Haddock gestured with his cup. ‘What’s going on there, d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pye replied, ‘but I know what it looks like.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘If I had known about you sooner,’ Bob Skinner whispered to an empty room, ‘what would I have done?’

  Not a day went by without him thinking about his oldest son, conceived in Scotland, born in Spain, to a woman he could have locked up but instead had advised to get out of town for her own safety.

  As he had admitted to her, he had asked himself that question many times, but he had been less certain about the answer than he had suggested. If he had been confronted with Mia’s pregnancy, questions would have been asked within the police service, and his answers might have been less than convincing, career-threatening even.

  Had he told her to leave for her protection, or for his own? Both, possibly. If she had come back, would he have been able to confront the issue? He hoped that he would, but feared that he might not.

  It’s all academic now , he thought as the tall young man, with his physical frame and some of his facial features, came into the private office that the Governor of the Polmont Institution allowed them to use for their meetings. The prison authorities recognised that if the inmate population discovered that Ignacio Centelleos was Bob Skinner’s son, it might have put him at risk, and so the secret would be kept, until, in a few weeks, he stepped through the gate in the clothes of freedom.

  ‘How are you?’ his father asked.

  ‘I am very well,’ Ignacio replied. ‘You look a little tired, though, Padre.’

  He laughed. ‘I can’t get my head round that. You make me sound like a priest.’

  ‘It comes most naturally to me. Honestly, I’m not sure what to call you.’

  ‘I’ve told you; call me what you like. Everyone else does.’

  ‘Then Padre it will be . . . Padre. It suits me and it reminds me of what I am: Spanish.’

  ‘That’s how you think of yourself, is it? As far as I know you’re one hundred per cent British.’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent Scottish?’

  ‘No,’ Skinner replied. ‘I had an Irish great-grandmother; my mother’s middle name was Niamh, after her. On your mother’s side . . . I doubt if she knows for sure.’

  ‘Mamma has never talked to me about her family,’ Ignacio said. ‘I asked her all the time I was growing up, but she never did. I didn’t understand until I met my grandmother.’

  ‘I’m not going to talk about the Watsons either, son. But I did meet Mia’s father, your grandfather, once. He seemed like a decent man, but the Spreckleys, your granny’s side, they drove him out.’

  ‘And your family? All I know is Alexis, and you.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he conceded, conscious yet again of the fact that he and his son were strangers to each other.

  ‘Okay, quick rundown: your grandfather was a lawyer, a successful one; he fought in the war, in special operations that left their mark on him for the rest of his life. He never spoke of that, but he was decorated for it by the state, given a very important medal. Your grandmother, my mother, was an alcoholic . . .’ he paused, and grinned, sadly. ‘You didn’t have a lot of luck in the granny department, son.’

  ‘It seems not,’ Ignacio agreed.

  ‘On the other hand, further back than that you’re descended from another war hero. But that’s old family history; I’ll tell you everything I know when we have more time. We have current matters to talk about. You’re due for release soon. When that happens, you’ll have some decisions to make. First of those is where you want to live, even if it’s only short-term. I’d like it to be with me.’

  ‘I know, because you’ve said already, but are you sure you have room? How does your wife feel? What will your children think?’

  ‘Sarah is fine with it. If she wasn’t, I’d tell you and we’d make another arrangement. The boys? They’ll be intrigued; I’ve told them about you, although not about where you are just now. They’re gobsmacked by the idea of a new older brother.

  ‘As for accommodation, here’s what I’m thinking: no, it’s what I’m going to do regardless of your decision. My garage sits beside the house and it’s big enough for three cars. I’m going to build above it and create an apartment. I’ll show you the plans if you like, they’re pretty neat. It’ll have an open-plan living area, an en suite bedroom and a small study. When it’s done, that’s where you’ll live.’

  Ignacio looked at him. ‘Padre, that is very good of you, but are you sure? You hardly know me. Look where I am, look what I’ve done. You really want me alongside your children?’

