She gazed back at him; for a second he thought she would respond, but she thought better of it, shrugged and picked up her coffee cup.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘Let him believe what he likes, but he’ll never prove anything, and suppose he does, so what? And you’re right, so what? You’re on the make, Ms Burbujas, but I don’t care.’ He smiled, sipping his mineral water. ‘Have you done the book deal yet?’ he asked.

  The question seemed to push a button; she stiffened in her booth as if a small electric charge had gone through the seat. ‘You think I’m so mercenary that I’d look to profit from Annette’s death?’ she asked, icily.

  ‘Yes,’ Skinner replied, evenly, ‘I do. You profited from her in life. Why should her death make you altruistic? I know that you approached the editor of the Saltire newspaper, offering information on the state of the Fonter marriage.’ Her eyes widened, her mouth tightened. ‘Surprised I know that? I’m a director of its parent company. But I’m bound by its code of confidentiality, so don’t worry,’ he added. ‘Anyway, as I said, I don’t care. We live in the golden age of prurience, shock and scandal, and there’s bugger all the likes of me can do about it, other than defend my own privacy . . . and that’s something I’ve failed spectacularly to do in the last few days.’

  ‘So I saw,’ she murmured. ‘I wish the guy had got another couple of whacks in.’

  ‘Yes, so does he,’ Skinner said. ‘How was the Fonter marriage?’ he continued. ‘I’m asking as my daughter’s investigator,’ he added, ‘so any reply will be privileged, until it’s raised in court.’

  ‘It was strained by the transfer to Scotland,’ the little agent replied, ‘but it wasn’t under threat. Paco was always Annette’s weak point, and to be fair to him, he did love her.’

  ‘Did you ever try to split them up?’

  ‘I might have in the early stages,’ she admitted, ‘if I’d known about them, but by the time I found out it was too late. So I lived with it . . . until the move to Scotland. I thought that was crazy, and I told them both.’

  ‘And her relationship with Chaz Baker? What did you think of that?’

  ‘I didn’t know they had one. Sure, she talked about him, and it was clear that she liked him, but only as Paco’s boss, no more.’

  ‘She sent Chaz a text on the day she died. That’s why he went to see her. In it she mentioned a secret; she said she couldn’t live with it any longer.’

  She tilted her head back and looked down her nose, in his general direction. ‘He was the secret? He killed her because she was going to expose it? Is that what the police think?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I don’t have a problem telling you that because it’s unreportable. Anyone who published that in advance of the trial, any way, anywhere, would wind up in jail. But our client denies it. He says that his relationship with Annette was one of friendship and nothing more. So can you think of anything else in her life that might have been troubling her to such an extent?’

  Burbujas pursed her lips. ‘No,’ she replied, without even the briefest pause for thought. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Nothing from her past life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘She was an exceptional young woman, a sensation from the moment she posed for her first photographs, and walked her first catwalk. She had the rarest gift of drawing the eye of those who looked at her to every aspect of her but, most important, always through her to what she was modelling. In fashion shows, she had a way of moving that was unique, a stride that seemed to adapt itself to whatever she was wearing. She was the greatest model of her generation, and I knew she would be from the moment I first saw her on the stage at the Crazy Horse in Paris.’

  Skinner held up a hand. ‘Please, Ms Burbujas, I am not a Hello! magazine reader so please don’t treat me like one. I know that story is bullshit, something that you or a PR company made up. I know how you really met, because she told Chaz. Again, I don’t care; I’m not going to out you. But I would like to know more about Annette, Annette Brody as she was in the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t know very much,’ she said. ‘She was always reticent about her family and her upbringing, but from the little she did say, it was modest and unexceptional. Her father was a vicar, her mother was a teacher, and she was brought up in Worthing, on the south coast; that’s all she ever told me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘I’m pretty sure she was adopted. One day, I found a photograph in her bag. I wasn’t snooping,’ she added, ‘she was getting changed and we needed something so she told me to look. The picture was of her and her parents . . . he was wearing a vicar’s dog collar so they must have been . . . and the thing that jumped out at me was that they were both white, and Annette, well, she wasn’t. As everyone in the world knew, she was mixed race.’

