‘That’s all the PR people have been authorised to say so far,’ the DCI replied. ‘It happens: people get drunk and fall in the river, or they get depressed and jump in. The press have no reason to think this is out of the ordinary, so they haven’t been beating the doors down. Rogozin was unmarried but his parents are still alive; they should be advised before any public announcement, even though they’re in Russia. Obviously, this is going to spread fast.’

  ‘Tell me about it. In my brief time as chief of the old Strathclyde force, we had a couple of problems involving cops messaging journos on their Twitter accounts. I landed on them very heavily, I can tell you,’ he added, with a glacial look in his eye. ‘Who’s the SIO?’ he continued.

  ‘Technically, I am,’ Pye said. ‘The chief has linked this death with the Bordeaux investigation, until we know different. Mann and Provan will run the Glasgow end, but they’ll keep me informed.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘You’ve already charged Chaz Baker with Annette’s death. Does that mean you fancy him for this one too?’

  ‘I didn’t, not until a few minutes ago, when I had an email from Provan with some very disturbing attachments.’

  ‘They’ve made progress?’

  ‘A hell of a lot in a very short time. Dan Provan searched Rogozin’s room in the Central Hotel; he found an iPad, and these were on it.’

  He swung his computer screen round so that both could see it. Skinner gasped at the image that was showing. ‘That’s . . .’ he murmured. His expression grew harder and harder as Pye ran through the folder that the Glasgow team had sent to him. By the time the first photograph reappeared, it was one of fury.

  ‘You were right,’ the DCI said. ‘There was a relationship between Rogozin and Annette.’

  ‘If that’s what you can call it. That bastard,’ he growled. ‘Look at her. That’s not a willing participant, no way.’

  ‘Agreed. That’s underlined by the info I’ve had from the consulate, that there was an unresolved complaint of sexual assault made against Rogozin. Now, suppose Annette confessed to Baker that the guy was fucking her: his sister. He loses it, beats and strangles her. Before he can get Rogozin he’s arrested and charged, but he’s released on bail. He could have chosen his moment.’

  ‘No danger,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘If anything this weakens your case against him.’

  ‘Chief,’ Pye countered, ‘nothing could weaken our case against Baker. When Annette Bordeaux was murdered, there were only two people in her apartment, her and Baker. When he left, she was dead. You and Alex are in denial over this; he killed her and he’s a viable suspect for Rogozin.’

  ‘So is Paco Fonter, for fuck’s sake, if he’d found out about it!’ he protested. ‘He’s just as likely, more so. Then there’s me! That bastard gobbed in my face in a room full of people on Saturday.

  ‘Look,’ he said, more calmly, ‘for the last week Chaz Baker’s been holed up in a cottage on Cameron McCullough’s estate in Perthshire. If he’d left, it would have been noticed. Paco’s been in the Norton House Hotel, knocking ten bells out of himself in the gym.’ He paused. ‘Ach,’ he growled, ‘it’s just as well the fucker wound up in the Clyde. A large part of me hopes that Mann and Provan don’t make too much progress in finding who put him there.’

  Pye winced. ‘I feel the same way, but as it happens they have a very strong line of inquiry already. It doesn’t involve Baker, it doesn’t involve Fonter and it doesn’t involve you. It’s one I haven’t shared with Sauce, and I don’t think I will, unless and until I have to. I don’t even know if I should share it with you.’

  ‘But you want to,’ Skinner said, ‘so out with it.’

  The detective sighed. ‘Rogozin had two visitors yesterday evening, in the hotel. We don’t know who the first one was, but it was a female, and the description Provan got from them rang a bell with me. It was a good fit for Sirena Burbujas, Annette’s agent. I’ve sourced an image on the Internet and sent a link to Lottie in Pitt Street; she’s going to show it to the hotel manager. She saw the woman with him.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘This is the part you’re not going to like, the thing I have to keep from Sauce. It was a man, and from the description he was given, Dan Provan is dead certain it was Cameron McCullough . . . Senior,’ he added.

  ‘What makes him dead certain? Dan’s a Weegie cop, and he barely knows where Dundee is; he’s got no reason to be aware of Grandpa.’

