‘Where is she just now?’

  ‘Copy-editing in the Girona broadcast newsroom, five floors below us.’

  ‘Then send her up here,’ Skinner said. ‘I’ll brief her on the evidence that we have at the moment, and send her out to get more. She’ll report back to me, not to Fuentes or any other editor. When you and I decide that we have a story that will make the police love us rather than hate us, then we’ll publish, right across the group.’

  Thirty-Nine

  Moira Mansfield did not fit the popular image of a Scottish private lawyer. Having done a little research in advance of the meeting, Mann knew that she was thirty seven years old, but if she was a suspect in an ID parade the line-up would have been filled by women ten years younger. Her long hair was honey blonde with darker streaks, natural, she guessed, and her clothing, a colourful dress with short sleeves, also defied convention. Her only jewellery was a simple gold neck chain. Appraising her, Lottie had a momentary vision of a reporter on a sports programme that was becoming Dan’s default TV choice.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, Detective Sergeant,’ she greeted them as Wright closed the door behind her. ‘Welcome to Herbert Chesters. Your visit’s a bit of a departure for us, I confess . . . especially as it’s on a Sunday.’ There was nothing surprising about her voice. Fast-talking Glaswegian, probably from south of the river, the DCI surmised.

  ‘Not the first, though,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in this room before. We were involved with you a few years ago, when Mrs Herbert was still here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mansfield agreed. ‘I remember you coming to see Joy.’ She smiled. ‘You probably won’t remember me, though. The dress code was a bit different then. Joy was conservative in that respect. Being a private law practice for Hinwies,’ she paused catching Wright’s puzzlement. ‘High net worth individuals,’ she explained. ‘Given that, our client profile’s inevitably going to be older than average and still predominately male, so Joy felt they should have the sombre approach. I take the opposite view. I believe in reminding them that they’re still alive.’

  ‘Are you in complete control of the firm now?’ Mann asked.

  ‘Not quite. Joy has a seven-year profit participation exit deal. It’s a buy-out by another name. Once that’s done I will be. I’ll even be able to put my name over the door if I want.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No chance, whatever my husband says. The name holds the reputation of the practice. If I changed that, even slightly, I’d be throwing most of that away.’

  ‘Is your husband a lawyer?’ Wright asked.

  ‘No, he’s an accountant. His name’s Butler, Gino Butler.’ Reading the detectives’ surprise, she continued, ‘I might as well get it over with. Yes, that Gino Butler, the late Leo Speight’s manager, long-time friend and joint executor. He and I met when he and Charles came into the office to consult on the executry. Our paths hadn’t crossed until then. I was only involved with the estate in the background, sorting out the details and reporting to Joy. Leo was a beneficiary of course. His bequest bought us a stunning art deco flat out near Anniesland, and a paddock for Gino in the hills behind Bowling where he keeps his horse. He’s got two of them; he spends most of his spare time there: not me, though, horses scare me. It’s not that far,’ she said, smiling. ‘He can actually cycle there. He’s a bit of a gent, is my Gino, although he does his best to keep it hidden. Now to business,’ she continued briskly. ‘You want to ask me about Sandra Bulloch, yes?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ the DCI said.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Mansfield sighed. ‘Her life was a bit of a tragedy really. Gino told me that her previous partner, before Leo, was a bit of a shit. He was really pleased for the two of them when they finally hooked up. And then Leo died, and now her. It’s just awful, don’t you think.’ She paused. ‘That said, in your job you’re dealing with tragedy all the time.’

  ‘But not with the murder of a former colleague,’ Mann pointed out. ‘We’re all trying to be objective, but there is that personal element.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ the lawyer agreed. ‘I suppose you’ll have met her awful sister, the Faye creature.’

  The detective frowned. ‘It’s my turn to say “no comment”,’ she replied.

