`Good God! No wonder he hung himself rather than face that.'
`Mmm,' Skinner muttered. 'Convenient all round.
`You know, it was a bit macabre for me, that time,' said Pitkeathly. 'Death seemed to be following me around. I spoke to Tony Manson only a few days before I saw you, and then he was murdered. I go looking for Alberni, and he dies. They say that death comes in threes. I'm glad that hasn't been true in this case.'
`Don't be so sure,' said Skinner. 'You say you spoke to Tony Manson. How well did you know him?'
`Not very. I'm a curler. A member of his club. We used to pass the time of day, but I'd heard too much talk about him to want to be a close friend.'
`When you spoke to him,' asked Skinner, 'did you mention your Spanish problem?'
`As a matter of fact, I did.'
`Did he seem interested?'
`As a matter of fact, he did.'
`Did you tell him you were coming to see me?'
Pitkeathly thought for a second. 'Yes, I did. He asked if I wasn't going a bit over the top. I remember saying he should try telling that to my wife! Poor man. Whatever he may or may not have been, that was a brutal way to die.'
At the far end of the room, the toastmaster's gavel called the gathering to order.
`Must go,' said Pitkeathly. 'Thanks again for sorting it all out.' He slipped away into the throng.
`What was all that about?' asked Archie Nelson.
`I'm not sure,' said Skinner softly, as if he had been asking himself the same question. 'Maybe nothing at all. Maybe a hell of a lot. Either way, I'm going to have to find out.'
Eighty-nine
‘Now isn't that interesting, boys?’.
Skinner looked at Andy Martin and Brian Mackie across the low coffee table. He had fidgeted his way through the excellent Balmoral lunch, through the diffident speech by the Heart of Midlothian manager, and through the rather more fulsome address by the club chairman. But even before the applause had died away, he had called headquarters for a pick shy;up car.
Now, back in his office, Andy Martin caught his mood at once. 'Isn't it just, boss. It's just a wee thread, but who knows what it's tied into. Alberni and Inch, two of the very few people who either knew about the InterCosta fraud or were linked into it, have both wound up dead. Now we find out that Tony Manson, who bank-rolled the company in the first place, was told about it too — just before he died a violent death.'
`Spot on,' said Skinner, 'Maybe a pure coincidence, but it's something that makes alarm bells go off in our policemen's minds. So what are we going to do about it?' He glanced at Brian Mackie.
`There's only one thing left for us to do, sir, as I see it anyway, and that's to pull in Richard Cocozza. Ainscow's done his runner: we may never see him again. We've been waiting either for Lucan to show, or for some lucky break that might kick-start the investigation again. This may be all the luck we're going to get. We've found out that Manson knew about the fraud. Did it come as a surprise to him? Was he bothered about it? Did he talk to anyone about it? Wee Cocozza's the only person left for us to ask. Let's have him in.'
Skinner looked at Andy Martin. The blond head nodded.
`Right. I agree. Go and get him, lads. Bring him here, rather than taking him to Torphichen Place. Let's make the wee bugger feel important. Let's give him the Head Office treatment.'
Ninety
‘You are certain that he's in there, Mario?'
Abso-bloody-lutely, sir. He left here at eight thirty-two, and walked to his office in Queen Street. I tailed him myself, and young John brought the car round. He left again at eleven fifty-three and walked back here. I tailed him again. Here he's been ever since; that's, what, three hours and a quarter. All that time I've been watching the front door, and John's been watching the garden gate.'
'Is there a Mrs Cocozza?'
Not here, sir. They separated a year ago.'
Richard Cocozza's flat was on the ground floor of a converted grey stone mill-house on the banks of the Water of Leith, where the river wound its way through Dean Village, a city-centre enclave whose quaintness had been eroded by the attempts of various property developers to make it exclusive. The entry-phone system seemed to be in working order, but repeated pressing of the button alongside the name `Cocozza' had produced not a sound from the intercom.
`Try another,' said Martin.
Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.
`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.
`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come down and let us in, please.'
`Yeah, sure.'
Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see-'
Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.
`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Night shy;shift, are you?'
The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'
`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.
`Which may have to be quite a lot,' muttered Martin, as the steel lift doors closed.
The entrance to Cocozza's flat was set back in an alcove off the hall. There was a second bell-push in the centre of the door. Martin pressed it for a good twenty seconds, but its buzz was the only sound from within the apartment. He took his finger from the button. 'Okay, I have reason to believe that there may be a person in this flat who is involved in the commission of crime. Mario, see if you can do it the quick way. If the thing's mortised we may have to send for the locksmith, but try the size elevens first.'
Obediently, McGuire kicked out with his right heel, once, twice, three times. With the third blow, they heard the keeper of the lock tear loose, and the oak door swung open.
Four doors opened off a central corridor. One, at the end, lay ajar. Martin led the way along the hall and stepped into the room.
'Oh Jesus. Not another.'
Cocozza was sitting slumped in a dining chair, with his back to the door. He was held in his awkward position by black insulating tape which secured his forearms and ankles to the frame of the chair. He was naked, save for a pair of badly soiled white underpants. On his back, shoulders and upper arms, large angry bruises stood out against the yellowness of his skin. The back of his head was a mass of hair, bone and gristle matted together by blood and brain tissue.
Slowly and hesitantly, the three detectives stepped around the body, being careful not to bump against it, or touch anything in the room. Martin crouched on one knee and looked up into Cocozza's face. It was covered in blood, not only from the cranial wounds, but from the nose and from a cut over the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. A face shy;cloth or small hand towel had been stuffed into the mouth, making the cheeks puff grotesquely.
`Look there, sir.'
Martin followed McGuire's pointing finger. A line of blue circular indentations ran up each shin. Each knee was
