Shirley Hart looked up at him, a pert little face with a teasing smile. ‘I’ve got a surprise,’ she replied. ‘As you guys expected, I lifted prints from the outside of the door upstairs, right hand, all five fingers and a partial palm. I’ve just run them and here’s the bad news: it’s not Rogozin,’

  ‘Bugger!’ Pye and Haddock shouted, in duet.

  ‘Ah but,’ she continued, ‘now the good. I have got a match. It was the weirdest thing; when I’d scanned the thumb print, I ran it through the system and got nothing. When I’d done them all, I ran them again, just for luck and bloody bingo; I got a result on all five digits. Either I did something wrong the first time, or the guy’s prints had just been entered into the system.’

  ‘Then put us out of our misery,’ the DCI exclaimed. ‘Tell us whose they are.’

  Seventy-Two

  ‘Don’t look so disappointed, Lottie,’ Dan Provan said, ‘we’ve still got Lucky Louie to fall back on.’

  ‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence,’ Mann replied, mournfully, as she prepared to exit the motorway. ‘The reality is that Lucky Louie’s brain’s so fried with cheap wine and fuck knows what else that suppose Yogi fucking Bear killed Rogozin, he still couldn’t pick him out in an OD parade.’

  ‘Ye mean an ID parade.’

  She laughed softly, shaking her head. ‘I did, but given the state of our star witness it’s a pretty Freudian slip. Sorry, Dan, I can’t help looking disappointed, because I am. I really thought we’d cracked it with Jimmy Pike. At the beginning, there was something about him. Just for a minute he was uncertain beneath all the bullshit; my instinct said we had him. But it was wrong; I’m losing it, Dan.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’re losing nothing, Inspector. You’re still the second best detective in Glasgow, after me. We are the polis, Lottie; when we turn up at somebody’s work and start askin’ him questions about a murder, then I don’t care who he is, he is goin’ to be nervous until he understands what we’re after. Once Pike got there and worked out that he had a black cab as an alibi, he was fine.’

  ‘Louie would have liked it to be him: remember, he said that Pike kicked him, when he asked him for spare chips. “Angry football man”, he said, and Pike’s red card record fits that description. Do you like the man, or does the fact that he’s a footballer cloud your judgement?’

  Provan frowned. ‘No, he’s a shit; I was prepared to believe it was him as well . . . but it wasnae, so that’s that. But we’re not done; we take a step back, like we agreed, and we look at CCTV around the time of the murder. Okay, we know that the Garrick’s a dead zone, but the cameras pick up pretty close on either side. Let’s see what that footage shows us.’

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘let’s do it.’ She sighed. ‘Of course it’s always possible the killer never left the walkway. It starts down at the Transport Museum and goes all the way out of the city.’

  ‘Lottie!’ the DS exclaimed. ‘Positive, okay?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a niggle, something Pike said. It struck me as odd at the time, but it’s gone right out of my head.’

  She focused on the road ahead as they approached the monitoring centre, and was about to turn into the building’s car park when she exclaimed, ‘And now it’s come right back in!’ She pulled up in an empty bay. ‘Dan, before it goes again I must make a phone call.’

  ‘Phone who? Pye?’

  ‘No. The way their investigation seems to be going it’ll wind up with Bob Skinner anyway; I’ll speed things up and go straight there.’

  Seventy-Three

  ‘If not Rogozin, who?’ Skinner asked himself.

  The question he had put to his daughter had been rhetorical, and yet it had stayed with him as he returned to his own room. He had always been aware of his analytical powers, and of his ability to piece together a solution from all the available facts. He had known self-doubt only rarely; usually, his conclusions, once reached, acquired a biblical authority, carved in stone.

  As a serving police officer, he had spent the last twenty years of his career at a level where his findings were never questioned until they were put to the test in court, and even there they had always been confirmed by juries. He had never been on the wrong side of a trial. Nobody took issue with him other than himself, and that happened very rarely.

  And yet . . .

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, visualising the murder of Annette Bordeaux, and the framing of her half-brother, Chaz Baker, by Dimitri Rogozin, in every tiny brutal detail, from its conception to its execution and to its completion.

