the killer seems to have had a thing about art, and about female artists. So what? I’m forced to ask myself. The shootings, those of the women that is, look ritualistic, and maybe they were.
‘Yet that doesn’t mean to say that there wasn’t a very simple motive behind them, one of the oldest in the book, namely, the hellacious fury of a cast-off lover. Both women had affairs with this man, both dumped him. The likeliest scenario facing us at this moment, indeed the only scenario, is that he took his revenge by stalking them and killing them, with Harry Paul, Zrinka’s new man, thrown in as a bonus.’
Maggie frowned. ‘He hid the boy’s body, didn’t he?’
‘Yes; in the bushes.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘To keep us confused, maybe; to buy himself extra getaway time, maybe. We’ll ask him when we find him.’
‘Do that, but as one detective to another, think about this: what if both girls dumped him because they found out something about him?’
Stevie looked thoughtful as he picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘Then we’ll have to look into that too. But if that was the case, why kill Harry?’
‘Because he was there? Or was he afraid that the boy knew whatever it was too? Do you have a name for this suspect?’
‘We do. He’s called Dominic Padstow: only he isn’t, and that’s why he really has become our top target.
‘That’s the name Zrinka and Stacey knew him by. We’ve run every conceivable check on him. With Gregor Broughton’s authority, we’ve consulted the Department of Work and Pensions, the passport service and every public body and agency where he should be listed. But he isn’t. There is no Dominic Padstow anywhere. He doesn’t exist.’
‘Maybe he’s a foreign national.’
‘Amy says no. She’s met him, and she says that he was British; she was at Zrinka’s once, just after she and Padstow had got back from a weekend trip to Amsterdam. When she got there, they were still unpacking and some of their stuff was lying on Zrinka’s desk. She remembers quite clearly, she says, seeing two UK passports there.’
‘So what do you do next?’
‘That depends on Gregor Broughton. We have a likeness of him, a scan taken from a portrait painted by Stacey, that her dad says is absolutely spot on. We’ll need Crown Office authority to release it, but if the fiscal gives us the go-ahead, that’s what we’re going to do. Mario’s gone across to see him in Fife tonight; he lives in Elie, apparently.’
‘Does he indeed?’ Maggie murmured.
‘Yes. Rather him than me: it’s a ghost town these days. Anyway, as soon as he gives us the nod, and clears the press release that Alan Royston’s drafted, we’re ready to go. Let’s hope it flushes the guy out: otherwise we’re at a dead end.’
Forty-two
Paula had been in the last stage of her major kitchen reorganisation when Mario had finally made it back from Fife, twenty minutes after ten.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she had asked.
‘Hell, no! It implies that you’re going to do most of the cooking in this household and that’s fine by me.’
They had watched the late-night news on the ITN satellite channel, sharing a bottle of Morellino di Scansano, a strong cherry-scented wine from southern Tuscany that Paula had begun to import on Mario’s mother’s recommendation, and so it had been well after midnight before they had begun to sleep off the day’s exertions, after adding a few more.
The head of CID was still bleary-eyed, and ten minutes past his usual starting time of eight thirty, as he settled in behind his desk. He glanced up as his aide’s head appeared round the door.
‘Morning, boss,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Christ, do I look that bad?’
‘Put it this way, the staff are saying they’ve seen you looking better. In fact they’re even saying they’ve seen Dan Pringle looking better.’ McGuire’s predecessor had been a notoriously slow starter. ‘Alan Royston’s outside,’ Pye continued. ‘He wants to run through the media coverage with you.’
‘Aye, okay, tell him to come in. Hold the coffee, though: I’ve just left breakfast, and I’ve still got Paul Newman’s Colombian Especial coming out my fucking ears.’
‘Could be worse. It could be Kopi Luwak.’
‘What the hell is Kopi Luwak? Should the Viareggio delis be stocking it?’
‘I doubt it. It’s a very rare Sumatran product, made from beans found in the shit of a small jungle animal, the civet cat, after it’s eaten them. True.’
‘Jesus! I won’t ask what it does with the local tea leaves. Now please, Sammy, fuck off.’
The sergeant left with a grin on his face, and moments later Royston walked briskly into the room. ‘How have we done?’ McGuire asked him.
‘Very well. Yesterday was a slow news day, so the investigation is all over the front pages of all the Scottish papers. The early editions all led with Boras’s “million-pound bounty”, as the
‘Yes, I know. I caught some when I got in last night, and again this morning. Good. That was well done, Alan, to get it round everybody so late on.’
‘Modern systems make that easy,’ the media manager replied.
McGuire grinned. ‘Shut up and take the credit.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve had requests for follow-up interviews with you from STV, Sky and Forth News; I’ll take the credit for them too.’
‘No, you can take the media flak for turning them down. I’ve got nothing to add to what’s in the release. Every word of that was cleared with the Crown Office, and I’m not going to risk compromising it by having others put into my mouth. I want you to pass that message down the line to Stevie and his team, just in case an enterprising reporter tries to doorstep them.’
‘I’ve done that already. I’ve told them that anything relating to Padstow must come out of my office or yours.’
‘Good.’ He paused as the phone rang, then picked it up. ‘Sammy, what is it?’
‘I’ve got Mr Keith Barker on the line, Mr Boras’s assistant. He’d like a word with you.’
‘And I’d like a few with him.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Barker,’ he said. ‘This had better be private, Alan.’
‘Pity, but I understand.’ He picked up his papers and left.
‘Okay, Sam,’ McGuire grunted, as the door closed. ‘You can put him through, and don’t listen in.’ He waited.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ A smooth, well-lubricated voice sounded in his ear. ‘Good morning to you.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ the detective snapped. ‘You’ve got some fucking nerve calling me after that stunt you and your boss pulled yesterday.’
There was a silence. ‘Mr McGuire,’ Barker protested, eventually, ‘I’m not used to being addressed in that way. When you speak to me you are effectively speaking to Mr Boras.’
‘Fine, for he was fucking lucky that he left this building yesterday before I could get my hands on him. You can feel free to pass anything I say on to him. I can understand a man with his wealth and in his situation wanting to do what he did. I can’t understand, and I can’t accept, his pulling it out of the hat like a white fucking rabbit, without prior warning or consultation! You’re his adviser in this area: you must have known that.’
‘Mr Boras is a man of independent mind: he can be impulsive.’
‘And so can I, mate; another reason why you were lucky to get away unscathed. You’re supposed to be a professional, yet I’ve just had to send Alan Royston, your opposite number in my camp, out of the room so I could speak to you without him trying to grab the phone out of my hand to tell you what he thinks of you for letting your
