‘Ironic,’ he observed. ‘Before unification each of the eight forces had its own media relations structure. All the press officers knew all the senior cops and there was no scope for conflict.’

  ‘Come off it!’ she retorted. ‘You and Alan Royston argued all the time.’

  ‘We had the occasional disagreement,’ he chuckled, ‘but only when he did something wrong.’

  ‘Maybe you should come back as director of communications . . . now you have special media experience.’

  ‘I’d sooner sweep up horseshit!’ he said, between mouthfuls of rocket. ‘Mags, this thing that you and Clive Graham are dreaming up: it wouldn’t be just a means of bringing me back into the fold, would it?’

  Her soup spoon hovered over the bowl. ‘Okay, all I’ll admit to is that we won’t be offering it to anyone else if you refuse. Think about it, please, Bob.’

  ‘I will,’ he conceded, ‘but only because it’s you who’s asking. I warn you, my answer is still going to be “no”. I’m happy, honestly.’

  ‘But are you content?’ she countered. ‘That’s the . . .’ Her ringtone sounded: the theme from Z Cars . ‘Bugger!’ she hissed, as she took the call.

  ‘Yes, Sammy,’ Skinner heard her say. ‘That’s understood. What’s the crisis?’ He watched her face, keenly, as she listened, and her expression darkened. ‘King Robert Village, you say? Then the first thing you do is to make that entire complex secure. Nobody gets in unless they live there and nobody gets near the scene itself.

  ‘I’m on my way; I’ll be with you inside half an hour. Meantime you should find Perry Allsop, the communications director, wherever he’s spending his Saturday. Tell him you’re in command at the scene, and that I would like him to join you there as soon as possible, with as many of his most experienced staff as he thinks he’ll need.’

  Skinner raised a hand, attracting her attention. ‘Hotels,’ he said.

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘What?’ she asked, a shade impatiently. ‘Sammy, I’m putting you on speaker. I’m lunching with Mr Skinner. He has something to contribute.’

  ‘Only an observation,’ the former chief constable called out to the phone as she held it in the air. ‘I don’t know what this thing is and don’t tell me right now, but if it’s big enough to rattle Mrs Steele and she can be there that quickly, it’s in the heart of the capital city and it’s going to need an army of press officers, it sounds as if you could be in for a media invasion. In which case, Allsop might want to warn the Edinburgh hotels to prepare for some unexpected business.’

  ‘You’re not free yourself, are you, sir?’ the voice of DCI Sammy Pye echoed, mournfully. ‘Sauce and I could use all the help we can get.’

  ‘Not me, mate,’ Skinner laughed. ‘Mrs Steele came here in a taxi and I have my car outside, so I’ll bring her to the scene. After that I’m off to the Saltire office to tell June Crampsey to hold the front page.’

  Four

  ‘So this is King Robert Village,’ the chief constable murmured.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sauce Haddock exclaimed, unnecessarily, for she was somewhere in a past life, speaking to herself.

  She returned to the present. ‘Do you remember it as the Royal Infirmary?’ she asked him.

  ‘I remember it,’ he replied, ‘although I was never in it as a patient, or as a cop. It was closed by the time I joined the force.’

  They were standing on the decking of the roof terrace belonging to the penthouse apartment that had become a crime scene. Looking out across the Meadows, Haddock chuckled softly.

  ‘I hadn’t been on the job for long when old Charlie Johnston and I had a call that took us out there, in a thick fog, a real pea-souper. It was an anonymous tip; we couldn’t find a damn thing until I all but walked into it, a guy hanging from a tree.’

  ‘I remember that,’ she said. ‘Stevie was first CID responder at the scene and he called me in. We were working together then, before . . .’

  Her voice tailed off, leaving a silence as thick and tangible as that freezing October fog had been. Stevie: Detective Inspector Stevie Steele, young, charismatic, the most popular man in CID, a future anything he chose, really. He and Maggie Rose had worked together, fallen in love, and married, to the astonished delight of their colleagues. She had been expecting his child when he walked through a booby-trapped door on an investigation in Northumberland, dying instantly.

