‘I’m trying to establish reasons for Sandra to have come back to Britain,’ she replied, ‘other than to visit her aunt in her care home.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you. The first I knew of it was when her death was reported in the press. Like I said, I never saw her after Leo died, and I haven’t spoken to her since the estate was confirmed.’

  Mann frowned. ‘I’m wondering, did Sandra come back for Leo’s funeral?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t an issue for us, since the case was virtually closed by then, so we wouldn’t have asked. Now I think about it, I don’t remember there being much media coverage of it.’

  ‘That’s because there wasn’t one,’ Butler retorted. ‘Leo donated his body to medical research; it went to a teaching hospital in Birmingham that was running a study on the long term effects of combat sports. He thought it was the right thing to do, given his profession,’ he added. ‘Baxter and I did discuss having a memorial service, but Joy Herbert said that wasn’t part of our remit as executors, as it wasn’t mentioned in the will. I did ask Gordon what he thought, given that technically he was the next of kin as Leo’s oldest child. He asked his mother but Trudi said “no way”, in case Faye turned up and turned it into a circus with her drama queen act.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, Leo was an atheist.’

  ‘Moving on,’ the DCI said, ‘were you aware that Sandra and Gordon have been in touch?’

  ‘That I did know. He mentioned it a year or so back.’

  ‘Did you know that the pair of them had been touring Europe in Sandra’s motor home?’

  Butler’s eyebrows rose; he shook his head. ‘No, I did not know. I spoke to him three weeks ago, but he never mentioned it.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘You need to understand, DCI Mann, that although I oversee the hotels his dad left him, Gordon and I aren’t all that close. Okay, he was Leo’s son and his mother worked for me, but I never saw much of him as a kid, and we didn’t discuss each other’s everyday lives. That said,’ he added, ‘he did ask me how he could get in touch with Charles Baxter. Now that struck me as odd.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘This is a bit whirlwind, isn’t it, Sauce?’

  Harold Haddock smiled at his wife. ‘You’re always accusing me of not being spontaneous enough,’ he countered. ‘I act on impulse and now you’re questioning it? You can’t have it both ways, Cheeky.’

  ‘I’m a woman, love,’ Cheeky McCullough said. ‘That means I can. You call me from work, you tell me to pack for a fortnight for a warm destination, but what you don’t say until you get home is that we’re leaving for the airport at three-thirty tomorrow morning. And you still haven’t told me where we’re going other than it’ll be warm. It’s just as well we got a passport for Samantha. Where are we going anyway?’

  ‘Lynden Pindling.’

  ‘Who the f u . . . is Lynden Pindling?’

  ‘He was a controversial figure when he was alive but now he’s dead, he’s an international airport, in the Bahamas. We’re booked into a resort hotel there. You need it, you deserve it, there’s a creche and . . .’

  ‘You can take your golf clubs?’ she suggested.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Put that on the table, please.’ She handed him a bowl of salad. ‘And what’s the catch?’

  ‘Why should there be a catch?’ he protested.

  ‘Sauce,’ she laughed. ‘This is you. When we got married you thought Aberystwyth would be a nice place to go for our honeymoon.’

  ‘It would have been,’ he protested. ‘It’s remote and yet it’s by the sea.’

  ‘So are the Seychelles. Come on,’ she persisted. ‘What’s the catch? You didn’t just up and think “Hey, let’s go to the Bahamas tomorrow? Cheeky would like that.” There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Well,’ Haddock admitted, ‘while we’re there, I might have to talk to a couple of people about what Sandra Bulloch did when she lived there . . . that’s all, I reckon, just a couple . . . and report back to Lottie.’

  ‘What?’ Cheeky exclaimed. ‘I thought she reported to you.’

  ‘She does, but . . .’

  ‘Why can’t she go?’ She paused. ‘Not that I’m complaining about you doing stuff, mind. You couldn’t sit still for a fortnight anyway.’

