‘What about her?’ he murmured, cautiously.

  ‘We’d like to know what you spoke about when she visited you here on the tenth of March.’

  ‘What makes you think she did that?’

  Jackie Wright intervened. ‘We don’t think, Mr Baxter, we know that she did. You don’t have the maker’s name beside it, but your security camera is fairly obvious. It’s monitored too, as all three of us know. With these systems the surveillance footage is always stored, not on site but remotely.’ She pointed upwards. ‘In the Cloud.’

  ‘Confidentially, surely.’

  ‘Sir,’ the DS said. ‘We’re investigating a murder. In these circumstances we can look pretty much anywhere.’

  ‘I can imagine, but why look here, why look at me and why look at my home.’

  ‘Because,’ Mann intervened, ‘when you told me that you hadn’t seen Ms Bulloch, I didn’t quite believe you. Your office manager did run a check for me and assured me that she hadn’t been there, but I didn’t leave it at that. Your office has visible security, so I ran a check with the same supplier and found that you were a private client too, both here and at your fuck-pad in Glenfinlas Street.’

  ‘Wait a . . .’

  She cut off his protest. ‘A one bedroom flat two minutes’ walk from your office, registered to the firm. One minute from the Cambridge Bar . . . yes, that one, not the other . . . where my colleague Tarvil was told you are a regular, with a number of lady companions, none of them called Lydia. Do we have your full attention now?’ He glared at her. ‘Good. Under a warrant from the sheriff we checked the stored surveillance from last March, at both addresses, Edinburgh and here, and we found very clear footage of Sandra Bulloch, arriving here on the evening of March the tenth. You lied to me, Mr Baxter. It’s so annoying when somebody does that. It wastes time, it costs manpower and money, and frankly it insults me that folk think I’m not going to find out anyway.’

  ‘Mea culpa,’ Baxter growled.

  ‘Why did she visit you?’

  He shook his head. ‘This is where we’re getting into lawyer territory.’

  ‘No, we’re not, because you haven’t been cautioned or charged. You don’t have a right to a solicitor, but you do have the right to refuse to answer my questions.’

  ‘Which I will exercise.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’d anticipated that you would, so I’ll tell you what I know. Sandra was island-bound for well over three years, until she started to spread her wings. First it was the US, under the pretext of following a golf pro she knew. I say pretext because something linked every venue. Then, a year ago, she decided to come back to Europe, bought a motor home, and invited Gordon Pollock . . . Leo Speight’s son, remember . . . to join her on a winter tour of Europe. They visited several cities, apparently at random but again with a link. In every one of them, Sandra owned property, office buildings that you manage for her. When the two of them, she and Gordon, were in Luxembourg, he heard her say something along the lines of, “I must ask him about that”. She didn’t say who “he” was but I think it’s a racing certainty it was you. These property holdings were part of her inheritance; the most significant part as it happens, because they’re well sheltered. The North American properties and the European ones are each owned by limited companies wholly owned in turn by Sandra and registered in tax friendly environments. Each company is managed on her behalf by LJMcF. With that in mind, we can’t know for sure why she visited you that night, but I doubt that she’d driven all that way just to look you up. She was a private person. She didn’t do social calls. So?’

  ‘So you’re correct,’ Baxter sighed. ‘Well done, detectives. My client, Ms Bulloch, wanted a meeting. The tenth of March was a Sunday and she was tight for time on her trip, so I suggested that she come to the house rather than have me go all the way into Edinburgh.’

  ‘What did you discuss?’

  ‘She wanted a briefing on her portfolio, as simple as that. I gave her a rundown on rental income, property values in every location, and there are several. Leo invested the bulk of his career earnings in commercial property; what was shown in the will was only around twenty per cent of his real wealth. The will was legal though, everything that had to be declared was. Mrs Herbert, the Glasgow lawyer made damn sure of that.’ He shifted in his chair, readying himself to stand. ‘If that’s it . . .’

