‘It is, sir, and more. I am enjoying it very much. I’m grateful to have been chosen.’

  ‘That was mutual. You chose us too, and from what I’ve been told by Señor Sureda, we’re as grateful as you are. We’ve given you a range of experiences so far,’ he continued, ‘a little broadcast, a little newspaper work, reporting. You’re currently sub-editing, I believe. Do you have any preferences yet? Don’t hold back, tell me. This isn’t a test.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a sub-editor,’ she replied, instantly, almost fervently. ‘Subs don’t originate, and the reporters dislike them when they alter their words. I want to be an originator, sir. I want to find things out.’

  ‘How much do you know about me?’ Skinner asked her suddenly. ‘I’m willing to bet that when you were asked to come up here you did a quick net search. Right?’

  There was a touch of guilt in the smile that lit up her otherwise serious features. Her dark hair was tied back, her eyes were as brown as her skin tone. He knew from her HR file that her mother was Thai, her father a seaman from Valencia. She nodded. ‘Yes, I did. But I did not have time to read much. I know you were a cop, at the head of a force. It must have been a big one for them to have made you a knight.’

  ‘It was,’ he replied, ‘but I didn’t get the gong for that: it was for something else. Whatever, knowing that, you’ll understand that I made a career of finding things out. I’m sure that’s why I’ve been able to fit into this business, for I cannot break the habit. My problem is that I can no longer get out there and knock on doors, ask the questions, find the answers. That’s where you come in. I have an assignment for you, one that’s off the books of any InterMedia outlet, for now. I’d like you to be my eyes, ears and legs, and to report to me and me only until I tell you differently. You must be discreet, and share with nobody, but I know already I can trust you in that respect. Are you up for it, Dolça?’

  ‘Am I ever,’ she exclaimed. ‘When do I start and where do I begin?’

  ‘You start in Barcelona and you begin right now. I’ll move someone into your sub-editing slot right now. If anyone downstairs asks you, tell them you’re being given some experience in the chairman’s office, no more than that. Now, this is what we’re investigating . . .’

  Forty-Two

  The James Bonar who greeted Jackie Wright was a far cry from the version that Mann and Stirling had described after their earlier visit. Whether this was because he knew that his client was dead, or whether his cage had been rattled by Moira Mansfield, she did not know, and if she had she would not have cared.

  ‘DS Wright,’ he said, quietly as she came into the room with the view. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. I’m sorry I couldn’t help your colleagues last time, but obviously the circumstances have changed now. I’ll do everything I can.’

  ‘That’s gratifying,’ she replied as she took a seat that offered her a view of the famous Squinty Bridge and the museum piece crane that stood as a tribute to the halcyon days of Clyde ship-building. ‘Did you ever meet Ms Bulloch?’ she asked.

  ‘In the flesh, no. We spoke a few times via WhatsApp, but that’s all. In fact I never met Leo Speight either. His instructions were brought to me by his manager, a man called Gino Butler, and I followed them. When documents needed signed, Butler picked them up and brought them back.’

  ‘Was that okay?’ Wright asked. ‘How did you know that Speight actually, signed them?’

  ‘That’s what witnesses are for, Sergeant. On those documents the witnesses were always the same, Butler and a woman called Trudi Pollock. There’s no problem with that.’

  ‘Sandra Bulloch was never mentioned in this process.’

  ‘Never. The first I heard of her was after Speight died. That was almost two years after the offshore company was set up. Butler came here with his co-executor, an Edinburgh guy called Baxter. They told me what was in the will, and who was the beneficiary. I say they, but actually it was Baxter that did all the talking.’

  ‘Charles Baxter?’

  ‘That’s correct. He’s a surveyor. I don’t know a lot about that crowd, but from what I’ve heard he’s one of the top players in property. His firm’s called LJMcF, and he’s the main man. It’s what they call a multi-disciplinary practice: that means it’s got its own legal division so it can do all of its deals in-house.’ Bonar drew a breath. ‘Baxter’s a cut above Butler, that’s for sure.’

