‘There is, and there have been fatal mistakes made; that can’t be denied. But hopefully a lesson was learned from every one of those. And always remember, very few police officers in this country have ever fired their weapon away from the range. It’s not like fucking Blue Bloods. Jesus, Danny Regan’s kill count must be enormous.’

  ‘And afterwards? The ones who do. How do they feel afterwards?’

  ‘Traumatised. At least I hope they do. If they don’t, they should never be given a firearm again. Even then . . .’ Skinner’s voice tailed off as he considered his own past and the things he had tried to banish from his memory without ever succeeding.

  ‘What about the fellow who did . . . that?’ Thomson asked. ‘What will he feel?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, other than the satisfaction of a job well done.’ He forced himself back into the moment. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re up. Hit it left of the bunker,’ he instructed as his partner pulled his driver from his golf bag. ‘Left, you understand; don’t leave me in it.’

  Thomson nodded, took dead aim, and swung. The ball flew straight and true, until it stalled in the head wind and plummeted straight into the sand trap.

  Sixteen

  Ronnie Hill had been a fan of the Boomtown Rats, until a colleague explained that ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ was not about a disgruntled check-out girl at Tesco, as his older sister had led him to believe. He had gone off the band after that but held to the sentiment of the notorious song’s title. The only saving grace, he thought as he sat behind his desk, was that he had not been required to attend Sauce Haddock’s press briefing in Edinburgh.

  When his phone rang, he was catching up on the reports from patrol officers on what appeared to have been an unexceptional August weekend everywhere but in Gullane, and briefly in Dunbar where a territorial dispute between rival groups of visitors from Edinburgh had been brought under control. He sighed as he picked it up.

  ‘Inspector,’ the desk officer said, ‘I’ve got a Mr Crolla on the line from the Main Course restaurant. He says he’d like to speak to you. Do you want to take the call?’

  ‘Aye, why not? Put him through.’ He waited as the call was connected. ‘Mr Crolla,’ he murmured. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about the thing we spoke about the other day,’ the restaurateur replied, ‘the man you were trying to identify.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, that was very helpful. We have confirmed his identity, if that’s what you wanted to know. It’ll be announced at a press briefing later on this morning.’

  ‘That’s good, but it’s no’ why I’m calling. His lady friend was here yesterday lunchtime. I thought you might want to know that.’

  Hill straightened in his chair. ‘We do indeed. That was good thinking, Mr Crolla. What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘She was in with two other women and with three wee girls. From what they were saying the women are all parents at the nursery school up near Kingston. It was supposed to be a birthday party for one of the kids, but I suspect it was more about the three ladies havin’ an away day . . . well, two of them anyway. The woman we’re talking about, Mr Ayre’s friend, she was pretty subdued. That would be hardly surprising, if she knew about him,’ he added. ‘The booking was in her name; it’s Hornell, Claire Hornell. We asked for her phone number when she made the booking, so I can give you that too.’

  Suddenly Ronnie Hill realised that Mondays weren’t so bad.

  Seventeen

  ‘Detective Superintendent, you’ve had a forensics team working over the weekend on an area above where you say the body was found. Does that mean that he fell from there? Or that he was pushed?’

  Haddock looked at the journalist over the top of the lectern in the makeshift briefing room in what had been the gym of the Fettes Avenue office when it had been Edinburgh’s police headquarters. As he framed his reply, he wondered whether it had ever been used for that purpose since Bob Skinner’s time.

  ‘We don’t believe so. The evidence suggests that he died where he was found.’

  ‘Can you give us his name?’

  ‘Not before he’s been formally identified.’

  ‘When will that happen?’

  ‘When we find someone to do it. We’re trying to locate next of kin, but so far without success.’

  ‘But you do have a name?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘And an address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you find anything significant there?’

