Fatal Last Words

Seventy-nine

Bob Skinner sat at his desk and pondered upon the day’s discoveries. In his mind he could see a jigsaw, its pieces laid out before him. He was a distance short of seeing the finished picture, but he knew that it was there to be assembled. One more check was needed, he felt, to verify some elements that were still only suspicions.

He picked up his secure telephone and dialled a number. Apart from the access that his rank gave him, Skinner had two important personal contacts within the security and intelligence community. Piers Frame was one, but their relationship was based on leverage that the Scot had gained during an investigation in the past, one that he had been seconded to carry out. The other was a friend, and a trusted colleague, with whom the darkest secrets could be shared.

Until a few days earlier, Amanda Dennis had been acting head of the security service, but with the appointment of one of the new Prime Minister’s favourites as the permanent director general, she had reverted to her former deputy status. While Whitehall tended to empty at five like a football ground after the final whistle, he knew that she was usually at her desk for longer than most of her staff, and so he was not surprised when she answered his call.

‘Bob,’ she said. ‘Congratulations. I heard this morning.’

‘Thanks. I’m sorry our po-faced leader hadn’t the sense to do the same with you.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘The DG’s a public figure these days. I’m old school; as deputy I’m under the radar and that suits me far better. You’ll be fine at the top of the tree, though; in your service it pays to be highly visible. What are you after today, or whom?’

‘Straight to the point, eh, Amanda,’ he laughed. ‘My people are trying to clean up the mess left by the murders of two authors, and now a third man, an associate of our chief suspect.’

‘Glover and Mount? Yes, I’ve heard about those. I’m a Fred Noble man myself; keep him safe, Bob, please.’

‘We’re doing that, but I don’t really believe he’s in danger. Ainsley and Henry were working together on a project; they were keeping it secret, not discussing the subject matter, but I, we, believe it was to be a book about a Serbian war criminal, General Bogdan Tadic, whose story seems never to have been told, although it was one of the bloodiest chapters in the whole Balkan conflict.’

‘The Cleanser?’ Dennis murmured. ‘Yes, I can see why that would be provocative in certain circles. But you’re not suggesting, are you, that we’re behind their deaths, or even the Americans? There was no need to go to extremes. Even if they’d finished their work, they’d have been prevented from publishing.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘National interest.’

‘Bollocks, Amanda. We’ve got no interest that I can see in covering up Tadic. The Americans are sensitive about the fact that they tried to assassinate him, that’s all. Anyway, I’m not suggesting that. I’m looking for a man named Frankie Coben, one of Tadic’s henchmen. He was thought to have been killed in the botched attempt on the Cleanser’s life, but that seems to have been an exaggeration. His name’s cropped up; in fact I believe that he killed the two authors, and his own sidekick.’

‘I see. What do you need?’

‘I need to know more about him. Where he came from, who his parents were, whether they’re still alive. I need anything that will lead me to Coben. There are no photographs of him, only a photofit, and you know how reliable they are. I could be in the same room as the man and be none the wiser. But nobody can wipe out his entire past; I need to get into that, to find a way to identify him.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Dennis promised. ‘Strictly speaking this isn’t our affair, but if he’s involved in serious crime within our borders, that gives me grounds for intervention.’

‘Thanks. There’s something else. Tadic was tried in camera; his crimes were never in the public domain. Yet Glover and Mount were looking for the witnesses against him. I need to know how they got the names. All I can offer you as a starter is that Henry used to be a diplomat.’

‘A spook?’

‘Possibly, but I don’t know. Whether he was or not, he couldn’t have come up with those names during his service. He was retired when they were discovered. So there must be a current source.’

‘And I want to know who that is,’ the intelligence officer said firmly.

‘I’m sure. While you’re looking for the leak, I’d like to know the status of the witnesses. . although I’m pretty sure I know where one of them is right now.’ He gave Dennis the three names.

‘Information required yesterday?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but at a pinch tomorrow morning will do.’

The chief constable hung up, rose and walked into his outer office. Crossley was still there.

‘On your way, Gerry,’ he said. ‘This meeting could be a quick one or it could last all night. No need for you to wait on.’ He glanced at him. ‘What’s put the smile on your face?’ he asked.

‘I’ve just been asked out,’ the PA replied. ‘On a date. By a woman. Convention says it should be the other way around. And I’ve never met her.’

‘Ah! Lena McElhone. Careful, young man; they tell me she bites.’

Crossley grinned. ‘I don’t mind that, as long as her teeth aren’t too sharp.’