  ‘Understood. It still rankles with me that she and Gino have history. He says that she was okay until he introduced her to Leo. Then, he says, it was as if he could see the £ signs spinning in her eyes. Of course Leo fell for it; Gino said that women were his weakness. In fact he said that if Scotland had an Olympic shagging team, he’d have been captain . . . until he and Sandra got together. He was a changed man after that, as his revised will demonstrated, I suppose. God,’ she exclaimed, ‘when Faye heard about that! She and Gino had been getting close again, but that put an end to it. Finally he realised what an evil cow she was.’ Mansfield paused. ‘She must be at the top of your suspect list, surely?’

  ‘I refer you to my previous answer,’ Mann said, grimly.

  ‘Of course. She threatened to challenge the will in court, but she had absolutely no grounds. Even her solicitor, that slimy turd Moss Lee, had to recognise that. We handled the processing of the estate in spite of her noise, just as we would with any other client. That meant formally, establishing the assets and liabilities, calculating and agreeing Inheritance Tax payable with HMRC and getting its authorisation code so that the estate could be submitted to the Sheriff Court for confirmation. That’s how the process works. I suggested that we meet here in case you needed access to the documentation.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ the DCI told her. ‘Later possibly, depending on how the investigation progresses but not at this stage. How much tax was payable?’ she asked.

  ‘About three million.’

  ‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was expecting six figures.’

  ‘No, three million, give or take,’ the solicitor retorted. ‘If you don’t believe me, check with the Sheriff Court. We’re good at what we do, Chief Inspector. Plus, our late client Leo was a very clever man; not your stereotypical fighter. You know that he was an LSE graduate?’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware.’

  ‘Then you can be assured that prepared him very well for his boxing career. He made a hell of a lot of money from his fights, a spectacular amount. Most of them, the really big ones, took place outside the UK and only a small percentage of the profits ever touched down here. The rest was banked or invested offshore, much of it by Charles Baxter, the property guy. He actually knows a lot more about the overall picture than we do . . . and when I say “we” I include Gino in that too.’

  ‘How’s that going to help us get an idea of Sandra Bulloch’s movements over the last five years? That’s what we need to do.’

  ‘The fact is, it’s not,’ Mansfield replied. ‘The truth is I’ve never actually met Sandra Bulloch. I had no need to, given the nature of the work I did for the executry. And although he had a fling or two with her sister, the truth is that Gino was never very close to her either. Yes, he knew about her thing with Leo, but not that they were planning to marry. That only came out after he was dead when Joy Herbert opened the final handwritten will that he left. The way things were concluded, Leo’s wealth was sheltered in his Jersey company. After the kids were taken care of, most of his cash and investments, and the property, apart from the hotels, went to Sandra, but I have no idea what she did with it. The way it was set up, the only person in Glasgow who can really help you is James Bonar . . . if he chooses.’

  Forty

  ‘I’ve done that, Sarge,’ Maya Smith replied. ‘There’s no Gordon Pollock on any social platform that comes close to matching our guy. Plus, I’ve looked at the files from the Speight investigation. There are contact details in there, but they’re out of date. Even his mobile’s discontinued.’

  ‘What about Trudi, his mum?’ Stirling asked.

  ‘She’s his mum?’ the DC exclaimed. ‘I saw another Pollock on the list, but I wasn’t quite sure whether she was his mother or his sister. I’ll try to contact her then.’

  ‘No, Maya, leave it to me. I need to touch base with as many people as I can that knew Sandra Bulloch.’ He crossed to the table where the case files sat and rummaged among them until he found what he was after, a list of addresses and numbers for every interviewee in the investigation. There were three numbers for Trudi Pollock, home, office, and mobile. He chose the third, and keyed it in.

  ‘Hello?’ a hesitant female voice answered.

  ‘Is that Trudi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is DS John Stirling, Ms Pollock. Is it convenient for us to speak?’

  ‘I’m with a customer just now,’ she said quietly. ‘Can I call you back? Or you could come here if you’d rather do that.’

  The DS was seized by a sudden urge to get out of the office. ‘Yes, I will. Where are you?’

  ‘The shop’s called “Flowers by Trudi”. It’s on Dumbarton Road, in Whiteinch, near the doctor’s. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Got it,’ he told her.

