Private Investigations (33 page)

Fifty-Eight

The morning after I’d made my promise to Amanda Dennis, I awoke from a confused dream. It was set at the beginning of the
Godfather
movie; I was the undertaker Bonasera and a grotesque male version of Amanda took the role of Don Corleone.

I’d given my friend a commitment that I hoped I wouldn’t come to regret. When it became clear that I was heading for the exit door of the police service she had offered me, tentatively, a permanent role with the Security Service. I’d have been in charge of the Scottish outstation, installed as Clyde Houseman’s boss. I turned her down, firmly, citing two reasons, the first being that in his shoes, I’d have resented me, the second, and by far the more significant, being that most of the work would have bored me rigid and that any that didn’t might have involved an element of risk, the kind that I’d promised Sarah I’d avoid in my middle years.

She’d used the help that she was giving me with Gates to back me into a corner. I’d have done the same, but I’d been deadly serious in the proviso I’d attached to my acceptance.

Having put the daft dream out of my mind and having seen Sarah off to work, I had nothing to do. I had given my ‘advice’ to the four detectives; whether they took it or not, that it was up to them. With that time on my hands, I decided to devote the morning to administration.

Not that there was much of it to do. Along with her report, Carrie McDaniels had given me a detailed invoice; her terms specified ‘Payment within seven days’, but with the fate of the man Mackail and his company fresh in my mind, I decided to do better than that. I put the details of her bill into my purchase ledger, then set up a payment through my business bank account.

I had thought about playing a few holes of golf with anyone who might have been hanging around the club, but a note on the bank’s website told me that it would take an hour before I could complete my cash transfer. That, and the fact that it was freezing outside, put exercise on the back burner.

That frustration, and the fact that it had to do with Carrie, triggered something that I’d forgotten completely: the memory stick that she’d given me with her report on the insurance claim for Rachel Higgins’ stolen jewellery. Mentally, I’d filed it under ‘Irrelevant’, but with nothing else to do I retrieved it from the pocket where it had lain since it had been handed it to me, and plugged it into a USB port on my computer.

There wasn’t much to it; as Carrie had said, the swag consisted of three items, a necklace, matching bracelet and a pair of earrings, diamonds set in platinum. Each had been photographed, at the insistence of the insurers, no doubt, and it was equally certain that these had been circulated after the theft to every jeweller in the land, and to all the auction houses.

Waste of time, all of it. There was no chance of any of it being offered for sale through any legitimate outlet. The stuff would have been sold on for one third of its insured value, tops, on the ‘no questions asked’ market, and would never be recovered.

Carrie had done a thorough job for her client; she had interviewed Rachel Higgins, the investigating police officers, and the management of Mackiltee Lodge, the boutique hotel where the theft had occurred. The story was consistent; the jewels had been put in the hotel safe overnight, and in the morning they were gone. No alarms had been triggered and the safe did not appear to have been forced.

In my time I had seen dozens of theft reports that were virtually identical; I had even compiled a few. In Carrie’s, there was only one question I’d have asked that she hadn’t. Or so it appeared; she might have covered the base and thought the answer not worth recording. All the same . . .

The phone number of the hotel was on the file. Out of nothing more than curiosity I dialled it.

My call was answered by one of those accents that had evolved through many generations of poshness. ‘Mackiltee Lodge, Jane Mackiltee speaking. How can I help you?’

‘Good morning,’ I replied, in my finest Lanarkshire, ‘my name is Skinner. I’m reviewing the insurance company report into a theft from your hotel a few months ago, of jewellery belonging to Mrs Rachel Higgins. It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ I added quickly. ‘Just a belt and braces thing.’

‘Will it lead to a reduction of the outrageous renewal quote we’ve just been given?’

‘I can’t promise anything,’ I told her, truthfully. ‘But you never know,’ I added, vaguely.

‘Ah well. What is it?’

‘I just want to clarify one thing. Who put the valuables in the safe?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘I hope there’s no implication . . .’

‘Absolutely none,’ I assured her, although there might have been. ‘While you were doing it, did anyone else see you?’

‘No.’

I was about to thank her and hang up, when I heard a slight hitch in her throat, an intake of hesitancy. ‘Well,’ she added, ‘apart from the client, that is.’

