looked around the room. He saw five television cameras, but did not bother to try to count the number of reporters gazing back at him.
‘Good afternoon,’ he began. ‘I’m Mario McGuire, head of CID. You have our press release, but for the record I’ll state that we are now in a position to name the woman found shot dead on a beach near Gullane on Tuesday. She was Miss Zrinka Boras, aged twenty-four, a full-time artist, the only daughter of the businessman Mr Davor Boras and Mrs Sanda Boras. Miss Boras had lived in Edinburgh for around two years prior to her death. She spent Monday night camping above Gullane beach, with a male companion. That young man was also found dead near the scene, yesterday evening, and a postmortem examination has confirmed that he was shot with the same gun that killed Miss Boras.’ He paused, for only a second, but time enough for a chorus of questions to be fired at him.
He held up a hand and waited for quiet. ‘Now for what isn’t in the press release. As of two minutes ago, I’m in a position to name him as Mr Harry Paul, aged twenty-three, a musician, of Aberfeldy, Perthshire, the son of Travers and Marietta Paul. I’m also prepared to tell you that these murders are linked beyond doubt to that of Stacey Gavin, of South Queensferry, who was found dead two months ago, on the shore near her home. Stacey was also an artist.’ He gazed out at his audience.
‘I know that’s going to lead to many columns and broadcast hours of media speculation. That’s up to you: I understand it, but we’re not going to comment on it in any way. We’ll be too busy looking at the links between these brutal killings, the obvious and the less obvious, until we find the thread that will lead us to the person who carried them out. I’m not going to set specific times for future briefings. When we have something to tell you, we’ll call you, be sure of that.
‘Now, before you all start shouting at me again, I want to introduce the gentleman on my left. As I’m sure many of you are aware, he is Zrinka’s father, Mr Davor Boras, and he has a statement that he would like to make.’
This time, as McGuire stopped speaking, the room remained absolutely silent. Boras straightened in his chair, flexed his shoulders and gazed, coldly and deliberately, into each television camera, one after another. Finally, he let his eyes rest on the journalists in the front rank. Most were strangers to Edinburgh, and McGuire realised that the man knew some of them. He understood, without asking, that they had been summoned there by Barker, who had taken a seat at the end of the row.
‘I am a strong man,’ Boras began. He carried no notes, and spoke either spontaneously or from a memorised speech. ‘I am a successful man. I am a rich man. Yet the strongest, most successful and the richest man can be brought down by a tragedy such as my wife, my son Drazen and I have suffered. I am here today to tell you that I will not be brought down.
‘I am also a determined man,’ he continued, ‘and I find myself made even more determined by my daughter’s death. You will know that in my business career I have created not one but two globally successful companies. I pledge to you that the same energy which enabled me to do that will be placed behind the search for my Zrinka’s murderer, and I pledge to you that it will succeed.
‘I stand four-square behind the police investigation and, although the murder of poor Miss Gavin remains unsolved, I have every confidence in them. Nevertheless, I appreciate that their resources are not infinite. I am a man of enormous personal wealth, and I am prepared to devote it to this manhunt. I will begin by announcing a reward of one million pounds . . .’ The silence was broken by a collective gasp as the day’s principal headline was determined. ‘. . . for information leading to the elimination of this beast. I make you this final promise.’ As he stared again along the line of cameras, his little eyes became dazzling, mesmeric. ‘I will ensure suitable justice for my daughter’s death, as sure as my name is Davor Boras. Thank you.’
He rose from the table without a glance at his companion, beckoned to Barker, and strode from the room with his aide following at his heels.
McGuire looked at the media assembly, still stunned into a silence that was, in his experience, unique. Finally the arthritic hand of John Hunter, unofficial dean of the Edinburgh press cadre, rose into the air. The head of CID nodded. ‘Yes, John.’
‘Tell me if I’m right, Mario,’ the old man asked, in his deceptively strong voice. ‘Did he just promise, on national television, to kill a man?’
Thirty-one
‘You could be forgiven for thinking that.’ Stevie Steele answered the question as he, Griff Montell and Tarvil Singh stared at the live Sky News broadcast in the Leith CID office. He pointed his remote at the wall-mounted television and switched it off. ‘But he chose his words very carefully.’
‘Do you think he told anyone in advance that he was going to offer a reward?’ asked Montell.
‘No chance, or he’d never have been allowed to do it. I’m sure he told nobody on our side, that is. I’ll bet you that creep Barker knew, though. Did you see Mario glare at him when Boras came out with it? I thought he was going to reach across and throttle him.’
‘What’s so bad about it?’ Singh grumbled. ‘The guy’s mega-minted. If somebody killed my kid I’d want to tear him apart. I’d put up a reward if I had the money.’
‘The principle’s fine,’ Steele replied. ‘It’s the practice that’s difficult for us. We need a clear path on this investigation: we need precise and useful information. Thanks to Boras, we’re going to have dickheads from all over bombarding us with useless witness claims, yet we’ll have to check them all out. Congratulations, big man: with Ray Wilding still out at Gullane co-ordinating interviews you’ve just talked yourself into that job.’
‘What’s he going to get at Gullane, sir?’ the South African enquired. ‘The trail’s pretty cold now.’
The inspector frowned at him. ‘As far as the girl and young Paul are concerned, maybe, but what about the killer? He arrived there some time, he stalked them and he left. How did he get there, how did he leave? I want to track as many vehicle movements in and out of Gullane as I can. If it was an urban area we might have had the possibility of CCTV film, but out there we have to do it the hard way. We need to talk to as many people as we can find who drove out of the village on Tuesday morning, to see if any of them saw anything unusual, somebody in an exceptional hurry, for example.’
‘Maybe he never left Gullane,’ the South African murmured. ‘Maybe he’s local.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m just following the only link we have so far between the two girls.’
‘We have one, apart from their occupations?’
‘Yes.’ Montell’s face split into a wicked grin. ‘DCC Skinner owns work by them both. Alex told me.’
Steele threw him a dark look. ‘I think we’ll just leave that one on the back burner, Constable, shall we? Look, you want to be a real detective, stop fucking me about and check out some leads. We know that Zrinka went to North Berwick to drop off some work for sale in a gallery. I want you to find out where that was, and how many they took. Her art bag was empty when we found it, and we think that the killer took a souvenir from Stacey Gavin, so maybe . . .’
‘The DCC’s expanding his collection?’
The inspector’s look turned the deepest black. ‘Shut the fuck up, Griff, or I’ll pass your thoughts on to him or, better still, to Alex. She’d have your nuts in a vice if she heard you joke about her old man like that.’
Montell frowned defensively. ‘Why should it be a joke? You can’t deny it’s a link. Why shouldn’t we follow it up?’
‘Because some of us value our careers. Now go and do what you’re fucking told.’
His gaze switched to Singh. ‘Tarvil, while you’re waiting for the crank calls to start, I want you to track down a man called Dominic Padstow, Zrinka’s old boyfriend. That’s all I know about him; just the name. Then get in touch with Stacey Gavin’s parents. There was no sign in the initial investigation that she and Zrinka knew each other, but double-check it. Run the guy Padstow’s name past Stacey’s folks too, and see if it means anything to them.’
He looked at Montell. ‘Griff, once you’ve made those calls to North Berwick, I want you to take Zrinka’s PDA, and go through her contacts file. See if any names there appear in Stacey Gavin’s circle of friends as well.’
He stood, ushering them towards the door. ‘While you’re doing that, I’ve got a job of my own to handle. Drazen Boras hasn’t surfaced yet, according to his mother and her secretary. There’s something worrying about that; I reckon it’s time we tracked him down.’