  He played it, and he replayed it, and he replayed it again, his unease growing on each occasion. He ran the mental video through for a fourth time, conception, execution, comple . . .

  ‘Fuck!’ Bob Skinner whispered, to his empty office, as he opened his eyes.

  He lurched forward in his chair, snatched his phone from his pocket and called Pye. ‘Sammy,’ he barked, ‘I’m wrong. It couldn’t have been Rogozin. He’d . . .’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ the DCI agreed. ‘Your scenario stands, but it looks as if it was Jimmy Pike. He put the wedge in the penthouse door.’

  ‘But not alone: he must have had an accomplice.’

  ‘One thing at a time, Chief, please. We’ve got Pike, let us deal with that.’

  ‘Look, I’m telling you . . .’

  ‘Please!’ Pye snapped, losing patience. ‘Let us get on with our investigation; we’re the police, not you.’

  The line went dead; Skinner took his phone away from his ear and stared at it, experiencing a unique rush of astonishment and fury, intermingled.

  ‘He had a fucking accomplice!’ he shouted, as if the detective, a mile away as an angry crow would have flown, could hear him.

  ‘Baker’s free and clear,’ he growled, as his rage began to subside, ‘off the fucking hook. Do I give a shit?’

  In the very moment he realised that he did, his phone vibrated in his hand and the ringtone began to play. He looked at it and saw that the caller was Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann.

  ‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘is this a misdial?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s probably out of order, but frankly I’ve had enough of my supervising officer in Edinburgh for a while, so I thought I’d bounce this off you, since you’ve been involved. I was listening to the radio in the car, to the news on Radio Scotland, and they had a late item, “news just in”, that the charge against Chaz Baker was being dropped.’

  ‘As it has been,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Well, it’s a funny thing, but three-quarters of an hour before that, I heard that from Jimmy Pike, the footballer. Now I can’t help wondering, how the hell did he know?’

  In that instant, Skinner’s battered self-esteem, which had been the real reason for his fury, repaired itself.

  ‘That, Inspector, is a hell of a good question,’ he said, ‘to which I do not have an answer. However,’ he added, as a revised version of his crime scene video began to play behind his eyes, ‘I could be two steps away from finding out.’

  He was out of his chair before the call was ended and heading for the lift. When it arrived he went up two floors to his daughter’s office suite. She looked up, surprised, as he burst into her room. ‘Pops?’

  ‘When you called Baker with the good news,’ he began, ‘did you make it clear he should say nothing to anyone until the Crown Office had made it public?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ she confirmed. ‘I told him I wouldn’t trust de Matteo until it was all official, and he understood.’

  ‘Fine.’ He turned on his heel and left. He rode the elevator down to the garage, looking over his shoulder instinctively as he unlocked his car.

  As he drove into Morrison Street, he gave a voice command, ‘Call Chaz Baker.’ It was recognised; he heard a dialling tone, then the manager’s voice. ‘Sorry, whoever you are,’ he said. ‘I can’t comment other than to say I’m pleased.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that Chaz,’ Skinner told him, ‘but have you made any calls since Alex spoke to you? To anyone at the club, for example?’

  ‘Hell no,’ he laughed. ‘Your daughter puts the fear of God in me; it all stayed in-house.’

  ‘Okay.’ He pressed the ‘hang up’ button and turned right, heading for King Robert Village.

  The concierge’s office was a small room off the foyer of the luxury block, with the name ‘P. Cope’ on a plate beside the door, at eye level, and its occupant was in.

  ‘My name’s Bob Skinner, Mr Cope,’ he began.

  The concierge sprang to his feet. ‘I know who you are, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘Do you hold spare keys for the apartments?’

  ‘No, they’re all kept by the security manager.’ Skinner felt a rush of disappointment. ‘Apart from one,’ Cope continued, dispelling it immediately. ‘There’s an apartment on the seventh floor. It’s leased by Merrytown Football Club, but used only occasionally; I have a key for that in case it’s needed at short notice.’