  ‘Not quite,’ Mann said. ‘I knew all that before we walked in here. We’ve been given access to research that someone else has done, on our behalf. He’s actually looked inside those two entities, what are they called? Speight of Hand Inc and Speight of Hand SARL. He’s come across several property disposals in the portfolio, each one of them in a location that Sandra visited in her travels. He’s a clever guy so he went further. He established what properties were selling for per square metre in each place, at the time of each sale. Having done that it was clear to him that each of those office blocks was sold at well below market value. Not only that; further investigation showed that the buyers had one thing in common. Every single one of them is a client of LJMcF. Sandra Bulloch was a resourceful woman, Mr Baxter; plus, as this investigation has shown us, she was a better cop than she was ever given credit for. With Special Branch experience during her career, she had skilled contacts all over the place. So?’ she continued. ‘Did she work your scam out for herself and confront you with it? Maybe yes, maybe not, but she did prepare and leave behind on her computer an agenda for her visit to you. It doesn’t prove that she knew, but it does show that she wanted answers to every one of the awkward questions.’ She stopped, for breath it seemed.

  Wright filled the gap. ‘It might also explain,’ she said, ‘why the video shows that Sandra was calm when she arrived, when she left her body language was completely different. She was angry, furious. She more or less ran to her car and drove away.’

  ‘I told her nothing,’ Baxter snapped. ‘She didn’t know who the buyers were but she’d guessed well enough. So what? It’s history now.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not, sir.’ Mann was suddenly formal. ‘No accusation has been made against you personally, and even if it was, it’s clear that no offences have been committed on our jurisdiction. But,’ she added, ‘my senior officers . . . I hate the word superior; it’s rarely appropriate . . . they feel obliged to pass the material that we have on to their colleagues in Europol, and to the FBI. They’re pretty much bound to talk to the head office of LJMcF. If anyone at that level was party to this, they’ll have to answer for it, to Sandra’s estate at the very least but probably to the court. If nobody was in the know, you’re on your own, Mr Baxter. Now,’ she exclaimed, ‘we’re at the point where you probably do need a lawyer. I suggest that you find a very good one.’

  He had sunk back into his chair. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he whispered.

  The DCI shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. Really I’m not, because I don’t care about you. Not one tiny bit. People like you, you’re the sort of pond life that’ll probably survive the next mass extinction event. You and your company, you’ll probably slither out of this. No, there’s only one more thing that still does interest me. We’re not going to discuss it here. When we do, you will have been cautioned and you will have a lawyer. But I’ll tell you now, it’s this.

  ‘Why, after the video shows Sandra Bulloch driving off into the night, does it then show you tearing off after her, no more than a minute later like a bat out of hell? God,’ Mann sighed, as she rose to her feet, ‘I loved Meat Loaf.’

  Eighty-Three

  ‘He said he had a date in Edinburgh,’ Mann told Mario McGuire. ‘He said he was meeting one of his ladies in the Cambridge later on.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno sir. I might have fed him the alibi with what I told him earlier. It could even be provable, if he had a booking, paid by card etc.’

  ‘Maybe so, but even if he did, he might still have had time to follow Sandra back to the motor home, if that’s where she went, and go back to take care of her later. Where it does muddy the water, the way the fiscal will see it, is by introducing our old friend Mr Reasonable Doubt. We now have two viable prime suspects, Gregor Rutherford and him. If we charge either one, his lawyer will be straight in there with a special defence of incrimination.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she agreed. ‘Which of them would you bet on?’

  ‘I can’t answer that ’cause I haven’t seen either of them. What do you think?’

  ‘Honestly, sir,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t know. It could be either. Gregor’s a brute and Charles is a sociopath.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ the DCC said. ‘Let’s get a third opinion.’

  ‘Sauce?’

  ‘No, I’ve ordered him to take some proper leave. It’ll be a video chat like everything seems to be these days . . . Lottie, this bloody job! I’ve got to get out more . . . but another perspective won’t do any harm.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Mann exclaimed, with a rare grin. ‘Him. I suppose he did help us, even though what his “researcher” did might have broken a few laws . . . all deniably of course. Maybe we do owe him some feedback. If he does have an opinion, there’s no way we’d ever stop him throwing it into the mix.’