  The DS frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How can I put it? He was much more authoritative, had much more of a presence. The guy’s a decision-maker. Gino, I got the impression he liked to style himself as the brains behind his boss, but he wasn’t. There were a few occasions where significant decisions had to be made, and it was clear to me that he didn’t have the authority, and probably not the brains either.’ Bonar held up a hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he exclaimed, ‘Gino has the qualifications. He’s a fully fledged CA, but if he was in one of the big firms, I doubt he’d make partner level.’

  ‘Okay,’ Wright said. ‘They came, briefed you and left. What happened after that?’

  ‘They went away, the estate was confirmed and as the principal beneficiary Sandra Bulloch became our client. She was in the Bahamas at the beginning, but latterly I haven’t really known where she was. Through the Jersey company he’s a client of an international bank, and papers are referred to us. She might have a bank account somewhere as an individual, but most of her spending, maybe even all of it seems, seemed, to be done through the Artisan de Boite account. She has, had, a debit card in the company name, and the statements come here as the registered address.’

  ‘Would they give us any useful information about her?’

  Bonar smiled. ‘I thought you’d ask me that,’ he said, ‘so I looked through all of the bank records. I can tell you that she moved into Leo Speight’s Bahamas house by arrangement with the executors even before the will was confirmed. Mr Speight had been involved in a project there at the time, with a few other sporting investors, but that was completed within six months of Ms Bulloch moving out there. I’d assume that Baxter was involved in that at some level, so he’ll be able to fill in any blanks. Also, very soon after her arrival she joined a country club on the island. That seems to have been the centre of her life for at least three years; until she started to go travelling, that is.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘According to the bank statements, it was mostly in the US, until she’s shown as flying from Miami to Frankfurt last October.’

  ‘That’s when we know she picked up the motor home,’ Wright said.

  ‘That would square with the bank debits after that. Most of them were in euros, then at the beginning of this year, sterling buys start to appear. The last debits I can find were in late April. A fuel stop in Chipping Norton, a supermarket shop in South Tyneside, and more petrol bought in a Morrisons in Berwick. That’s the last card buy she made.’

  ‘Can we have all these records?’ the DS asked. ‘We’re trying to get an understanding of Sandra’s life. They might let us do it in detail.’

  ‘Technically,’ Bonar replied, ‘they still belong to an estate as they did before. The difference is, it’s now Ms Bulloch’s estate and I have no idea who’ll be handling that. But what the hell, you can have them. I don’t think she’s going to sue me.’

  Forty-Three

  John Stirling was a twenty-nine-year-old man who saw himself as a member of the new generation, but occasionally something would test his self-belief. The phenomenon of influencing was one of those things. He had chosen to ignore it until his meeting with Trudi Pollock had removed that option.

  ‘Do you know what an influencer is, Maya?’ he asked DC Smith.

  She looked at him with a frown that bordered on severe. ‘Of course. Usually it’s someone with a big social media following. But it could be a broadcaster, a sports pundit, someone like that.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  The frown became questioning. ‘They . . .’ She paused. ‘They . . .’ She paused again. ‘I suppose, when you think about it, what they do is, they make people believe in them, then follow their advice when it comes to lifestyle choices.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because of who they are I suppose: or who they appear to be,’ she corrected herself. ‘Because of the personalities they project through the media they’re using. It could be something like Facebook, or they could have a YouTube channel, or it could be a podcast. It’s how they appear, how they communicate and how they use it.’ Her eyes fixed on him again. ‘You know that TV programme, “The Traitors”?’ she asked.

  ‘Know it?’ the DS laughed. ‘I’m an addict. Claudia,’ he murmured.

  ‘My grandpa knew her aunt,’ Smith said. ‘She was a photographer, and he says she had the same black hair. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘what they’re doing there . . . Thousands and thousands of people will apply to be contestants, but what the producers do, out of them all they choose twenty-two that they reckon have the ability to influence others, and they put them in closed surroundings. I suppose the winner is meant to be the one who’s best at it. I mean, look at the people who get to the end, look at what they do afterwards. They’ve all got big followings on Instagram.’