  ‘I should be done by then,’ she murmured, ‘but it’s quite a complicated order.’

  After messaging Mann to tell her of his mission, Stirling jogged downstairs to the car park exit. Whiteinch was on the other side of the river, but easily accessed by using the Clyde Tunnel. Trudi Pollock’s shop stood out, its sign being a rectangle of bright colours that blended sympathetically with three storeys of red sandstone tenement above. He found a parking space around thirty yards distant, where the clock on his dashboard told him that his journey had taken only seven minutes. Thinking of Trudi Pollock’s complicated order, he waited, passing some time by consuming a Twix bar, washed down with a can of zero calorie Tango. He had just finished when a man emerged from ‘Flowers by Trudi’, bearing a large floral arrangement in a basket. Taking that as a cue, Stirling exited his car and headed for the shop.

  One of the statements in the box of files had referred to Trudi Pollock as ‘chubby’. Either that had been an exaggeration or she had done something about it. The woman was almost slender, in a full length green apron that was tied at the waist, but her face was a little gaunt, with a hint of a yellow pallor that made him wonder whether all was well with her. Or maybe it was her make-up choice, he conceded. She wore no jewellery other than a silver chain around her neck, half hidden by the apron.

  Her smile was full of life, dispelling his thoughts about her health. ‘Detective Sergeant Stirling?’ she began. ‘I don’t remember you from five years ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t around five years ago,’ he responded. ‘Not in CID. Back then I was a uniform PC driving a patrol car.’

  ‘And I was a slightly depressed wee woman working in Gino Butler’s office.’

  ‘Why the change?’

  ‘I inherited some money, enough to let me realise an ambition I’d had since I was a girl. This is it. Floral arrangement was a hobby, but I’d always wanted to own a shop. The legacy let me do that. I wish Leo was still here so I could thank him.’ She frowned. ‘That doesn’t quite make sense, does it? What I should say is I’d give this up if it would bring him back.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘What are you doing now?’ she asked. ‘Now you’re not a traffic cop any longer. Silly question though. Detective Sergeant. There’s a clue in there somewhere.’

  He smiled. ‘Fine deductive powers, Ms Pollock. Maybe you should join us.’

  ‘I can deduce why you’re here as well,’ she said. ‘Sandra Bulloch. I read about her in the Record. It was a hell of a shock, I’ll tell you. It made my stomach turn, something like that happening to a woman like her. Who was it did it? Somebody she’d arrested when she was with you?’

  ‘If we knew that,’ Stirling replied, I wouldn’t need to be here. But,’ he added, ‘that’s not high on our list of possibilities. The truth is we have no idea who killed her or why. In fact we have no idea what she’s been doing since she left the police service after Leo Speight’s death.’

  ‘Neither have I, I’m afraid. Not that ‘I expected to. I met her once, I think, when she and Leo came into the office. She was Faye’s sister so I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I was pleased for them both when they got together. She was the one for him, no question about it, unlike that cow of a sister of hers. It was just terrible the way that ended up. She should have gone to jail, that Faye woman.’

  ‘The Crown decided it didn’t have a strong enough case against her,’ the DS said.

  ‘She should have gone to fucking jail anyway,’ Pollock replied, cheerfully. ‘You’ll have gathered I hate the woman,’ she added. ‘I called her a cow. Not fair: she’d give cows a bad name. From the little I saw of Sandra, she was the complete opposite. She was reserved, polite. She didn’t say much, but what she did say was spot on.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve heard nothing about her since she left?’ the DS asked her.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she declared. ‘Why would she keep in touch with me? She barely knew me, plus Leo and I were a teenage thing . . . even if we did leave evidence behind us.’

  ‘How about Gordon?’

  She frowned, taken slightly aback. ‘I would say that would be more likely,’ she said, ‘but if she has, he’s never mentioned it to me. You should ask him.’

  ‘I would if I could find him,’ Stirling told her. ‘I don’t have an address for him, and he doesn’t seem to have a social profile.’

