‘That’s the apartment directly below the Fonters’ penthouse,’ Hoy told them. ‘The lift they took only goes to the top two floors. Both of the properties are leased by Merrytown Football Club. That one is occupied by three players: James Pike, Orlando Flowers and Art Mustard. Pike’s English, Flowers is American and Mustard is Trinidadian.’

  ‘Who’s the woman?’ Pye asked.

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe they have a women’s team. Staying on them for a little,’ she continued, ‘this was taken just over three and a half hours later, as the clock indicates, eighteen zero six, six minutes past six in old money.’ She clicked on a track pad, and the four reappeared, leaving the apartment.

  The three men were dressed expensively. Flowers wore a tan-coloured leather jacket and cream slacks, a black man they assumed to be the West Indian Mustard, in a tailored blue suit, and the third, Caucasian, in black jeans and a yellow Paul Smith shirt. AMcD had changed the most dramatically; there was no doubting her gender in a silver trouser suit, and her lipgloss shimmered in the autumn light that flooded the corridor.

  ‘There was no other activity on that floor during that period,’ Hoy said.

  ‘Surely you haven’t had time to watch it all,’ the DCI observed.

  ‘No need. The camera is activated by a movement sensor. Now let’s go back. This is the view from outside the block, and it’s twelve minutes past three. Watch.’

  The detectives did as they were told. After a few seconds a woman stepped into view. She was tall, slim, long muscled, and she carried herself with a grace that told them who she was, even though her face was half hidden by the hood of her sleeveless, one-piece garment. She had a rucksack over one shoulder, from which part of a white towel protruded, and she held a takeaway coffee beaker in her left hand. The footage continued as she keyed a code into a pad, opened the entrance door and crossed the foyer. It saw her summon the lift, again with a code, then it followed her as she rose to the top floor, stopping as she went into the penthouse, the frame freezing as she stepped through the door.

  ‘That is the last footage of Annette Bordeaux alive,’ Hoy told them. ‘I’ve traced her back from there. She’d come from the gym and, as you can see, stopped off at the coffee shop on the way home. She left the penthouse about two hours earlier. During the day, apart from what you’ve seen and what I’m about to show you, the only other activity on the penthouse floor, and on the floor below, was the coming and going of the cleaner.’

  ‘Could she have let someone in using the private setting on the camera system?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘She could,’ the security manager admitted, ‘but she didn’t, for interruptions to the system are recorded. Also, to be frank, the privacy isn’t one hundred per cent. Any person who walked up to the outside doorway and pressed the video entry button would be caught by the surveillance camera, so that much of a record always exists. That didn’t happen. Every visitor to the building during the day was followed to their destination.’ Christine Hoy smiled; it was golden. ‘Including this chap,’ she said. ‘Watch.’

  She fiddled with the track pad once more, then clicked. The onscreen image changed as the frozen side view of the murder victim was replaced by the external area they had seen before. The time on the corner of the monitor screen showed sixteen forty-nine as a man came into view, walking purposefully. He was dressed in jeans, moccasins . . . and a Merrytown training top. It would have been identical to those worn by the players they had seen earlier, but for the absence of initials.

  His face was partially hidden as he looked down, fiddling with something held in his hands, then completely obscured as he turned his back on the camera while keying in the entry code. His head was still down as he crossed the foyer, and tapped more numbers on the pad by the lift, and even as he rode it to the top of the luxury residence.

  It was only when he stepped out into the penthouse corridor and walked towards the apartment entrance that the video captured him full face, as he pressed the buzzer, then stood waiting for a response. It captured a look of puzzlement as it developed, then a shrug of his shoulders as he tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, let himself into the Fonter residence.

  ‘Well?’ Hoy exclaimed, bursting with self-satisfaction. ‘Does that help?’

  ‘It will when we identify him,’ Pye replied.

  Haddock’s chuckle interrupted him. ‘We’ve done that already, gaffer. I may know fuck all about football, but I do not forget a face, and I’ve seen that one, very recently indeed.’

