Private Investigations

Sixty-One

‘Don’t take this personally, Detective Inspector,’ DCC Mario McGuire murmured, solemnly, as they stood on the wide stone steps. ‘This isn’t me elbowing my way into your investigation; it’s me supporting you.’

‘I know that, sir,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘If you hadn’t said you were coming I’d have asked for you, or someone else senior who knows Edinburgh. I’m a Weegie cop; people like this are well above my pay grade.’

She looked up at the towering grey terraced mansion. ‘In Glasgow we wouldn’t call this a house; we’d call it a hotel.’

The black-painted front door swung open. A man stood, holding its handle, surveying them as if he was deciding whether to send them to the tradesman’s entrance. He was slim, age mid-fifties, Mann guessed, and perfectly groomed. He wore what McGuire recognised as the unofficial uniform of Her Majesty’s Counsel, black jacket, pinstripe trousers and a blue and white striped shirt.

‘Officers,’ he said. ‘Mr Higgins is ready for you. He is in the ballroom; if you’ll come this way.’

‘Are you Mr Higgins’ lawyer?’ McGuire asked as they climbed a wide flight of stairs, lit from a cupola above.

‘No, sir,’ the man replied without a flicker of a smile. ‘I am Robotham, the housekeeper.’ From his right, the deputy chief heard a snorting sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. ‘This residence,’ he continued, ‘takes considerable management, as you can imagine. Mr Higgins regards it as a national monument, because of its considerable history. In the nineteenth century it was the residence of two lords president of the Court of Session. Later, like many houses in Moray Place, it was put to commercial use, finally as the offices of an accountancy firm, before Mr Higgins rescued it and restored it to its original state.’

The DCC wondered whether that had included the small security camera that had observed their arrival, but decided not to ask.

The ballroom was on the first floor; it was huge, accessed by eight-foot-high double doors. Mr Robotham opened the one on the right and held it for them. ‘The police officers,’ he announced.

The space was huge; the room covered almost the full width of the house. The far wall was mostly windows, and there was a wide fireplace at either end with marble mantelpieces and mirrors above. There was a Persian rug on the floor; looking at it the DI suspected that its floor space was the equivalent of her entire house, and more.

For a brief moment, she thought they were alone, that a trick had been played, until she realised that McGuire was looking to his right, where two high-backed chairs were set in front of the hearth, in which a log fire burned. A small middle-aged man stood beside one of them, looking at them. Beyond him, with an elbow crooked against a corner of the mantelshelf, there was a taller figure, someone both officers knew well.

‘Welcome,’ Eden Higgins said, moving to greet them as they approached. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking Mr Skinner to join us. I’m alone here; my wife and son have flown to Monaco for the weekend in the company jet. As soon as I heard what had happened, I was shocked, I felt the need of a friend, so I called him and asked him to come.’

Skinner glared at his back. ‘But you didn’t tell me why,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have no locus here. I’m not a lawyer, I’m nothing more than a private citizen.’ His eyes moved to the new arrivals. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ he told them, ‘and heard about Hurrell.’ He moved away from the fireplace. ‘I’m out of here, Eden.’

‘Bob,’ Higgins protested, ‘I asked you here as a friend, nothing else. I was appalled when I heard about poor Walter. He was my right-hand man. Other than my family, I had nobody closer. I just can’t believe that he’d kill himself.’

To McGuire, the man’s distress seemed genuine. ‘It’s all right, Mr Higgins, we have no objection to the chief,’ he smiled as he realised that his tongue had slipped, ‘. . . to Mr Skinner being here. Bob, stay, please. This isn’t a formal interview; it’s not a problem.’

Skinner looked at Lottie Mann. ‘Is that okay with you too, Inspector? I take it that you found Mr Hurrell?’

‘It is, and I did,’ she agreed, as the quartet moved back towards the fire.

‘Where’s your evil twin?’ he asked.

She smiled, briefly. ‘Dan’s still at the scene,’ she replied, ‘supervising the search.’

‘You’re sure that it was suicide?’

Mann nodded. ‘It seems nailed on. He was sat up in bed, with an empty bottle of red and a glass on the table beside him. There was one shot just above the right eyebrow, with powder burns around the entry wound.’

‘Was there an exit wound?’

‘Yes. The bullet was embedded in the headboard. It’s been sent for comparison.’

‘Did they do a gunshot residue test on him?’

‘That was being done when I left,’ Mann said. ‘Given the proximity of the shot, there’ll be particles all over the bed, but if there’s a concentration on his hand and forearm, that’ll prove he shot himself.’

‘Weapon?’

‘The CSIs said it’s a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard automatic, point three eight calibre. A lethal little bastard.’

Skinner nodded. ‘Yes it is,’ he agreed. ‘I know ’cos I’ve been shot by one of them,’ he added, deadpan.

‘Why?’ Eden Higgins exclaimed. ‘Why would Walter shoot himself? And where would he get a gun, for God’s sake?’

‘He was ex-military,’ McGuire pointed out. ‘That wouldn’t be a problem to him. As for the why . . .’ He paused. ‘Sit down, please, Mr Higgins.’

The billionaire, still looking slightly dazed, nodded and sank into one of the armchairs. ‘I just don’t get it,’ he murmured.

‘When DI Mann found Mr Hurrell’s body,’ the DCC continued, ‘she and her colleagues were there to arrest him for questioning in connection with the murders of three people. One of them was Jock Hodgson, who helped Hurrell crew the Princess Alison, your missing boat.’

‘Why?’ Higgins vocabulary seemed to have been reduced to a single word.

‘Jock helped Hector Mackail steal the Princess,’ Skinner said, bluntly, ‘he and another man. It looks certain that Walter Hurrell killed the two of them, in retribution. What my friends are getting round to asking you, Eden, is quite simple. Did you know, and was he acting on your orders?’

The man stared up at him; for all his influence and all his wealth, he seemed very small and vulnerable.

‘No,’ he protested, weakly at first. ‘No!’ he repeated, more loudly. ‘No!’ he shouted, grasping the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. ‘No, I did not!’ He glared at Skinner. ‘Bob, get your damn friends out of here. If they want to speak to me again, they can contact my solicitors. As for you and I,’ he added, with an icy edge to his tone, ‘our business is done too. Send me an invoice for your services.’