  ‘We haven’t gone into the property yet. That will happen later today, now that the forensic team have finished their work at the crime scene.’ Haddock paused and drew a breath. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I can tell you for now. As soon as we can confirm the victim’s identity, we’ll do so through the press office. Meanwhile,’ he continued, ‘I’ll repeat what I said earlier. I want to ask anyone who was in the vicinity of the twelfth tee on Gullane Number One golf course or on the beach between six and seven a.m. on Friday to get in touch with us. Dog walkers, campers, morning runners, wild swimmers, anyone; we need to talk to you. If you saw anything or anyone, however insignificant it might have seemed, we need to speak to you. We’ve already had significant help from one person, but we need more. Thanks and good morning.’

  Picking up his phone and his tablet from the lectern, Haddock left the room by a nearby side exit, with Jane Balfour, the civilian press officer, following. As the closing door cut off the sound of shouted questions, he stopped. ‘Thanks for that, Jane.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder where Jack Darke was, the Saltire crime guy that we don’t like. The Costa del Sol, maybe.’

  She smiled as she shook her head. ‘No, haven’t you heard? He’s gone. His editor, June Crampsey, decided that his open animosity towards the Deputy Chief was compromising his objectivity so she told him she was moving him to the local government team. He resigned, and now he’s claiming constructive dismissal.’

  ‘Good luck with that one,’ Haddock chuckled. ‘Do you think he’ll call DCC McGuire as a witness?’

  ‘That I would love to see. I heard he’s joining an online news outlet once his gardening leave’s finished, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing him again.’

  ‘If your office gives him accreditation, we will,’ he observed.

  Balfour sighed. ‘I doubt that we could refuse.’

  ‘But you can take a while to consider his application. Okay Jane,’ he said. ‘I’m going back to my office to make a couple of calls, then I’m off to open Ayre’s house with the forensic team. Hopefully we’ll find a lead there that’ll help us make a formal identification.’

  ‘What if you don’t?’ she asked.

  ‘If we don’t, we might have to resort to his golf club. As it stands, the chief executive of Witches Hill is our best bet.’

  ‘Will the Crown Office be okay with using someone who isn’t a relative?’

  Haddock smiled. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to ask them. We’ll speak later, once I’ve been inside Ayre’s seaside palace.’

  He made his way back to his office, taking a circuitous route to avoid crossing the path of any departing journalist. Leaning back in his chair and gazing out of the window, he opened his phone contact favourites, clicked on a name, and waited.

  ‘Sauce.’ Bob Skinner’s voice was louder than normal. There was background noise, of vehicles and aircraft. ‘You just caught me. The company plane’s ready and I’m off to Girona.’

  ‘Private jet,’ Haddock laughed. ‘That’s the way to travel.’

  ‘You should try it. Your wife can afford it.’

  ‘She and I have had that discussion. I said no. How did you get on in the foursomes?’ he asked. ‘You and my replacement.’

  ‘We tied third. Spike played very well; I missed a couple of putts or we could have won it. Never mind that. How are you getting on with your investigation?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m looking for a couple of straws to clutch at. We know the victim’s name but that’s all. The rest’s a mystery. I’m living in hope that we’ll find stuff in his house that’ll tell us everything we need to know about him, but I’m not counting my chickens. I’m not even lining up the eggs.’

  ‘Having seen his member file at Witches Hill,’ Skinner commented, ‘. . . which your team should do as well, for the record . . . I understand what you mean. There’s something . . . two-dimensional about the man.’

  ‘What would you have done so far that we haven’t, Gaffer?’ the detective asked.

  ‘I’m assuming that you’ve already run his image and fingerprints through the criminal intelligence databases.’

  ‘Yes, we did that on Saturday,’ Haddock confirmed. ‘And his DNA too, when we got the profile yesterday. He isn’t on any of them; he has no criminal background, not even a parking ticket. I’ve still got to check the Passport Office and DVLA, but I’ll do that once we’ve been through his house. I’m assuming that his passport and licence will be there.’

  ‘How about Interpol? Europol?’ Skinner asked. ‘Have you shared what you have with them?’

  ‘That’s the next step, if I need to.’

