‘In what way?’

  ‘He talks about her when she is not there, in a bad way. He describes what she does when they are having sex, how she likes it. He and I, we . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Go on,’ Skinner said. ‘You had a fight?’

  ‘No, no. If Flowers wanted to fight someone it would not be me, it would be someone he knew wouldn’t kick his ass. We had an argument. He was talking about Alice in the showers after she had gone; he said she had small tits, as if that was a falta. He’s from Miami and he speaks Spanish so I said to him, “Me pregunto si ella le dice a sus amigas que tiene un pequeño pene .” It means, “I wonder if she tells her girlfriends that you have a small cock.” None of the guys knew what it meant but they could see from his face that he didn’t like it.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘He called me a hijo de puta . That means . . .’

  ‘I know what it means.’

  ‘I called him a concha . . .’

  Skinner smiled. ‘I know that one too.’

  ‘Then I said, “Tú no eres hombre, si usted no sabe cómo respetar a una mujer ,” “You’re no man if you don’t know how to respect a woman,” and I walked out.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘At the beginning of August.’

  ‘Has he said anything to you since then?’

  ‘No.’ Fonter stood, ripped a stretch of paper towel from a container on the wall and wiped down the machine, carefully, removing all traces of sweat. ‘He’s quiet whenever I’m in the room. He says nothing around me. But Jimmy Pike told me he still talked about Alice after that, until Art Mustard said he didn’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘Is Flowers your only problem on the staff.’

  ‘Among the players, yes. But the assistant manager, Bridges, that guy I do not like. Nobody does. He’s not a pleasant man; he’s a big guy and he will pick on people who fear him. Unfortunately, that means most of the people in the club.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘But not me. And not Art. Everyone else though. We arrived in Scotland at the same time, me, the boss and Bridges. We had not been here long when there was a training game; we were short so Bridges played for the B team. The first time the ball came to me, he kicked me from behind. Not to injure me but to hurt. You know?’

  ‘Sure,’ Skinner said. ‘Old pro stuff.’

  ‘Yes. So I told him that if he ever did it again he would pay for it. He tried, and he did. I stood on his foot as he came on at me, and put my weight against his knee. It damaged a ligament, and put him out of action for a month, but no one ever knew, except Bridges and me, and the boss, of course, who knows everything.’

  ‘Why does Baker tolerate him?’

  ‘Chaz keeps him because he is himself a nice man. In a group of trainers they can’t all be nice men; you need a nasty guy, someone who will shout from the touchline and yell at the lazy. That’s the job that Tank Bridges does and he is very good at it, too good because he takes it too far. I don’t like to see young players in tears, but I have done.’

  ‘What did Annie think of these people, Bridges and Flowers?’

  ‘She hardly knew them. Bridges not at all, and Flowers only because he lives in the apartment below ours.’

  ‘Was that arrangement all right with you? Living so close to teammates? Living above three single men?’

  ‘It was never a problem, because we never saw them and never heard them. The noise does not come through the floor. It is a strong building.’

  ‘Will you go back there?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Never,’ Fonter declared. ‘I told Angela Renwick to find me another place. And I told Cisco Serra, find me another club in the January window. I never should have come to this country. If I had not come to this country, Annie would still be alive.’

  ‘Will Rogozin let you move?’

  The footballer picked up a pair of padded training gloves, slipped them on and walked across to a punchball. He hit it gently, setting it swinging, then again and again and again, first with his right fist, then both, until he had established a steady rhythm and the ball was no more than a blur. ‘That’s what I think of Rogozin,’ he said as he worked. ‘And that,’ he added, as he finished the sequence with a final savage punch. ‘Rogozin will have no say in whether I move or not. I wasn’t at Merrytown very long before I learned that if you want anything done there that Chaz cannot fix you don’t go to Rogozin. You go to the other director, Mr McCullough. He is the real boss.’

  Why does that not surprise me? Skinner asked himself. He had always seen an incongruity in the notion of Cameron McCullough playing second fiddle to a blustering Russian bully. He made a mental note that at some time in the future, when the Annette Bordeaux case and its tragic victim were both laid to rest, he would use his contacts to explore the links between the two men. Too much had been taken for granted.