  ‘That I knew,’ Stirling conceded, ‘but none of them come anywhere near Gordon Pollock. He has well over a million on the Gram . . . and he’s on YouTube.’

  ‘Then he’s probably making a fortune out of it. Why don’t we access his bank accounts and his tax returns?’ she suggested.

  ‘We’ve got no cause, Maya. He isn’t a suspect . . . not yet, at any rate. The first step’s to contact him, and that might not be easy. He posted on Instagram yesterday from something called a young singles’ safari, in Kenya, and put up a piece of video on YouTube, him and the tour guide.’

  ‘I wonder how much he’s been paid for that,’ the DC murmured, a trace of envy in her tone. ‘Six months’ salary for me, I’ll bet you.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to ask him . . . not . . . if we ever make contact. I called him on the number his mum gave me, but it went straight to voicemail. He’s not on WhatsApp and I can hardly leave him a post on Instagram, so all I’ve been able to do is leave a voice message and follow that up with a text asking him to call me. If he’s out in the bush, heaven knows when that’ll happen. Young singles safari,’ he chuckled, shaking his head. ‘God help the wildlife.’

  He rose from his desk and crossed the room, to the refreshment table. He made himself a coffee in the Nespresso machine that Lottie Mann had donated to the squad . . . ‘I can’t stand instant, people’ . . . and had barely returned to his desk when his landline rang. He guessed who the caller would be before he picked up the phone. Most of the calls he made and received were by mobile, but when messaging first time contacts, he always left the police landline number.

  ‘Is that Detective Sergeant Stirling?’ Gordon Pollock said. Lottie Mann had described a slightly awkward Paisley-reared teenager, but five years had wrought changes. The accent was still Scottish, but smooth. It had no hint of a rough regional bias, but there was anxiety.

  ‘It is. Mr Pollock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, so you got my voicemail.’

  ‘Is it my mum?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened to her?’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ the DS assured him. The connection was clear but there was background noise, city traffic, he thought. ‘Your mother’s fine. It was her that gave me your contact details in fact. I believe you’re in Kenya. Is that correct?’

  ‘As of this moment yes, but actually I’m at Jomo Kenyatta Airport, in Nairobi, waiting for my flight back. I’m due in Glasgow tomorrow, paying my mum a surprise visit. Do you need to see me?’

  ‘Not at this stage,’ Stirling said. ‘Can you speak freely now? Before you do, I need to tell you that this call’s being recorded.’

  ‘I have no problem with that and yes, I can speak. I’m in the departure lounge, but it’s no more than a quarter full. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve been out of the reach of UK media for a few days,’ Stirling replied. ‘If so what I’m going to tell you will come as a bit of a shock. Sandra Bulloch was found dead last week. It’s being treated as a homicide and I’m part of the investigating team.’ He stopped, allowing Pollock to assimilate the news he had been given.

  The line was silent for a few seconds, until he heard a long, loud exhalation of breath. ‘How?’ the young man continued, eventually.

  ‘The cause of death isn’t quite certain, but there’s no doubt that she was murdered. She was found in her motor home, and she’d been dead for quite some time.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, almost reverentially. ‘Where was she found?’

  ‘Irvine, in Ayrshire.’

  ‘Irvine?’ Pollock repeated. ‘That’s near where Faye lives. She didn’t do it, did she? I wouldn’t put it past her. The bitch did her best to kill my dad. But if it was Faye, who’s looking out for Leonard and Jolene, my brother and sister?’

  ‘Slow down, Mr Pollock,’ the DS said.

  ‘Gordon, please.’

  ‘Fine, but still, slow down. There are no suspects yet, Gordon, but there’s no reason to assume that Faye Bulloch would be one. Frankly, our investigation’s hampered by our lack of knowledge of Sandra’s life since she left Glasgow. She’s been, reclusive, you might almost say.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Pollock countered. ‘Not with me, she hasn’t.’

  ‘I’ll ask you to expand on that in a second, but first, there’s something I need to ask you. A few weeks ago, did you call a man named Craig Goram, pretending to be Bryce Stoddart?’

