that it was exactly ten a.m., then rapped on the polished wood and waited.
A tall man, immaculately dressed and groomed, opened the door; both detectives knew at once that he was Keith Barker. Mackie’s description had been perfect: ‘
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, extending a hand first to McGuire in the assumption that as the older of the two he was the senior officer, ‘you will be the police officers.’
The head of CID resisted the urge to reply, ‘No, we’re the fucking chambermaids.’ Instead he nodded, then introduced himself and his colleague. Barker stood aside and ushered them into the suite.
Davor and Sanda Boras were seated in armchairs, he with the air of a monarch, or perhaps a Mafia don, she with the slightly vacant gaze of one who has been heavily sedated. Neither rose as the aide presented the two detectives and offered them seats on a couch that faced the couple.
A woman in a dark grey suit, worn over a black blouse, hovered behind Sanda Boras. McGuire glanced at her and then at Barker, who read his silent question. ‘This is Camilla Britto,’ he said, ‘Mrs Boras’s secretary.’
‘Okay,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘We had assumed that we would be conducting this interview in private. On balance, I think we’d prefer that.’
‘And we would not,’ Davor Boras snapped. ‘Miss Britto will remain, to attend to my wife’s needs as they arise. Mr Barker will remain to attend to mine.’
Steele glanced to his right, looking for the first signs of an eruption, but the head of CID simply shrugged. ‘If that’s how you wish it, sir,’ he replied.
‘I will start with a question,’ the stocky millionaire announced. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What’s not to understand? I’m asking what you are doing here, talking to my wife and me, when you should be out somewhere pursuing this man who has killed our daughter, and that other poor woman.’
McGuire drew a breath; he knew that command had brought with it an added need for patience and yet there were times when it ran up against his nature.
Steele read the moment. ‘You are part of the investigation, sir,’ he interjected. ‘We need to know everything that you know about your daughter, her recent life, her movements, her associates, because in there may be one tiny piece of information that will lead us to this man. This may seem intrusive to you, and it may even seem like a waste of our time and yours, but it is necessary.’ From a corner of his eye, he saw Barker look towards his employer and give a tiny nod.
‘Very well. If you say so. But how long has your investigation into the first death been running?’
‘Two months.’
‘Were that girl’s parents of any help to you?’
‘Yes, and they still are. Questions arise all the time, and often they help to answer them.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Boras sighed. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Thanks,’ said McGuire. ‘When was the last time either of you saw Zrinka?’
‘In February. She came home to see her mother.’
‘You were away at the time?’
‘No, I wasn’t, but she didn’t come to see me.’
‘Are you saying that you and she weren’t close?’
Boras’s tiny eyes blazed. ‘I am saying that I am an extremely busy man, sir. Often I work from the moment that I rise until the moment that I retire. Zrinka knew that, and she understood. She and I got on well enough; we didn’t talk a lot, that was all.’
‘How long had she been in Edinburgh?’
‘For almost two years.’
‘Where did she live? Did she flat-share? All the records we’ve accessed so far show her as residing with you.’
‘She had a small flat off Princes Street,’ said Sanda Boras, slowly. ‘It has a view of the castle. She chose it and I bought it for her.’ Her husband seemed to stiffen in his chair. He stared at her, in evident surprise.
Steele frowned. ‘We checked the property register yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘We didn’t find anything with your name.’
‘We used my family name, Kolar,’ the mother replied. ‘So my husband wouldn’t know. He is a kind man, you understand, but he believes that his children should either follow him into his business or make their own way in the world. Zrinka and her brother both chose to go their own way. I agree with him, you understand, but a little help doesn’t do harm. It’s a nice flat. She worked there.’ She smiled. ‘The place was a mess, always.’
‘Did she live there alone?’
‘Yes. Recently, that is. There was a man not long after she moved to Edinburgh, who stayed with her for a few months, but he moved on.’
‘Did they argue?’ McGuire asked.
‘Not that she told me. She said that it had run its course and that he had left. If she’d been upset about it, I’d have known.’
‘Did she say whether he was upset, the man?’
‘She told me they were agreed, that they apart as friends.’
‘Parted,’ Boras grunted.
‘Pardon, dear?’
‘You said “apart”. That is wrong. “Parted” is what you should have said.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She looked back towards the chief superintendent. ‘I’ve lived here for a long time, but my English, it is not yet perfect.’
‘Nobody’s is, Mrs Boras; especially not mine. My Italian’s probably better.’
‘Italian?’
‘I got that from my mother and my grandparents. My dad was Irish, a lovely man, but one of few words . . . long ones at any rate.’
‘My husband’s grandmother was Italian too. That is something you have in common.’
The big detective glanced at Boras: he looked impatient and irascible. ‘The only thing, I reckon,’ he said gently. ‘Can you tell me anything about Zrinka’s boyfriend, this man?’
‘I never met him. I never came to visit her in Edinburgh after we bought the flat. I spoke to him only once, when I called Zrinka’s mobile and he answered.’
‘How did he sound? Did he have an accent?’
Mrs Boras ran her right hand over her hair. Her reddened eyes creased slightly as she frowned, trying to summon up a memory. ‘He spoke well, as if he was educated: like many of the people we know in London.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Dominic. Dominic Padstow. That’s all I can tell you about him.’
‘Not him, then,’ Steele murmured.
‘What do you mean?’ Keith Barker interrupted.
‘We believe we’ve identified Zrinka’s companion in the tent,’ the inspector replied. ‘We found his belongings last night in the bushes, well away from where the body was hidden. They included a photographic driver’s licence in the name of Harry Paul, of Aberfeldy.’
‘That should be conclusive, shouldn’t it?’
‘No.’ Steele stared at Boras’s assistant, warning him not to take the matter further. ‘It still has to be formalised.’
‘Does that name mean anything to either you?’ asked McGuire, moving on quickly.
Boras shook his head, but his wife nodded hers. ‘Zrinka mentioned him last time we spoke. She described him as her boyfriend of the moment, and that there was a good chance he could turn into more than that. She said he was nice, and seemed safe. Safe,’ she whispered. ‘That’s ironic, isn’t it?’
‘When was that, Mrs Boras? The last time you spoke?’
‘Sunday evening: I called her to ask what she was doing this week.’
It occurred to the head of CID that the mother was becoming stronger the longer the interview lasted, and less reliant on her medication, while, somehow, her husband, when facing personal issues, might be the weaker of the two. ‘Can you remember what she said?’
