collapse and swing behind him in the way it did.’

‘I’m told that Dr Anderson accused him of doing it to sell books.’

For a moment, Pye thought the woman would spit on the floor. ‘He’s a fine one. He turned on his own party to sell his pathetic book, bastard that he is. Look at him now, trying to be the mouthpiece of the old socialist conscience and shagging a Tory duke’s daughter at the same time.’

‘Did you hear the exchange last night?’

‘Only the end of it, when Anderson started shouting his mouth off.’

‘And did you see Dr Anderson after that?’

‘Yes. When Ryan McCool and Jock Fisher and I were turning into Young Street, I saw him.’

A frisson of excitement flickered in Pye’s stomach, but he kept his tone casual. ‘Heading home to Darnaway Street, I take it?’ he asked.

Sandy Rankin shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he was heading in the other direction, just before midnight. For an awful moment I thought he was going to the Oxford Bar as well, but when I took a look back over my shoulder, I saw him going past the entrance, carrying on up North Charlotte Street.’