‘Mrs Higgins?’

‘No, no, not her. Their security person, Mr, Mr . . . I can’t remember his name off the top of my head, but it began with an H . . . not Higgins, he wasn’t family, something else. He brought the items down, he showed them to me, and then he insisted on observing as I secured them. That’s what happened.’

Was it indeed?
I thought.

‘No problem there, in that case,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Fifty-Nine

It’s all too easy for a cop engaged in a complex investigation to become obsessive; as soon as that happens his judgement is liable to be impaired.

I recognised the signs as I ended my call to Mackiltee Lodge. Walter Hurrell, not Rachel Higgins, took the stolen jewels to the safe and he watched the owner as she put them in there.

Yes, Bob, and that meant precisely what?

In all probably, it meant nothing. Hurrell was Eden’s driver; of course he’d have taken them to the hotel, and been put up there, since it was remote. He was his minder, responsible for his personal security. It was natural that he should have taken the family valuables to the safe, and if he’d watched the owner as she put them in, he was only doing his job properly.

‘Forget it,’ I told myself, just as my email inbox pinged to let me know that I had a new arrival. I opened it and saw a message from Sauce Haddock, headed simply, ‘For Info’.

There was no text, only an attachment. I clicked on it, and waited as the Word software booted up and a document appeared. The page was headed ‘Callum O Sullivan’, and the text below was a list of names, in alphabetical order; his party guests, for sure. I scrolled down from the top. Most of the names from A to G were unknown to me, apart from a European Tour golfer and a couple of football people, but one did stand out, even though it wasn’t news to me. ‘Francey, Dean’, there because of his connection to Sullivan’s nephew, Maxwell Harris.

It was when I got to ‘H’ that I sparked. I’d expected to see Anna Harmony, listed under her adopted name, but the entire Higgins family were there as well, Eden, Rachel and Rory. And so was Walter Hurrell.

Obsession edged towards paranoia: that name was coming up far too often. I was very keen to see him on video with Sammy Pye and Lottie Mann facing him across an interrogation room table. If I was a betting man, he would have been carrying my money in the ‘Who shot Dino?’ stakes, but the odds would have been miserably short.

I was still contemplating an imaginary call to Ladbrokes . . . other bookmakers are available . . . when the FaceTime icon started bouncing at the foot of my screen. I hit ‘Accept’ and waited for a few seconds, until my own onscreen face was replaced by that of Amanda Dennis. She had her back to her office window, and behind her I could see the grey pillars on the terrace outside.

‘Quick one, Bob,’ she said. ‘Your man gets back tomorrow, six a.m. What do you want done with him?’

‘I want him detained within the base,’ I replied. ‘They should say nothing about what’s happened to his family. That’ll be for the interrogating officers.’

‘No.’ Her face set in a frown. ‘It’ll be for you; only you can go in there.’

‘Christ, Amanda,’ I exclaimed, ‘that’ll cause a riot in ScotServe HQ. I’m breaking enough protocols as it is.’

‘I don’t give a stuff about ScotServe, or its increasingly unpopular chief constable. That base is the most secure place in the United Kingdom and they won’t have plods running all over it. You have standing within my service and it’s on that basis that they’ll let you in.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if that’s the deal. In which case, I’ll be keeping my visit strictly to myself, in the short term. Thanks for this, Amanda. Please tell them to expect me at midday.’

Sixty

‘When I was a laddie,’ Dan Provan said, ‘I used to go fishin’ with my grandpa, on the Clyde, where it runs through Cambuslang. There were hardly any fish there, and those that were wis only a few inches long, but every now and then we’d catch one . . . or he would. I can still remember them lying on the path, flappin’ and gaspin’ till he chucked them back in.’ He smiled. ‘That’s how I feel now, like one o’ them.’

‘A fish out of water?’

‘Exactly, Lottie. See where we were wi’ Skinner yesterday, Newhouse? As far as I’m concerned that’s the boundary of civilisation. Through here? Cannae get my breath.’

‘I’ll throw you back in the river when we’re done here,’ the DI promised, ‘but first we’ve got Mr Hurrell to deal with.’

‘Do Glasgow warrants count in Edinburgh?’