  ‘I appreciate you seeing me, Paco,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to, and the news I gave you will probably take some time to sink in. Before I go, there is one more thing I need to tell you about. When they went through your apartment, after Annie’s murder, the forensic team found traces of a white powder in the bathroom. It was analysed and it proved to be cocaine.’

  ‘Mierda! ’ Fonter hissed.

  ‘I’m sorry to drop that on you, but I should add that there’s no suggestion that your wife was a user. Her blood showed no trace of any prohibited drug, and neither did the sample that was taken from Chaz Baker. Our thinking is that whoever snorted that stuff in your bathroom was the person who killed Annie, and that’s the suggestion my daughter will make to the jury.’

  The footballer’s face darkened. ‘I don’t know what to do here, sir.’ He stared straight ahead. ‘Look, if I tell you something, can I trust you?’

  ‘Legally, probably not,’ Skinner admitted. ‘I’m here on my daughter’s instruction, as her agent. If you told me something that was helpful to Chaz Baker’s defence, I’d be bound to take it back to her and she’d be obliged to introduce it in court. Personally, if it falls outside that condition, and you’re not going to admit to a major crime, yes you can.’

  Fonter nodded. ‘If I told you something that was harmful to the boss’s defence . . .’

  ‘My instinct says that I’d rather not hear it,’ he replied, then saw the implication in the other man’s hesitancy. ‘But if we use the presence of cocaine as part of the defence, it’ll be open to exploration by the Crown. You’ll be called as a witness in the trial for sure and so . . .’

  ‘It was mine.’ Paco glanced at him, then looked away again. ‘We all have our weaknesses, Mr Skinner, even you, I’m sure. I drink very little alcohol, only wine at table, I eat only free-range chicken and eggs, and I do not buy farmed fish. And I am faithful to my wife, unlike more than a few of my fellow footballers. But occasionally, very occasionally, I took a little cocaine. I was careful,’ he added. ‘I didn’t use when the season is on, unless I have a full week until the next game and I knew that I wouldn’t be tested.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Tests are supposed to be random, but I am a top player, and I am tested a lot. Never more than once in a month though, so once I have a test I know there’s a little space.’

  ‘When did you use the stuff that was found?’

  ‘At least three months ago. I’m amazed there were traces still there.’ He chuckled. ‘They should fire the cleaner; she’s pretty sloppy.’

  ‘How did Annette feel about it? Did it cause difficulty between you?’

  ‘She was worried that my supplier might use it against me, but otherwise she was fine with it. She knew it would not turn into a major habit; she knew plenty of people in her world who were serious users and she knew that I was not one of them.’

  ‘Could she prove to be right?’ Skinner asked. ‘Can you trust your supplier?’

  ‘It’s not an issue any more. I promised Annie I would quit for good, and I have done. I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘That was not what you wanted to hear, I know, and it will not help you with the boss’s defence. But if there is anything else I can do, you only have to say. After all, it seems that the man is my brother-in-law.’

  Forty-Three

  ‘Do you think they put us at the same table deliberately?’ Sauce Haddock asked, as he gazed around the crowded dining room of the Merrytown Football Club hospitality suite.

  His partner laughed. ‘Not they,’ Cheeky corrected him. ‘He. This has Grandpa’s fingerprints all over it.’

  ‘I see. This is the police table, is it? He might as well have put a blue lamp in the middle.’

  ‘Not me, lad,’ Bob Skinner chuckled. ‘You polis, me civilian. How’s work anyway, Sauce?’

  ‘Dominated, Chief,’ the young sergeant reminded him, ‘as well you know, by something that you and I can’t talk about.’

  ‘Of course we can. You’re off duty, and there’s nothing about your case against my daughter’s client that I don’t know . . . or there had better not be, otherwise she’ll be on to the Solicitor General about failure to disclose.’