  Seven

  ‘Has the body been formally identified, Chief Constable?’ Steph Maxwell of Scottish Television asked.

  ‘To my satisfaction, yes it has,’ Steele replied. ‘The concierge of the apartment block where Mrs Fonter lived saw her on a daily basis. His identification is good enough for me, and for the Crown Office. But let’s be realistic,’ she added, ‘you know who the victim was.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Paco?’ a voice called out. She looked towards it and saw a man of around fifty, with a white moustache and a nose that had known better days. He was a stranger to her.

  ‘Dave Meredith, Daily News sports desk,’ Malcolm Nopper, her press office aide, whispered in her ear.

  She frowned in the scribe’s direction. ‘Mr Fonter has been informed; I wouldn’t be holding this briefing if he hadn’t.’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’ Meredith ploughed on.

  ‘He’s a tragically bereaved husband, who was in Spain when the murder was committed. You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.’ She glanced at John Fox, the BBC’s senior crime reporter, who was in a front row seat.

  The veteran took the hint. ‘In your statement, you describe the death as suspicious, Chief,’ he began, ‘but can we take it we’re dealing with a murder here?’

  ‘Homicide, John; I’ll concede that for sure. Murder, almost certainly.’

  ‘I take it there was nobody else found at the scene . . . alive or dead.’

  ‘Nobody.’ She paused. ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘DCI Pye is the senior investigating officer. I’m going to hand over to him for any operational questions.’

  ‘Did Annette Bordeaux own the apartment, Chief Inspector?’ Harry Wright of the Herald asked, from his customary seat in the second row, out of the line of sight of the TV cameras.

  ‘No, it’s leased,’ Pye replied, ‘by Merrytown Football Club. The owner is a company that bought the property from the developer as an investment.’

  ‘Can you name it?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head, but anyway I’m not going to; it’s not relevant to this investigation. The football club dealt with its agent when it leased the place.’

  ‘Properties, is it no’?’ Dave Meredith was sharper than he looked, Pye realised.

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he admitted. ‘The club also rents the apartment directly below the crime scene. It’s occupied by three players, all single men.’

  ‘Pike, Flowers and Mustard?’

  ‘That’s them.’

  ‘Are they of interest to you?’ John Fox asked.

  ‘We’ll be interviewing them,’ Pye replied, ‘as we will be interviewing everyone who may have been in contact with the victim, but it won’t be as suspects. I’m not going into too much detail, but I will say that we don’t believe they were in the building when Ms Bordeaux died.’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ a woman called out from the centre of the group. ‘Rhonda Mortensen, Sky News. Our sources tell us that there were drugs found in the apartment. Had Ms Bordeaux been using before she died? Can you confirm that?’

  He took a deep breath, aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed, and that every member of his audience was looking at him a little more intensely. ‘Drug-fuelled orgy ’ headlines danced before his mind’s eye.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, resisting the urge to glance to his right to gauge the chief constable’s reaction. ‘No, I can’t confirm that. Toxicology carried out during the post-mortem examination will tell us what substances were present in the victim’s bloodstream. If any of them were illegal, that will be in our report to the procurator fiscal. What I am prepared to tell you is that I saw the body and it bore no obvious signs of drug use.’

  ‘But there were drugs found in the bathroom?’ Mortensen persisted. ‘That’s what our sources say.’

  Malcolm Nopper, seated between Pye and Maggie Steele, moved as if he was about to intervene, but the detective placed a hand on his arm. ‘In that case they should be a bit more careful,’ he replied, firmly but politely. ‘Yes, there was a substance found in the apartment, and analysis will tell us whether it’s talcum powder, caster sugar, prescribed medication or something else. But what it won’t tell us is who put it there, or who supplied it.’

