Fatal Last Words

Sixty-six

As Mario McGuire and Michael Giarratano walked along Collins Street from the Grand Hyatt towards the complex that housed the Sofitel, Melbourne seemed to be coming to life. The morning was bright, but an Antarctic breeze was blowing in off the sea, and the Scot was discovering how cold winter can be in Australia. He checked his watch: eight thirty-five, twenty-five minutes to midnight in Edinburgh, same local time in Sydney, where he had wakened Paula from her first sound night’s sleep of the trip when he had called her an hour before.

The inspector climbed a few steps off the pavement, then led the way between two tall blocks into a courtyard filled with cafeteria tables, and round to an escalator that rose into the foyer of the late Henry Mount’s hotel. He walked up to the reception desk and showed his badge, then waited, while a key card was cut for him. ‘Forty-seventh floor,’ he said, as they stood in front of the lifts. ‘This hotel starts on thirty-five. The floors below are all offices.’

The elevator was lightning fast; McGuire felt his stomach flip as it came to a stop and was glad that he had skipped breakfast. As they turned into a corridor, open on one side and looking down on to a central area below, with a canopied bar, he spotted the author’s room long before he could read the number, from the orange tape that was stretched across it. Giarratano stepped up to the door and ripped it off, then slid the key into the slot.

The bed had been made up. ‘Housekeeping must have been in before it was sealed off,’ the Australian murmured. ‘I hope they haven’t screwed anything up.’ Nevertheless, before they stepped inside, the two men donned white, sterile gloves, as if they were as anxious to leave no mess as not to contaminate any evidence.

‘I’m only looking for one thing,’ the DCS told him as he stepped into the room, and saw the view through a wall of windows. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’ One side of the hotel looked out on to a great circular stadium surrounded by six floodlighting towers.

‘MCG, mate.’ Another acronym. ‘Melbourne Cricket Ground, the greatest stadium in the world, we reckon.’ Giarratano pointed to its right. ‘And that is the Rod Laver tennis centre, where they play our Open. The MCG’s used all year round; they play Aussie rules footie there in the winter.’

‘I didn’t know you had any.’

‘Winter? Come on, it’s freezing today.’

‘No, rules. I saw a sports paper in Sydney on Monday: before they got round to telling you the scores, they listed the weekend’s injuries.’

Giarratano grinned. ‘Maybe so, but the MCG holds a hundred thousand, and we can fill it for a game.’

‘So did the Colosseum, and the Romans filled that too. That’s blood sports for you. OK,’ he said, ‘let’s see what Mr Mount’s left behind him.’ Quickly and methodically the two detectives searched the room. McGuire checked the dead man’s suitcase, half-filled with fresh clothes, then picked his way through a plastic bag, crammed with used garments, but found nothing. The Australian checked drawers and wardrobes, but saw only a jacket and two pairs of trousers, draped over hangers, a pair of black shoes, and another bag, containing trainers and gym clothing. The room had a desk, by the window. On it sat a pile of books, a programme for the Writers’ Festival, a copy of the previous day’s Age newspaper, a notepad and two pens. But nothing else.

‘Did he have his passport on him when he died?’ the Scot asked.

‘No, but he could have left that with the concierge. Wedding ring, Breitling watch, wallet, change purse, mobile phone, cigarette lighter and a Fuji pocket digital camera; those were all the personal items he had on him. I checked the list this morning, before I came to collect you.’

‘No more cigars?’

‘No. That’s why I checked.’

‘Then they’re here,’ McGuire declared. ‘He’d another five days to go on this trip. This man would not run out of his favourite brand.’

‘We should try the safe deposit box.’

‘There is one?’

‘This is a five-star hotel, Mario; of course there is. The receptionist gave me the emergency unlock code. All we need to do now is find the damn thing.’

‘Let’s check the wardrobe.’ He stepped across, opened the unit that Giarratano had just searched, and looked in, seeing nothing at first. . until he moved the gym bag. ‘Got it. Damn thing’s on the floor.’