  ‘Mario said he’d never get it past the CFO.’ He frowned. ‘Yes, you heard me, she’s investigating the murder of a former police officer, and she was being handicapped by finance.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ she commented. ‘If she went and it became known the Holyrood opposition and the press would be likely to yell that there was special treatment because the victim had been a cop. Yet if it was a civvy victim, the same people would be outraged if she didn’t go.’

  ‘That’s a PR argument, Cheeks. The CFO has an accountant’s brain. Either way I was outraged that she had any say. That’s why I did my nut at the meeting, and said I would do it on our tab. I confess it was only after that, I realised it was something I should have been doing anyway, getting you away for a last holiday as a mother of one.’

  ‘Hah!’ Cheeky retorted. ‘I’ve been a mother of two ever since Samantha was born. Come on, let’s eat then crash out. We’ll get four hours sleep if we’re lucky.’

  Forty-Eight

  ‘You’re becoming a regular here,’ Trudi Pollock told Stirling as he stepped into her shop. ‘It’s about time you bought something.’

  ‘Find me a nice cactus,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it back to the office. It’ll be a metaphor of sorts. Gordon said to meet him here. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, I know he did. He’s in the back shop.’ She nodded towards a door behind the counter, taking a step to one side to make way. ‘Just go in.’

  Gordon Pollock’s tan was newer than that of Lottie Mann, but probably deeper than hers had ever been. ‘DS Stirling?’ he exclaimed as the detective joined him in a store room cum office that was almost as large as the public area. ‘Is this okay to meet? I’ve got no hang-ups about coming to a police office, but this is closer to Mum’s.’

  ‘No worries,’ Stirling said. ‘This is much better. How’s the jet lag?’

  ‘Minimal,’ Pollock said. ‘At this time of year there’s only a two hour time difference between here and Kenya. Three in our winter,’ he added. ‘It’s equatorial so they don’t need daylight saving. The big challenge is getting used to our climate again. Fucking freezing. They say it’s sixteen degrees today. It was twice that in Nairobi, even though that’s more than four thousand feet above sea level. And the humidity? Forget it.’

  ‘You were on a safari, according to Instagram. What was that like?’

  ‘A terrific experience. The Kenyans are very proud of the big five, lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and hippo, and we got to see all of them. It was purely photographic, of course, although there were a couple of tossers from Belgium that were disappointed we didn’t get to shoot anything. The same boys wanted to swim with the hippos. The safari guides should have let them; those things kill more people in Africa than any other animal. If you want to see it, take a look at my YouTube channel in a day or two, once I’ve had time to process it all. There’s a couple of clips on Instagram already, but the full works will be much better.’

  ‘Including the Belgians?’

  ‘Definitely not. They’ll be edited out, for the sake of the client.’

  ‘Client?’ Stirling repeated.

  ‘The safari company. That’s how I think of the people who use me, as clients; they pay me, and I promote them. It works for us both; I give them low cost access to a well-defined target group, and they give me money . . . and perks like free safaris. It’s a form of advertising for them and I’m becoming a leading provider.’ He smiled. ‘My dad was the leader in his business. I’m out to emulate him in mine. I’ll never make as much money though,’ he chuckled. ‘So Sergeant,’ he continued. ‘What else do you want to ask me? I’m sorry again about the false name when I called the guy Goram. I just didn’t fancy telling him who I was.’

  ‘Fair enough. We’re over that. Thing is, Gordon, as a serving police officer Sandra was way before my time, and she was noted for keeping her private and professional lives apart. And now she’s a murder victim, with no obvious suspects. That means that I, we, the team, need to build as complete a picture of her as we can. You’re better placed than anyone else to help us, as you’ve seen her most recently. Our knowledge of DCI Bulloch ended when she left the service after your father died.’

  ‘It seems to me you should be asking your questions in the Bahamas,’ Pollock observed. ‘That’s where she’s been for most of that time.’

  ‘We are,’ the DS said. ‘A senior officer’s on his way there now.’