  ‘He’s a Merrytown supporter. He was at the match on Saturday with Lottie’s wee lad and he saw him and Rogozin there; he saw you too.’

  He frowned, wrinkles bunched around his eyes. ‘He did, did he? Wee Dan’s not wrong very often, so let’s assume it was Cameron. When did he get there?’

  ‘Just after the woman had left: he went up to Rogozin’s suite. They were in there alone for about half an hour and then they left together.’

  ‘Where did they go?’ Skinner asked, quietly.

  ‘Don’t know yet.’ The DCI looked at him frowning. ‘Sir, you were with the two of them on Saturday, at the game and afterwards. How were relations between them?’

  ‘By the end of the afternoon, they were non-existent. After Rogozin gobbed in my face and stormed out, McCullough said he’d had enough of him. He may have gone to Glasgow to tell him that to his face.’ He frowned. ‘The only thing is . . . I wondered at the time how he could make that stick with only a twenty-five per cent stake himself.’

  Pye chuckled. ‘By resorting to extreme measures?’ he suggested.

  ‘Grandpa McCullough doing his own dirty work? I don’t see that.’

  ‘Maybe they had a bust-up when he tried to force him out.’

  ‘Come on, you don’t sound convinced by that.’

  ‘I can’t ignore the facts, sir. McCullough and Rogozin were seen leaving the hotel together, and a few hours later, the Russian was found dead.’

  ‘No,’ Skinner conceded, ‘you can’t. He has to be viewed as a suspect, until he’s eliminated.’

  ‘There is a complication,’ Pye said. ‘Rogozin’s share in the business was owned by his Russian company, Rogotron. I have information that he no longer controlled it. He had a partner, a Swiss company called Vachepie, that invested capital in return for a stake that had risen to fifty-five per cent.’

  The former chief constable laughed, unexpectedly. ‘What do you know about Vachepie?’

  ‘Not a lot. I found the Geneva canton company register on the Internet. Vachepie is listed there, but I didn’t see any name I recognised among the shareholders. They’re all Swiss.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove or disprove anything. They could be nominees, stooges, fronts for the real owners . . . or owner. How’s your French, Sammy?’

  ‘Non-existent.’

  ‘I’ve got a wee bit; Vachepie means literally “cow’s foot”. But if you leave the last part in English you’ve got “Cow Pie”. You might not know your French, but if you know Dundee and its most famous company, D. C. Thomson, the comic publisher, you’ll know that cow pie is their most famous character’s favourite dish.’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Rogotron’s mystery investor is Grandpa McCullough having a laugh. You can bet money on it.’

  ‘If I did and you’re right, that means he could pull the plug on Rogozin at the football club,’ Pye conceded, ‘any time he liked.’

  ‘Yes, without any need for those extreme measures you suggested.’

  ‘But he’s still a person of interest, and the last man to have seen Rogozin alive.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Doing it by the book,’ the detective replied. ‘Mann and Provan should either land on his doorstep, or have him brought in for questioning. But given the sensitivity with Sauce’s girlfriend, I’d like to keep it informal for as long as I can. So I’m wondering . . .’ His gaze fixed on Skinner.

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ he murmured. ‘You want me to go up to Perthshire and talk to him? I’m out of it, Sammy. I have no locus.’

  ‘You’re also, like it or not, closer to McCullough than anyone outside his family, through his new wife and your son. He might talk to you; with anyone else he’d just take cover behind one of his tame solicitors.’ He grinned. ‘Come on, Chief. You know you want to. Besides,’ he added, ‘there’s someone else that Sauce and I have to see.’

  Fifty-Two

  ‘The Garrick Casino is always willing to help the police, Detective Sergeant, but we’re sensitive when it comes to discussing our membership.’ Melvyn Holding was a tall man, and he made the most of his height; he smiled as he looked down at Dan Provan with more than a hint of condescension.

  The detective smiled back at him, but his had more than a hint of a grimace. ‘I’m sensitive too,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve got a sensitive stomach; when Ah’ve to start my day by lookin’ at some poor sod that’s been howked out of the Clyde, it protests and I have trouble holdin’ on to my breakfast. I’m not in the best of moods, so please do not yank my chain.’