  He smiled, and his eyes narrowed. ‘If it is what you suggest, then trust me, that is something we will find out. When we do, we’ll want to know when it was put there too. “Your sources”, you say, Ms Mortensen. You should consider this before you go any further: at the time when you broke the story, only two people that I know of, other than members of my team, had been in the apartment after Ms Fonter died . . . other than whoever was involved in her death, that is. One of those two is being treated for shock in hospital, so that rather narrows the field when it comes to identifying your informant. If it gets to the point where our investigation is being obstructed, I’ll know where to look.’

  He looked around the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further questions . . .’

  Harry Wright raised a hand. ‘I have one, Chief Inspector. How confident are you of a speedy solution to your investigation?’

  ‘I never quantify optimism or pessimism, Mr Wright. Do that and it’ll only be used against you; that’s something I was taught by a master. All I will tell you is that we are working proactively to answer the questions raised by Ms Bordeaux’s tragic death. We’ll report progress to you whenever we can.’

  ‘Does that mean you have a suspect?’ Rhonda Mortensen shouted, as he pushed his chair back from the table.

  He stared at her, then leaned back towards the bank of microphones. ‘That was neither said, nor implied,’ he told her, then he grinned. ‘Go and ask your source,’ he suggested, ‘see what he can tell you.’

  Eight

  ‘I just saw your boss on telly,’ Cheeky McCullough told her partner, ‘on Sky News. I think it was live. Their reporter tried to put one over on him and he melted her. The rest of the press crew laughed at her.’

  ‘He’s just melted the building concierge too; that stuff she had came from him and it was pure shite. There was a wee trace of white powder, that was all. Mortensen could have picked a better day to try it on,’ Sauce drawled, his voice laden with irony. ‘We’ve been in the firing line before, but never as seriously as this. I had no idea who the victim was when we got there,’ he confessed, ‘and even afterwards, for a while.’

  ‘You are joking,’ Cheeky exclaimed. ‘She’s one of the most famous faces on the planet. Vanity Fair had her in the top five “most glamorous” list last year.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have made it today,’ he muttered grimly into his phone.

  ‘Ooh, don’t, I can’t bear to think of that. Poor girl. Was it bad?’

  ‘Being murdered is rarely good. I don’t want to say too much but it was not gentle.’

  ‘I suppose this means that tonight’s off: dinner at Jack and Lisanne’s.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘You go there, don’t wait for me. I’ll turn up when I can. McGurk’ll understand; he’ll be dead chuffed he didn’t catch this one himself.’

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘Where are you just now?’

  ‘We’re at Merrytown’s training ground, following . . . a lead.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, hesitating for a few seconds before going on. ‘Sauce, I’d better tell you this before you find out for yourself. Grandpa’s a significant shareholder in that club.’

  ‘Eh?’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘I thought it was owned by a Russian, one of those oligarchs, a guy called Dimitri Rogozin.’

  ‘He’s the majority shareholder, and his company provides most of the cash, but Grandpa has twenty-five per cent. Rogozin wanted him on board, just in case he had trouble himself in passing the “fit and proper person” test.’

  Sauce laughed. ‘You’re taking the piss. He recruited your grandpa as a fit and proper person?’

  ‘Why not?’ Cheeky protested. ‘As far as the media are concerned he’s a respected Scottish businessman, with an impeccable business record.’

  ‘True, and his murder trial did collapse when the chief witness did a runner.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ she insisted, ‘he meets the criteria set by the football authorities.’

  ‘God bless their wee hearts! Listen, honey,’ he said, ‘if you want to see me at the McGurks tonight I really have to go. Jackie and I have to talk to someone.’

  ‘Okay, go to it. Love you . . . and yes, about Grandpa, truth is I was as surprised as you are.’

  Haddock was smiling as he rejoined his colleague, DC Jackie Wright, in what Jock Shaw, their guide to the training complex, had described as ‘the boot room’. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I was just rearranging my Saturday with my other half; this took us by surprise.’

  The veteran escort glowered back at him. ‘Lucky you,’ he moaned. ‘Every Saturday’s a work day for me, apart frae international breaks . . . and this is yin.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Wright retorted. ‘But I doubt that Mrs Fonter chose to be murdered on a Friday night.’