  While still enveloped in grief, she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She had refused surgery until her child could be safely delivered, however. It had been a complete success, and Stephanie Margaret Steele was blooming in the joint care of her mother and her aunt, Maggie’s sister, Bet.

  Having plunged his foot squarely into the mire, Haddock pulled it back out as gracefully as he could. ‘Of course this building wasn’t part of the old hospital,’ he continued, ‘it’s new build . . . obviously. The whole King Robert Village development’s a mix of commercial and residential. There’s a health club in one of the other buildings, but this one’s purely residential.’

  ‘I know,’ the chief constable said. ‘I’m a member of the health club. I don’t use it much,’ she explained, ‘but there are kids’ activities that Stephanie likes. Last time I was there,’ she added, ‘I saw Annette Bordeaux. I confess that I didn’t realise it was actually her; she was in a leotard and leggings, knocking ten bells out of a cross-trainer. To tell you the truth, I dismissed her as a wannabe Annette, and thought no more about her until I took DCI Pye’s call half an hour ago.’

  ‘Was Mr Skinner serious about telling the Saltire editor?’

  Steele grinned. ‘Probably. He’s really committed to his new job. I don’t mind; they might get here half an hour quicker than they would have otherwise, that’s all.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Sammy Pye called from the patio doorway. ‘Sorry, I’ve just been briefing the director of communications. Allsop’s golfing at Gleneagles today, it seems; I caught him on the eighth tee, apparently. He’s not best pleased but he’s going to cut his round short and get down here.’

  She shrugged. ‘The world will turn without him. Are the media on to it yet?’

  ‘They’ve got chapter and verse; the first call came in ten minutes ago.’ He glanced at Haddock. ‘Somebody’s talked, Sauce, and my money’s on that concierge, what’s his name, Paul Cope. I suspect he’s on the payroll of every news desk in Edinburgh. The Fonters are big news, front and back page.’

  ‘Can’t be the cleaner,’ the DS observed. ‘She’ll still be a gibbering wreck.’

  ‘What’s our response?’ the chief constable asked.

  ‘Just holding at this stage, ma’am; all I’ve authorised the press officer to say is that we’re investigating an incident in an apartment in the King Robert Village complex. Nothing more until we can get hold of the husband. I couldn’t raise the Merrytown FC manager, but I have spoken to the chief executive, a woman called Angela Renwick. She knows how to contact him, through the head coach of the Spanish football squad.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be doing that?’

  ‘Technically, but I thought it would save time if I left it to her; plus, she speaks fluent Spanish. I don’t. She’ll need it to speak to the coach.’

  ‘Fair enough. When the Renwick woman does get through to him, what will the message be?’

  ‘To call me, nothing more. She doesn’t know the whole story. All I told her was that there had been an incident involving Mrs Fonter and that we need to speak with him immediately. She’ll ask him to use Skype or FaceTime, if possible.’

  ‘When you do speak to him, Sammy,’ she said, ‘break it as gently as you can. Forget fame; this is an ordinary man who’s lost his wife in terrible circumstances. He’s going to remember every second of the conversation you have for the rest of his life. The memory, the horror, will never leave him, take my word on that.’

  Her words had barely faded when Pye’s ringtone sounded. ‘In fact,’ she murmured, ‘if that’s him, let me take the call.’

  The DCI checked the screen, and handed the phone to her. She took it and walked away, into the apartment.

  The two detectives remained on the terrace. ‘Nice one, boss,’ Pye whispered. ‘That was a job I didn’t fancy.’

  The chief constable returned after a few minutes. ‘How is he, ma’am?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘As you’d expect, in shock,’ she replied tersely. ‘At some point over the next hour he’ll start to believe what I told him. The head coach was there. He speaks enough English to understand that Fonter needs to be flown home at once.’ She frowned. ‘Where are they? I forgot to ask.’

  ‘Seville,’ Pye told her. ‘Do you want me to release the name now,’ he continued, ‘or wait for Allsop?’