  ‘Yes I did.’ The reply was instant, without prevarication.

  ‘Why hide your identity?’

  ‘Because I met the guy once. It was at a birthday party my dad threw in the house in Ayr for my wee brother Leonard, when he was five. Sandra was there, Leonard being her nephew, and he was with her. It was the first time I met her, way before she and my dad got together. I’d have been about fifteen at the time. I didn’t like Goram then, and I liked him even less when Sandra told me why they’d split up, that he’d been banging a sixteen year-old in his class, and maybe a couple of girls before her, she thought.’

  ‘Why did you call him?’

  ‘Same reason I called Stoddart. Because I was worried about Sandra, and thought there was an outside chance she might have been in touch with him. I called anyone in my circle I thought she might have been in touch with. I even called Leonard.’

  ‘Are you in regular contact with him?’ Stirling asked.

  ‘Of course. He’s my kid brother, for Christ’s sake. I’ve kept in touch with him ever since our dad died; Jolene too. Gino Butler and Faye aren’t connected any longer, so he needs an adult male figure in his life. He hadn’t heard from her either.’ He paused. ‘Look, this idea Gino has that Sandra was a recluse, it’s wrong. She got in touch with me about six months after my dad died. She didn’t say as much but I think it was because she saw me as a connection to him, and to Leonard and Jolene . . . even though she was their auntie,’ he added. ‘The rift between her and Faye, that was unbreachable, on both sides.’

  ‘Understood, but back to Goram. Why did you use Stoddart’s name?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to know it was me, simple as that. I thought that if I told him who I really was, he’d just hang up. He didn’t, but he couldn’t tell me anything useful.’

  ‘Okay. You say you were worried about Sandra, but why?’

  ‘Because she seemed to have dropped off the planet. The game plan was that she was going to visit her old auntie in the care home, then park the motor home somewhere and maybe come back south to stay with me for a while in London before she went back to the Bahamas. But she never showed up. I tried to call her but her number was dead. I tried the Bahamas number but no result. I had no other options, and she didn’t do social so . . . eventually I stopped trying. I thought . . . well I don’t really know what I thought; probably that she’d just got bored hanging with me and gone off somewhere else, on her own.’

  ‘Hanging with you?’ the DS repeated.

  ‘Yes. Look I’ve told you that Sandra and I were quite close. We spoke on the phone a lot from the very start, after Dad. It was Sandra that encouraged me to move to London as soon as I turned twenty-one and make a life that wasn’t connected to my birth or my upbringing. My mum was onside with that too, by the way. She was worried there were hooligans out there that might try to take advantage of me. It was Sandra that told me I should sell the London house and buy something that was better suited for me. She found me an estate agent through a guy in Glasgow, and she even came over and helped me choose my flat, and furnish it. I’ve been to the Bahamas too, to her place, that my dad left her. It’s cool,’ he added, ‘like he was. It was Sandra who realised that I was quite good at social media and encouraged me to work on it. And before that, when I was still in Glasgow, she told me I should get off my arse, and plan my life. She told me to forget my dreams of being a boxer, because that would only work if I was as good as my dad, and that I never would be. Instead, she suggested that I enrol in a drama school. “Your life’s been a fucking movie anyway, Gordon,” she said. So I did. For a year. I even got a bit of TV work, bit parts in series set in Scotland. There are more than you imagine.’ He fell silent for a few seconds. ‘You know, Sergeant,’ he whispered, ‘telling you all this, it makes me realise, Sandra was like another mother to me, and that’s what she’d have been if my dad had lived long enough to marry her.’

  Forty-Four

  ‘The woman that Gordon Pollock described to Stirling: that is not the Sandra Bulloch that I knew as a police officer.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Mario McGuire agreed. ‘But,’ he added, smiling on screen, ‘suppose your Jakey, in a few years, was to describe you, do you think that any of us would recognise that Lottie Mann?’

  ‘Probably not,’ she conceded. ‘Certainly not since I’ve been together with Dan.’