  ‘I have a feeling you will. How about the intelligence community? MI5, for openers? Sauce, this guy was important enough, or significant enough, for what looks like a professional hit to have been ordered. In your shoes, I’d be looking there, and probably in military intelligence too.’

  ‘No stone unturned? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Exactly. Now I must go. The pilot’s making a performance out of checking his watch.’

  ‘Fly safe, Gaffer.’

  Haddock stood and turned, gazing through the L-shaped window. The view took in two schools. The car park of Broughton High was full and people could be seen moving from one block to another while the great grey looming bulk of Fettes College was silent on its perch above the police building. It followed the English academic calendar and its pupils were still on holiday. The contrast between the two reminded Haddock that in a few years he and Cheeky were going to have to make a choice. Would Samantha, and any siblings who might follow her, be educated in the state or private systems? The latter had been out of his parents’ financial reach but all options were open to his children. They had discussed it already; in principle he favoured the public system, but he recognised his wife’s concern that the offspring of a high-ranking police officer might have a lower profile in a private school. He looked up at Fettes, an extravagant blend of French and Scottish baronial architecture that he had always suspected of being deliberately intimidating, and murmured, ‘But not there. Somewhere less grandiose, I think.’

  ‘Sorry, Sauce, what did you say?’

  Startled, he turned. Detective Sergeant Jackie Wright had entered the room quietly, while he was wrapped in his thoughts. ‘Talking to myself, Jackie,’ he confessed. ‘What can you do for me, before Tarvil and I head for East Lothian?’

  ‘I’ve just come off the phone with Gavin Ayre’s bank in Jersey,’ she said, ‘but I’m not a lot wiser than I was before the conversation.’

  Haddock stiffened slightly. ‘They’re not playing silly buggers, are they? If they try hiding behind client privilege in a murder investigation . . . I’ll set the Crown Office on them if I have to, or the Justice Department at Westminster if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘No, no,’ Wright exclaimed, ‘it’s not that. The woman didn’t have any problem speaking to me, it’s just that there was little or nothing she could tell me. The sterling account that was used to pay the fee at Witches Hill was set up two years ago. It’s used for all his regular domestic outgoings; there are direct debits in place for the council tax, energy, Sky TV sub, and of course the nightmare that’s BT . . . Tiggy Benjamin checked with them,’ she added. ‘It took her forever, as you’d expect. He has Halo Three broadband and a mobile, but no land line . . . apparently you don’t need one but they don’t rush to tell you that. As well as all those, there’s a regular monthly payment of just over eight hundred pounds to a car-leasing company, occasional transfers to a cleaning company, and one-off payments to a gardening and landscaping firm based in Dunbar. Those go back a few months. Alongside those he also has a debit for an online bank called Moneze . . .’

  ‘The one Inspector Hill said he used in the restaurant?’

  ‘That’s right; it’s a Mastercard. I haven’t tracked it down yet, but the monthly amounts are erratic; I suspect that’s how he does his everyday shopping.’

  ‘That’s the only account he has in Jersey?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘The only one that I can find,’ Wright confirmed.

  ‘Okay, so far everything you’ve described has been outgoing payments. What about movements in the other direction? Where does his money come from? What’s the source? Who’s his employer? His customers? His clients?’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing flowing into that account from any source in the UK.’

  ‘He works offshore, as well as banking offshore? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘No, boss. He doesn’t appear to work at all. The Jersey account is fed by regular, large transfers from an account in Liechtenstein. Over the two years of its existence funds totalling just over eight million quid have been paid in.’

  ‘What about the house?’ Haddock asked. ‘It’s new, it was only completed at the back end of last year. And the plot it’s built on: I know that itself cost a million and that would be before they put the services in.’

  ‘I wasn’t looking that far back,’ she replied, ‘only at his regular spending patterns. However,’ she added, ‘there are no mortgage payments. That means either Mr Ayre owned it lock, stock and riding stable, or he had a rich benefactor.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered. ‘The man’s a mystery, right enough.’