  Eighty-Four

  ‘Pasta’s my secret vice,’ Maya Smith confessed, as she looked around the busy restaurant, then down at her empty plate. ‘I’d be embarrassed to show you my half of the kitchen cupboard. It’s stacked with tins of Heinz Spaghetti Hoops, them and Heinz Ravioli.’

  ‘Whose is the other half?’ Stirling asked, as casually as he could.

  ‘My flatmate. Janice.’

  ‘Is she a cop too?’

  ‘Hell no, she works for the council . . . sorry, the cooncil.’

  ‘Are you and she . . .’

  Her frown was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ As understanding dawned her eyes widened. ‘Are you asking if we’re a couple? Bloody hell, John, I know society’s changing but it’s still possible for two women to live together without being,’ she paused, ‘you know.’

  ‘Sure it is, but as you say, these days. Jackie Wright’s gay.’

  ‘Is she?’ Maya said. She looked down for a second or two. ‘Would I have guessed that if you hadn’t told me? Maybe I would, maybe not, but to be honest I doubt that I’d even have asked myself the question.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Do you realise that in Woke culture you could be cancelled for asking me if I’m gay? People might say it displays your inherent homophobia.’

  He grinned, and suddenly her day seemed a little brighter than it had before. ‘Those who don’t give a shit about such people,’ he countered, ‘and still have freedom of thought, would realise that it’s just a means of clearing the ground. I chose the police as a career but I have a law degree; that question was gentle cross-examination.’

  ‘If the charge is being a lesbian, I plead not guilty. If your next question was going to be, do I have a boyfriend? the answer is also no.’ She leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Now it’s your turn in the witness box. What are you? Gay, straight or undecided? Sorry, questioning? That’s what the Q stands for, isn’t it?’

  ‘No question: I’m straight.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘If you’d asked me that a week ago I’d have said yes.’

  ‘Aw,’ she sighed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Got dumped. She whisked me off to Millport for the night to tell me she was seeing someone else.’

  ‘If a guy had taken me to Millport,’ Maya observed, ‘I’d have dumped him.’

  ‘Hey,’ he exclaimed, ‘Millport’s nice. It’s not all cycling round the island. It’s got the narrowest house in Scotland, and the smallest cathedral in the world, and,’ he added, ‘it’s got the Crocodile Rock.’

  She stared at him. ‘Are you saying that Elton John wrote it there?’

  ‘Naw, of course not. It’s a rock painted to look like a crocodile.’

  ‘Seriously?’ she gasped. ‘Then I rest my case. I’m really sorry about the break-up, though.’

  ‘Don’t be. The thing ran out of steam a while back; we’d become each other’s handbags really. We both knew it; she said it first, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  He broke off his study of a stain on the table cloth and looked her in the eye. ‘An hour ago,’ he murmured, ‘maybe I was, just a wee bit. Now, I’m grateful to her.’

  Maya felt her insides turn to jelly.

  Eighty-Five

  ‘Where are you, Bob?’ McGuire asked. ‘Is that the sea I can hear?’

  ‘We’re in L’Escala,’ Skinner answered, ‘and the doors are open, so yes, it is. What’s up? Have you bearded Baxter yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mann confirmed. ‘Jackie Wright and I cornered him in his lair in Fife and confronted him with all the stuff your man uncovered. Thanks to his lead our cyber-crime team’s following the same trail, officially so to speak.’

  ‘And Sandra?’

  ‘We put our video evidence to him. He offered an alibi but even if it’s genuine, it probably doesn’t rule him out as a suspect.’

  On screen, Skinner laughed, softly. ‘That may be why he approached my daughter an hour ago, asking if she would represent him in, I quote, “certain as yet unspecified charges”. She called me as soon as he had rung off.’

  The DCC shifted in his chair, his heavy eyebrows coming together. ‘What did she say? Has she taken him on?’

