‘He may have picked the wrong force, though. How many unsolved homicides have we got on our books?’
‘One or two,’ the head of CID pointed out, ‘including one in this very village. Twenty-five years on and we still haven’t cleared it up.’
‘In the DCC’s home town?’
‘Indeed. It was before his time here.’
‘Still . . .’
‘I know what you mean: he wouldn’t let it lie. And he didn’t. He reckons he’s solved it. As for clearing it off our books, he says that God’s done that already.’
‘I could do with his help on this one, sir,’ said Steele.
‘God’s or Bob Skinner’s?’ McGuire grunted. ‘In the absence of either, you’d better carry on with the search of the area, and get the body out of here. I’ll call Brian Mackie and let him know what’s happened; right now he’s giving the woman’s dad the VIP treatment. Midday tomorrow, I’m taking a press briefing accompanied by Mr Davor Boras.’
He caught the inspector’s surprised expression. ‘ACC’s decision,’ he explained. ‘Before that, though, you and I are going to interview Boras and his wife, in their suite at the Caledonian Hotel. Some time between now and then, I suggest that you get home to Maggie.’
Steele nodded. ‘I called her a while back, as soon as the dogs found the body. She knows I’ll be late. I’m sorry I had to break into your evening, though.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You had to, and that’s that. There’s one thing you could do for me, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You could recommend somewhere to eat around here.’
‘Bar meal okay?’
‘No, no, Stevie.’ The big detective beamed. ‘This is Paula we’re talking about.’
‘Ah,’ the inspector chuckled, ‘you mean expensive.’
Twenty-five
‘Why do I have to come here? Why is my daughter still in this place?’
‘First and foremost,’ Brian Mackie began, ‘because she hasn’t been formally identified. But once that is done, release of her body must be authorised by the fiscal’s office.’
‘Who?’ Keith Barker exclaimed.
‘The procurator fiscal; that’s the Scottish legal title for the public prosecutor at local level. He’s a part of the Crown Office, which is headed by the Lord Advocate . . . that’s the Scottish equivalent of the Attorney General.
‘I should explain that in criminal investigations the police act as agents of the fiscal, and report to his office. So Zrinka is in his care, not ours. I should warn you, though, that in homicide investigations it’s quite common for the body to be retained for some time. Once an arrest’s been made, there could be circumstances in which the defence requires a second autopsy.’
‘This can’t be!’ Boras protested. ‘I can’t allow this.’
‘Let’s deal with that later,’ said Mackie, firmly. ‘First things first: let’s get the formal identification over with.’
He opened the front passenger door of the car and stepped out into the small courtyard in front of the square, grey single-storey building on the Cowgate, at its junction with Infirmary Street. He could understand the father’s distress. The mortuary was an ugly building, bleak and forbidding. He hated having to take family members there to see the remains of their loved ones, but since the council’s so-called refurbishment of the building there was usually no alternative.
He led his two companions to the door, opened it, and held it for them. Walton Blackwell, the mortuary superintendent, was waiting for them; he had been fully briefed about the visitors. ‘Mr Mackie, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we’re ready for you. The viewing room is this way.’
Boras stepped forward; his personal assistant made to follow him, but his employer put a hand on his sleeve. ‘No, Barker, this I do myself.’
‘Mr Blackwell and I have to come with you,’ Mackie explained gently. ‘It’s part of the formality: your identification has to be witnessed.’
‘I understand that.’
The superintendent led the way into a small windowless chamber; there was an extractor fan set in the ceiling, whirring noisily. A trolley lay directly below it, and on it, a human figure, under a white sheet.
‘Ready?’ asked Blackwell. As Boras nodded assent, he drew back the cover, to reveal the dead face. ‘Is this the body of your daughter, Zrinka?’
The question was unnecessary, they all knew why they were there, but Mackie had to put it. He gazed at the man, expecting him to crack, to break down, as most visitors did in there at such a time. But Davor Boras held himself upright, his face impassive and his broad shoulders square; he gazed at the pale, lifeless girl for several seconds, and then he said, ‘Yes,’ crisply, turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
The ACC followed, expecting him to stop in the reception area, but he did not. With a gesture of command to Barker, he strode into the courtyard, opened the car door and slid inside.
‘I’ll need you to sign a formal statement,’ Mackie told him, when the three were together once more.
‘Of course. Now take us back to the hotel, please. I must be with my wife.’
‘Sure. Wattie, take us to the Caley.’
‘You will speak to your fiscal, Mr Mackie,’ Boras exclaimed. ‘You will tell him that my daughter’s body must be returned to her family. Her mother cannot see her in this place and, besides, we must take her home.’ For the first time, a trace of an Eastern European accent sounded in his voice.
Assistant chief constables are unused to orders, especially from civilians, but Brian Mackie had sympathy with the man. ‘I’ll be happy to put your request to him,’ he replied. ‘In this case, I can see no good reason not to release her. There are no grounds for dispute that I can see: the cause of death is very clear and there were no other physical injuries. However, I have to repeat that it’s his decision.’
‘If he is difficult, then go to his boss, this Lord Advocate.’
‘That I can’t do.’
‘Then I will. I am a man of influence, sir. I have friends in government.’
‘But possibly not in the Scottish government. Look, sir, let’s not go looking for problems before they happen. I know the fiscal well, he’s a reasonable guy and he usually takes police advice. It’ll be okay, I’m sure.’
‘It had better be.’ Boras frowned, then fixed his piercing eyes on the police officer. ‘Tell me everything, sir. Tell me everything about how my daughter died. Don’t soft-soap me; don’t play things down. I want to know exactly what was done to her.’
‘She was found yesterday morning, on a beach about twenty miles east of Edinburgh, near a village called Gullane.’
‘That is where the golf courses are?’
Mackie was taken by surprise. ‘Yes, do you know it?’
‘Golf is my one form of relaxation, now that I am too old for more strenuous games. I am a member of the new Archerfield Club, and I have played all the other courses there.’
‘When you played there, was your family with you?’
‘Not every time, but the first time, yes. I played on Muirfield fifteen years ago and we took rooms in Greywalls Hotel.’
‘Can you remember whether your wife took your children to the beach while you played?’
‘Yes, she did. I recall that they crossed the course to get there. Is that significant?’
‘It may explain why Zrinka chose to go there. She was last seen alive on Monday night in Gullane, getting off a bus she had caught in North Berwick, with a male companion. They camped overnight in the bushes, near the beach. We found their tent this afternoon.’
‘This man; he killed her?’
‘No.’