  The casino manager stiffened, standing even taller. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but rules are rules. If you want access to our membership list you’ll need a warrant from the sheriff.’

  ‘Let me start again,’ Provan rumbled, ‘and listen to me this time. I want to discuss one of your members. Ah’m not asking you to say whether he is one or not: I know he is.’ He took Rogozin’s membership card from a pocket and held it up. ‘You can strike him off the list; it was his body that was taken out of the river.’

  ‘I see,’ Holding murmured; he seemed to shrink by a couple of inches as he leaned forward to inspect the plastic rectangle. ‘Oh my, Mr Rogozin,’ he whispered. He frowned at his visitor. ‘You’re CID, Criminal Investigation. I take it that means his death wasn’t from natural causes.’

  ‘The buzz word is “suspicious”,’ the DS replied. ‘He was hit over the head and tossed in the river off the walkway. I know he was here last night; I can track him on CCTV leaving the Central Hotel and walking down in this direction. There’s a gap in the coverage; your entrance is out of shot, but he was heading in this direction and he doesn’t come into view of the next camera.’

  ‘I know about the gap in the CCTV,’ Holding admitted. ‘It’s at our request. Garrick Casinos don’t like the idea of its members being filmed entering and leaving. We have an understanding with the group that operates the street cameras in all our locations that they won’t be.’

  ‘Do you film them when they’re inside?’

  ‘There are surveillance cameras, so that we can keep a lookout for any unusual activity . . . people are always out to beat the system, Mr Provan . . . but we don’t record them. It’s a bit like a TV box; we can pause and rewind, but once the system closes down, nothing is stored.’

  ‘Did you see Rogozin last night?’

  ‘Not personally, but he was a regular customer, so if you tell me he was here, it doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘He wasn’t alone,’ Provan volunteered.

  ‘Was his companion a member?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘If he wasn’t, Mr Rogozin will have signed him in as a guest. Come with me and we’ll see.’

  He stepped across the casino’s entrance hallway to a desk in the far corner, covering the distance in three strides to Provan’s six, and opened a leather-bound book that sat upon it. ‘Quiet last night,’ he murmured. ‘Only half a dozen guests, but . . . yes, here we are. Mr Rogozin introduced a gentleman named, if I can read his writing, Mr McCullough, Cameron McCullough. He gave his address as Black Shield Lodge, Perthshire.’ He paused. ‘That’s interesting; Garrick Casinos’ parent company is called Black Shield Leisure. We have sister casinos in Dundee and Aberdeen. Bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘But no’ of concern to me,’ Provan said. ‘If you never saw them last night, is there anybody who would have?’

  ‘It depends what they did. But if they ate here, the restaurant staff would have seen them. Come on.’

  Holding led the detective up a broad stairway, then through a double doorway, into a long restaurant, with a bar at the far end. The wall on their left was entirely glass with a view of the river and its south bank, and to the west, the Kingston Bridge across which heavy traffic flowed. Glaswegian folklore had it that several members of the city’s criminal underclass had disappeared during its construction, and formed part of its foundations.

  It was just after midday and more than half of the tables were occupied by lunching members. ‘The restaurant is very popular,’ the manager declared. ‘Good quality and good value; the gambling tables subsidise the dining tables. Mario,’ he called out, possibly a little more loudly than was necessary. ‘Mario Valvona, head waiter,’ he explained as a man in a red tuxedo and matching bow tie turned to frown in their direction, not best pleased, the detective surmised, at the tone of the summons. Most head waiters he knew saw themselves as masters of their territory.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Provan,’ Holding announced as he approached, his voice dropping to discretion level. ‘We’d like a word.’

  ‘Right now?’ the waiter grumbled.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Provan replied, trying to sound apologetic. ‘One of your members was done in last night, not long after leaving here; I need to ask you about his movements.’

  He had captured Mario’s attention. ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Rogozin,’ Holding volunteered.

  ‘No’ somebody that’ll be missed then,’ the waiter retorted, without a trace of Italy in his accent.