  ‘Everything you’ve done,’ he answered, ‘you did for your mother. You’re here because you defended her. The trouble you were in in Spain, you did that for her as well, and she was reckless enough to allow it.’

  Skinner sensed a ripple of tension in the young man. ‘I know,’ he said, quickly ‘she’s still your mother and you love her. I’m not going to condemn her. I know more than you do about her past and about her childhood, and I’ll tell you she’s done bloody well to survive it all, let alone wind up as comfortable as she is now. If you want to live with her,’ he added, ‘that’s open to you as well.’

  ‘She says if I want they will give me a place of my own.’ He smiled. ‘But she said also that I should choose to live with you if I can. She said it is time you put some effort into our relationship.’

  ‘That’s bloody rich,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘given that she concealed it from me for all those years. So,’ he continued, ‘you’ll live in Gullane?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ignacio agreed, ‘thank you; but I want to work,’ he added.

  His father frowned. ‘We, Mia and I, we’d both like you to go to university. You’ve shown your flair for chemistry, in very practical if not very legal ways.’

  ‘I don’t want to study chemistry;’ he said, abruptly. ‘Already I’ve had enough of that in my life.’ He hesitated, suddenly concerned. ‘Padre, me having done what I’ve done, me being in this place, does it mean I can never be a cop?’

  ‘You want to be a police officer?’ Skinner exclaimed.

  ‘Yes. I think that I do. But I guess that’s not possible now.’

  ‘Anything’s possible, Ignacio,’ he replied, ‘if you really want it to happen. The fact is, criminal convictions aren’t an automatic bar to you being a policeman. Every applicant is vetted and judgements are made individually. The recruiters look into their background, their education, their beliefs and their past, and they look at close family members as well. Having me in support of your application, that will help, no question, but the selection process is complex. There are written exams, physical tests and interviews.’

  ‘Are you really saying that I can’t?’

  ‘No I’m not, but I am saying that my support alone won’t get you automatic entrance.’

  ‘But you would support me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Skinner said, firmly, ‘but my very strong advice is that you go to university and get yourself a degree.’

  ‘What would I study?’

  ‘Whatever you like, mostly. I have an MA, from Glasgow. It’s a general degree and you could do the same; you could read economics, philosophy, politics, or you could do the obvious and study Spanish. Do you have any other languages, apart from English?’

  ‘I studied Italian at school; it’s pretty easy for Spanish people.’

  ‘There you are then. Degree-level fluency in two European languages would get you big points in the selection process. Did you complete your Spanish school exams?’

  ‘Yes, I have Bachiller in six subjects, with distinction in five, maths, chemistry, English, Italian and Spanish. While I have been in here, I have sat Scottish qualifications in the languages, and I am doing maths this year.’

  ‘Great,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘I’ll try Edinburgh and Heriot Watt Universities with what you got in Spain. The university term hasn’t started yet; we might even squeeze you in this year. Do you have your school certificates?’

  He nodded. ‘Mamma has them.’

  ‘Then let’s have a go. Are you up for it?’

  Ignacio beamed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘You bet I am. And I know people in both universities. If there are vacancies, I’ll find them.’

  ‘But Padre, I don’t get out of here until November.’

  Skinner winked at his son; his enthusiasm was more fired than it had been in months. ‘I know people on the Parole Board too. If you have to wear an electronic tag to go to classes for the first few weeks, so what?

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘don’t let me railroad you into something you don’t want to do, whether we can get you into university next session or next year, will you consider it?’

  ‘I still want to be a cop.’

  ‘A degree will give you a better chance of acceptance.’

  ‘Then yes, I will consider university. But,’ he continued, ‘I still want to have a job. I need to earn my own money. I have done since I was fifteen.’

  ‘I know that only too well.’

  Ignacio grinned. ‘I admit it, I shouldn’t have produced crystal meth; it was wrong. I should have stuck to making poppers; they’re legal in most places . . . and much easier to produce.’

  ‘That career is definitely over,’ his father said. ‘Alex and I between us, we’ll find you a part-time job, no problem. What do you . . .’