  Eighteen

  For the first time in almost a year, Noele McClair felt content: her brief affair . . . be honest Noele, call it what it was . . . her one-night stand with a much older man, his disappearance, her unexpected pregnancy with its inevitable career hiatus, they had all combined to throw her off kilter, turning a confident professional into a confused woman, full of doubt about her future and full of trepidation about her ability to function as a single mother. She realised that her plea to Sauce to be allowed to take part in the Gavin Ayre investigation, albeit remotely, had been a cry for help, and she was grateful to her young boss for giving her the go-ahead. They both knew that with Tarvil Singh’s promotion the team could have functioned without her. Haddock’s acquiescence had been a favour granted, but also a statement that she still had a place as a senior member of the Serious Crimes team.

  She gazed at her phone on its hands-free stand as the ring tone sounded, once, twice, three times, until it was replaced by a cautious male voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Biggs?’ she enquired. ‘Gerry Biggs?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Gerry.’ Caution gave way to assertiveness, with an edge of aggression. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Noele McClair, Edinburgh Serious Crimes squad.’ As she spoke Matilda let out a small cry as she lost her grip on the nipple from which she was feeding.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Biggs drawled, ‘so how come I can hear a wean in the background?’

  ‘I’m working from home,’ she replied, as she moved her daughter from one breast to the other. ‘We have a major inquiry so it’s all hands on deck, even those on maternity leave. I’ve been given your number by Olbo Holdings; they say you’ve built on several of the plots they sold, specifically on one owned by a Mr Gavin Ayre.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ the builder confirmed enthusiastically. ‘We did a good job for the guy; it’s the best house on that estate. There was virtually no limit on the budget; he kept addin’ extras until the job went up to over five million. He’s the best client I ever had, that man. The stage payments all came through early, a rarity, I’ll tell you. He treated us well and we looked after him. The job was finished a month early. He’ll be enjoyin’ livin’ there.’

  ‘Not any longer he isn’t,’ McClair told him. ‘He was murdered on Friday morning.’

  A gasp came from her phone’s speaker. ‘Seriously?’ Biggs whispered.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Look, we know very little about Mr Ayre, hence my call. In your dealings with him did he ever mention his family, say anything about his origins?’

  ‘No, but he couldn’t. I never met the man.’

  ‘You didn’t meet him?’ the detective exclaimed.

  ‘Never. I never even spoke to him.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you built him a five-million-pound home without ever clapping eyes on him? How did you get the job?’

  ‘Competitive tender,’ the builder explained. ‘Us and two other contractors.’

  ‘Wasn’t there an interview before the contract was awarded?’

  ‘Of course, but it was Tim Lloyd that handled it. Tim was the guy I dealt with from beginning to end.’

  ‘Who’s Tim Lloyd?’ McClair asked.

  ‘He was the architect on the project. It was his design we built; bloody beautiful it is. Tim and his firm represented the client all the way through. He was the go-to guy all along. If you want to know anything about Mr Ayre, you should go to him. Do you want his number?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Matilda sighed against her chest, her feeding over, for that moment. ‘Can you text it to me? I can’t quite reach my pen.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ Biggs drew a breath. ‘If that’s all . . .’

  ‘It is for now. Thank you.’

  She ended the call and waited. The promised text arrived less than a minute later, as she was making her daughter comfortable. With Mattie peaceful and secure in her crib, Noele opened the message and keyed the number into her phone. Before calling, she opened her laptop and entered a search for ‘Tim Lloyd Architect’. Google took her straight to www.LloydandPrice.com. She opened the site and found a clean, crisp presentation for a two-partner Edinburgh business, with a statement of principles and completed project examples. She scanned the latter but found nothing suggesting that any of them might be Gavin Ayre’s luxury home. Tim Lloyd’s biography was concise; he was aged forty-seven and a graduate of Strathclyde University. His portfolio was a mix of commercial and residential projects but, again, with no link to Gavin Ayre.