Twelve

  The autopsy of Van Woman, as Graham Scott had named her, was not the first post-mortem examination that Jackie Wright had attended, but as it progressed she knew that there was not a single detail that she would ever forget.

  Much of it was routine; the detailed examination of the body, the Y incision, the spreading of the chest cavity, the removal, examination and sampling for laboratory of the main organs, the noise of the saw cutting through the skull to reveal the brain. She had seen all of that before in other homicide investigations, but, with the single exception of long buried skeletal remains, those had all been carried out within two days of the victim’s demise. The remains had been fresh, not swollen with the skin rendered mottled green and black by advancing decomposition. Van Woman, Scott determined had been dead for at least four months, possibly as many as six, and her decay had been accelerated by the conditions in which she had been kept.

  ‘It will have been warm in that vehicle, ladies,’ he said, when his work was complete, ‘and that will have speeded up the process. Recently Sarah Grace did one in Spain, where, from what she’s told me, she will now be spending some of her professional life, and most of the personal. The stiff she had to work on there was literally so. He had been stored in a chest freezer and had to be thawed out for two days before she could open him up. Van Woman’s insides were the opposite; they were like a slurry pit, and her brain looked like something a window cleaner had thrown away. At some point in her life she’d had her appendix removed, but other than that I can tell you little or nothing about her medical history because her organs were just too degraded. Skeletally she was almost intact; the X-rays showed no healed fractures. The shape of the pelvis suggests that she never had a child, or at least never carried one full term. The uterus and ovaries were still there, but degraded like everything else.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Mann asked. ‘Can you tell us that, Graham?’

  ‘Between thirty-five and forty-five, I’d say. That’s going by the state of the skeleton; she had a solid frame and was possibly fairly fit. What I found was flesh, with little sign of fat. She weighed in at seventy-one kilos, in the state that you saw her. Take five off for the soiled clothing; alive I’d put her around ten and a half stone.’

  ‘Did you remove any jewellery from the body, Graham? A wedding ring, for example?’

  ‘No, Lottie, I didn’t. The only thing on her was that piece of paper in the shirt pocket, but it’s illegible. Maybe it can be recovered but don’t hold your breath while you wait for it.’

  The DCI wrinkled her nose. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Jenny Bramley’s team found absolutely no personal effects in the motor home; nothing else either. The thing was stripped clean.’

  Wright raised a hand, as if she was in a lecture theatre. ‘Cause of death, Professor? Can you give us one now?’

  ‘I can’t be definitive,’ he confessed. ‘Nor could any other pathologist, although I can think of a couple who might claim to be. There is indeed, the X-ray revealed, a depressed skull fracture to match the blood, hair and tissue adhering to the inside of the Tesco bag. The size suggests that she was hit with your classic blunt instrument. That, and the site of the blow, could have, yes I’d say would have, proved fatal, but would she have expired before she suffocated? The lungs are too far gone to give or even suggest an answer to that question, I’m afraid.’ He shrugged. ‘But actually, Jackie, who cares? Ultimately her body died because her brain did, and no jury on this planet is going to find that happened as the result of anything other than a deliberate act . . . other than possibly one in Russia.’

  Thirteen

  ‘He said no, Hector,’ Bob Skinner told the chief executive of the InterMedia Group. ‘I told him it was the most significant expansion we’ve ever made and that as the President of the company, as he still is, he should be seen to be there in America when our Hispanic cable news channel goes live. He wouldn’t wear it. He said that it would undermine me as chairman. I said I didn’t give a fuck about that, but he said he did; he argues that I’m the one with the high level contacts in Washington, so I should be the face of the business. He also said that he’s only keeping the President’s chair warm for his daughter Paloma, when she’s gathered enough experience to take over.’

  Hector Sureda sighed, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of defeat. ‘There’s no persuading him?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ the CEO admitted. ‘He will not even talk to me these days unless you are there: “undermining” being the word he repeats over and over. Looks like you and me on the first of October, then.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have our secretary book the flights. You good to go on the Sunday,’ Skinner asked, ‘two days before the launch?’