  ‘You met her in London, yes? Come on,’ he insisted, seeing her hesitancy, ‘I know you did. Did she ever say why she left home?’

  ‘No. She never did and I didn’t ask. I’d built the Crazy Horse legend by that time and I didn’t want to know about the alternative version.’

  ‘What happened to the photograph?’

  ‘I took it and I tore it up. I didn’t want anyone else to see it. Annette must have known I did that, but she never mentioned it. Mr Skinner, that’s the only secret Annette had that I know of, and while it might rewrite some of her personal history if it was revealed, it’s hardly worth killing her to keep it.’

  Thirty-Four

  ‘You found out all of this in one morning?’ Alex exclaimed.

  ‘Not quite,’ her father admitted. ‘I did an Internet search last night for people called Brody in Worthing. It didn’t take long to come up with a news item from twelve years ago about the death of a vicar’s wife, Mary Brody, in a sailing accident. She was crewing in a race in the Channel when an unpredicted storm blew up. Her boat capsized, and when they righted it she wasn’t there. It was reported nationally, but only in any detail in the local paper. She wasn’t the only person lost; there were four others lost from three yachts. The Worthing paper went big on it, though.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Yes. One of her, one of Tristan, the vicar, and a family shot. It was taken when Annette was twelve, so the editor can be forgiven for not knowing that for the last few years he’s been sitting on a bigger story: the true identity of Annette Bordeaux.’

  ‘And the rest? Where did that come from?’

  ‘Sussex Police. I called the Worthing station and spoke to an inspector, a woman who’s served there for over twenty years. She knew the vicar because she went to his church. She said he never got over his wife’s death. He took to the booze, big time, and died of liver failure within a couple of years.’

  ‘Could she give you any family background?’

  ‘She didn’t know the family,’ Skinner said, ‘personally or professionally. Mary Brody wasn’t seen in church all that often, only at the big events in the calendar, Christmas, Easter, Harvest Festival, and Annette never went without her. Inspector Donald didn’t even know her name.’

  ‘Did you tell her who the daughter became?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I didn’t see any need to do that. It’ll all come out soon enough. A journalist, or a biographer, will look in the right places and ask the right questions, and it’ll be revealed that the Crazy Horse dancer was actually an ordinary girl from a seaside town who moved to London after her life was turned upside down by tragedy.’

  ‘When you put it that way,’ she observed, ‘it’s actually a more intriguing story than the one Sirena Burbujas made up.’

  ‘Agreed. She’s the one who’ll look stupid when the truth does come out, not Annette.’

  ‘I wonder if Paco knows the real story?’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to him?’

  He looked at her, surprised by the question. ‘Of course I am. Look, love, he’s her husband. If she had a secret that she felt she had to get out in the open, he’s the person most likely to have known what it was. If so, did he want her to spill it?’

  ‘Are you saying he’s a suspect?’

  ‘He’s a person of interest. I won’t know whether he’s a suspect or not until I’ve been face to face with him. As for him having an alibi: being in another country at the time of the crime doesn’t automatically mean you’re not involved.’ He stood. ‘Do you have anything new to tell me?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Baker’s blood analysis is complete. I’ve shared the findings with the police, including a DNA profile which I had done just to be thorough. There wasn’t a trace of cocaine in his system.’

  ‘Good. You can put that in the positive column. I’m off to see if I can find any more ticks.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘King Robert Village,’ he said. ‘I’ve read the report, but I haven’t seen what Sammy and Sauce have. I need to remedy that.’

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Afonin’s gone, has he?’ Pye asked as his colleague walked into the room.

