‘I have a once in a lifetime offer, Ruby,’ she said. ‘It comes from the President through me . . . although,’ she added, ‘I really fucking hate having to make it. The deal is that you and I will take a flight home, tonight. In Washington you’ll announce your father’s death. You’ll attribute it, tearfully no doubt, to the shock of discovering that his campaign manager, his son, was guilty of a huge embezzlement. In other words, you throw David under the bus that you’re driving yourself. You go home to Wisconsin and raise your baby like any other single mom. The President, he makes a public statement about what a great man your father was and how his death is a great loss to the nation. Me? I’m being quietly sick in the corner of my brand new office, wherever that is.’ Because, like McGuire, I will also have copied the contents of the memory stick, was left unsaid.

  ‘This all sticks in my throat,’ she concluded, ‘and I’m sure in the throats of every cop in this room . . . who are now here as witnesses incidentally . . . but it’s politics, it’s expedient and, unless you’re feeling suicidal, it’s what is going to happen.’

  Ninety-Six

  ‘Could you not have squeezed me into the room,’ Singh sighed. ‘I’d have loved to have seen all that.’

  Haddock laughed. ‘You and McGuire in the same room? The size of you two, there’d have been no oxygen left for anybody else. Tarvil, I’m only telling you what happened in there because you know what was on that storage device. It’s locked away forever in your box of secret knowledge, all right?’

  ‘It goes with me to my grave, Sauce,’ the DI promised. ‘Speaking of graves, and that of Gavin Ayre . . . what happens to his body, by the way? Has anyone thought about that.’

  His colleague nodded. ‘Now that we know who he really was, yes. His mother’s his next of kin; Tiggy Benjamin’s established that she still lives in Mississauga, where he was born. She’s married with one other kid. Someone will reach out to her, maybe our High Commission in Ottawa, or possibly the Americans. When Goldstein makes her stay-out-of-jail announcement, the world’s going to know the secret that the poor woman’s kept for over thirty years . . . who fathered her son. It’s also going to hear that her boy David was a major league fraudster. I hope the White House is up to managing her reaction.’

  ‘Mmm, me too. Do you think they’ll tell her she’s going to be a granny?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Not a chance.’ He gazed at Haddock. ‘You know the next thing that’s going to happen, don’t you? We’re going to hear from her, wanting to know who killed her boy.’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ he agreed. ‘And we’re no nearer finding out than we were on the day he died. Back to square one, Tarvil. Everything we know about everyone involved, and renew the public appeal for witnesses.’

  ‘Of course, boss,’ Singh said, ‘but, we’re getting stretched. We’ve got an armed robbery in Dundee on our books and there was a multiple-victim knife crime in Leith last night that will come to us. We’re struggling for manpower.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Tarvil; our resources are spread thin and I will take it up with the DCC, but for the meantime we have to balance what we have as best we can. Look,’ he murmured. ‘Noele McClair’s been helping out on her maternity leave, doing stuff on the phone. Ask her if she’s up for carrying a bit more of the load.’

  Ninety-Seven

  ‘That’s how it’s playing out?’ Sarah asked. ‘In a cover-up?’

  ‘That’s power for you,’ Bob replied.

  ‘Does it have to?’

  ‘No, but it can be seen as the best outcome available, the most pragmatic. If the right wing got hold of the truth, imagine the consequences; there could well be a landslide and God knows what would happen.’

  ‘What about InterMedia’s interests? You know the facts. Doesn’t it tweak your conscience to go along with a lie.’

  ‘I know a version of events, love,’ he countered, ‘but ultimately the facts are what you can prove, and I can’t.’

  ‘You could if Neil McIlhenney gave you access to the files from the memory stick?’