  ‘Neither. Have the senior person on the scene set up a full media briefing, one hour from now. I’ll take it; you’ll be with me. But not here, we’ll use the old HQ building at Fettes. You okay with that timescale?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the DCI agreed. ‘It gives us time to take a quick look at this building’s CCTV. The security officer’s setting it up for me. I rang her office and spoke to her briefly, soon as we arrived here.’

  ‘Wasn’t she called to the crime scene as soon as the body was found?’ the chief constable asked, surprise in her eyes.

  ‘Believe it or not, no. I reckon that Cope, the concierge, was so keen on selling the story that it never occurred to him to tell site security about it.’

  ‘How comprehensive is the system?’

  ‘Not perfect, but not bad. There’s a camera in the foyer and in the lift, and one on each floor. But . . . there’s a privacy facility.’

  Steele frowned. ‘How so?’

  ‘There’s a video entry system for each apartment. If the owners don’t want their visitors recorded, for whatever reason, they have a switch that they can activate. It turns the security cameras off for three minutes, time enough for them to take the lift to wherever they’re going.’

  ‘I see. So the chances are that if Annette Bordeaux was entertaining someone in her underwear while her husband was away, she’d have turned off the system?’

  ‘That’s my fear, but I won’t know until I’ve looked.’

  ‘Then go to it,’ she said. ‘You never know, we might get lucky, and have this thing wrapped up before we see the media.’

  Five

  ‘Bob,’ June Crampsey exclaimed. ‘Guess what? Sky News are running a story that Annette Bordeaux has been murdered. And Al bloody Jazeera! All we’re running in our online edition is a serious incident in a luxury apartment at the King Robert Village complex.’

  ‘How come they are and you’re not?’ Skinner asked, framed in the doorway of her office.

  ‘I guess they paid the price. The source said not only that he was a witness, but that he found the body. Then he asked for twenty grand for an exclusive. My news editor didn’t even bring it to me, he told him to piss off. No story’s worth that much to us. Sky, on the other hand, can sell it on to all its partners and affiliates.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Run with it?’

  ‘Without police confirmation? It could wind up costing us a lot more than that twenty grand.’ She paused. ‘What is it? What do you want? I’m snowed under here.’

  He grinned. ‘I just dropped by to tell you to get your best crime reporter up to King Robert Village. I’ve just dropped Maggie Steele there, lunch at La Garrigue aborted. She had a call from Sammy Pye; he’s SIO up there.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped, hoarsely. ‘You mean it’s for real?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. Maggie didn’t volunteer the details, and I didn’t press her. If she’d told me, there might have been a conflict of interest, given my role here. But the Scottish National Police communications director’s been called to the scene, and she wouldn’t have done that for a simple burglary.’

  ‘So? Should I run it?’

  ‘Who’s your source, the one the news editor told to piss off?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Bob, we protect them, regardless; you know that.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, June,’ he protested. ‘I’m on the payroll. Anyway, if he claims to have found the body, the police will know who he is.’

  ‘It’s the King Robert Village concierge.’

  ‘No surprise there. Are Sky running photographs?’

  ‘No, but they were offered to us.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for?’

  She smiled. ‘For someone on the main board to give me the go-ahead.’

  He laughed out loud. ‘You mean for someone else to blame!’

  The phone on her desk broke in with a buzzing tone. She hit a button, to take the call in speaker mode. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The police have just called a media briefing, June,’ a male voice said. Skinner recognised its owner as Gordon Scott, the Saltire news editor.

  ‘Then run it online. Attribute it to media sources; don’t dress it up too much, but make sure you say it’s unconfirmed.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Scott complained.

  ‘I bloody do!’ the editor shot back. ‘I’ll watch your back, but I’m looking out for my own as well.’

  She disconnected the call and looked up at Skinner. ‘Any advice?’

  ‘Check out King Robert Village building security, any way you can. That’s what Sammy Pye will be doing right now.’

  ‘And you wish you were there alongside him,’ she ventured, ‘don’t you?’