  ‘She asked me if she should, and if I had any idea what the charges might be. It’s the first time Alex has ever done that since she switched to criminal law. I told her that my perception is that any corporate fraud charges will be brought in other jurisdictions. Baxter might have been panicking, but he’s not dumb. He’ll realise that too, so he must have been thinking about possible charges in relation to Sandra’s murder. Is he in the frame? Really.’

  Mann nodded. ‘Oh yes, he is. We’re looking at time frame. Even if he did have a date in Edinburgh, we’re driving the route to determine whether he could have followed her to the caravan site and still made it back there. He’s in our thoughts, most definitely.’ She frowned. ‘But he’s not the only one. There’s Rutherford, the care home owner.’

  ‘Yes,’ Skinner said. ‘Alex told me that her associate Johanna’s representing him. I warned her she shouldn’t talk to me, or her, about it as I’m too close. For the same reason I advised her . . . I stopped telling her to do stuff when she was fifteen . . . that she should turn Baxter down. I can see your problem; two main suspects with no connection to each other. Which one do you make favourite?’

  ‘What would you have done?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘I might have taken everything to the Crown Office, and let them make the decision.’

  ‘And if they knocked it back?’ Mann countered. ‘My inclination is to focus on Rutherford. We’ve got him for running the lady off the road, and his wife’s thrown him under the bus for drugging Sandra’s aunt. Nothing doing on the missing man, Francis Okolie, though. The Home Office gave us his home details and police in Nigeria have established that he’s home. Still, Gregor would be my choice. His motive for killing Sandra’s probably stronger than Baxter’s.’

  ‘Plus Baxter’s a pussy,’ Skinner declared. ‘I’ve met the man. You’ve met him Lottie. Is he capable of doing what was done to Sandra, then driving her vehicle back to his acreage in Fife, keeping it there for a few weeks, and then abandoning it, far away?’

  ‘And cycling off into the dark after he’s done it?’ the DCI added.

  ‘Yeah what about that too. No, Baxter’s not the man, not for me. Rutherford yes, but . . .’ he stopped.

  ‘What, Bob?’

  He sighed. ‘Guys, you’re so wrapped up in the chase that you’re no longer focused on its origins. I wasn’t at the crime scene but I’ve been at too many others. Every killing has its own characteristics. I look at this one and the first thing I see is rage, sheer uncontrollable rage, to do what was done to Sandra Bulloch, at the time of her death and afterwards. The blow to the head, the plastic bag to make sure she was dead, and afterwards, keeping her body as it rotted before leaving it to be found and hopefully, in the killer’s mind, never to be identified. No way did Charlie Baxter do that. Rutherford? He’d kill her sure, to shut her up, but the rest of it? Really? No, he wouldn’t have done it in anger, only because it was necessary.’

  ‘Well?’ McGuire challenged. ‘Who?’

  ‘I look at the cast list,’ Skinner replied, ‘and I can see only one person who fits my description. I keep coming back to her. Faye Bulloch. She’s always been my prime suspect, folks.’

  ‘You’re right, Bob,’ Lottie Mann declared. ‘We’ve looked at her twice, but not closely enough. Bugger protocol, bugger corroboration. I’m going there right now, I’m going to face her down and I’m going to break her, once and for all. No smarmy wee lawyer holding her hand and telling her to keep her trap shut. Just her, just me.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘Are you ordering me not to, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He shook his head. ‘You’d probably just ignore me anyway, just as I probably ignored Bob in the same circumstances. Go on, Lottie, end this thing.’

  Eighty-Six

  As Skinner headed for the door, heart set on a beer in his favourite beach-side bar . . . if he and Sarah could find a table that was not occupied by people speaking bad Spanish or Catalan in even worse accents . . . he imagined the final confrontation between Lottie Mann and her adversary, the detective full of hell, Faye Bulloch full of bravado and probably smug, knowing that if the police had any evidence that she had killed her sister, as he was all but certain she had, she would have been arrested and charged already. It made him think of a movie from his childhood, A Gunfight, in which Johnny Cash had outdrawn Kirk Douglas . . . or had it been the other way round?

  He was almost there when his phone sounded. He was about to reject the call, until he saw the ID onscreen.