  ‘Out of our hair for good and all,’ Haddock replied. ‘The vice-consul and I saw him all the way on to the London shuttle, handcuffed to two of our largest, and into back row seats. His Russian escort officers are meeting him at Heathrow.’

  ‘What happens if he wants to pee?’

  ‘We thought about that: we made him go before he boarded. Nasty bastard,’ the DS said. ‘I was really glad to be rid of him. Yes, there’s an open attempted murder charge hanging over him, to be taken up if he survives the Russian prison system for long enough to be released, but I reckon we’ll both be retired by the time that happens. How about Rogozin,’ he continued. ‘Will there be any action against him?’

  The DCI shrugged. ‘No idea. I like the guy about as much as you like his minder, but legally, he’s none of our business. If the immigration authorities want to pursue him for bringing a felon into the country, that’ll be their choice, but if I was in their shoes I’d be leaving it alone. They allowed him entry, so they’d be investigating their own culpability.’

  ‘I suppose so. Like you, I don’t care.’

  ‘One thing happened when you were away,’ Pye continued. ‘Alex Skinner called. She’s had an independent blood analysis done on Baker. She commissioned it to determine whether it was him that snorted the cocaine we found in the bathroom.’

  ‘I don’t imagine it was,’ the DS said, ‘or she wouldn’t be telling us about it.’

  ‘No, and you’re right, it was clear. I imagine that’ll be the linchpin of her defence. Annette didn’t use it, and nor did he, so she’ll float the idea with the jury that a third party must have, and she’ll portray that person as the real culprit.’

  ‘Are we worried about that?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘I don’t see a reasonable doubt there, Sauce, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘not even at my most bloody minded. She’ll need to do a lot better than that, for there’s no doubt at all that Annette was strangled by his belt, with only his prints on it, and that her blood was on his training top. What did Alex want you to do with her analysis?’

  ‘Nothing, other than put it in the record. She emailed it across and I’ve added it to the file, for the attention of everyone with access.’

  ‘Fair enough. Anything else new since I’ve been away . . . preferably unconnected to football?’

  ‘Mary Chambers wants us to look into an outbreak of tyre slashing in North Berwick, but apart from that, nothing.’

  Haddock stared at him. ‘Run that past me again?’

  ‘Three nights on the trot, cars had their tyres done in the same street.’

  ‘Excuse me? Is that CID business?’

  ‘Normally no, but a Member of the Scottish Parliament was one of the victims. The lack of response by uniform is likely to be raised at Holyrood. I’ve sent Jackie Wright out there to check the locus and interview residents. The chief super will assign officers to do a stake-out tonight if Jackie reckons the layout makes it possible.’

  ‘Let’s hope she gets a result,’ Haddock muttered, ‘otherwise I have a terrible feeling that I’ll be out there next.’

  ‘That’ll be . . .’ Pye broke off as his desk phone rang. He reached out and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DCI Pye? Arthur Dorward. A word, Sammy,’ the forensic scientist said. ‘I’ve just been looking at your update to the Annette Bordeaux file . . . as obviously you haven’t, at least not carefully enough.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Definitely no. We need to talk about this. I’m not saying it knocks your case on the head, but it gives it a whole new dimension.’

  Thirty-Six

  ‘I thought you had left the police service, Mr Skinner,’ Christine Hoy remarked.

  ‘So did I,’ he laughed, ‘but the life won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘Why are you here? Do the Menu need a second opinion?’

  ‘No, they’re pretty sharp. By the way,’ he added, ‘you should be pleased they told you their nickname. It means they like you. No, I’m here on my daughter’s behalf,’ he explained. ‘She’s a criminal lawyer, acting for the accused in the Bordeaux case.’

  ‘Then she’s up against it. I’ve seen the tape.’

  ‘And I’ve read the summary in the police report,’ Skinner said, ‘but I’d like to see for myself.’

  ‘Do you need a court order?’ the security manager asked.