  ‘Sure, but aren’t we taking the Cesna?’

  ‘No fucking way! That’s fine within Europe, but we’re not crossing the Atlantic in it. It doesn’t have the range.’

  Sureda smiled. ‘I’m glad you said that.’ He paused. ‘Bob, if it pays us to have a company jet, now that America is coming on stream, shouldn’t we have an aircraft that’s capable of flying there direct?’

  ‘There is a case for it,’ Skinner agreed. ‘My physiotherapist would agree with you one hundred per cent, by the way. But it’s not one that I can bring to the board myself; you neither. Take it to the chief financial officer and ask her to look at it, long term, against the cost of business and first class flights to and within the US for up to a dozen people. It’s not a luxury, it has to be justifiable financially. If she says it’s a go-er, she can present the case to the board. It won’t happen in three weeks, though, so I’ll have the flights booked regardless.’

  ‘Will we fly first class or business?’

  ‘That’ll depend on how good our travel agent is at screwing upgrades out of airlines.’ He grinned. ‘Whatever, it’ll be an unusual experience for me, flying with other people. I haven’t done that since Xavi asked me to take on this job.’

  Sureda was laughing as he returned to his own office, leaving his chairman to turn his attention to his lunch, a chorizo-filled mini-baguette that he had baked and prepared that morning, before leaving his apartment in Girona. Skinner’s life was going to change very soon, when Sarah and the three youngest children moved to Spain from Scotland. He was looking forward to the change, and yet apprehensive also, hoping that Jazz and Seonaid would settle into the English language schools that had been chosen for them. Dawn, the toddler, was no problem; Trish, the children’s carer was moving with them.

  The move had been triggered when Sarah had been offered part time university tenure in Barcelona. Originally they had imagined her commuting in the way that Bob did, but the idea had evolved, driven forward by the enthusiasm of both Jazz and Seonaid, once they were assured they could spend at least six summer weeks with their friends in Gullane.

  As he ate he imagined the family fitting into the duplex. It was spacious for him, and had five bedrooms, but would it work? If not, the fallback was to live in the seaside holiday home he had owned in L’Escala since Alex was a child. ‘You grew up in a bungalow in Motherwell, now you’re a property millionaire,’ he mused.

  His ringtone broke into his thoughts. The screen showed a Spanish mobile number, one that was not in his directory. He answered it, curious.

  ‘Sir Robert,’ a male voice began. ‘This is Raul Sanchez, the father of Pilar. I hope I am not disturbing you. I know you are an important man.’

  He swallowed a mouthful. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘It’s good to hear from you. As for importance, we all breathe the same air whatever it says on the office door. And the name’s Bob. What can I do for you? The kids are all right, yes?’ By which he meant, he realised instinctively, ‘You’re not going to tell me your daughter’s pregnant, are you?’

  ‘As far as I know they are fine,’ Sanchez replied. ‘I have not heard from Pilar for ten days at least. Her mother may have but I haven’t.’

  ‘Ten days is okay,’ Skinner assured him. ‘I haven’t heard from Nacho since I saw the pair of them in L’Escala two weeks ago. When my daughter Alex was their age, a month could go by without her touching base. Mind you, she was setting out on her career by then,’ he observed.

  ‘I hear what you are saying. This concept of a gap year did not exist thirty years ago, not in Spain.’

  ‘If it did in Scotland back then, Raul, nobody told me about it. Even now it’s normally taken between leaving school and starting university, rather than after graduation. Nacho’s lucky, in that he’s leaving with no debt hung around his neck.’

  ‘And Pilar the same,’ Sanchez added, quickly.

  ‘Good. I don’t influence the editorial stance of InterMedia titles, but neither do I hide my personal belief that the nations should invest in their future, and that means equating higher education with health provision. It’s a tough political sell though. People are afraid of death, but not of ignorance.’