  ‘Could I? It would still be only one version of events. This too; if I blew the story we’d lose our White House accreditation. Worse, we’d be hailed as heroes by people we oppose, philosophically and in every other way. No,’ he said, ‘there’s only one alternative to the White House strategy, and it’s one that I’ve suggested to Merle Gower. Do nothing at all: let Ruby Goldstein announce her father’s death and leave it at that: leave every fucking stone unturned. Do that and there’s only one other loose end to be tied off . . . and that’s the real reason why Neil called me. The Canadians will need to be told about David Allen; his mother will need to be told. You’re holding the body in your mortuary; they’re going to want it back when the Crown Office is ready to release it. Until then, it’s yours. They’ll want to see the autopsy report, of course; they might even want to do one of their own . . . although I doubt that; there are few things more clear and obvious than a bullet in the brain.’

  ‘And what about Gavin Ayre?’ she challenged.

  ‘Who’s Gavin Ayre? Sauce Haddock never released that name. The Secret Service has already searched David Allen’s office in Washington and recovered his genuine passport. By now there’s probably a record of him entering the UK and using an e-reader at Border Control.’

  ‘Will Gower be able to sell your strategy to the White House?’

  ‘If she buys into it herself, yes. I think she will; she’ll know that if everything is dumped on Allen, his family could become a problem.’

  ‘What about the properties? The stolen money?’

  ‘Who says it was stolen? Why can’t it have been a longterm investment strategy by Silver? The property market was down internationally at the time. It’s recovering already. The houses and the land can be sold at a profit.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe Cheeky and Sauce can buy the Ayre place. It’s handy for the golf course, and the baby could learn to swim in the pool!’

  Ninety-Eight

  ‘I know that my colleague, Inspector Hill spoke to you a few days ago, Mrs Wayne,’ Noele McClair told the stable owner. ‘However, it’s standard practice at this stage of an investigation for us to re-interview witnesses, to see if their recollections have changed.’

  ‘Is that police speak for “we’ve made no progress”, Detective Inspector?’ Marion Wayne asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ McClair admitted.

  ‘In that case, this might be your lucky day . . . although not very lucky,’ she added. ‘My recollections have changed, as it happens. When your inspector chap called and told me about the fatality on the beach, I told him I couldn’t think of anyone who fitted the description he gave me. I can now: Mr Ayre, his name was. He approached me looking for occasional accommodation for his horse. He said he had a stable block in his house, but he was single and travelled so he needed temporary cover while he was away; someone had recommended me, he said. He seemed like a nice chap, until he told me that he called his horse Winalot, would you believe? That takes bad taste to a whole new level. Poor animal, I was almost glad that I had to turn him down. Instead, I recommended a friend in Kingston, John Barley; I believe that he took him on. Was that him?’ she asked, suddenly. ‘The dead man? Mr Ayre?’

  ‘That was him. Do you know anything else about him?’

  ‘Nothing, but John might. I’ll give you his number: save you looking it up. Hold on.’

  McClair waited; a few seconds later, Mrs Wayne dictated an eleven-digit mobile number. ‘Try him,’ she said. ‘He might be able to fill in some of your blanks.’

  The detective inspector thanked her, then keyed in the number on her phone. Her call was answered almost instantly. ‘Yes?’ a gruff voice barked.

  ‘Mr Barley?’

  ‘That depends. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the police,’ she shot back. ‘DI Noele McClair, Serious Crimes Unit.’

  ‘Ah,’ his tone changed. ‘I’m sorry, I get so many junk calls. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m making enquiries,’ she began, ‘about a man that I believe might have been a client of yours, Gavin Ayre.’

  ‘Ah,’ Barley repeated. ‘You’re using the past tense. Are you going to tell me that what I’ve suspected is the case? That the dead man on Gullane beach was Gavin?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am,’ she confirmed.

  ‘What a bloody shame!’ he sighed. ‘The police statement implied that he was murdered. That’s the case, is it? I mean, bloody hell, what was it, yobs? I’ve known of people who’ve set their dogs chasing equestrians. Was that what happened, something like that?’

  ‘I can’t go into detail, I’m afraid,’ McClair replied, ‘but I can tell you it wasn’t that. How well did you know Mr Ayre?’

  ‘He was a client, so I knew him on that level, maybe a bit better. God!’ Barley exclaimed suddenly. ‘What’s happened to Winalot? Is he . . .’

