Fatal Last Words

Fifty-six

‘Take a right turn into the main street,’ Colin Mount instructed, ‘then carry on into the village.’

Regan waited for a break in the traffic, then did as he was told. He had decided to drive, with the dead author’s son directing. ‘So your dad and Ainsley were close,’ he said. ‘How about your two families? Did you know Carol and Wilkie?’

‘Yes, I’ve met them,’ the younger man replied. ‘Carol’s my dentist.’

‘NHS?’

‘Are you kidding? When my old dentist retired, I found out very quickly that there are damn few of those left. I complained to Dad; he said that’s how it is now, and he suggested that I speak to Carol. I’m on Denplan. My teeth are in pretty good shape, so it’s not that expensive. Mind you, they need to be, so whatever the cost, I’d bear it.’

‘Why are your gnashers important?’ the DI asked.

‘Because of my evening job. I’m a television presenter, with STV.’

‘Oops, sorry. I’m afraid I’m mostly a BBC viewer, that and Sky. What do you present?’

‘News features, documentaries, arts programmes.’

‘Not Scotsport, then?’

‘Definitely not Scotsport. I barely know a football from a rugby ball. One’s got points at the end, I think. Take a left here,’ he exclaimed, ‘at the bank, then go straight on.’

‘So you’re the opposite of Ed Collins?’

‘Who?’

‘Carol Glover’s boyfriend; he’s a sports writer, I’m told by one of my colleagues.’

‘Oh, him. Yes I suppose, although I barely know the guy. I did meet him at the Book Festival launch. I was there with Dad, and he was with Ainsley. He quizzed me about how to get a start with STV, but I told him that these days most of our sports guys were ex-players. The guy is football fixated, so I was surprised to see his by-line on a couple of Festival reviews. It was probably the Ainsley connection that got him in there. I read one yesterday, in fact, of a show at the Bedlam Theatre. I saw that show myself; I’m afraid his review was fucking rubbish. He might as well not have been there; he could have done it from a publicity flyer.’

‘Where do I go now?’ Regan asked. The road seemed to be coming to an end.

‘Go through the gate ahead, then park anywhere. Dad’s office is just around the corner. It was his pride and joy,’ he said sadly. ‘He designed it more or less himself; the architect drew up plans to his instructions.’

The area looked to be the approach to a farm, but its use was no longer confined to agriculture. Regan pulled up alongside a van, with the name and telephone number of a local construction firm painted on the side. They stepped out, into the midday warmth, the inspector following his guide past a building that looked like a workshop, or tiny factory, and past a Portakabin, stopping finally at a big hexagonal wooden structure, with a pointed roof. There were windows in each of the six walls, apart from the one that held the door, which was itself part-glazed. Colin Mount produced two keys from his pocket, and unlocked it. ‘Carry on,’ he murmured, standing to one side to allow Regan to enter.

The DI looked around, impressed instantly by his surroundings. The floor was high-quality hardwood, with rugs scattered around. Beside the door was a small kitchen area, with sink, kettle, microwave and fridge below. Beyond, an area was closed off. ‘Toilet?’ he asked.

‘And shower. Dad went for a jog from here occasionally, if he needed to think through a piece of a story. He called it running, but I knew the truth.’

The rest of the area was open. Henry Mount’s desk was set against a window which looked out across open fields, or would have if it had not been obscured by a large LCD screen. ‘Is that a monitor or a television?’

‘Both.’

There was a second desk, not far away. The DI pointed to it. ‘Whose is that?’

‘Mine,’ the young man replied. ‘As well as my television job, I look after all my dad’s affairs.’

Regan’s gaze moved on, taking in an ashtray, complete with a cigar butt, a keyboard, a mouse, a telephone, a clay pot containing pens with a variety of logos, gathered, he guessed, from hotels around the world, a thick notepad, a side table on which sat a printer and a modem router, and photographs of his wife and son. But something was missing. ‘Where’s the computer?’

‘Dad used a laptop, but more or less as a hard disk. The monitor plugged into it; the keyboard, mouse and printer are all wireless.’

‘Did he take it to Australia with him?’

‘No. He decided not to; too much hassle. It’ll be in his safe.’

The inspector frowned. ‘I don’t see a safe.’

Colin Mount smiled faintly. ‘No, you don’t.’ He stepped to the door, and flipped over the rubber-backed doormat, set to catch the first footfall. ‘Now you do. Another piece of my dad’s design.’ It was there, set flush to the floor. He found the keys once more, slipped one of them into a lock, turned it twice, and lifted the heavy lid. He frowned. ‘Or I thought he’d decided not to,’ he muttered to himself. He looked up at Regan. ‘It’s not here. The bloody thing’s empty.’