  The younger man laughed. ‘The bosses get the big trips while the other ranks are stuck in Glasgow?’

  ‘You could look at it that way,’ Stirling agreed, ‘but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Did you ever visit Sandra there?’ he continued.

  ‘No, I never did. I was planning to, later on this year. But now . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Did she talk to you about her life there?’

  ‘A wee bit; not much, probably because there wasn’t much to talk about. She liked it there though, the isolation, the peace and quiet. She’d played a bit of golf since she was a girl, and she took it up again out there. Otherwise, I’d say she lived a quiet life. She wasn’t a recluse, though. She mentioned a few friends, ex-pats mostly, but she did say that she was very pally with a pro golfer who was attached to her club. Also she did yoga. I know that because she mentioned her teacher. She was from Tyneside originally, Sandra said, but she moved on and Sandra became more interested in golf.’

  ‘When you were touring in the mobile, how did she seem?’ the detective asked.

  Pollock gazed at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How was her mood?’

  ‘Good, no question about it. She wasn’t grieving any more, put it that way. My mum is, although she never lets it show. She’s a sweetheart but the fact is she’s been grieving quietly for my dad ever since he left Paisley and moved to London, only she never told him or gave him or anyone else a hint of it . . . apart from me, I could tell. Sandra, though,’ he continued, ‘she’d moved on finally.’

  ‘Did she have any new relationships?’

  ‘There might have been in the Bahamas, but while we were touring she definitely wasn’t interested. A couple of guys tried it on in places where we stopped, but she fended them off by dropping hints that I was her toy-boy.’

  Stirling drew a breath. ‘I suppose I have to ask you this, Gordon,’ he said. ‘Were you?’

  The young man grinned again. ‘I suppose you have to,’ he agreed. ‘Answer, no, I wasn’t. The thought never crossed my mind. Not because of the age difference between us: Sandra was fit, no question. We went to a sauna once in Switzerland, so I can tell you she was in good shape. But I’ve sort of said it before; she was like a stepmother. That’s how she acted and that was cool as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘Fair enough. When you toured, was it planned?’

  ‘No, it was pretty much instinctive. We had her list, but it wasn’t exhaustive. Sandra would pick a place and we would go there. We shared the driving fifty-fifty; and the cooking when we ate in . . . which we didn’t do much.’

  ‘You were touring in the winter. Was that not a bit . . .’

  Pollock finished the sentence. ‘Cold? On occasion, but we had the gear for it. Sandra loved it. She’d been living in the Caribbean for four years, remember. She said it was great to wear a heavy jacket and to be in cities again.’

  ‘Those cities, what did you do there?’ the DS asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing special; we parked the van on a site and did the tourist thing. Stayed for a couple of days, sometimes in a hotel for a break from sleeping on wheels, then we moved on. Apart from Luxembourg: we took a quick look at the city centre and left as soon as we could. That place didn’t feel right. I’ve nothing against immigration . . . as far as I can see it benefits most countries . . . but I read somewhere that forty per cent of the population of Luxembourg are immigrants, and that quite a few of them are illegals. Sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am a liberal, honest.’

  ‘Ultimately, though,’ Stirling persisted, ‘who chose where you went?’

  ‘Sandra did; it was her van. I was happy with that; I posted everywhere we went, and I made some money, so it felt like a business trip.’ Pollock paused. ‘That’s as much as I can tell you, really. Sandra was happy all the time we were away, and she was happy the last time I saw her, when I made her drop me off in Guildford, on the eighth of February, rather than try to get into London.’

  ‘What did she say she was going to do from there?’

  ‘Like I told you before, she was going to Scotland to visit her Aunt Sally. Then, she said she was going to take care of some business, and after that come back to see me on her way home.’

  ‘Take care of business,’ Stirling repeated. ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t say.’