  ‘The horse is fine,’ she assured him. ‘He’s in a police stable for now.’

  ‘As a witness, I . . .’ He cut short his black humour. ‘What a bloody stupid thing to say, John,’ he murmured. ‘Inspector, if you’re looking for a home for him, I’d take him like a shot, and make whatever financial arrangement is necessary with Gavin’s family.’

  ‘We’ll bear that in mind,’ she said, ‘but it’s not a priority; he’s fine where he is for now. Right now, we’re trying to find out as much about Gavin’s life as we can.’

  ‘I see.’ Barley fell silent for a few reflective moments. ‘I can’t really tell you much,’ he confessed eventually, ‘even though we did talk. Thinking about it, I told him a lot more about me than I got out of him. He was vague about what he did; said something about international property and asset management, whatever the hell that might mean. All I really I know is that he was a novice golfer. He bought himself into Witches Hill rather than go on one of the interminable waiting lists for membership that we have around here. It’s handy if you have the means to do that,’ he mused. ‘I was his guest there a couple of times: it’s a lovely layout. Best course around here, after Muirfield and Gullane One.’ He sighed. ‘That’s closed off to me now, I suppose, not having silly money. Sorry, Inspector,’ he murmured, ‘I’m rambling. What else do you need to know?’

  ‘Anything that I don’t know already,’ McClair replied, ‘which basically means anything, because we know nothing right now. Mr Ayre’s vagueness wasn’t accidental; there was a reason for it. We do know that he had a couple of casual dates, but that’s all.’

  ‘No, more than casual,’ Barley corrected her. ‘The last time we played Witches Hill Gavin told me that he was seeing a lady, and that they were planning to get together, once some complications had been worked out. His words: I don’t know what he meant and I didn’t press him.’

  ‘Did he say anything about her?’ she asked, thinking through everything she had been told about the man’s life. ‘For example, could she have been a work colleague?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I believe she was from around here. Come to think of it, she must have been,’ he murmured. ‘He told me they met on horseback. I assume that he meant here. Does that help?’

  ‘It might,’ she told him. ‘Thanks, Mr Barley. Should we need a formal statement, we’ll be in touch.’

  She ended the call and opened the hard copy of the case file that had been delivered to her, scrolling through it until she found the page she was after. She scanned it and then called Jackie Wright.

  ‘It’s Noele,’ she said when they connected. ‘I’m looking through the transcript of your interview of Claire Hornell. She definitely described her affair with Gavin Ayre as casual, yes?’

  ‘If that’s what it says, that’s how it happened,’ the sergeant replied, abruptly.

  ‘Of course,’ McClair continued quickly, ‘but I’ve been told it might have been more than that . . . in Ayre’s eyes at least. We need to go back to this woman, Jackie.’

  ‘If you say so, I’ll do that,’ Wright responded.

  ‘No, I’m not asking that. It’s something I can take on, but I want to eyeball her when it happens. See if you can set up a meeting with her, time and place of her choosing. I’ll get my mum to mind Mattie if necessary.’

  Ninety-Nine

  ‘Are you still in Spain?’ Merle Gower asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Skinner replied. ‘I’m in the office. Sarah’s in Barcelona, at the university, sorting out the details of her visiting chair. And you?’

  ‘I’m in my nation’s capital, failing to sleep at five o’clock in the morning. I was with the President until midnight . . . not the Chief of Staff mind, POTUS himself . . . talking through the Russell Silver mess. He’s bought your low-key solution: Ruby Goldstein will announce her father’s death at midday and will leave it at that. Nothing beyond it, nothing about missing funds, and nothing about David Allen.’

  ‘What if she’s asked about him? He was the campaign director, after all.’