  He smiled. ‘I hope not. I’m assuming that you gave the police a copy of the footage they need. Technically they’re obliged to share that with the defence, but those lads are busy and I’m busy, so I’m hoping that you’ll be as cooperative with me as you were with them.’

  ‘I will if you answer one question,’ she replied.

  ‘That will depend on what it is.’

  ‘How old are you? None of the papers said, and usually they’re obsessive about people’s ages.’

  ‘I’m over fifty but under fifty-five,’ he volunteered. ‘That’s all I’ll own up to. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because like the rest of Scotland I’ve seen that video, and I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m embarrassed by it, and if I’m truthful, a bit chastened. I have young children, and another on the way. I shouldn’t be putting myself in situations like that.’

  ‘You didn’t put yourself anywhere. You were attacked.’

  ‘There was more to it than that, but I’m not going into it.’

  ‘Still, the way you took him down: a man of . . .’

  ‘A man of my age?’ He chuckled. ‘Listen, Ms Hoy, that was experience on my part and carelessness on his. One more whack on the head with that baton and I could have been a cabbage. Now, can I see that tape or not?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She led him into the monitoring room; he had been in many similar places before but he was impressed by the array and by the range of CCTV coverage. The King Robert Village seemed to be a secure zone.

  ‘Quite a change,’ he murmured.

  ‘From the old Royal Infirmary? Yes, that’s what everybody says.’

  ‘I prefer this incarnation,’ he admitted. ‘The old one had too many bad memories for me.’

  Hoy sat at the instrument console and went to work, directing his attention to one of the many screens, as she scrolled through her archived footage. ‘This is it,’ she said, when she was ready.

  He had never met Annette Bordeaux alive, nor had he seen her in death, but he knew her as soon as she walked into shot. He watched as she entered the building then rode the lift up to the penthouse floor.

  ‘Note the time,’ Hoy told him. ‘She entered the penthouse at quarter past three, and she never left it again.’

  ‘You would have known for sure if she had?’

  ‘We would have known if she’d deactivated the security camera, to cover her leaving or someone else arriving, but she never did.’

  ‘That’s an unusual feature,’ Skinner observed.

  ‘Yes it is,’ the security manager agreed. ‘It was added to the system at the request of the owner of the penthouse, and the two apartments on the floor below.’

  ‘Who is the owner?’

  ‘A property company in the Isle of Man.’

  ‘Who owns that?’

  ‘I have no idea. It’s none of my business. Let’s move on to sixteen forty-nine.’

  She clicked on a mouse and a second clip appeared. He watched as Chaz Baker entered the building, dived into the lift just before its doors closed, and pressed the key for the top floor. He was frowning as he stepped out, and as he pressed the door button. Skinner watched him fidget as he waited, saw him press the buzzer again and, finally, try the door handle. His look of preoccupation changed to one of surprise as it opened. He called out, silently, then stepped inside and out of the camera’s range of vision.

  ‘How long was he in there?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-seven minutes.’ She pulled up another video clip, and ran it, showing his departure. His face was in profile as he left, but Skinner could see that he looked even more agitated than he had before. Then he turned, turning his back to the camera as he left and as he waited for the lift. There was no clear view of his training top, nor was one offered by the cameras in the lift and the lobby, as he made his way swiftly out of the building.

  ‘Can you roll it back?’ he asked. ‘I’d like a proper look at his hands.’

  Hoy reversed the footage frame by frame until she found an image that showed what he wanted to see. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Good enough. He wasn’t carrying anything when he left. It was a long shot, but I needed to confirm that he wasn’t holding the victim’s phone.’

  ‘Would that have helped?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ he said. ‘Can I see the rest of the footage you showed the police?’ he continued.

  ‘If you need to, of course, but is it relevant?’

  ‘I’m just being thorough,’ he told her. ‘I want to see for myself who was in the vicinity when Annette was killed. The police will have interviewed them all, but I need to do the same.’