‘If they’re offered, thank you,’ she said. ‘Yes, I was a DI last time we met. I’m sure you remember that occasion. You’ve put on a bit of weight since then,’ she observed, ‘but you’re better without the gangster moustache.’

  Lee’s expression froze for an instant. He had represented her ex-husband and his parents in an attempt to seize custody of her son in a hearing before a sheriff, only for his case to be eviscerated by Alex Skinner, appearing on Lottie’s behalf. ‘Vaguely,’ he murmured as he ushered them into a large reception hall. ‘My client’s in the drawing room. I’m sure you remember the way from your last visit.’

  ‘I do, but lead on. Earn your fee.’ McGuire’s right eyebrow twitched as he threw her a half smile.

  Faye Bulloch was waiting for them in a large reception room. She stayed seated as they entered, her back to its bay window, a cigarette between two fingers. ‘How often do you see that these days?’ the DCC whispered to his colleague.

  The police officers took seats facing her on the white semi-circular couch. It could do with a clean, Mann thought, remembering how immaculate everything had been when she and Dan Provan had visited, in the aftermath of Leo Speight’s death.

  ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got a client coming in forty-five minutes.’

  ‘A client?’

  She looked up at the DCC. ‘I’m a podiatrist,’ she replied. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Deputy Chief Constable Mario McGuire. Podiatrist,’ he repeated. ‘That’s the same as a chiropodist, isn’t it.’

  She nodded, and for an instant Mann imagined Provan beside her, whispering in her ear, It sounds better, that’s all.

  ‘I’ve had to go back to work,’ Bulloch said, indignantly. ‘My late husband left our children well provided for, but he left me nothing of my own.’

  ‘Apart from a multi-million pound house and the funds to run it,’ the DCI observed.

  As she spoke, Moss Lee leaned forward and laid his phone on the coffee table. It was set to record. McGuire shrugged his broad shoulders, took his own from a pocket in his tunic and did the same. ‘I want to begin,’ he said, ‘by offering you and your children the sincere condolences of the police services for your loss. Regardless of its end, Sandra had a distinguished career as an officer, and that hasn’t been forgotten.’

  ‘I’m sure Moss will note that,’ Bulloch replied, icily. ‘He’s here because . . .’

  ‘We know why he’s here,’ the DCC interrupted. ‘You don’t need to spell it out: he’s watching your back. Now, bearing in mind your time frame, can we begin?’ He nodded in Mann’s direction, as if giving her a cue.

  ‘How do you feel about your sister’s death?’ she asked, abruptly.

  Bulloch stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the table: the detective made no attempt to keep her distaste from showing. ‘No comment,’ the woman hissed.

  Lee’s back straightened as he sat stiffly upright. ‘We were told this was an informal interview, Mrs Mann,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t appreciate that question.’

  Mario McGuire leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on the solicitor advocate. ‘That’s Detective Chief Inspector Mann to you, chum. And let’s be clear about your role. You’re here to advise your client if that’s necessary, at her request, not as a legal entitlement. You do not address DCI Mann directly, or me, and you don’t interrupt us.’

  Lee looked back at him, not quite in the eye: his mouth opened as if to argue, but he thought better of it and settled back down.

  ‘When were you last in contact with Sandra?’ Mann continued.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since Leo died, the poor love,’ Bulloch replied. ‘Neither have my kids; her own nephew and her niece and she’s cut them out of her life. Imagine that! Why are you talking to me anyway?’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve told me she’s dead, so what’s all this about?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish your sister’s movements in the period leading up to her death, Ms Bulloch,’ McGuire said.

  ‘I prefer Mrs Speight.’

  ‘But you never were that, Faye,’ Mann sighed. ‘Face the facts for once, please. Leo fathered your children, and he gave you this very nice house here in Troon, practically on the beach, but he never lived here for more than a few days at a time, and he never married you. He didn’t marry the mothers of his other children either, but he was going to marry your sister. Hence my question, how do you feel about her death?’