  He broke off in mid-question as Jimmy Buffett sang ‘Margaritaville ’ in his pocket. He retrieved it and saw that Sammy Pye was calling. ‘Yes?’ he said, impatiently, as he answered.

  His son watched him as he listened, saw his mouth drop open in surprise, saw his eyes widen, heard him whisper, ‘You’re fucking kidding!’ and then, ‘Who’s the SIO?’ a question he did not understand. Whatever the answer was it must have pleased him for he nodded and said, ‘That’s good news. I’d better make contact. Thanks, Sammy.’

  ‘What was that?’ Ignacio asked.

  ‘An ex-colleague, a friend; he was letting me know that a man’s body was fished out of the River Clyde in Glasgow this morning: live on TV apparently. They don’t think he got there by accident.’

  ‘How does it affect you?’

  ‘Because I know him, and given what’s passed between us over the last week or so, if I was in charge of the investigation, I’d regard myself as a suspect.’

  Forty-Eight

  ‘Can you say for certain that I’m looking at a murder here?’ Detective Inspector Lottie Mann asked the pathologist as he knelt beside the body of a man, in a white tent that had been erected on the south bank of the River Clyde, on a patch of grass next to the Scottish Television building, the smaller neighbour of the BBC Scotland headquarters.

  ‘No,’ Dr Graeme Bell admitted, ‘not until I get him along to the mortuary and open him up to establish the cause of death. All I can say at the moment is that there is a depressed fracture of the skull, above and just behind the left ear, that would probably not have been survivable for more than a few seconds. Even if there’s no water in his lungs, I can’t go firm on homicide without the forensic people ruling out the possibility of him having jumped into the river and hit his head on something during the fall. How they’re going to do that without knowing where he went in, I have no idea.’

  ‘Could he have jumped off the Clyde Arc itself?’

  ‘The what?’ Dr Bell grunted as he pushed himself upright, looking up at the woman detective. He was not a short man, but she was the taller of the two by at least three inches.

  ‘The Squinty Bridge,’ she said. ‘That’s its real name, although they might as well change it, ’cos most Weegies don’t have a clue that it is.’

  ‘Again, I won’t know until I examine him. If he went off the middle of the span, the fall would have been considerable and there would be injuries consistent with that sort of impact, even on water. But,’ he murmured, ‘I suppose that if you were going to jump you’d want to make a good job of it.’

  ‘This one didnae jump, Graeme,’ Detective Sergeant Dan Provan chuckled.

  The pathologist turned to him. He knew the veteran from many crime scenes, and tried to remember a time when he had not looked to be in his fifties, and when he had not worn a creased sports jacket and shiny trousers, and when his moustache had not appeared to be stained by nicotine.

  ‘Regale us, Daniel,’ he said, managing not to make the mistake of sounding patronising.

  ‘The guy’s in a Savile Row suit and a thousand-quid overcoat. He has car keys in his pocket, and he’s wearing a diamond-studded Patek Philippe watch that’s worth fifty K if it’s worth a fiver, and he’s got well over a grand in cash in his wallet. He didnae chuck all that into the river in a fit of depression, trust me.’

  Mann smiled. ‘My colleague has a point, Doctor.’ She had worked with Provan almost continuously since her days as a detective constable; he had been a DS throughout that time; he had no ambition to rise higher and had been untroubled when she passed him in rank. In truth he was more than a colleague; he was her best friend, and as a single mother she found herself relying on him more and more in her private life as well as at work.

  ‘As for where he went in,’ the dishevelled DS continued, ‘yes it is a big river, but the fact that he’s got a couple of chips from the Garrick Casino in his trouser pocket along wi’ the Lexus key gives us a good place to start looking.’

  Graeme Bell nodded. ‘Sometimes I wonder what you need me for,’ he observed.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder the same. I’ll bet you one o’ yon casino chips you don’t find any water in his lungs. Look at his eyes. They’re wide open; you can still see the shock from having the back of his head caved in. He was hit, and he was heaved into the water off the walkway.’