  He sniffed. ‘Aye, Ah suppose.’

  ‘If there’s no game, where are the players?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘The boss took them away tae Seamill Hydro for the weekend,’ Shaw replied. ‘Them as is no’ away wi’ their countries, like Paco.’

  ‘I see. But they trained yesterday, yes?’

  ‘Aye. The bus left frae here this mornin’. They’ll a’ be back on Monday, for trainin’, like.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have been in today anyway, to get their training gear ready? You are the kit man, after all.’

  He stared at Wright. ‘D’ye think they’ve only got one set?’

  ‘It’s more than boots come through this room,’ Haddock observed, pointing to a large wicker hamper in the corner. ‘It niffs a bit in here.’

  ‘This isnae a country club, son. Whit’s in there’ll go tae the laundry on Monday mornin’. Gets done twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays.’

  ‘How about yesterday’s kit?’

  ‘That’s a’ there. Some of the boys went straight aff after trainin’ without changin’, but they all brought it wi’ them the day when they came in tae catch the bus.’

  ‘So everything that was worn yesterday is in that hamper?’

  ‘Yesterday and Thursday, aye. Why dae yis want tae know?’

  ‘I need to be certain, that’s all,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Would you empty it out for us, please?’

  ‘Eh?’ the kit man exclaimed. ‘All of it?

  Haddock nodded.

  ‘There’s a’ sorts in there, ripped socks, jockstraps, shorts wi’ skid marks. Do ye want the lassie tae see a’ that?’

  ‘There’ll be nothing I haven’t seen before, Mr Shaw,’ Wright said cheerfully. ‘You should have seen what my university hockey team left behind us. So empty it, please, we need to go through it. That’s why we’re here.’

  Nine

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Sarah asked, gazing across the dining table as she plunged her fork into a bowl of strawberries.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Bob countered. ‘I’ll do whatever makes you the happiest.’

  ‘Don’t cop out, copper,’ she laughed. ‘If I say to you that I’d love you to stick with InterMedia, and the SIA until you can’t stand it any more, and do nothing else but stay home and look after your kids, sure, that would be great . . . at first. It would be great for as long as it took you to feel groundhog-ish, that you were living the same day over and over again. Then you’d become irritable, restless, and unhappy, and because you were, so would I be. Bob, we stumbled into a second chance at a life together, more by luck than judgement, and I’m not going to blow it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So my question stands. If the First Minister has his way and this hush-hush thing is a real proposition, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied bluntly. ‘The theory is I’d be a sanctioned state maverick, operating outside but around the official organisations, the national police service and the National Crime Agency. But the idea that it would be confidential, that’s a nonsense. Wee Clive hasn’t thought that through, or if he has he’s detached from reality, even more so. Confidentiality and me? We don’t go together. Like it or not, I have a high profile, and it won’t go away.’

  ‘That’s true, beyond a doubt,’ his partner agreed. Another strawberry paused halfway on its journey to her mouth. ‘But leaving the means aside, it’s obvious to me that he wants you back in the tent. If he found an acceptable way, would you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘Some days I miss it. This afternoon for example, dropping Maggie off at King Robert Village, then driving away; that was tough, with every fibre of me bursting to go in with her to find out what the hell was going on in there. It was made all the tougher,’ he added, ‘by seeing your car parked there, and knowing you were inside. That told me it was a homicide. Until then it could have been any serious crime, but you, my love,’ he smiled, ‘only turn out for the dead.’

  ‘I’ll bet you were pissed off,’ Sarah chuckled. ‘Now you do know, how do you feel about it?’

  ‘Again, ambivalent. Part of me, the reckless, self-indulgent part, wishes I was leading the investigation. But alongside that, the pragmatist says, “Hell no! The pressure on Sammy Pye to get a result will be bloody global. Who in his right mind would want any part of that?” On balance, this one I can leave.’