  He shook his head, slowly. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘In truth, I wish I was him. But that level passed me by twenty years ago.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I can tell just by looking at you. You’re itching to be involved.’

  ‘I can’t be, though, and I’ve never lived in the past.’ He frowned. ‘Trouble is, my well-meaning friends keep trying to drag me back there.’

  Six

  ‘What is this place?’ Sauce Haddock asked, as they stopped at a ground-floor office beside an open area, identified as Lister Square by a signboard.

  ‘Site security centre,’ Pye replied. ‘All the buildings are monitored here.’

  He pushed a call button, while holding his warrant card close to a video entry camera. ‘Come through,’ a disembodied voice instructed.

  They stepped into a small foyer area; there was a reception desk, but it was unmanned. Beside it, a woman stood, smiling, in a doorway; she was in her thirties, her frame was solid, with more than a hint of strength about it, and her thick dark hair was close cropped.

  ‘Mr Pye, Mr Haddock?’

  The DCI nodded.

  ‘Nice combination,’ she chuckled.

  ‘They call us the Menu,’ the DS said, drily. ‘We hate it. Each of us is longing for the day when we don’t have to work together, but for the present, we’re stuck with it.’

  ‘At least people won’t forget you,’ she observed.

  ‘Names aside,’ Haddock said, with a quiet confidence, ‘they remember us.’

  ‘I know. I read the Edinburgh papers. You two have had lots of coverage this year. I’m Christine Hoy, by the way, King Robert Village Security Manager. And yes, before you say it, my name gets attention too. The next comedian who tells me to get on my bike might wind up wearing his teeth as a necklace.’

  ‘Consider us warned,’ Pye told her. ‘What’s your background?’

  ‘Army. I was a captain in logistics support, to give it its official title.’

  ‘Afghanistan?’

  ‘Two tours,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t front line, though. I flew intel drones from a relatively safe location. Come on through, let me show you what we have.’

  The security office appeared to consist of only two rooms, and a toilet. She led them into the second, in which the wall facing the door was covered almost completely with monitor screens, all but one of them active.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, drawing one up to a table for herself. ‘This shouldn’t take long. I’ve looked at the time period you requested, and added a bit more on either side. First thing I should tell you is that all of the residents of the luxury block have underground parking, and often that’s how they enter the building. Mr Pye, I know I told you that the top two floors have privacy systems built into their entry monitoring systems, but that does not include the garage. Everybody who comes in there is on camera, there and in the lift.

  ‘For example . . .’ she pressed a button on a console on the table, ‘. . . this from yesterday afternoon. Top left corner shows the time.’

  The detectives followed her pointing finger as they seated themselves beside her. The screen indicated that it was fourteen thirty-seven hours when a big black Audi SUV drove into the garage, parking smoothly in a numbered space. Four people left the vehicle, then walked across the camera’s field of vision, stopping at two silver doorways. The image paused.

  ‘Lift entrance,’ Hoy said.

  The quartet were dressed identically, in dark blue training clothing, with a Nike tick and sponsor logo displayed on the chest, with letters above.

  ‘That looks like Merrytown FC gear,’ Pye murmured. ‘Can you blow it up so we can read those initials?’

  She nodded and rewound the video, frame by frame, to a point at which all four of the arrivals were more or less chest on to the camera, then zoomed in on them.

  ‘JP,’ Haddock read aloud, ‘OF, AM, and . . .’ he peered at the fourth figure, smaller than the others, ‘. . . that looks like AM too, but no, it’s AMcD. A woman, I think, although it’s tough to tell in that kit. Who the hell are they?’

  ‘Watch,’ their guide instructed. The onscreen image changed, became a view of the quartet inside a small lift, shot from the top corner facing the door, so that no faces were visible. The clock ticked off forty seconds, until the door slid open, and the view changed once more, into one of a carpeted corridor. The quartet stepped out, facing the camera. ‘AMcD’s definitely female,’ Haddock observed.

  One of the foursome, a brown-skinned male, OF according to the initials on his training top, dug a key from his pocket and opened the door, standing aside for his companions then following them out of sight.