Skinner was still chuckling as he stepped into the meeting room at the end of the corridor, where Neil McIlhenney waited, seated at the conference table with DIs Sammy Pye and George Regan. Before each of the inspectors lay a folder: the murder books, chronologically ordered records of every step of their investigations. The trio stood as he entered.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m not the Prince of Wales. . whom God preserve, in something clear and preferably eco-friendly. . and I’m not the President of the United States. I’m a professional colleague, and you’re senior officers, so you stay seated when I come into a room.’ He took his seat and looked at the superintendent. ‘Have you said anything about our trip?’

‘No, Chief. I thought it best left till you joined us.’

‘Fine.’ Skinner turned to Regan. ‘Hugo Playfair isn’t who he said he was, George. He’s an intelligence operative, Lazar Erceg, one of the four names on Glover’s list, inserted into Serbia by the Americans, with private assistance, to find witnesses to atrocities by a war criminal, General Bogdan Tadic.’ He nodded to Pye. ‘His nickname is the Cleanser, Sammy.’

‘So that’s why Sauce’s email respondent crapped herself and hung up on him.’

‘From what we’ve learned, I don’t blame her. Now, the witnesses Erceg was sent to unearth, and who he did find, were the other three names on that list, Mirko and Danica Andelič, and Aca Nicolič, Danica’s brother. They gave evidence against Tadic in the Hague, and he was convicted, but he’s being retried, and Mirko is essential to that process. So you see, guys,’ he told the inspectors, ‘your investigations cross over.’

‘Yes,’ said Regan, ‘but how do the two authors fit in?’

‘They were working together,’ Pye replied. ‘Trying to trace the witnesses, and Erceg as well. Clearly, they were doing a book on Tadic.’

‘That’s the background,’ said Skinner. ‘And in that background is the man called Coben, Frankie Coben, associate of Tadic and doer of some of his dirty work, believed to be dead, but not quite. We believe he killed Glover, Mount and now his hired associate, Ed Collins. Why did he hire Collins, Ainsley Glover’s future son-in-law, of all people? Good question, but here’s an even better one. When Coben sent him to see Andy Martin, using his name, to warn him off getting involved with Glover, how did he know that Glover had visited Andy? When he sent Collins, again in his name, to buy the cigars that were booby-trapped and used to kill Henry Mount, how did he know that Henry was involved at all?’ He looked around the table. ‘Ideas?’ he asked.

‘We keep hearing about the possibility of a third person in the project,’ said McIlhenney. ‘I’m wondering whether it’s possible that Collins was him, and was passing information to Coben.’

‘I doubt that, sir,’ Pye countered. ‘June Connelly told us that Glover couldn’t stand him, and only tolerated him because he was his daughter’s boyfriend. By the way, remember the references by DCC Martin and the witness McBain to the man they saw having a military bearing? Ray and I asked the Saltire editor about his background; he told us that after he left university, Collins did three years in the army, on a short service commission.’

‘Another hole filled,’ said Skinner. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he grinned, ‘and it had better be worth a lot, gentlemen, I believe that Coben was given all that information by Mount and Glover themselves. I believe that Coben was the third man in the project; that like Collins, the two dead authors knew their killer. . but clearly, they didn’t know him as Coben. They knew him as somebody else. Coben is moving among us, guys; some of us have probably met him.’ He leaned back in his chair, in a sudden movement. ‘OK, that’s what I know so far,’ he said, addressing the two DIs. ‘What do either of you know beyond that?’ He frowned as Regan’s phone rang.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, checking the caller number on its display. ‘It’s McDermid. I told her she could call if she got any new relevant information.’

‘Answer her then, but put her on speaker, if you can.’

‘I can do that.’ Regan took the call and laid his phone on the table. ‘Lisa,’ he warned, ‘I’m in a meeting with the chief and others, and we can all hear you. If it’s not urgent, call later.’

‘It is, sir,’ the DS replied, ‘or I wouldn’t have called.’ She sounded offended.

‘OK, Lisa,’ Skinner called out, ‘let’s hear it.’

‘I’ve finally had feedback from the translator, sir,’ she said.

‘What translator?’

‘We found letters in Mustafic’s van,’ she explained. ‘They were in the Cyrillic alphabet, in Bulgarian we thought. We sent them for translation, with the label on his jacket. The reason it’s taken so long is that we sent them to the wrong translator. It isn’t Bulgarian at all, it’s Serbian. And the jacket wasn’t bought in Bulgaria, but in Zagreb.’

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ said the chief constable quietly. ‘Tell me about the letters.’

‘They’re love letters, sir, and they’re years old. They’re from a woman called Danica, to somebody called Mirko Andelič.’