  ‘Mario!’ the manager protested.

  ‘Don’t come it, Melvyn,’ Valvona chuckled. ‘The man was an arse. You knew it, I knew it, we all knew it. You lookin’ for suspects?’ he asked Provan. ‘If you are, you’ll no’ go short here. I told you, Melvyn, you should have revoked his membership after that thing with Bernie.’

  ‘Bernie?’ the DS repeated.

  ‘Bernadette Crerand, the cocktail waitress. Rogozin offered her two hundred quid to go back to his hotel with him. She told him to fuck off, straight out, and he complained to me, and then to Melvyn when I gave him directions on how to get there.’

  ‘So, not a popular man?’

  ‘As my Italian relatives would say, Sergeant, una fica assoluta . Go and look that up if you need to.’

  ‘Ah get the drift. Was he in here last night?’

  ‘Yes, he had a guest, Mr McCullough. Now, he is a gentleman.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Aye, he’s been here with Rogozin before, but I knew him from when I did a holiday relief stint up at Dundee. He’s a member there, I think.’

  Provan made a mental note to find out more about his fellow Merrytown supporter, but moved on. ‘How were they?’ he asked. ‘Were they amicable, or was there tension between them?’

  ‘Well, they werenae smiling when they came in here about half ten: at least Rogozin wasn’t. Mr McCullough was okay, but the Russian had a face like fizz. They’d been on the tables; Rogozin tipped young Graham a twenty-quid chip when he seated them. Probably all he had left.’

  ‘Not quite, we found another couple in his pocket. Could you hear what he and McCullough talked about?’

  ‘Very little. Rogozin asked for the table with the most space around it. They each had steak, and didn’t say much as they were eating. Afterwards, Mr McCullough did most of the talking and Rogozin did all the arguing. Whatever he was being told, he didn’t like it. He shouted something in Russian; I think Mr McCullough must have told him to speak English, for he shouted again, “You not fucking do that to me,” loud enough for him to draw a look from Ronnie Argyle, the scrap metal guy. He was at a table with his wife, and Ronnie is a man you don’t want to be drawing a look from. Rogozin got the message, for he sort of waved an apology.’

  ‘He was quiet after that?’ Provan asked.

  ‘Aye, but . . . Mr McCullough sort of leaned towards him and he said something else. I’ve got no idea what it was, but the Russian went as white as a sheet. Then Mr McCullough got up, nodded a polite goodnight to Mr and Mrs Argyle, and walked out. He said goodnight to me too on the way past, and slipped me a twenty.’

  ‘And Rogozin just sat there?’

  ‘He did for a while, then he got up and ran after him. Literally, he ran after him.’

  ‘Was that the last you saw of him? Of either of them?’

  ‘Of Mr McCullough, yes, but Rogozin came back. I was having visions of sending somebody up to the Central Hotel with his dinner bill, but he came back in. He had a coffee, finished the rest of the claret . . . he’d had that on his own; Mr McCullough was on the fizzy water . . . and had an Armagnac after that.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘About one o’clock. He settled up, and was the last diner to leave.’

  Provan nodded, happy with what he had heard. ‘Was that the last you saw of him?’

  ‘Actually it wasn’t,’ Valvona replied. ‘He was outside when I left, about ten minutes later. I gave him a wide berth; I’d had enough of him for the night. I assumed he was heading back to the Central, but he didn’t. It was funny; he seemed to stop in mid-stride, then turned and headed down to the walkway.’ He chuckled. ‘I remember thinking that maybe Mr McCullough had waited for him outside, wantin’ a square go.’

  Fifty-Three

  ‘So this is where you work these days.’ Cameron McCullough smiled as he gazed out of the smoked-glass office wall. ‘Must make a hell of a change from those places with a blue lamp outside.’

  ‘It’s quieter up here,’ Skinner admitted. ‘The view of the city’s better; I like that. Mind you, I only spend part of my time here.’

  ‘What do you do with the rest of it?’

  ‘Play golf and hang out with my kids.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that’s enough for you.’

  ‘My family keeps on expanding,’ he said.