  Moss Lee laid a hand on his client’s sleeve, but she shook it off. ‘No, I’m going to answer her. Put it this way,’ she snapped. ‘I won’t be front row at the funeral. I won’t even be in the fucking back row. If they’re having cheerleaders, then I might show up. The fact is, Sandra’s been dead to me for as long as Leo has, because that’s when I found out about the cow moving in on my man.’

  ‘This image of Leo that you keep trying to sell to us,’ the DCI said, ‘it’s at odds with the way you behaved when you found out that Leo had changed his will in your sister’s favour. As we both know, I had enough evidence against you then to charge you with trying to kill him.’

  ‘That scandalous accusation never made it to court,’ Moss Lee blustered, with a sidelong glance in McGuire’s direction.

  ‘Technically it did,’ the DCC countered. ‘Your client was charged, and she did make a brief appearance in the Sheriff Court. You should know; you were there representing her. It was the decision of the Crown Office not to take it to trial. The Advocate Depute felt that there was too great a risk of an acquittal to justify the cost. To be frank, I disagreed with that at the time, and nothing’s happened since to make me change that view.’

  ‘Regardless of the fact that the cause of Leo Speight’s death was established, and had nothing to do with my client?’

  McGuire laughed. ‘Seriously? Imagine that I dragged you into the sea out there and held you under for five minutes, but when they did the post-mortem it was discovered that you’d suffered a brain aneurysm that had absolutely nothing to do with your immersion, and that you were in fact dead before you went into the water. Is it your legal opinion that that would absolve me of prosecution for trying to kill you? For sure, if I ever need a lawyer it won’t be you, mate.’ He glanced at Mann. ‘I’m sorry Lottie. Carry on, please.’

  ‘Yes sir. Faye,’ she continued, ‘you and I both know what happened. It’s history now, but even you’ll understand why, with your sister dying the way she did, and her body being found five or six miles from your house, it makes us take a look in your direction. So think hard, have you never heard from Sandra since then, or heard of her?’

  ‘I haven’t, and I’m not in touch with anyone who might have either. Leo’s mate Gino, he doesn’t speak to me anymore, and he’s the only possibility.’

  ‘Gino,’ she repeated, ‘with whom you were having a fling behind Leo’s back. You’re about as trustworthy as a paper condom, Faye. Did you mean it when you said she’d cut herself off from the children?’

  Bulloch frowned. ‘Yes, I did,’ she confirmed. ‘Although she has sent them Christmas cards.’

  ‘Do you still have them? I know I always keep mine,’ the DCI added.

  She winced. ‘I binned them. But,’ she added, ‘Leonard saw the envelopes that a couple of them came in and kept the stamps. He’s into that. He’s upstairs. Give me a minute, and I’ll find out if he’s still got them.’

  As she left the room, Moss Lee reached out and picked up his phone. McGuire watched him as he stopped the voice recording, then appeared to delete it. He made as if to retrieve his own, then smiled and left it where it was, preserving the solicitor advocate’s legal gaffe for possible future use.

  Faye Bulloch returned in under two minutes. As she resumed her seat she laid down two colourful stamps and a postcard. ‘He had those,’ she said. ‘One of them’s from the Bahamas, and the other’s American. There’s franking marks on each of them that’ll tell you when they were sent.’

  ‘And maybe more,’ Mann murmured. ‘What about the card?’

  ‘Take a look; it’s addressed to the kids. I’d never seen it before or I’d probably have trashed it. Leonard said it came on a Saturday, when he wasn’t at school and got the mail in.’

  The DCI picked it up. The photo side displayed a composite of London scenes; Big Ben, the Tower, Trafalgar Square and Wembley Stadium. On the reverse, the names of the recipients, Leonard and Jolene Speight and their address, alongside a message that she read aloud. ‘Hope you’re good and doing well at school. Love, Auntie Sandra.’

  She handed it to McGuire. ‘Bought in London, I guess,’ he said as he peered at the faint lines of the postmark. ‘But posted in Guildford, in February. Congratulations Lottie: your first lead.’

  ‘And well done, Leonard,’ she added.

