‘Or her mother?’

  ‘Inez? God no, she’s an idiot.’

  ‘Or your sister?’

  ‘Goldie? God no, she’s . . . she’s . . . No, all I’ll say is don’t ever get on the wrong side of her. Goldie’s been useful to me from time to time, but she’s a fucking sociopath. Some of the rumours about me are actually based on things I’ve covered up for her.’

  ‘Jesus, Cameron! If anything did happen to you, should I be worried about her? Should Cheeky?’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t, and that’s a promise. If that happens in the near future, a package will be delivered to young Detective Sergeant Haddock; its contents should take Goldie out of play for the rest of her days . . . although they’re numbered.’

  She stared at him. ‘If you’d do that to your sister, should I be worried about me?’

  He laughed. ‘Not for a second; I hate her, I love you.’

  ‘That’s a comfort. Now, back to Dimitri; you brought him into the Merrytown takeover. Why?’

  ‘So that the investment capital the club needed could come from an outside source, and not ostensibly from me. But in practice, Rogozin’s seventy-five per cent stake is held by the company that we both own.’

  She nodded. ‘Therefore,’ it began as a whisper, ‘although the media describe him as the majority shareholder, with your twenty-five per cent, plus half of his company’s stake, you are.’

  ‘Exactly, and my presence was explained by the rumour we circulated about Dimitri being afraid of failing the football authorities’ “fit and proper person” test. He’s the front man, and I’m very much in the background, as I always prefer it.’

  ‘How much money have you put into the club since you bought it?’

  ‘Personally nothing, but through Rogotron, the company we own, so far there’s been a loan of twenty million, plus another ten million more through a three-year shirt sponsorship deal. That’s the cash that paid for Paco Fonter, for Chaz Baker, and for the three players in the flat below where Annette was killed. Merrytown isn’t funded to the English level, but it’s the best resourced club in Scotland, even above the so-called big two.’

  ‘Will you ever get that money back?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Not all of it, but the Russian tax authorities will take some of the hit. It’s not just a vanity project though. Baker’s target was to win the Scottish Premiership this season, or at the very least make sure the club is playing in European competition next year.’

  He glowered into his white wine. ‘That’s why his arrest is seriously bad news. He’s hardly going to do that from inside Peterhead Prison, is he?’

  Eleven

  ‘CC54RMS,’ she recited as she slid into the passenger seat, enjoying the new leather smell. The car’s predecessor had been involved in an accident a few months before and had been traded in at the first opportunity. ‘Yes, it suits you? I’m pleased with that.’

  His car was a Mercedes E Class saloon, a common enough marque in Edinburgh, but Alex’s sharp eyes picked it up as soon as the number plate came within sight. As a serving police officer, Bob Skinner had always vetoed the suggestion of a personalised number plate, but she had bought one for him almost as soon as he had left the force.

  ‘You got my age wrong,’ her father grumbled, as he had from the day she sprung it on him.

  ‘I’ve told you, that number wasn’t available. Be patient; it’ll match soon enough.’

  He glanced to his left. ‘You’ve got the power suit on,’ he remarked. ‘It’s Saturday night, FFS.’

  ‘What do you want me to wear? Jeans and a golf shirt like you? I need to impress this man from the start. He doesn’t know me from Adam. If I turn up dressed like a disco diva I’ll hardly do that.’

  ‘You realise you don’t need to be doing this?’ Bob asked. ‘Sammy and Sauce won’t be questioning him until tomorrow morning. They’ll hold him overnight, to let him stew on it so that they’re fresh and he’s not.’

  ‘All the more reason that I do spend time with him,’ she countered. ‘The man’s in a potentially life-changing situation, he’s a murder suspect, probably about to be an accused. Innocent or guilty, he is entitled to a defence and to be properly advised from the start, before the cell door closes on him tonight.’

  ‘Was Baker’s wife there when he was arrested?’

  ‘Yes. They picked him up at a hotel called the Seamill Hydro. He was there with his team, and since there isn’t a game tomorrow, she joined him.’

  ‘What did Sauce tell her?’

  ‘She said he told her nothing beyond the reason for the arrest and where they were taking him. She was flustered, naturally; she didn’t ask him about grounds for detention or evidence. He did suggest that she call a lawyer, though.’

  ‘And she chose you,’ he said, as he turned right into St Mary’s Street.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How did she get your number?’

  ‘Maybe Sauce gave it to her,’ she suggested.

  ‘Get real. In all my years of arresting people, I don’t recall any of them, accused or his missus, asking me if I knew a good brief.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘I imagine that the person who recommended me gave it to her. Or maybe she rang the Law Society. She could have Googled me. Who the hell knows? What does it matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t, not a lot. I’m just curious, that’s all.’

  He pushed a button on his steering wheel, and then said in a slow, clear voice, ‘Call Sammy Pye.’

  ‘Please select a number,’ a woman instructed him.

  He glanced at the screen on his dashboard. ‘Mobile.’

  He waited as the chosen number was dialled by the Bluetooth link to his phone, and as the tone filled the car.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Pye managed to sound curious, cautious and tired, at one and the same time.

  ‘Where are you, Chief Inspector?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I’m at the Fettes Avenue building, the old HQ. Can I ask why you need to know?’

  The DCI’s question was ignored. ‘Is Sauce there yet?’

  ‘No, but he will be in a few minutes.’

  ‘So will I, Sammy, with my daughter. She’s been instructed by your prisoner’s wife to meet him there and consult with him. I’m assuming that all you guys will be doing is putting him to bed for the night. Right?’