  ‘I like that,’ the banker laughed. ‘Bob, the reason I call, I’m going to be in Barcelona on business on Thursday. I wonder if we could meet for dinner? I would be happy to come to Girona, if that made it easier for you.’

  ‘It probably would,’ Skinner admitted. ‘I’m flying back to Edinburgh on Friday morning for an afternoon meeting. Why don’t you stay over Thursday night? There’s plenty of room at my place . . . for now.’

  Fourteen

  ‘How did it go?’ Sauce Haddock asked the face on the screen.

  ‘How did it go?’ Lottie Mann repeated. He saw her pause for a moment to consider the question. ‘Among the experiences I would not want to live through again,’ she concluded, ‘it runs childbirth a close second.’

  ‘That good, eh? Does it leave us any closer to identifying the victim?’

  ‘It rules out the chunk of the population that isn’t female and IC one or two, but apart from that, no. We can only hope that her DNA is on the database, or failing that, a label on her clothing gives us a pointer. If we have to go to dental records we’re stuffed; the X-rays show that she had perfect teeth. How do you search for somebody like that, Sauce?’

  ‘What about the vehicle?’

  ‘I’ve got John Stirling looking into that. He’s identified the owner, and yet he hasn’t. It’s a Jersey company, but doesn’t tell us much. He reported to me ten minutes ago that he’s tracked down a contact who’s currently in Wanaka, New Zealand. Skiing, would you believe?’

  ‘I’d believe most things. Does he need to go there to interview him?’ Haddock chuckled.

  ‘That option didn’t occur to him, thank Christ. No, his man said he would arrange for someone else to contact him. If that doesn’t happen, there are legal steps we can take to identify the beneficial owner.’

  ‘Fine, Lottie, but how long will that take?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she admitted. ‘John threatened the guy, Gialini, his name is, with a visit from the Wanaka police. We know that’s bullshit, but hopefully Mr Gialini doesn’t.’

  ‘What’s the level of media interest?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘Modest so far. All we’ve told them so far is that a body’s been found in a motor home. The press office called the death “unexplained” rather than “suspicious”, but I’m going to have to front up and upgrade that before the day’s out. Unless you want to do it as head of serious crimes?’ she added, hopefully.

  ‘And undermine you? No way. I will report it to the DCC, but I’m pretty sure big Mario will be content to leave it to you. Trust me, you want that: if he got involved you’d be under much more scrutiny.’

  ‘I know. I’ll wait until five. By that time John might have got a result. That or Jackie might have made progress on identifying the buyer of the clothing, but the outer garments are all big brand stuff, which will probably make it more difficult.’

  ‘What about the underwear?’ Haddock suggested.

  He saw Mann’s frown. ‘Why do women have to cut the labels off their bras and knickers? Don’t they know it makes them impossible to track down?’

  ‘When will you have the DNA profile?’

  ‘Mid-afternoon, I hope. It’s all we’ll have: Jenny Bramley says the inside of the vehicle was absolutely clear.’

  ‘Still, if the victim’s on the database . . .’

  ‘Yes, but how many people actually are, Sauce?’ She shook herself, quickly. ‘Fuck it,’ she snapped. ‘Come on Charlotte, think positive. This one will be, and as soon as we know who she is, and know who and what were in her life we’ll have ourselves a list of suspects.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Check in with me please, before you do the media briefing. There’s bound to be some bugger’ll come back to me looking for a little extra.’

  ‘Will do, Sauce.’

  She clicked the red X on her screen and her boss disappeared, leaving her free to accept the incoming audio call that had been signalled. ‘DCI Mann?’ the newcomer began. ‘It’s Brian Knox here, in Irvine, about the canvass of the area around the van.’ The man sounded excited, a world away from the dour individual she had encountered the day before. ‘I’ve made some progress,’ he said. ‘Not with the house nearest the van. That was a dead loss, but. There’s one just down the road with a much better security system, with long-term video storage, and I’ve been given access to it.’

  Mann felt a surge of renewed energy running through her. ‘Excellent,’ she exclaimed. ‘How do we view it?’