He stood back as his smaller, nimbler colleague squatted beside the rectangular safe and keyed in four numbers, then swung the steel door open. He reached inside, fumbling, then smiled as he withdrew a wooden box and held it up for McGuire to take.

The DCS read the name on the lid aloud. ‘La Gloria Cubana, Medaille d’Or number two.’ He opened the box, and a rich odour seemed to explode from it. ‘Jesus, these are good,’ he murmured. He looked inside and counted. Originally it had held twenty-five cigars; there were twelve left.

‘Are you a smoker?’

‘Not any more, but when I was I never had the palate for these things. Papa Viareggio did, though. He loved his cigars; I suspect that if he hadn’t died when I was sixteen, he’d have done his best to get me hooked. He’d have loved these, I know.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But the thing is, Papa didn’t just smoke them, he imported them.’

‘Through the internet?’

‘Don’t be daft, Michael. I’m talking about way before that was created. No, he imported them and he sold them. The family business that he started began with fish and chip shops, but he diversified over the years, into cafés and delicatessens. In the delis, he always stocked good cigars, the kind he smoked himself; he reckoned it made good business sense. You got the cigar aficionados through the door, you got their wives afterwards.’

‘What happened to the business?’

‘When Papa died, Paula’s dad took it over, my Uncle Beppe. He didn’t ruin it, but he didn’t move it forward either. But then he died, Paula succeeded him, and she did. It’s bigger now, with property holdings as well as the shops. Yet it’s still family owned, and it still follows the model that the old man established, including the importing of cigars. If Henry Mount bought his Havanas in Edinburgh, there’s a fair chance he bought them from my family.’ He frowned. ‘But he didn’t get them with a special bonus, though. Somebody rigged this box, some bastard with a dark sense of humour.’ He looked inside. ‘These come without cellophane wrappers,’ he said, ‘and they’re handmade, so it would have been relatively easy to rig a bullet trap in one and put it back without Mount being any the wiser.’

‘So where does the sense of humour come in?’ Giarratano asked.

McGuire passed him the box. ‘Take a look,’ he told him. ‘The cigars are packed in three layers, eight, nine and eight. The top layer’s gone and there are four cigars left in the second. That means the one that did the damage was number thirteen. . unlucky for Henry.’

‘Shit.’ The Australian paused. ‘Are we going to fight over who gets this box, Mario?’

‘I hope we don’t have to. Obviously you have to look for prints and DNA other than Mount’s, but if you get a result I promise you that the match will not be in Australia but in Scotland.’

‘Unless your assumption is wrong, and he bought it here, or even in the duty free in Dubai.’

The big DCS grinned. ‘If they were duty free, it would say so on the box, but the rest is easily sorted. Bring it over to the window and hold it up.’ As Giarratano obeyed, he took a camera from his pocket. ‘Let me see the side with the bar code.’ He stepped in close, zoomed in on the black and white strip, focused and took a photograph, then a second, then a third, ‘For twice the luck,’ he said. ‘Find me internet access in this place. I’ll send these back to Edinburgh right now, and I’ll warn my people to expect them. I’ll copy them to you at the same time. You can both get checking, and by this evening we’ll know for sure.’

‘If it’s Edinburgh, do you want the box?’

‘At this stage, all we really need are any prints and DNA you lift from it. Did you bring an evidence bag, as well as these gloves?’

‘Yes.’ The inspector pulled a large clear envelope from his pocket, unfolded it and slid the cigar box inside. ‘Let’s take this back to my office. You can send your email from there.’

‘No chance, mate. I send it from here, then I go back to the Grand Hyatt and check out. I’m on the first plane back to Sydney. I’m on holiday, remember.’ He smiled. ‘But to be honest, I have one more job to do. Paula never travels anywhere without her tiny wee Sony laptop. I need her to use it to access her files back home and find out for sure if Viareggio and company sell La Gloria Cubana cigars.’