Head Shot

48

Often, during Mario's Special Branch days, he and Maggie would meet for lunch. The venue usual y depended on the weather; sometimes it would be the canteen, on other occasions a restaurant or a pub. But occasional y when the weather was warm and fine, they would buy sandwiches and eat them at a table at the piazza in Princes Street Gardens, watching the children on the roundabout, and talking above the noise of the traffic up in the busy thoroughfare.

She went there again on his first day in Borders Division, feeling lonely already without him, and tried to remember her life before they met, before they got together on that crazy stake-out in Fife. She had been wary of him at first, of his big, outgoing personality, of his smile, and of his bedroom eyes, al of them so much in contrast to her own make-up. Yet when the time came, it had been she who had made the move.

She had been a private person until then, showing a reserved and, often, a severe face to those around her. She had had few interests outside the Job, and even fewer friends. Once, she had tried to break the mould by placing an ad in the dating column of a Sunday newspaper. It had led to a few encounters, and eventual y, when she had plucked up the courage, to her first adult sexual experiences, clumsy, fumbling affairs in drab hotel rooms, for she had refused to take her partners home with her, or to go with them to theirs. Quickly she had come to the conclusion that she was very bad at sex, and had given it up, virtually, until her big Irish-Italian detective had come along to stir genuine lust within her, for the first time in her life.

Yet, for all that she had developed as a person since her marriage, Maggie knew that many of her work colleagues could still see only her old self. They did not know the social animal she had become; they could see only the severe, strict, senior officer on her way up the ladder.

She had heard her 'Lots' nickname long before Dan Pringle had let it slip, but she knew that she had another, one she still bore in the eyes of some resentful colleagues. When she had overheard a Special Branch typist ask Ruth McConnel, the DCC's secretary, in the ladies' room at Fettes, 'How are you getting on with Rosa Kleb?', she had known about whom the woman was talking… even if her loyal friend Ruth had ignored the question.

She threw the wrapping of her sandwich into a bin and walked up the steps and out of the gardens, then along Shandwick Place towards her office. Al the time, her mind was gnawing away at her concern that a few days earlier a probationer constable had actual y been afraid to come into her office. For all the encouragement ofWillie Haggerty and Clan Pringle, she knew that someone with aspirations to chief officer rank should inspire respect, not fear, in their juniors. But the question that Maggie stil had not answered, even in her own mind, was whether she actually had such aspirations.

Walking briskly in the sunshine, without stopping to window-shop, she reached Torphichen Place in less than fifteen minutes. She had only just hung her jacket in its usual place on the back of her chair when there was a knock; she cal ed and young PC Haddock entered, wearing his diffident expression.

'Excuse me, ma'am,' he began.

'Okay, you're excused.' He stopped and stared at her. 'Oh, go on, Sauce,' she exclaimed. 'We don't need the preamble every time.'

'Very good, ma'am. Well, it's like this…' She sat behind her desk and waited for him to come to the point. 'We've found the undertaker, ma'am; the firm that made the arrangements for Mr Essary. It was the Co-op, up at Fountainbridge.' He paused again. 'The only thing is… the funeral was on Saturday.'

'Damn,' she hissed. 'That makes it difficult. Where's he buried?'

'Aye, wel, ma'am, that's the other thing. He was cremated, down at Seafield.'

'Oh damn!' she snapped. 'Just our bloody luck. Ah, well, that was good work, son, to come up with an answer so quickly. What was the undertaker's name?'

'Mr Jaap, ma'am; Walter Jaap.' He held out a piece of paper, torn from a notebook. 'That's his number; I thought you might want to talk to him.'

'You thought right. Thanks. Anything else?'

'Sergeant Wilding, from the head of CID's office, dropped in an envelope ten minutes ago, ma'am. It's in your tray, there; apart from that, there's nothing else.'

'Okay, on you go then.'

As Haddock left, she flattened out his note on her desk and dial ed the number he had written on it. 'Funeral services,' a solemn voice answered.

'Mr Jaap, please.'

'This is he. How can I be of assistance?'

'I want to talk to you about a funeral.'

'Certainly, madam. Shal I cal on you?'

'No, that won't be necessary. This is Detective Superintendent Rose, Edinburgh CID. The funeral I want to ask you about took place on Saturday, in Seafield Crematorium; the guest of honour was a Mr Magnus Essary.'

'Yes,' Jaap replied. 'I attended that one myself.' He paused. 'But everything was in order, I assure you. The body was released from the mortuary with a cremation certificate, issued by medical staff at the Royal Infirmary.'

'I'm sure it was. I'm not questioning your procedures, sir. I'm interested in the funeral itself. For example, I'd like to know who was there; how many mourners, the names of the pal -bearers, anything else you can tell me.'

'Ahh,' came a sigh. 'But that's the pity of it. The poor man had no one to see him on his way.'