  As they looked across the table, they were astonished to see the change that had come over Faye Bulloch, as she listened to her sister’s words. ‘That stuff I said earlier, about Sandra and her funeral. Life’s too fucking short,’ she murmured, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘At the end of the day she was my wee sister and somebody’s killed her. Let me know when you’re ready to release the body. I’ll arrange the funeral and the kids and me will be in the front row.’

  ‘What did you think of that?’ McGuire asked Mann, a few minutes later, as they walked back to the DCC’s car. ‘Faye finally showing that she does have a human side.’

  ‘Aye,’ the DCI said. ‘Or it’s Faye finally figuring out that unless Sandra’s left a will or a surprise husband somewhere, she’ll be her next of kin.’

  Thirty

  ‘I thought I’d let you know, given your connection with Sandra in the past,’ Mario McGuire told his friend, ‘but I’m sorry to drop in out of the blue when you’re so busy. It’s a nice day and there won’t be many more chances to take wee Eamon to the beach this year. Paula’s there with him now.’

  ‘The beach, such as it is,’ Bob Skinner commented. ‘It was battered to hell by all the storms and high tides we had last winter. There are exposed rocks down there that nobody here has ever seen before, not even octogenarians who were born in Gullane. Don’t worry about the surprise visit,’ he said. ‘You weren’t to know this is moving day. As it is, we’re all packed and ready, and the airport taxi’s booked. We don’t fly until two-thirty and with the company plane there’s no need to clear security.’ He laughed. ‘You and Paula should get one.’

  ‘That’ll be right,’ McGuire snorted. ‘The Viareggio family business isn’t that profitable.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘they’re beginning to make progress on the Sandra investigation, are they?’

  ‘A wee bit. We now know that she did go to the Bahamas after Leo Speight died, that she was in Philadelphia four years after that, and that she was in England at the beginning of this year. The motor home she was found in was bought through her Jersey company just over eighteen months ago and was serviced by a specialist firm in Worcester, a month after she sent a postcard to her sister’s children.’

  ‘What did it have on the clock when she was found?’

  ‘Thirteen thousand miles.’

  ‘Seven hundred miles a month, give or take, on average,’ Skinner calculated. ‘Who paid for the service?’

  ‘The Jersey company, through a credit card. It goes back to a lawyer in Glasgow, but he’s not being co-operative. His line is that his ultimate client is the Speight estate, and that he can do nothing without its approval. But effectively the Speight estate means Sandra, and she’s dead.’

  ‘I get it; Jersey won’t volunteer company information, so you have to go through the UK government to get it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ McGuire said. ‘Young John Stirling, Lottie’s new DS, is looking at that, but he’s being told it’ll take time and it’s not a given that Jersey will agree to a formal request. It’s very sensitive about its sovereignty, it seems.’ He grinned, and shook his head. ‘Be glad you’re out of all this. I’ve never known an investigation where we had so little background information. We don’t even know where Sandra Bulloch banked. It should be far simpler than it is. People can’t hide, no matter how rich they are. Okay, maybe if you’re at the head of a drug cartel, but not a Scottish ex-cop surely.’

  ‘People can hide if they have the right corporate structure,’ Skinner countered. ‘What do you know about Leo Speight’s businesses when he was alive?’

  ‘We know he invested a lot of his money in hotels; they went to his son Gordon in the will. We know that he set his women up with houses in their names, and that the rest was in cash and investments, the balance of which went to Sandra after the kids were taken care of long term.’

  ‘And how much do you know about those investments?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Personally not a lot,’ McGuire admitted. ‘I’m assuming they were recorded in the will.’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe not. There are three people you need to talk to. One is Joy Herbert, Speight’s solicitor. Lottie’ll remember her from the investigation. The others are the executors.’