  ‘Are we really going to talk shop all through lunch?’ Sarah Grace asked. ‘If we are, I had the aftermath of a road accident in yesterday, multiple fatalities. I could talk you through the autopsies if you like.’

  ‘And I could talk you through the tax calculation of a major, although nameless, investment management company,’ Cheeky McCullough added. ‘Let’s talk about football.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sauce responded. ‘I don’t see Paco Fonter here.’

  ‘No,’ Skinner confirmed. ‘And maybe you never will again.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then? We’re visiting him again on Monday,’

  ‘I spoke to him yesterday morning. He’s a sad and angry man, pounding ten bells out of himself and out of punchbags in the hotel gym. But every time he hits one, it isn’t Chaz Baker’s face he sees, not any more.’

  ‘You broke the news to him about . . .?’ He caught Skinner’s glance towards his girlfriend. ‘Cheeky knows, it’s okay.’

  ‘Yes I did. He was as surprised as you could imagine, and also, although he didn’t say so, a little hurt to discover that Annie had kept something so important from him. I know, Chaz wanted it kept out of the dressing room, but I don’t think Paco saw it that way.’

  ‘Does that mean he won’t be a cooperative witness at the trial?’

  ‘Guys!’ Cheeky protested.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Too late: it’s overflowing and running downhill; unstoppable. Let them flush it out of their system.’

  ‘It means,’ Skinner continued, ‘that if de Matteo asks him, “Do you believe that Mr Baker killed your wife?” he’ll say that he doesn’t. That’s Paco’s conclusion, not one I put into his head. You can ask him yourself on Monday.’

  He fell silent as a waiter served their starter, three prawn cocktails and grapefruit for Sarah.

  ‘You and Alex will be happy about that,’ Sauce suggested, fork in hand. ‘And about the coke that neither Annette nor Baker snorted.’

  ‘Yes to the first and no to the second,’ Skinner murmured. ‘The defence isn’t going to raise that.’

  Haddock looked puzzled. ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘You know the first rule of cross-examination? Sure you do; never ask a question unless you know the answer already. Sometimes it works the other way. You don’t ask it because you know the answer.’

  Sarah leaned forward. ‘Are you saying what I think you are?’

  He nodded.

  Haddock understood. ‘It was Paco’s?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, and you can tell Sammy. It’ll be de Matteo’s choice. He can either raise it in direct examination, thereby trashing unnecessarily the reputation of a bereaved and honourable man, or he can ignore it, knowing that we will too.’

  ‘You don’t see Paco being involved in any way?’

  ‘If I did, son, I’d have proved it by now. No, he’s a victim too; one out of five.’

  ‘Five? How do you work that out, Chief?’

  ‘Simple.’ He held up his left hand, as a fist, then extended the thumb. ‘One, Annette Bordeaux, murdered.’ The index finger. ‘Two, Paco Fonter, widowed.’ The second finger. ‘Three, Chaz Baker, framed as her killer.’ The ring finger. ‘Four, Sammy Pye, detective chief inspector.’ The little finger. ‘Five, Sauce Haddock, detective sergeant, the last two having been set up as the instruments by whom an innocent man was to be put away.’

  ‘I don’t feel like a victim,’ Haddock protested.

  ‘Do you feel the same confidence in your case as you did last Sunday?’ Skinner asked. ‘Or has the first glimmer of doubt crept into that large detective’s brain of yours?’

  ‘Cheeky’s right; let’s talk about something else,’ the young DS said, briskly. ‘Who’s supposed to win the game this afternoon? There’s a woman coming round the tables with betting slips. Who should I back?’

  ‘My sons are Motherwell supporters, like their dad,’ Sarah told him. ‘I’ll have to place bets for them.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Me too; no choice, it’s in my blood.’

  Haddock looked to his right, at his partner. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s one rule I’ve always had,’ she confessed, ‘ever since I was a wee girl: never bet against Grandpa.’

  Each of them took a slip from the uniformed woman when she reached their table, and filled them in as they waited for the main course to be served. Skinner bet on a scoring draw then wrote the name Jimmy Pike in the ‘First goal-scorer’ section.