  ‘The owner’s given me a link. All I need is a computer with a decent screen.’

  ‘Come to my base in Glasgow,’ she said. ‘We’ve got that here, and some extra manpower too. The more we have looking the sooner we’ll see who’s on there.’

  Fifteen

  As morning skipped seamlessly into a warm autumn afternoon, John Stirling’s impatience grew. He was the new guy in the team, and felt that status keenly. Jackie Wright’s arrival from Edinburgh had done nothing to boost his confidence. While he had not been looking forward to witnessing the post-mortem he had seen it as an endorsement in a way. Yes, he had been given an important task instead, but he had a sense that the assignment had less to do with Lottie Mann’s faith in his problem-solving skills, as she had put it, than it had with her fear of him emptying his breakfast on to the floor.

  In an attempt to keep his frustration at bay, he called the Jersey Financial Services Commission once more, to see whether there was any way that the procedure could be short-circuited, but found Elwyn Vassell to be intractable.

  ‘There are formal procedures,’ the official declared. ‘They were put in place for a reason; to protect the civil rights of people who choose to incorporate here. We are not part of the United Kingdom, Sergeant Stirling, but we are its closest international partner and have been for hundreds of years. Constitutionally we’re a Crown dependency; the relationship is through the UK sovereign, not its Parliament and we have the rights of self-government and of judicial independence. Whatever information I might hold by virtue of my position, that belongs to my government, and can only be shared within the framework of a formal agreement with yours. In other words, you can badger me all you like about the ultimate ownership of the company Artisan de Boite, but you will get nothing out of me.’

  ‘What if Marco Gialini called you and said “Go ahead”?’ Stirling countered.

  ‘He’s not going to do that, son,’ Vassell sighed wearily. ‘If he did that his other clients would find out and dump him overnight. Look, how about sharing yourself? You’ve told me as much as I’ve told you, zilch, other than saying that you don’t suspect Artisan de Boite of being crooked. Is that really true?’

  Stirling reflected on the question. ‘Maybe not,’ he admitted. ‘The company owns a motor home.’

  Unexpectedly, Vassell laughed. ‘You’re not going to tell me it’s parked on a politician’s driveway are you?’

  ‘It would be a bloody sight easier for us if it was. In fact, it was parked, legally, in a street in Scotland a couple of months ago. It was only when it was opened yesterday, on public health grounds, that a body was discovered inside.’

  He heard a gasp. ‘My God,’ the man said. ‘And you’re a detective so . . . Okay, I get it, I get it. I still can’t help you, but what I can do is message Marco Gialini and tell him that if I find him being obstructive in any way, I won’t forget about it. People like him need to be on my good side.’

  ‘Thanks for that at least. Hopefully you won’t hear from me again,’ the DS said as he ended the call.

  He would never know whether Vassell’s hand was behind it, but twenty minutes later his landline rang. ‘DS Stirling, serious crimes,’ he said as he snatched the phone from its cradle.

  ‘Sergeant,’ a male Scottish voice drawled; Glaswegian, he judged. ‘My name is James Bonar. I’m a solicitor, senior partner in James Bonar and Associates and I’ve been asked to call you by Mr Marco Gialini. I believe you and he had a conversation earlier on today.’

  ‘That’s correct. Am I speaking to the beneficial owner of Artisan de Boite?’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Then with the utmost respect, Mr Bonar,’ Stirling sighed, his patience hanging by a single strand, ‘why the hell am I speaking to you?’

  ‘Because my firm acts for the beneficial ownership of the company. We’re instructed to speak on their behalf, but under no obligation to reveal their identity, any more than Mr Gialini is, without an order from the Jersey Parliament. Even less in fact, because he’d only tell you that it’s me. Now, what’s this about?’

  ‘It’s about a badly decomposed corpse that was found yesterday in Irvine, tied to a chair in a motor home purchased in Germany by Mr Gialini for your client’s company and registered in Jersey.’