‘I don’t think we’ll put him in the list of suspects, not just yet. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it would be nice if he had an alibi.’

  ‘It must be linked to Russia, surely,’ Haddock said. ‘There isn’t enough money in Scottish football for anybody to get killed over it, and that was all he was involved in here.’ He frowned. ‘What’s Lottie’s next move?’

  ‘It’s my next move,’ Pye told him. ‘Her DCI’s in the Canary Islands, so she can’t dump it on him, but it does need to go up the line, higher than my rank, though. I’ve said that given the link I’ll take that responsibility on board. If the DCC was here and not in Italy I’d go straight to him. In his absence, and with DCS Marlowe not being there either, I’ll have to take it to the chief herself.’

  ‘And the Russians,’ Haddock pointed out. ‘Somebody will have to tell the consulate.’

  ‘You’re right. As it happens, I had a call from the vice-consul fifteen minutes ago,’ Pye said. ‘Rogozin has no criminal record at home, but there is a file on him. Like we suspected, he was a wannabe, a bullshitter with no links to organised crime.

  ‘However,’ he added heavily, ‘he was the subject of a police investigation, into a sexual offence. A female journalist accused him of date rape; she said that he drugged her and had sex when she was unable to do anything about it.’

  ‘Was he charged?’

  ‘No. He denied it. There was forensic evidence but he claimed it was consensual and that he’d paid her. He claimed that she’d demanded more money and got stroppy when he refused.’

  ‘Is the file still open?’

  ‘In theory,’ the DCI replied, ‘but the woman disappeared. He was investigated over that too, but there was nowhere to go really, no evidence of further contact, no evidence of any threat.’

  ‘How about his business?’ Haddock suggested. ‘Might there be grounds there?’

  ‘Now that is interesting. His travel and leisure company, Rogotron, did okay when it started, but it wasn’t a market leader or anything like it, not until around ten years ago when a Geneva registered company called Vachepie acquired a fifty per cent stake, injected capital, and the business took off. Two years after that there was a further share issue to fund the acquisition of a holiday village in Turkey; as a result, Rogozin’s share was diluted to forty-five per cent.’

  ‘Who owns what’s its name?’ the DS asked.

  ‘I don’t know, and neither do the Russians. The point is that Rogozin doesn’t actually own seventy-five per cent of the football club, only around one-third.’

  The DS scratched his chin. ‘Suppose whoever owns the Swiss investor wanted rid of Rogozin, and couldn’t be bothered to buy him out?’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Sauce, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I have to call the big boss, Mrs Steele, and someone else, who’s going to be as surprised as we are . . . I hope.’

  Fifty

  ‘Yes, sir, how can I help you today?’

  The receptionist gave him a look of appraisal as he stepped into the foyer. There was a very slight upward movement of her right eyebrow, but as he stepped towards the counter a glossy smile greeted him.

  Technically, Dan Provan was not a Glaswegian; he had been born in Cambuslang, a town just outside the city’s southern boundary, and had lived there all his life. But he felt like one: he loved Glasgow and knew its heart like the back of his hand, and its outer communities, rough and smooth . . . rarely did the two overlap . . . almost as well.

  He knew its icons also, and took most of them for granted. He had commuted by train for most of his life, using his car mainly for off-duty outings, and had walked past the Central Hotel every day, on his way out of the station from which it had taken its name, before the addition of the Grand prefix, but only rarely had he set foot inside, to the police dinners that he was sometimes persuaded or shamed into attending.

  The woman’s accent was probably Maryhill, he reckoned, but trying hard to be Bearsden. He read the oval badge on her jacket and saw that her name was Krystle; he had met a few of those in his time, even locked one up. An iconic TV series of the eighties had left its mark on a generation of young Scots. Another Dynasty wean , he thought. If she’s got a brother his name’s Blake, for sure .

  He showed her his warrant card. ‘Polis, hen,’ he said. ‘DS Provan, Dan tae you. I’m tryin’ to place somebody and I’m wondering if he was a guest here.’ He flipped the key card, encased in a plastic slip, from his breast pocket. ‘Is this one of yours.’

