Fatal Last Words

Seventy-one

‘This is a nice set-up,’ said Ray Wilding. ‘I confess that I’ve never been in a Viareggio deli before. Are they all like this?’

‘As far as I know they are,’ Sammy Pye told him. ‘They always were pretty classy, but since Paula took over from her old man, she’s moved them further upmarket.’

The sergeant whistled. ‘Why’s our head of CID in the police force if he’s part of the family that owns this? Why isn’t he in the business?’

‘I think he could have been, but he chose the police. So Neil McIlhenney told me.’ He pushed the door open. ‘Fancy lunch in the coffee shop?’

‘Sure. It’s going on one, and we might have to hang about anyway if this manager isn’t back soon from her family funeral.’

‘Let’s find out.’ Pye stepped up to the counter. ‘Is Miss Hammett in?’ he asked an assistant, showing his identification. ‘We’d like a word.’

‘Hold on a minute,’ the man replied. ‘Is Mickey back?’ he called to a colleague at the cash desk.

‘She’s back,’ a woman’s voice announced. The detectives looked around to see a black trouser suit approach, a hand within it outstretched in greeting. ‘Michaela Hammett. You the police?’

‘DI Pye, DS Wilding. We’re here to ask you about a particular box of cigars we believe was sold here.’

‘La Gloria Cubanas, cabinet of twenty-five. I had an email from my boss asking me to trace details of the purchase. Monday last week, that’s when the transaction took place.’

‘That’s impressive.’

The manager frowned. ‘That’s as impressive as it gets, I’m afraid. It was a cash sale, so I’ve got no credit card details for you, I’m afraid.’ She waved a hand to attract the attention of the counter assistant, then beckoned him across. ‘This is Eddie McBain,’ she said as he joined them. ‘He’s our cigar specialist, believe it or not.’ He smiled bashfully, interpreting her remark as a compliment. ‘Box of La Glorias,’ she said, ‘ten days ago. Your name’s on the sale slip.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you remember anything about the buyer?’ Pye asked him.

‘I remember he’d about five hundred quid in his bankroll. I saw it when he paid me; he peeled them off in twenties.’

‘Anything else?’

McBain frowned. ‘Thirty-something, maybe just, maybe a year or two younger, white; wore a blazer, as I remember, with a wee lapel badge, and a pale blue shirt with a white collar. Sharp guy, looked like a soldier rather than an office worker.’

‘Clean-shaven?’

‘No, he’d a moustache. His hair was neat too, dark and wavy, but he’d used foam on it. Aye, and he wore glasses, the kind that react to the light.’

Pye frowned, remembering. . ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s helpful.’

‘Do you no’ want his name?’ the assistant asked, surprised.

The inspector stared at him. ‘I thought it was a cash sale,’ he retorted.

‘It was, but when I gave him his change, I said tae him, “These are cracking cigars. I hope you enjoy them, Mr. .” and then I realised I didnae know his name, and felt daft, until he said to me, “Cockburn, the name’s Cockburn,” and left.’

The detectives exchanged glances. ‘I want you to think about this,’ said Wilding. ‘Instead of “Cockburn”, could the man have said “Coben”? Is that possible?’

Eddie McBain’s face lit up. ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘it’s more than possible, it’s likely. I just thought he was mumblin’ when he said it.’