  ‘And that was the last time you spoke to her? In Guildford?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Pollock replied. ‘I called her a couple of days later, to see how she was getting on, and how her aunt had been. She said that physically she was fine but mentally she was in her own wee universe.’

  The DS nodded. ‘Okay, that’s good, Gordon. But just one more thing. Gino Butler told my boss that you asked him how you could contact Charles Baxter, his co-executor. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because he was the only person from back then that Sandra mentioned by name all the time we were away. It was in Luxembourg, in the city centre. We were looking at the architecture, buildings and stuff and out of nowhere she said, to herself, rather than me, “Mmm, I must ask Charlie about that.” Baxter’s the only Charlie I could think of. I’ve never met him, only had an idea of who he was, and that’s why I asked Gino for his number.’

  ‘And did you call him?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It wasn’t easy but eventually I got past his secretary. I asked him if he had heard from Sandra but he hadn’t. I told him what she’d said in Luxembourg and asked him if he’d any idea what she’d meant. He said “No, but even if I had, Gordon, I couldn’t discuss it with you.” Then he hung up on me, just like that.’ Pollock’s eyes narrowed. ‘I haven’t forgotten that,’ he murmured. ‘I’m going to find a very public way of sorting him out.’

  Forty-Nine

  ‘Ciervorapido’. Dolça Nuñez whispered as she looked at the brand’s website on her laptop in her small office. ‘Where the hell did they come up with a name like that?’

  Her research had told her that the product had been launched quietly at the beginning of the year, cheap and cheerful, ostensibly targeting the younger market but with just a nod to another group, stay at home women who were not averse to keeping a little buzzed without it being too apparent to those around them. The home page told a story of its invention three hundred years ago by Italian nuns who had kept the secret until the current generation had decided that the time had come to share it with the outside world. ‘They should have called it Mierda de Toro,’ she said aloud, ‘because that’s what the story is.’ And yet, the convent did exist, as did the sisters. Dolça was fairly sure that if Jordi could access their bank account he would find that a substantial deposit had been made within the last two years by Compostella, the manufacturer. The secret formula tale was a fine romance, but the obligatory list of ingredients shown in one of the images revealed that it was actually red wine, laced with tequila and a little sugar. Of course she had sampled it; she and one of her boyfriends had shared a bottle the night before. He had drunk most of it, and had been of no use to her thereafter.

  The sound of her mobile interrupted her. ‘Jordi,’ she said as she took the call. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘As much as there was to find from the codes,’ he replied, in the lisping accent of his Andalusian Spanish. ‘Both of the labels that you sent me came from the same batch. They were bottled in the Compostella plant in San Cugat, near Barcelona on the seventh of July. The company does a whole range of non-alcoholic drinks.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I can see that from the website. It’s very informative.’

  ‘What it won’t tell you,’ he countered, ‘is that the company has taken a big gamble with this product. A much bigger group has expressed interest in taking Compostella over but the owners, two brothers, Emil and Sancho Blazquez Gallardo, want to fatten it up, to boost its turnover as quickly as possible and increase the sale price. That’s what Ciervorapido is all about. The brothers have thrown everything behind it, including a big advertising and PR spend. It seems to be paying off, as the sales figures for the first month are very good and getting better. It’s all good news for them so far.’

  ‘But if there was some bad news?’

  ‘Their borrowing is high, and their liquidity is about to be eaten into by a big tax bill. Any more negativity and there’s a better than even chance they’d be fucked. Basically, they need the sale. Otherwise, even if Ciervorapido becomes an international success, effectively they’ll be working for the banks for the next ten years at least.’

  Dolça whistled. ‘Boy, this is good stuff. But what about the labels? Did you get anything else from them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jordi said, dismissively. ‘They were delivered to a wholesaler, Grau, in the town of Lleida. It supplies all the supermarkets as well as selling directly to the public itself . . . at standard prices so that it never undercuts its main customers.’

  ‘How many of those supermarkets are there?’

  ‘All of the big ones, basically, and many smaller places, Spar stores and the like.’