  ‘Where do you keep it?’

  ‘In my desk.’ He pulled a drawer halfway open, then closed it again. ‘I always lock it at night,’ he volunteered, reading Skinner’s unspoken reproof.

  ‘Who knows about it?’

  ‘Anyone who’s ever come here to collect it. Mr Rogozin, for example, and his minder, who brought it back. Then there’s Mr Serra, the agent, a while ago. And Mr Flowers; he entertained his lady friend there one night when they had an extra player staying in their apartment.’

  ‘Did he bring the key back?’

  ‘No; as it happens Mr Pike did.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘I see. Now, I want to take you back to the Friday before last, the day that Annette Bordeaux was murdered.’

  ‘I’ve already told the police everything I know about that,’ Cope insisted.

  ‘This is different. On that day, did anyone pick up the key at any time?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’ He frowned. ‘But now that I think of it, a funny thing did happen. I stood on it, on the key, as I was getting up to leave for the night. I’d been in my drawer earlier and I must have pulled it out with something else, by mistake.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Unlikely, but it must have happened.’

  ‘Before that,’ Skinner continued, ‘let’s say up to a couple of hours before, did anyone come in here?’

  Cope hesitated, considering. ‘There was a lady,’ he said. ‘About seven: mid-thirties, golden blond dye job. She came into the office and she asked me if I knew where the health club was. I gave her directions and she went on her way.’

  After dropping the key on the floor , Skinner said to himself.

  ‘Were you ever out of this room during the afternoon?’

  ‘Just once, I had a call . . . actually it was a phone text . . . from Mrs Clydesdale on floor five. She said she feared that she’d left her door open, and asked me to check it. I went up and had a look, but it was okay; I wasn’t gone for more than five minutes.’

  And when you got back, if you’d looked in your drawer, you’d have seen that the apartment key was gone .

  He took his smartphone from his pocket and opened its browser. When he had found the website he was after he opened its ‘About us’ section, and scrolled down until he found an image. ‘The woman who came in.’ He showed the screen to the concierge, who nodded vigorously.

  ‘Yes,’ he declared, ‘that’s her.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Cope,’ Skinner said. ‘That’s everything.’

  ‘I hope it was helpful.’

  ‘Sensationally so,’ he replied.

  He left the building and walked to his car, which was parked fifty yards away. As soon as he was behind the wheel and had switched on the power, he made a call.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Pye,’ he said, coldly, as soon as it was answered.

  ‘Chief,’ Pye exclaimed, ‘I’m sorry. I can plead pressure, stress, whatever, but it was unforgiveable.’

  ‘I agree, so you’re fucking lucky I forgive you. But listen to this and remember it. Warrant card or not, I will always be police. Now, Pike?’

  ‘He’s been arrested at the training complex by uniforms and he’s being brought through here.’

  ‘No phone calls allowed, I hope.’

  ‘On pain of death or demotion. I’ve spoken to Paco; he confirms that the boys did use the back entrance on occasion. If they needed a cup of sugar or whatever, they’d call, then nip up to collect it. Usually it was Pike that came. He did most of the cooking.’

  ‘Good, now; you and your familiar are coming on a wee trip with me. No arguments, no discussion, and I choose the music. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  As he drove away, he made another call.

  ‘Mia McCullough.’ She sounded curious; no caller display, he guessed.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, ‘el padre de Ignacio . Are you at home?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because there’s something I’d like you to handle for me. Don’t worry, it’s legal and you’ll enjoy it, because it involves strong drink. Listen carefully, this is what I need you to do.’

  Seventy-Four

  ‘What did we do before we had this facility?’ Lottie Mann asked.

  ‘We worked a bloody sight harder,’ Dan Provan replied. ‘We wore out a lot more shoe leather . . . shoe rubber really; we couldnae afford leather soles on our wages . . . and we got fewer convictions. Wi’ CCTV we’d have nailed Bible John; without it we were relyin’ on luck and we never had ony on that investigation.’

  ‘The Bible John Inquiry is still live,’ the DI pointed out.