  ‘A mugging, you reckon?’

  ‘Doctor, please,’ the DS sighed. ‘Our muggers might no’ be the brightest, but they’re not completely daft. A grand left in his wallet and a diamond-studded wristwatch? No, this was not theft. If you want my opinion, it was calculated, premeditated murder.’

  ‘Mmm. Want to go the whole way, Dan, and give me the time of death?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Provan checked his watch. ‘Just gone half ten: ye’ll find he’s been dead for eight or nine hours. It was quiet and dark when he was attacked, around about two in the morning earliest. If it had been the day before, he’d have drifted further or been seen sooner. Any later and he wouldnae have made it this far. Graeme, you and I have been fishin’ bodies out of this fuckin’ river since it was a stream. You know I’m right.’

  ‘I guess I do,’ the pathologist conceded. ‘Okay, let me go and prove it.’ He was starting to peel off his forensic suit even before he stepped out of the tent.

  ‘What else do his pockets tell us, Dan?’ Mann asked as he left.

  ‘There’s a phone,’ he began, ‘but after being in the water it’s completely fucked. His wallet, though, that tells us a lot. According to his credit cards and to a Garrick Casino membership card, his name is Dimitri Rogozin. There’s another couple of cards in here, with photographs on them; could be a driving licence, could be an ID card, probably are. But I cannae tell which is which because they’re in Russian. There’s also what looks like a key card for a hotel room. It doesn’t show the name of the hotel, but this guy won’t be in a dosshouse, so I’d start looking at the Central, given that it’s just up the road from the casino.’

  ‘Dimitri Rogozin,’ she repeated when he was finished. ‘Why do I know that name?’

  ‘Because your wee Jake supports his football team,’ Provan replied, ‘on account of his Uncle Dan not allowing him to fall into the trap of supporting either Rangers or Celtic. Didn’t I take him there on Saturday, to see them lose to Motherwell, and wasn’t he a sad lad when I brought him home? From where we were sitting, we could see this fella in the front row of the directors’ box, although I grant you, he looks a bit different now.’

  ‘Of course,’ the DI acknowledged. ‘There’s something else I recall about Merrytown, for all I couldn’t care less about the game. Their manager’s been charged with killing their star player’s wife.’

  ‘Exactly. We’d better get in touch with the SIO in that inquiry. The two might not be linked, but it’ll be of interest to him.’

  ‘I suppose it will. It happened in Edinburgh, and Sammy Pye’s the DCI there, so he’s probably the man. Tell you what, Dan, why don’t you head up to the Central Hotel and check the register, while I call him.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ He paused in the doorway of the tent. ‘By the way, Rogozin wasnae the only guy I recognised in the directors’ box on Saturday. Bob Skinner was there too. I wondered why at the time, and then I saw the story in yesterday’s papers about the guy Baker and the woman he’s supposed tae have murdered actually being half-brother and half-sister. It said that Skinner’s daughter’s his lawyer. Any bets he’s involved?’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Mann sighed. ‘I wonder if I could persuade Sammy that this death is so closely tied to the Bordeaux murder that he should take this one on too?’

  Provan laughed. ‘I remember thinking that the lad’s ambitious,’ he said, ‘but I don’t recall thinking that he’s daft.’

  Forty-Nine

  ‘Say that again please, gaffer,’ Sauce Haddock murmured. ‘I’m not sure I believe my ears.’

  ‘I know,’ Pye agreed. ‘I felt much the same, but big Lottie doesn’t do stand-up. Dimitri Rogozin is dead. What you spotted on the telly news earlier on, that was his body being taken out of the Clyde.’

  ‘Bloody hell! What are they calling it? Natural causes, suicide or the other?’

  ‘A catastrophic skull fracture doesn’t sound too natural. Subject to post-mortem, they’ve got it down as murder. Maybe that minder of his wasn’t just for show.’

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe he wouldn’t have been any use anyway. Cheeky heard from her grandpa that he spat in big Bob’s face on Saturday before he stormed off in a rage.’