  ‘Butler and Baxter.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t expect Butler to help you too much. Yes, he was styled as Leo’s manager but mostly he was his mate, and did what he was told . . . apart from restarting an old relationship with Faye Bulloch. But Baxter, he’s on a different level: has an office in Charlotte Square, across from the First Minister’s official residence. He was Leo’s property adviser, and he is what my youngest son would call a serious dude. I spoke to him after Leo’s death and he opened up to me, in a way he probably wouldn’t have to a serious crimes detective. You should ask Mrs Herbert what happened to the property holdings under the will and ask Baxter to tell you all about them. They were big, Mario, maybe nine figures big, and if someone wanted to hide behind them, they could. Now,’ he exclaimed as he rose from his chair, ‘I do have to kick you out. I’ve promised my wife one last lunch in the Members’ Clubhouse.’

  ‘What about the kids?’ McGuire asked, as they walked to the door.

  ‘They want to eat on the aircraft. They’ve been looking forward to it, although God knows why. It’ll probably be sandwiches from Greggs.’

  Thirty-One

  ‘Will this take long?’ Craig Goram asked, casting a meaningful glance at the wall clock in his kitchen; it showed two minutes after midday. ‘I’m a Rangers season-ticket holder and we’ve got a home game.’

  ‘That’ll be up to you,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘But as I recall you’re playing Hibs, so you know the result anyway. DS Wright’s a Hibs supporter, aren’t you, Jackie?’

  ‘Worse,’ the sergeant sighed. ‘Livingston.’

  ‘Somebody has to support them, I suppose. Me, I’m Celtic through and through.’ In fact the only football matches she had ever attended had been as a uniformed officer; the lie was intended to unsettle Goram, no more.

  He glowered at her. ‘Somebody has to be, I suppose. You might as well sit down. My partner and our daughter are out, so we can use the sitting room.’

  His home was a two bedroom flat in a relatively new development in Port Glasgow. It looked across the beginnings of the Firth of Clyde towards Dumbarton, where the detectives knew that he worked. He offered them uncomfortable faux leather chairs but remained standing himself, in an attempt, Mann surmised, to retain some level of control. This isn’t the classroom, chum, she thought.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What’s this about? All the sergeant said when she called me at the school yesterday was that it related to a current investigation.’

  Mann gazed up at him. ‘Are you telling us you can’t guess?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he snapped.

  ‘Do you have a big family, Mr Goram?’ she asked. ‘Parents, siblings, grandparents?’

  He nodded. ‘My folks are still alive, and I’ve got a brother and a sister.’

  ‘So, you’re asking us to believe that even if you don’t read newspapers yourself, that none of those has picked up the phone to tell you that Sandra Bulloch, a woman you lived with for several years, was found dead earlier this week?’

  ‘Sandra?’ he sighed. ‘Is that what this is about? Okay, Sandra and me, we used to live together, but that was seven years ago.’

  ‘But you did live together,’ Jackie Wright said. ‘Look,’ she sighed, exasperated, ‘sit down please, Mr Goram. Enough with the games.’ He scowled at her, but he complied.

  ‘We’re contacting everyone who knew Ms Bulloch,’ the DS continued. ‘Our problem is that she’s been out of our orbit since she left the police service, so we know nothing of what she’s been doing over the past few years.’

  ‘Well she hasn’t been doing it with me,’ he snapped.

  ‘You’ve had no contact with her?’

  ‘None at all. I wouldn’t want any?’

  ‘Are you saying that you didn’t part on good terms?’ Wright asked.

  ‘You must know that,’ Goram retorted. ‘I know she didn’t have too many close friends . . . as in none; I was being kind . . . but I’m sure she’d bitch about it to somebody at work.’

  ‘You’re correct,’ Mann said. ‘She did indeed. She told someone that you’d been having a relationship with a sixteen-year-old pupil, and that as soon as the girl left school, you dumped Sandra for her. She also implied that it wasn’t the only time you were unfaithful, but that’s not relevant to this investigation, not yet at any rate. The pupil, she’s your current partner, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the mother of your daughter?’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ he sighed, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Thanks for confirming that. It kind of ties in with something we’ve discovered in the course of our enquiries. We’ve been told that when Ms Bulloch completed the sale of your former home, which was in her name, you turned up at the signing, demanding fifty per cent of the proceeds, because you said the place had been a matrimonial home. Is that correct?’