  ‘Yes, it is. If I can take it out, I can tell yis whose.’ Definitely Maryhill.

  ‘I think I know anyway, but go ahead, to confirm it.’

  Krystle slipped the card from its envelope and scanned in. ‘That belongs to Mr Rogozin,’ she announced. She pronounced the name differently from the way Provan had read it, with equal emphasis on each of the three syllables. ‘Do you want me to see if he’s in?’

  ‘No, Ah know where he is. I am going to need to see the duty manager though.’

  The receptionist’s eyes showed a mixture of concern and uncertainty. ‘I’ll see if she’s available,’ she murmured.

  ‘She’ll be available, Krystle,’ he said. ‘Trust me on that.’

  She picked up a phone on the counter, glancing over her shoulder at two people who had come into the hotel since Provan, and were waiting in line behind him. Both were male, half his age, business suited and each was wheeling a small suitcase. The detective saw them reflected in the mirror behind the reception desk, saw that one was frowning and shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. Just off an early train from London, both of them, he guessed.

  As Krystle spoke quietly into the phone he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he told them.

  ‘I hope not,’ the restless one replied. ‘We have an important meeting and we don’t want to be late.’

  Provan glared at him. ‘There’s worse things,’ he growled. ‘You could be fuckin’ dead, like the guy Ah’ve just left.’

  A gasp from behind the counter told him that Krystle had overheard. He nodded in her direction. ‘Sorry, hen,’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘Ms Kilmarnock’s on her way.’

  As she spoke, another woman came into the foyer through an archway on the right of the station concourse entrance, beyond the concierge desk. She wore a pale grey suit; the cut was different from that of the receptionist, but the material was the same; corporate colours, Provan guessed.

  They shook hands as she introduced herself: ‘Wilma Kilmarnock, deputy general manager.’ Provan followed her to a seated area, away from the desk. ‘You’re enquiring about Mr Rogozin,’ she began; her pronunciation was the same as Krystle’s.

  ‘He’s a regular visitor?’ Provan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He stays with us often. Krystle said you’ve found his key card. Thank you for returning it, but . . . I’m surprised it’s a detective sergeant who’s handing it in. Should I read anything into that?’

  ‘I’m afraid ye should. You can read the fact that he’s dead. His body was found about three hours ago, bobbin’ down the river heading for Greenock.’

  ‘How awful,’ the manager murmured. ‘How did he . . . ? Was he . . . ? Did he . . . ?’

  ‘Did he?’ the DS repeated. ‘No, he didnae jump. Was he? Yes. He was attacked, almost certainly on the walkway. We have to wait for post-mortem findings to be sure, but we believe he was killed there and dumped into the river.’

  ‘Do you know when?’

  ‘We’re looking at the early hours of this morning. Can you tell me when he was last seen here?’

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ she replied, at once. ‘I saw him myself. He was in the bar, with a woman.’

  ‘Another guest?’

  ‘No, I’m sure she wasn’t. I don’t always know our guests by sight, but I was in this area when she arrived, just after seven o’clock. I heard her ask reception where the bar was; if she’d been a guest, she’d have known. She was directed to the Tempus Bar. I was there myself a little later and I saw her with Mr Rogozin.’

  ‘What sort of woman was she?’ he asked, tentatively.

  ‘What do you mean? Spit it out, Sergeant.’

  ‘Could she have been a . . . an escort girl? I’m sorry to be blunt, but . . .’

  ‘That’s okay; I understand. You don’t want to imply that the Grand Central Hotel is a knocking shop. It certainly isn’t, but we’re not blind either. Mr Rogozin has had a few female visitors during his visits to us, exactly the type you suggest. Look,’ Kilmarnock said, ‘there isn’t a lot we can do about it. They never stay for breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not getting at you,’ Provan assured her.

  ‘Like I said, understood; however the woman who was here last night wasn’t one of those. She was forty-something, small and dumpy; very well dressed, designer clothes, but she did nothing for them.’

  ‘How was the atmosphere between them? Could ye tell?’

  ‘I didn’t observe them for long, but I’d say for sure it was tense. She was leaning close to him, and it looked as if she was saying something that he didn’t want to hear.’