  ‘I can give you his address no problem, and his phone . . .’ She stopped abruptly, as the shop door opened and a woman entered. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she whispered. ‘Yes madam.’

  The detective waited patiently while she dealt with the customer. He was impressed by her knowledge, her assessment of the lady’s needs and the way she guided her towards making the correct choice.

  ‘Next time I need to impress, I’ll come here myself,’ he promised, as the door closed and they were alone once more.

  ‘The bigger the sin, the greater the cost,’ Trudi Pollock advised him, ‘but I’ll give you the special polis discount.’

  ‘Thank you in advance. Happily I’m not a sinner. Now . . .’

  ‘Yes. Gordon’s details.’ She recited a London address, complete with postcode, a mobile number, and an email address. ‘That’s not the house that Leo left him, by the way. He sold that and bought an apartment with a river view. And you’re way off about the social profile. He’s very active; he’s one of these lifestyle influencers, and he’s good at it. Folk pay him to advertise on his page because of the number of followers he’s got. He’s on Instagram, but not under his own name. He’s called @completepollocks: that’s all one word, no capitals with one of those squiggly things in front of it. He reviews stuff, hotels, shops, bars, restaurants, could be anything, anywhere. He was going to review me, but I told him, “Gordon no. I don’t want daft kids knocking my door down. I’m happy with the business I’ve got.” He could be anywhere right now, on a cruise, at a Taylor Swift concert in Australia, anywhere. And he’s still only twenty-three.’

  ‘Quite a lifestyle from the sound of it,’ the DS observed.

  ‘You can say that again. But he can afford it, given what his dad left him, those hotels and the money.’

  ‘What did he do with the hotels?’

  ‘Gino looks after them for him. Gino Butler. I mentioned him, the man I used to work for.’

  Stirling nodded. ‘He was Leo’s manager, yes?’

  ‘That’s right; now he’s Gordon’s in a way, with the hotels. Not that Gino’s a hotel expert, but he does know business. He’s taken the hotels into an international group, with a brand name, like Best Western, only higher class. They take a cut of the profits and so does Gino, a small percentage, but Gordon’s still getting income.’

  ‘Has he ever reviewed one of his own hotels?’

  Trudi Pollock frowned once again. ‘I don’t know. Would that not be illegal?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ the DS confessed. ‘To be honest I don’t care. My interest is Sandra Bulloch, and her life in the last few years. I have information that suggests Gordon may have been asking about her too; that’s why I need to speak to him.’

  ‘He has? Again that’s news to me. Who would he have asked?’

  ‘A man called Bryce Stoddart, and possibly someone else.’

  ‘Bryce Stoddart?’ she repeated. ‘He’d have known eff all. Anyway, isn’t he still in jail?’

  ‘Yes, he is, but he’s still contactable.’ As the door’s warning bell tinkled again, Stirling realised that the conversation had reached a natural conclusion. ‘Thanks Trudi,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’ll see you again, and I won’t forget that discount.’

  Forty-One

  Above Skinner’s office door, on both sides, there were two lights, one red, one green, their purpose being to indicate to those outside whether the chairman was available or engaged, and to remind the chairman himself of his own status. As Dolça Nuñez knocked and entered, he pressed the button that changed the display from green to red.

  ‘Welcome,’ he greeted her. ‘Thanks for coming up at short notice.’ Normally his conversations with colleagues were in Spanish, or occasionally Catalan, but he spoke English.

  If the young journalist realised that it was a test, she gave no indication. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘When the bosses say “Come” I assume that they mean “Come right away.” Anyway,’ she added, ‘I had just finished the story I was working on.’ Skinner detected a hint of American in her accent, but he read nothing into that. His son Ignacio had been raised as a Spanish speaker and the same was true of him. He attributed it to the influence of Netflix.

  He grinned at the thought of it. ‘You’ve been with us for a year now, Ms Nuñez. How are you finding InterMedia?’ For a moment she seemed puzzled. ‘Are you enjoying us?’ he added. ‘Is the company as you expected?’