‘Don’t be daft. You know they do.’ She looked at him, as they stood on the pavement. ‘How do you think we should play this?’ she asked, her higher rank deferring to his greater experience.

The sergeant glanced at the four large uniformed officers who stood behind her. ‘Knock politely,’ he replied. ‘If that does nothin’, one of these lads can knock a bit harder. The search warrant gives us right of entry.’

Research had established that the main home of Eden Higgins and his family was an entire house in Moray Place, restored by the businessman to its original eighteenth-century splendour. Its garden flat, which would have been part of the original servants’ quarters, was occupied by Rory Higgins. Because access to the rear of the building was limited, all but one of the family cars were kept in a nearby lane. What had once been stables had become trendy mews conversions; Walter Hurrell lived in one, above a garage big enough to hold four vehicles.

The plan was to arrest him at home, when he returned from work in the evening, but the building had been kept under observation overnight and he had not been seen to leave. Because of the assessed risk, the cobbled lane had been sealed off at either end.

‘You do the honours,’ Mann said.

Provan stepped up to the green-painted door and rapped on the handle. They waited for a full minute then tried again, with the same lack or response.

‘Enough?’ Provan asked.

‘Yes,’ Mann replied. ‘Let’s go in.’ She stood aside as one of the uniforms stepped forward with a red ram. One swing was all that was needed to open the door. The quartet, led by a sergeant, stepped inside and ran up the stairs, weapons drawn, with warning cries of, ‘Armed police.’

Mann made to follow, but the DS held her back. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘This is their job. We wait till it’s clear. I once saw a young DC get shot by going in too early.’

As he spoke, the leader of the armed squad reappeared, at the top of the stairway. ‘You can come up now,’ he called to them. ‘He’s in . . . but then again, he’s not.’

Provan led the way. ‘In there,’ the other sergeant said, pointing towards an open door.

Walter Hurrell was sitting up in bed, naked, leaning back against the headboard, with a duvet bunched at his waist, and a gun lying in his lap. He was staring at the doorway, with the same expression that had registered in his eyes in the instant before he was shot, neatly, just above his right eye.

Sixty-One

‘Don’t take this personally, Detective Inspector,’ DCC Mario McGuire murmured, solemnly, as they stood on the wide stone steps. ‘This isn’t me elbowing my way into your investigation; it’s me supporting you.’

‘I know that, sir,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘If you hadn’t said you were coming I’d have asked for you, or someone else senior who knows Edinburgh. I’m a Weegie cop; people like this are well above my pay grade.’

She looked up at the towering grey terraced mansion. ‘In Glasgow we wouldn’t call this a house; we’d call it a hotel.’

The black-painted front door swung open. A man stood, holding its handle, surveying them as if he was deciding whether to send them to the tradesman’s entrance. He was slim, age mid-fifties, Mann guessed, and perfectly groomed. He wore what McGuire recognised as the unofficial uniform of Her Majesty’s Counsel, black jacket, pinstripe trousers and a blue and white striped shirt.

‘Officers,’ he said. ‘Mr Higgins is ready for you. He is in the ballroom; if you’ll come this way.’

‘Are you Mr Higgins’ lawyer?’ McGuire asked as they climbed a wide flight of stairs, lit from a cupola above.

‘No, sir,’ the man replied without a flicker of a smile. ‘I am Robotham, the housekeeper.’ From his right, the deputy chief heard a snorting sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. ‘This residence,’ he continued, ‘takes considerable management, as you can imagine. Mr Higgins regards it as a national monument, because of its considerable history. In the nineteenth century it was the residence of two lords president of the Court of Session. Later, like many houses in Moray Place, it was put to commercial use, finally as the offices of an accountancy firm, before Mr Higgins rescued it and restored it to its original state.’

The DCC wondered whether that had included the small security camera that had observed their arrival, but decided not to ask.

The ballroom was on the first floor; it was huge, accessed by eight-foot-high double doors. Mr Robotham opened the one on the right and held it for them. ‘The police officers,’ he announced.

The space was huge; the room covered almost the full width of the house. The far wall was mostly windows, and there was a wide fireplace at either end with marble mantelpieces and mirrors above. There was a Persian rug on the floor; looking at it the DI suspected that its floor space was the equivalent of her entire house, and more.