  ‘I know that Rogozin,’ he copied the hotel pronunciation, ‘went out later. Do you know, or can you find out, if they left together?’

  ‘No problem; Kerry, our evening receptionist, will know. She misses nothing. Hold on, while I call her.’

  Provan waited as she took out her phone; he looked around the formidable space, musing over his casual disinterest over so many years. It had been refurbished expensively and with care since his last visit, in the last year of the last century. He smiled as he entertained a momentary fantasy of surprising Lottie by taking her for a drink in the Tempus Bar. Probably only the one , he admitted to himself. It’ll be out of my price range. She deserves it, though; lassie’s had no real life since she got wise to that arsehole she married .

  Lottie saw him, he knew, as friend, mentor and confidant. His feelings for her were rather more complicated.

  ‘She left alone,’ Wilma Kilmarnock announced, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Mr Rogozin left later, with someone else. He had a second visitor, Kerry said, at eight o’clock on the dot. A man; she described him as late fifties, possibly into his sixties, but fit-looking. “Vigorous”, was how she put it.’

  ‘Did she say any more about him?’ Provan asked.

  ‘Quite a bit: I told you, she misses nothing. She said he was average height, well tanned, and with a full head of silver hair. She remembered his eyes too: blue and intense, she said. He wore an open-necked shirt, white, and a navy-blue blazer with a crest on the pocket.’

  ‘Any chance you’ve got him on CCTV?’

  ‘It’s possible, but I can’t guarantee a facial shot. If I don’t have, you will, whatever way they went: there are surveillance cameras covering both Hope Street and Gordon Street.’

  ‘Did Kerry say how they were together? Did they look like they were going for a night out or an argument?’

  ‘She said that Mr Rogozin looked a bit agitated; the other man was just, well, normal.’

  ‘Did she have any idea what the badge on his blazer night have been?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Provan had, though: average height, tan, silver hair. His mind went back to Merrytown Stadium, and the front row of the directors’ box, where the Russian had been in prime position, with the Renwick woman, the chief executive, on his left; on his right another female, forties, slim, trim, blonde, and next to her, a man: silver hair, tan, blazer.

  The detective sergeant was not a fanatical follower of the South Lanarkshire club, but he knew the basics, that it was wholly owned by Dimitri Rogozin and another man, a bloke from Dundee, whose name was known by CID cops across Scotland.

  ‘What was Grandpa McCullough doin’ here on a Sunday?’ he whispered, oblivious at that moment to Wilma Kilmarnock’s presence.

  ‘Can I see his room?’ he asked, dragging himself back to the business at hand.

  ‘Of course, come this way.’

  She led him through the arch and into the main body of the hotel, stopping at the lift doors. ‘Mr Rogozin has the JFK Suite,’ she volunteered. ‘He’s a great admirer of President Kennedy and asks for it every time he’s here.’

  ‘Old Jack’s lost a fan,’ Provan said, ‘no’ that he’ll be bothered. He never got on wi’ the Russians from what I’ve heard.’

  She opened the door with the key that the DS had brought with him. ‘I’m impressed that it still works,’ he remarked. ‘I wish his phones did.’

  ‘Phones plural?’

  ‘He had two. We’ve got no idea why, and we’re no’ going to find out now.’

  The suite was plush and comfortable, with a small sitting room, a bedroom with a further sitting area by the window and a bathroom off. ‘Has it been cleaned today?’ Provan asked, as they stood in the bedroom.

  ‘Yes, it has been.’

  ‘Ye can tell even though it was never slept in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ms Kilmarnock replied. ‘The toiletries have been replenished and the towels are fresh.’

  ‘That’s a hell of a size of a bed; it’s bigger than my garden shed.’

  ‘This is an international hotel, Sergeant,’ she reminded him. ‘That’s what our guests expect, especially the Americans.’

  Provan made a face that hinted at his feelings towards Americans and, possibly, foreigners in general. Under the gaze of the late thirty-fifth president, depicted in a mural, he began to inspect the room.