  ‘Was,’ Gower emphasised. ‘With Silver dead there is no campaign. It becomes a family matter. If she’s asked, she’ll say that he went off a couple of weeks ago to reflect on progress and plan future strategy. She doesn’t know where he is and can’t contact him. When it emerges that he’s a murder victim in Scotland, that’s a separate issue. By that time Goldstein will be home in Wisconsin managing her developing pregnancy. If the FEC ever asks about the missing money . . . well, as you pointed out, one, it will all have been written off against tax, two, the major donors all have to live in the real business world, not the one that Silver might have brought about. They all donated discreetly and they’ll want to keep it that way. It’s all going away, Bob, all of it. As far as you’re concerned, you have the President’s personal thanks, and his assurance that when InterMedia launches its Hispanic cable news channel, you will have no regulatory problems, none at all.’

  Skinner smiled. ‘That’s nice. Nice for him too,’ he added. ‘Latinos are the fastest growing ethnic voter group in the US; they’ll be our viewing audience and he’ll have our support.’

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘And what about you, Merle?’ he asked. ‘What’s the outcome for you?’

  ‘Me?’ she replied. He could sense the tiredness in her voice. ‘I’m now Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs. I have direct access and I attend meetings of the National Security Council. I’ve also been told that the Director for National Intelligence is standing down after the next election and that I’ll replace him. Cabinet post, Bob. Fuck me, InterMedia’s well connected,’ she chuckled. ‘You should get a bonus.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll tell Xavi. Funnily enough, Sarah and I were talking about a new property last night . . . it might even be going cheap.’

  One Hundred

  ‘Are you comfortable with us doing this here?’ Noele McClair asked.

  Claire Hornell glanced to her left and right. They were the only customers in the farm shop café and their table was far enough away from the rest to give them reasonable privacy, should others arrive. ‘I’m good,’ she confirmed. ‘It suits me. I can pick Poppy up from nursery when we’re done.’ She reached out and touched the pram by McClair’s side. ‘How old is Matilda?’

  ‘A couple of days short of two months,’ the detective replied. ‘I’d have left her with my mother, but she and her fella have a lunch date.’

  ‘Is she your first?’

  ‘No, I have a son at primary school; Harry.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be on maternity leave?’ Hornell wondered.

  ‘Officially I am. But our team’s stretched, so I volunteered to do what I can from home. This counts as “home”, by the way. I live only a mile away.’ She paused as the waiter arrived with a tray, bearing a pot of tea, a latte and two pieces of Rocky Road.

  ‘So,’ Hornell said, as McClair poured tea into her cup, ‘DS Wright said you were reinterviewing witnesses. Does that mean you’re no closer to finding out what happened to Gavin?’

  ‘We know what happened to him,’ the DI told her, ‘but we’re no closer to finding out who did it.’

  ‘How can I help you do that?’ she asked.

  ‘You probably can’t but we have to be sure that everything in our case file is one hundred per cent accurate. And that’s why we’re here. Claire, you told my colleague, DS Wright, that your relationship with Gavin was casual, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, quietly, ‘I did. Why?’

  ‘Well, the thing is, we’ve been told by someone who knew him that he confided in this person that he was in a relationship that was going to become permanent once, in Gavin’s words, some complications had been sorted out. From something else that he said, we’re thinking that his potential new partner might have been you. Are we wrong in that conclusion?’

  The tall coffee cup trembled in the woman’s hand. She replaced it on the table, picked up the confectionery and took a bite. As McClair gazed at her, she shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she murmured, when she was ready. ‘It’s true what you were told. I was planning to leave Eddie and move in with Gavin. I’m sorry, I should have been honest with you. Am I in trouble?’

  ‘That’s not for me to decide,’ McClair told her, ‘but I doubt it in the circumstances. With you being that close,’ she continued, ‘did you know that Gavin Ayre wasn’t his real name?’

  Hornell stared at the DI. ‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.

  ‘It was an identity he used when he commissioned his property,’ the detective explained, ‘but his real name was David Allen. I’m telling you this in confidence for now, Claire. It will become known at some stage, probably quite soon, but for now it can’t be repeated.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ she whispered. ‘You’re saying I was about to commit my life, and my daughter’s, to someone I didn’t know?’

  ‘Let’s assume he would have told you when he was ready,’ McClair said, gently. ‘There were reasons why he might have chosen not to, but I can’t go into them. Let’s just assume that was one of the complications he referred to with his friend.’