For a brief moment, she thought they were alone, that a trick had been played, until she realised that McGuire was looking to his right, where two high-backed chairs were set in front of the hearth, in which a log fire burned. A small middle-aged man stood beside one of them, looking at them. Beyond him, with an elbow crooked against a corner of the mantelshelf, there was a taller figure, someone both officers knew well.

‘Welcome,’ Eden Higgins said, moving to greet them as they approached. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking Mr Skinner to join us. I’m alone here; my wife and son have flown to Monaco for the weekend in the company jet. As soon as I heard what had happened, I was shocked, I felt the need of a friend, so I called him and asked him to come.’

Skinner glared at his back. ‘But you didn’t tell me why,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have no locus here. I’m not a lawyer, I’m nothing more than a private citizen.’ His eyes moved to the new arrivals. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ he told them, ‘and heard about Hurrell.’ He moved away from the fireplace. ‘I’m out of here, Eden.’

‘Bob,’ Higgins protested, ‘I asked you here as a friend, nothing else. I was appalled when I heard about poor Walter. He was my right-hand man. Other than my family, I had nobody closer. I just can’t believe that he’d kill himself.’

To McGuire, the man’s distress seemed genuine. ‘It’s all right, Mr Higgins, we have no objection to the chief,’ he smiled as he realised that his tongue had slipped, ‘. . . to Mr Skinner being here. Bob, stay, please. This isn’t a formal interview; it’s not a problem.’

Skinner looked at Lottie Mann. ‘Is that okay with you too, Inspector? I take it that you found Mr Hurrell?’

‘It is, and I did,’ she agreed, as the quartet moved back towards the fire.

‘Where’s your evil twin?’ he asked.

She smiled, briefly. ‘Dan’s still at the scene,’ she replied, ‘supervising the search.’

‘You’re sure that it was suicide?’

Mann nodded. ‘It seems nailed on. He was sat up in bed, with an empty bottle of red and a glass on the table beside him. There was one shot just above the right eyebrow, with powder burns around the entry wound.’

‘Was there an exit wound?’

‘Yes. The bullet was embedded in the headboard. It’s been sent for comparison.’

‘Did they do a gunshot residue test on him?’

‘That was being done when I left,’ Mann said. ‘Given the proximity of the shot, there’ll be particles all over the bed, but if there’s a concentration on his hand and forearm, that’ll prove he shot himself.’

‘Weapon?’

‘The CSIs said it’s a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard automatic, point three eight calibre. A lethal little bastard.’

Skinner nodded. ‘Yes it is,’ he agreed. ‘I know ’cos I’ve been shot by one of them,’ he added, deadpan.

‘Why?’ Eden Higgins exclaimed. ‘Why would Walter shoot himself? And where would he get a gun, for God’s sake?’

‘He was ex-military,’ McGuire pointed out. ‘That wouldn’t be a problem to him. As for the why . . .’ He paused. ‘Sit down, please, Mr Higgins.’

The billionaire, still looking slightly dazed, nodded and sank into one of the armchairs. ‘I just don’t get it,’ he murmured.

‘When DI Mann found Mr Hurrell’s body,’ the DCC continued, ‘she and her colleagues were there to arrest him for questioning in connection with the murders of three people. One of them was Jock Hodgson, who helped Hurrell crew the
Princess Alison
, your missing boat.’

‘Why?’ Higgins vocabulary seemed to have been reduced to a single word.

‘Jock helped Hector Mackail steal the
Princess
,’ Skinner said, bluntly, ‘he and another man. It looks certain that Walter Hurrell killed the two of them, in retribution. What my friends are getting round to asking you, Eden, is quite simple. Did you know, and was he acting on your orders?’

The man stared up at him; for all his influence and all his wealth, he seemed very small and vulnerable.

‘No,’ he protested, weakly at first. ‘No!’ he repeated, more loudly. ‘No!’ he shouted, grasping the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. ‘No, I did not!’ He glared at Skinner. ‘Bob, get your damn friends out of here. If they want to speak to me again, they can contact my solicitors. As for you and I,’ he added, with an icy edge to his tone, ‘our business is done too. Send me an invoice for your services.’