  ‘Why him?’ Cheeky asked him.

  ‘He’ll be taking the penalties with Paco Fonter missing. Motherwell give away more penalties than any other team in the league and their goalie hasn’t saved one all season.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’

  ‘It’s called research, lass. I never go anywhere unless I’m well prepared for it. That’s something I tried to drill into your other half’s head, but from the look of him I was wasting my time.’

  Forty-Four

  ‘Whose bright idea was it to let Flowers take the penalties?’ Skinner grumbled to Grandpa McCullough as he followed him into the boardroom.

  ‘Tank Bridges, I suppose,’ his host replied. ‘What are you complaining about? Your team won.’

  ‘So did the bookie, thanks to fucking Flowers.’ He scowled. ‘Aiming a penalty kick at the goalie’s belly button on the assumption that he’ll dive! Jesus! Looks great if it works, but if the keeper just stands there and gathers it in . . . What a twat!’

  ‘We’re agreed on that,’ McCullough said. ‘Between you and me, Flowers won’t be here after January. He’s bad news in the dressing room, so I’ve told Cisco Serra to find him another club.’ He sighed. ‘I fear we could lose our star striker too. He doesn’t want to go back to the penthouse, and I don’t blame him. I don’t think he wants any more to do with Scotland either.’

  He picked up a bottle of sparkling water from a table by the wall on their right and offered it to Skinner. ‘I assume you’re driving, given your wife’s condition.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ He accepted it and picked up a glass, as the other man poured himself orange juice from a jar.

  ‘Want a pie? Prawn sandwich?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not after that lunch.’

  ‘I know,’ McCullough agreed, smiling. ‘It seems to be a Scottish football tradition; catering in the boardroom at half-time and after the game. I don’t understand it, but we keep it going because the other teams expect it. The same with the ladies going back to the hospitality suite rather than coming in here. It’s completely non-PC but it still happens; Mia has her eye on it, though. She and Angela Renwick had their heads together after the last game. The board might be under pressure to make a change at the next meeting.’

  Skinner looked around. The boardroom was crowded with directors of the visiting club and other guests. ‘Young Sauce seems to have gone with them.’

  ‘He’s breaking me in gently, I think. Since he and young Cameron got together he’s kept me at arm’s length. This is actually the first time I’ve met him face to face. You may have had something to do with that situation, I guess.’

  ‘I may have,’ the former chief admitted, ‘but Sauce is well smart enough to have figured it out for himself. Just as you’re smart enough to know why it had to be. If you have any misgivings about him, lose them. The boy’s a diamond. I’m not the only one who thinks that. He’s a protégé of the new chief constable as well. She spotted him when he was a probationer; she’s raised him from a fledgling, more or less. I made detective superintendent when I was thirty-six; Sauce will match that or beat it.’

  ‘Then I’ll make sure that no member of my family does anything that gets in his way,’ McCullough promised. ‘Just as the boy’s been careful around me, young Cameron won’t have anything to do with her mother or her aunt. My daughter is a fool, that’s all. My sister, though, she’s a total psychopath. However, she won’t be a problem for much longer; she has terminal brain cancer. And don’t say you’re sorry to hear that,’ he added, ‘for I’m not. I understand,’ he went on, ‘that you and Mia had a positive conversation about your son.’

  ‘Yes, we did. I’m visiting Ignacio at Polmont on Monday. We can all make plans for him, but he has to agree with them.’

  ‘Too true. If I can help . . . in a positive way, I promise you . . . then I will. Now,’ McCullough looked directly at his guest, ‘cards on the table, Bob. Why are you here?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Chaz Baker,’ Skinner replied. ‘I’m helping Alex prepare his defence. I’ve seen most of the witnesses and I wanted to get a feel for this place.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know; just a sense of it, I think.’

  ‘Is it telling you anything?’

  ‘Nothing so far, I must admit.’

  ‘Have you seen Paco?’

  ‘Yes. Your fear of losing him, it’s well founded. Will you try to keep him?’