'No one?'

'Not a soul, other than myself, and my staff.'

'But who instructed you?'

'A lady; a Miss Ella Frances. She phoned me and asked me to collect the deceased from the mortuary and bring him to our chapel of rest, here at our salon. I did so that very day, and next morning she came to see me.

She showed me al the necessary paperwork, by which I mean the cremation certificate and the death certificate itself. She told me that the late Mr Essary was her business partner, and that he had no relatives.

She asked me to book a cremation; I did it there and then; she chose a simple coffin and reserved a hearse. I asked her if she wished me to place an intimation in the press, but she declined.'

'Can you give me an address and telephone number for Miss Frances?'

Jaap sighed again. 'Alas no, superintendent. She gave me neither.'

'But what about payment?' Rose asked. 'How are you going to invoice her?'

'I don't have to. She asked me what the bill would be. I told her that her requirements would cost just under nine hundred pounds, and she paid me there and then, in cash; she gave me one thousand pounds, the balance being a gratuity for my staff.'

'And then she didn't turn up for the funeral? Is that what you're saying?'

'That's right. She told me to proceed as instructed; she said that the late Mr Essary had been a humanist, and had wished no formal ceremony.

She also told me at that time that she would be unable to attend herself, as she had to be in France, unavoidably, on business. She did lead me to expect that there would be mourners from Mr Essary's circle of friends, but on the day, there were none.'

'This stinks!' the detective exclaimed.

'I agree,' said the undertaker. 'I must admit I was concerned by the circumstances; I had it in mind to discuss it with my chief executive. I have an appointment to see him this evening, and I intended to tel him about it then; your call has anticipated that.'

'Give me a description of this El a Frances woman.'

'She was smal, in her twenties, I'd have said, but I'd hate to put an age to her. She was dressed in mourning black… nothing unusual in that, given the circumstances… with a wide-brimmed black hat and heavily tinted glasses which she never removed during our meeting.'

'Voice? Accent?'

'She was quietly spoken; I can't recall whether she had a particular accent of any sort. But people often sound strained when I meet them, so it can be hard to tell.'

'Okay.' Rose paused, thinking. 'Thank you for that, Mr Jaap. Listen, if by any chance Miss Frances should contact you again, get a number for her. I may have to speak to you again, but for now, that's al.'

She hung up and pulled the Essary folder across to her. Charlie Johnston's note was all right, as far as it went, but it stopped well short of being comprehensive. She snatched up her phone once more and dialled Haddock. 'Sauce, I want you to get someone for me. He's a doctor, DrAmritraj, and he practises up at the health centre in Oxgangs.

Find him, and make an appointment for me to cal on him.'

Maggie was aware of a long, awkward silence. 'This is not a personal matter,' she added, heavily. 'I want to talk to him about a death he certified… but do not tell him that.'

She sat back and waited, and as she did her eye fell upon an envelope on the top of the pile in her in-tray, with her name scrawled across it; Dan Pringle's package, she guessed. She picked it up and tore it open.

Inside there was a two-page Missing Person report, circulated by Strathclyde Police: the man Pringle had thought looked like her father.

She looked at the name on the heading, reading it aloud. 'Father Francis 200

Donovan Green. A turbulent priest, I wonder… probably done a runner with a married parishioner.'

She scanned the report. Father Green was a fifty-one-year-old parish priest, in the appropriately named district ofHolytown, in Lanarkshire.

Ten days earlier he had gone off on a weekend's leave, to visit his spinster sister in Crieff. Maggie was struck by the adjective. Spinster, eh.

I could have been one of those, she thought. She read on; the priest had been due back on the fol owing Monday, ready to take confession, but he had not reappeared. On the fol owing morning, his curate had telephoned his sister, who had told him that she had not seen her brother since Christmas, and certainly had not expected him that weekend.

The police had been informed; the curate and housekeeper had been interviewed, but Father Green had given no hint as to where he might really have been headed.

'Mid-life crisis, maybe,' the superintendent mused. And then she turned to the second sheet of the report.

The photograph seemed to become almost holographic as it jumped off the page at her. 'Jesus,' she shouted, involuntarily. She laid it on the desk, grabbed the Polaroid of Magnus Essary, and laid the two side by side. This time she had no doubt; what she needed was confirmation.

She snatched up her phone once more and dialled Haddock. 'Sauce,' she barked, 'have you got that doctor yet?'

'Sorry, ma'am,' he answered, fearful y. 'I'm having trouble finding the right number.'

'That's okay. Put a hold on that for now, anyway. I want you to get me someone else; PC Charlie Johnston. He's stationed up at Oxgangs, too. I don't care what shift he's on: suppose he's stil on nights, and in the Land of Nod. Find him and tell him to be in my office inside an hour.'