  ‘Ah doubt that he is. It was before even my time, but I’ve always thought stuff was done wrong. The Identikit they released was a likeness for jist about every dark-haired lad in Glasgow, and the bit about him quotin’ the bible should have been kept in-house. All it ever did was gie the papers a label they’ve stuck on him ever since, and no doubt tip off the man himself tae give Jesus a wide berth. But this,’ he said, flatly ‘this is no Bible John. This is a stupid bastard who’s been lucky so far, but that’s goin’ tae run out,’ he smiled, ‘just like Jimmy Pike’s did. Fancy,’ he chided her, ‘yer big pal Skinner never tellin’ ye he was bein’ lifted.’

  ‘He probably didn’t know.’

  ‘You believe that if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘I’m ready for you again.’

  The detectives turned their attention back to the speaker, the technician who had been assigned to help them search the CCTV footage they were after. The Glasgow operations centre was state of the art, bringing together traffic management and public space coverage in a new open-plan building. They had looked at footage from the west section of Clyde Street, and had isolated half a dozen individuals as they walked towards the casino or away from it.

  ‘I’ve followed the people on the other tape,’ Davie Doyle, the technician, said. ‘They all carried straight on, without stopping. But there’s one guy; look at this.’ He played them a section of the recording that showed a bulky individual ambling purposefully through the camera’s field of vision, then passing out of sight.

  ‘That’s ten thirty,’ Doyle told them. ‘He never appears on the other camera. In fact he never appears anywhere again, until here.’ He ran more footage, showing the same man walking, at a much brisker pace, in the opposite direction. ‘I guess he was in the casino,’ he suggested.

  ‘We know he wasn’t,’ Provan countered. He showed a suggestion of a smile and his eyes sparkled. ‘So what were ye doing there, Tank Bridges?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ Lottie Mann echoed, ‘what indeed?’

  Seventy-Five

  ‘Is this penance?’ Haddock asked, in a text sent from the back seat of Skinner’s car to Pye, in front.

  The former chief constable had not spoken a word from the moment he picked them up from the St Leonard’s police office, driving silently across the River Forth, then up the motorway towards Perth and beyond. Conversation between the two had been made impossible by a music selection that the Mercedes display showed to be a mix of the Stereophonics, Beth Hart and Joe Bonamassa, played at volume.

  ‘Looks like it,’ the reply read a minute later. ‘I think I’ve burned my bridges with the big man.’

  ‘That’s you fucked then,’ Haddock responded, as they turned into a driveway that led a short way to a gated entrance, with a sign that read ‘Black Shield Lodge’. It was manned by a security guard, who peered into the car, then, recognising the driver, threw them a quick salute, and raised the barrier.

  Skinner nodded an acknowledgement, then drove on, past a modern villa and round a curving road. As a cottage came into view, he killed the music with a touch of a button on the steering wheel, and drew to a halt outside, gravel crunching beneath the wheels.

  ‘Is this your country club, Chief?’ Haddock asked him, cheerfully.

  ‘This is the end of the road,’ he replied. ‘Now come with me, lads. You’re going to need your notebooks, by the way.’

  ‘What would you have done differently?’ Pye asked, a little rebelliously, as he unfastened his seat belt.

  ‘I’d like to say that I’d have searched that other fucking apartment on day one,’ Skinner retorted, ‘rather than swallow the incredibly fortuitous scenario that’d been set out for me.’ He grinned. ‘I’d like to say that,’ he repeated ‘but my ego’s even bigger than yours, so maybe I’d have been so pleased with myself that I wouldn’t have . . . not until day two, or maybe even day three. Come on.’

  The front door of the cottage opened as they reached it, framing Mia McCullough. ‘Christ,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m glad you’ve arrived, I’ve been pouring champagne for an hour.’

  ‘They’re both here?’

  ‘Yes, and Chaz is a few sheets to the wind. Letitia’s in the hotel crèche as you suggested, although she can’t stay there for much longer. Should I go and get her?’

  ‘Yes, please; keep her at your place till you hear from me.’