  Rogozin’s wardrobe was not extensive, he had travelled with a second suit, a pair of dark trousers and the Merrytown FC blazer that he had worn at the match two days before. McCullough’s had been blue, but the Russian’s was a deep claret shade.

  Shirts, socks and underwear were all in a drawer below the hanging garments. ‘He had his clothes laundered daily,’ the manager volunteered, anticipating a question.

  ‘And his money too, probably,’ Provan grunted.

  ‘Not here,’ Ms Kilmarnock chuckled. ‘Everything went on his tab and that was settled with a credit card in the name of the football club.’

  There was a safe in the wardrobe, sitting above the drawer, with a number pad and a small screen. ‘Can you open it?’ the detective asked.

  ‘In theory, no. In practice, there’s a re-set code.’ She leaned past him, blocking his view of the screen and keyed in four numbers: the rectangular door swung open. ‘Help yourself.’

  There was a document case inside. The sergeant drew it out and unzipped it, then emptied its contents on to the bed: passport, flight documents carrying a Prestwick Airport stamp, a Hertz car rental agreement, a folder of documents, in Russian, and an iPad, the large size Pro model.

  Provan picked up the tablet. Jake Mann had the Mini version . . . a tenth birthday present from ‘Uncle’ Dan . . . and so he knew how to awaken it. He held his finger on the lock button until the Apple logo appeared in the screen then waited until it booted up.

  ‘Probably nae use without a password,’ he muttered, but scrolled right nonetheless as the screen instructed. To his surprise, it opened and a list of apps appeared. He studied the icons: some were standard, Settings, Weather, Clock, Newsstand, others were not, but all of them appeared to be games.

  He hit the email symbol; there were five messages in the inbox, but they were all in Russian script, undecipherable to him. He closed it and opened the browser; two windows had been opened and left for Rogozin’s last session. He clicked in one then, as images appeared, closed it very quickly, realising that his guide was looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It seems that our man was big on the hardcore porn sites.’

  She shrugged. ‘You’d be amazed what we find lying about in hotels. There’s quite a lot I could tell you about famous people. One or two are on our blacklist; we don’t take their bookings any more.’

  He moved on, opening the iTunes library. Its late owner’s tastes were surprisingly conservative: Il Divo, Alfie Boe and Andre Rieu. Provan, an unreconstructed rocker, winced and closed the window.

  The photos that the Russian had stored on his iPad were arranged into named folders, but again the tags were in Cyrillic script. Provan opened the first, and saw a sequence of still images and videos of holiday resorts, all shot in glorious sunshine. He could only guess at the locations, but wherever they were the terrain was green and lush and the beaches were so golden and rock-free that he guessed they might have been artificial.

  The second collection had been shot in Las Vegas. All the iconic Strip images were there and several selfies, showing Rogozin in garish tourist clothing and usually with a woman on his arm, but never the same one twice. The detective felt a twinge of jealousy; for years he had wanted to go to Sin City, and had even made a couple of calls to Barrhead Travel, only to pull out at the last minute, imagining Lottie’s booming laugh in his ear.

  The third folder was football: Merrytown in action, and sometimes inaction, at grounds around Scotland and, once, in Ireland, from a flag that flew on the grandstand. A Europa League qualified that summer, the supporter in Provan recalled.

  He clicked on the fourth folder, closed it at once, then opened it again when he realised that Wilma Kilmarnock was no longer standing behind him. It contained thumbnails of a woman and in every one she was naked. She was slim and slender, with skin the colour of coffee. He opened the first to full screen, and went through them one by one. As he did so, the feeling of unease within him grew to revulsion.

  In each shot the subject was averting her eyes; it struck him that he had never seen anyone so ill at ease in a photograph. And yet the woman with the desperately sad eyes was, in another context, one of the most alluring faces on the planet.

  Even in such bizarre, obscene circumstances, it was impossible not to recognise Annette Bordeaux.

  Fifty-One

  ‘Have the media been advised yet?’ Skinner asked, without preamble, as he stepped into Sammy Pye’s small room, off the CID suite in the main Edinburgh police office. ‘I had the radio on as I drove here, but there was nothing beyond a report of a body being recovered from the Clyde.’