‘Yes,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘Lisa, you’ve just tied something up, with a neat bow. Thanks.’ He reached out and flipped the phone shut, to end the call. ‘So that’s it. Asmir was really Mirko Andelič, the key witness in the Tadic trial. I see what happened; after it was over, Lazar Erceg, the man who found him, took him underground, away from the Cleanser’s people, who were undoubtedly very keen to kill him. That’s why Coben got involved with the project: Mount and Glover were looking for him, so he joined with them, let them do his work for them, even guarded against outside interference by having Andy Martin warned off, then followed up until he found something to discredit him. Finally, he got his man.’

‘That means that Tadic goes free,’ McIlhenney pointed out.

‘To what fate? Tadic is a pariah; if the Americans don’t kill him, his own people probably will, especially after we eliminate Coben.’ He frowned. ‘But,’ he murmured, ‘how did he get to know about Playfair and Asmir?’

‘There was a report in the East Lothian Courier,’ said George Regan, ‘a few weeks ago, of the council’s application for an interdict against Derek Baillie’s traveller group. Playfair spoke on their behalf in court and his name was in the paper.’

‘OK, but that doesn’t help. How did he know who Playfair was?’

‘Well,’ the DI murmured.

‘Spit it out, George.’

‘Colin Mount told me that his father made a mystery trip a couple of weeks back, to a prison in England.’

‘What? Brankholme?’

‘Yes, sir, how did you know that?’

‘Because Neil and I have just been there, and the man we saw didn’t say anything about having had a visit from Henry Mount.’ He gazed at McIlhenney. ‘Now why weren’t we told that, I wonder?’

‘Dražen only contacted us when he saw the photo in the paper,’ the superintendent replied. ‘Why would he tell us if Mount had visited him? And why would Boras contact him in the first place?’

‘Mount contacted Dražen, man. We’re sure he has a source in the Foreign Office who’s been feeding him information on the Tadic case. Tomorrow Amanda Dennis will put a name to that person, and we’ll find out, I’ll bet you, that he told Mount about Dražen’s involvement. Clear as day: Henry goes to see Dražen, he’s told about Hugo Playfair, and he goes back and tells Coben, the third man in the project. That’s what Coben needs and, bingo, they’re all fucking dead. Why didn’t Dražen mention Mount? Who knows. .’ he frowned, thinking fast ‘. . unless he genuinely was doing us a favour but didn’t want to attract any more attention to himself than that. And why would that be? Oh no,’ he gasped suddenly. ‘No, no, no, surely not.’ He snatched the phone from the table and called the communications centre. ‘Chief Constable,’ he barked. ‘Get me HMP Brankholme, now.’ He sat waiting, his three companions drawing tension from his. Finally the prison switchboard replied. ‘Deputy Governor Arnott, please.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The telephonist sounded rattled; Skinner seized on it.

‘Governor, then, now; this is Chief Constable Skinner, Edinburgh. We were in your place today.’

He waited for over a minute, until a man came on the line. ‘Garfield Haywood, Governor. I’m sorry, Chief Constable, you find us in crisis. We’ve lost our star prisoner, the man you visited earlier.’

‘And how the fuck did you manage to do that?’ Skinner growled.

‘It looks as if our security is better on the way in than on the way out. My deputy seems to have taken the man home with her. Her husband called to see her, then they left together, only it wasn’t him. It was Dražen Boras wearing his clothes. We found Jake bound and gagged in his underwear, and locked in her office. I’m still not convinced he isn’t an accomplice. What the hell would make her do it?’

‘Have you any idea how wealthy the man is, Mr Haywood?’ He hung up, staring at McIlhenney.

‘Gone?’

‘Gone, and I am not looking forward to telling Maggie. Fuck it!’ He turned to Regan. ‘That was a blot from the blue, George. Any more while you’re at it?’

The DI twisted in his seat, nervously. ‘Maybe, boss,’ he said. ‘Those cigars: Colin said they were a gift to his dad from the Edinburgh Book Festival.’

‘Jesus.’ Skinner clenched his fists on the desk. ‘And how many people are involved in running that? Dozens, including the board, and maybe more, if you count part-timers. I shouldn’t be surprised. This whole thing started there.’ He closed his eyes for a second or two; when he reopened them they were staring, at nothing in particular. ‘Didn’t it, though?’ he whispered. He reached out for Pye’s bulky folder, his murder book, spun it round and opened it. The first entry was Ian McCall’s report, of the discovery of Glover’s body. The second was Randall Mosley’s statement. The third was the text of the dead author’s email, sent in the last moments of his life. He read the words aloud, ‘randy yurt dying,’ then looked at his colleagues. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘A dying man’s cry for help,’ Pye replied.

‘It looks that way,’ Skinner agreed. ‘But. .’