she isn’t going to enjoy the experience; that I promise you.’
‘What do you think it is? Have I stumbled on somebody under surveillance, or on witness protection?’
‘Dunno. I’ll find out when I get to Fettes. Meantime, Amy Noone’s on hold, Griff. We’ll go to her salon, once I’ve dealt with Dottie. I’ll drop you at your place on the way there and pick you up again when I’m done. No offence, old son, but you really could do with a shower and a change of kit.’
Forty-four
They found a small enamelled plate set in a wall, beside a tenement doorway a few yards south of the city’s Central Library, opposite the Soviet-style monolith that houses Scotland’s National Library, and many of its greatest treasures.
‘High-end Talent,’ Ray Wilding read. ‘Top floor. Funny, big man, isn’t it?’ he mused, to Tarvil Singh. ‘There’s an unwritten rule that says that whenever we visit a building like this, the office we want is always on the top fucking floor. Stevie Steele tells a story about being out with Dan Pringle once, and they had a climb like this. They get to the top and Dan gasps, with the breath he’s got left, “After this, a refreshment will be in order.” Any excuse for him, though.’
‘And you,’ Singh grunted. ‘You used to work for him, remember.’
Wilding grinned. ‘We’ll see. Let’s go.’
They stepped through the door, into a narrow corridor, and began the climb up a stone staircase. ‘Talking about bevvy,’ said the detective constable, as they passed the first landing, ‘do you think it’s true, about that being the real reason why DCI Mackenzie’s off sick?’
‘That’s what the gossip mill says, after he was seen coming out of a clinic. But I don’t know, any more than you do. All I do know is that the division’s run better with Stevie in charge. My worry is that if Mackenzie does come back, the place won’t be big enough for the two of them. He might sort out that boy Montell, though.’
‘You want some advice, Sarge,’ Singh grunted, beginning to pant as he heaved his bulk up the stairway.
‘Go on, then.’
‘You lay off Griff.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re doing yourself no favours; worse, you’re making a fool of yourself. The guy was a sergeant in South Africa, and he’s got “flyer” written all over him. You’re coming across as plain jealous.’
‘You left out the bit about him knocking off Alex Skinner.’
‘I also left out the bit about him being hard enough to crack you like a walnut if he heard you saying that. Just think about what I’m telling you, that’s all.’
Wilding frowned. ‘Jealous?’ he murmured.
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘Okay, I’ll think about it,’ he said, as they reached the attic floor.
There was a door at the end of the landing, with a glazed panel bearing the logo that they had seen on the plate at street level. Wilding rapped on the frame, then led the way into an office space that seemed to cover the full width of the building. It was open plan, apart from a glass office in the far corner where a woman sat behind a desk. The area was flooded with light from Velux windows. The sergeant glanced around expecting to find the walls filled with posters and pictures of the agency’s clients but, to his surprise, they were bare.
‘Yes, gentlemen?’ a young man greeted them brightly. A big, broad lad, in jeans and a Coldplay T-shirt, he was well spoken and looked to be still in his teens; he was the only other person in the room, and judging by its furnishing, High-end Talent’s only other employee.
‘Police,’ said Singh, only a little winded by the climb. ‘We’re here to see Hope Dell.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
The big detective constable sighed, then smiled. ‘You didn’t hear me, son. We’re the polis; we don’t do appointments. We want to talk to her about Harry Paul.’
The boy flushed slightly. ‘Of course. Sorry, gentlemen. Just hold on a minute, please.’
The woman had looked up; as he walked towards her cubicle, she rose from behind her desk. ‘Mum, it’s the police,’ they heard him say, as he opened the door. She nodded, and beckoned to them, an invitation to join her. She was dark-haired, of medium height, and wore a pale blue suit over a matching polo-neck that had the smoothness of cashmere. Singh’s parents were in the rag trade; he knew quality when he saw it.
‘Put the coffee on, Jacky,’ she told her son, as the two men approached. ‘Come in, take a seat.’ She directed them to three designer chairs, grouped round a coffee table.
Wilding thanked her, then introduced himself and the detective constable. ‘We’ve come about Harry Paul,’ he told her.
‘Yes, poor lad, it’s appalling. Tragic for him and for his friends; the door had just opened for them, and they were about to make themselves some serious money.’
‘There’s one possible connection,’ the sergeant told her, ‘between Harry and the man who’s our chief suspect at the moment. We’re trying to establish whether there were any others.’ He took the likeness of Padstow from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Is this person familiar to you?’ he asked.
She took it from him and peered at it. ‘I saw this in today’s
Wilding stared at her. ‘Yes, but how did you . . .?’
‘Stacey was a client of mine. When you arrived, I didn’t think you’d just come to talk just about Harry; I thought you’d be asking about all three.’
‘Zrinka Boras was a client as well?’
‘Yes.’ She paused as the young man brought in a tray, holding a jug of filter coffee, milk, a plate of biscuits and three mugs, and laid it on the table. ‘Stay with us, Jacky,’ she told him, then turned back to the detectives. ‘Clearly you don’t know a lot about my agency. High-end Talent has only branched into music fairly recently, since my son left school, and decided that he wanted to work with me and study part-time, rather than go to college. Before that I represented writers and artists exclusively.’
‘Isn’t that an unusual spread?’ asked Singh.
‘Not really. Multi-talent agencies are quite common, although a business my size tends to concentrate on one discipline. I started my working life as an editor with a Scottish publishing house. I put my career on hold when I had Jacky here, and his sister, but when I was ready to restart I found that the industry was contracting and that there were no openings, not here at any rate. It had occurred to me as an editor that virtually all of the writers whose work was pitched to me were represented by agencies outside Scotland, and when I did some research I discovered that there were few here, worth the name at any rate. So I set myself up, working from home, focusing on general and children’s fiction, and before too long I had a respectable client list.’
‘When did art come into it?’
‘After I lost my husband. He was killed in a car crash four years ago, and I was left with two kids to raise and a limited income. I had to make the agency grow, but it wasn’t just a matter of taking on more authors: this business is driven by talent, not volume, so growth is dependent on finding the right clients, and you can’t plan for that. Diversifying into art was my brother-in-law’s idea: he has a passionate interest in it, and he knew that my core degree was in art history. He pointed out that there are many artists who could do much better for themselves if they had commercial representation. I did some more research, and I found that he was right. So I began by running a little strategically placed advertising. Then I produced a leaflet and I circulated it around the Scottish art schools, and the new division began to grow. I don’t sell their work direct to customers, not as a rule, or through galleries, for there would be hardly any money left for the client if I did that. I maintain a database that’s available to interior designers and architects, and to a few private buyers who are registered with me, and I look to develop new markets for them. Currently I’m opening up a website, where people will be able to buy signed and numbered prints on line.’
‘I see,’ said Wilding. ‘So how did you meet Stacey and Zrinka?’
‘Zrinka approached me a couple of years ago, more or less as soon as she moved here. She was young, but she had a very sharp business brain, inherited, no doubt.’
‘You knew her background?’