  ‘That’s our plan, boss.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, stop calling me that, Sammy. Be that as it may, Alex still wants to speak to him tonight. The rights are a bit vague in these circumstances, but unless you’ve got a reason for denying her access, I’ll expect you to facilitate that. If you do turn her down, your reasoning had better be watertight, otherwise a very disgruntled judge is going to be dragged away from his port and cigars to grant her an interdict.’

  The detective’s gentle laughter seemed to envelop them. ‘Chief, Alex can do anything she likes, short of taking her client out for a Chinese. I’ll set up an interview room with the custody people; I’ll even tell them to put an extra chair in there for you.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to hear, son, thanks. We’re just clearing St Andrews Square now. Be with you in five.’

  Twelve

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Chaz Baker asked, as he took his seat. ‘Are you more cops?’ His accent came from somewhere around London.

  The football manager blinked under the harsh neon light. He was a slim man, aged somewhere in his forties, with conservatively cut hair, as dark as the day-old shadow on his chin. He wore a crested blazer, over a crumpled shirt; the laces had been removed from his black shoes, and he had clutched at the waistband of his grey trousers as he shuffled across to the table.

  He frowned, apprehensively at first, then glaring, as he sized up the two people who were seated opposite him.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ the younger of the two replied, a tall woman in a black suit that showed off the length of her legs, even though she was seated. Her male companion sat a little behind her; large, casually dressed, at least twenty years older than she was, probably more, with close-cropped grey hair and cool blue eyes that offered no clue to what might be going on behind them.

  ‘My name is Alexis Skinner,’ she continued, ‘solicitor advocate. I was called by your wife and asked to come here to advise you, and take your instruction if you wish.’

  Baker nodded towards her associate. ‘And him?’

  ‘My associate. He happens to be my father, but he assists me with some of my work. I specialise in criminal defence,’ she explained.

  ‘Is that what I’m going to need?’ he snapped, curtly. ‘A criminal defence?’

  ‘The police haven’t given me any information yet. They’re not going to do that before your first formal interview. But as I understand it, you’ve already been cautioned, and advised that you’ve been detained in connection with the murder of Mrs Annette Fonter, also known as Annette Bordeaux.’

  The prisoner nodded, vigorously. ‘That’s what they said. I dunno what the hell they’re on about. I never killed no one, least of all Annie.’

  ‘Annie?’ the grey-haired man repeated.

  ‘That’s what her friends called her.’

  ‘And you counted yourself among them, yes?’

  He nodded.

  ‘When did you see her last?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Hold on a second,’ his daughter said, raising a hand. ‘Before we start discussing circumstances, Mr Baker has to instruct me formally.’ She looked at him, making full eye contact. ‘As I told you earlier, I’m here at the request of your wife. She called me after your arrest and asked me to take your case. I’m willing to do that, but I can only be instructed by you, no one else.’

  ‘What will you do for me?’

  ‘I will represent you fully,’ she replied, ‘through every stage of proceedings. At the beginning I’ll be with you through every police interview, advising you of your rights, and, if you wish, on whether you should answer a question or decline.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I answer?’ he countered. ‘I’m innocent, I swear it.’

  ‘Guilt can be established through circumstantial evidence. If I felt that an answer isn’t in your interests I’d advise you against responding.’

  ‘Okay,’ he mumbled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘If it transpires that you are charged, and served with an indictment, I’ll prepare the case for your defence. As a solicitor advocate, I can prepare a case and present it myself from start to finish. I have rights of audience . . . I can represent clients . . . in every court in Scotland, including the High Court, where serious criminal cases are tried. However, although I’ve been in legal practice for going on ten years, and reached partner level in my previous firm, I am relatively junior as a Supreme Court pleader. If your case goes all the way to trial, I might well advise you to retain Queen’s Counsel.’

  ‘A QC?’

  ‘Yes. My first choice would be a man called Easson Middleton. He’s the top silk, and I’ve worked with him before. If he was onside, I’d be his junior in court.’

  ‘Why did Lita call you?’ Baker quizzed her. ‘Lita’s from bloody Croydon; she knows bugger all about Scotland, beyond Harvey Nichols and Charlie Kettles, her hairdresser.’

  She shrugged. ‘She told me I’d been recommended, but she didn’t say by whom. Look,’ she added, ‘if your football club has a lawyer, or you have a family solicitor, and you’d rather consult them, I will understand completely.’

  ‘I’ve got an agent,’ he told her. ‘He does all my stuff; my life is mobile,’ he explained. ‘I’ve managed in three different countries in six years. Before I took the Merrytown job, I was head coach of a team in Ligue Un in France, and before that in the Premier League in England. I own a house on the south coast that I bought during my playing days, but moving from job to job, Cisco Serra sorts out everything, my accommodation, nursery schools for Letitia, our little girl, the lot.’

  He smiled. ‘They took my phone from me, but I can bet you that there will be missed calls and texts from him backed up on it by now. This, though,’ he sighed, ‘this is way out of his area of expertise.’

  He rocked back in his chair. ‘There’s a club law firm, of course; I suppose I could call him, but it might have been them that told Lita to call you.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  He frowned and scratched his head. ‘Curly something; that’s all I can remember.’

  ‘Curle Anthony and Jarvis?’

  ‘They’re the geezers.’

  ‘My old firm,’ she told him. ‘They don’t do criminal work. If you asked them they’d send you to me.’

  ‘In that case, lady . . . what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Alexis Skinner, Alex.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured. ‘I used to play beside a Brazilian called Alex; big bugger he was. In that case, you’ll do. First priority, how soon can you get me out of this damn fortress?’

  ‘I can’t make promises without knowing the whole story. When you were arrested, what did the officer say, as closely as you can remember it?’

  ‘That I was being detained in connection with the suspicious death of Annette Brody, also known as Annette Fonter, also known as Annette Bordeaux. Why did he use all those names?’

  The grey-haired man smiled, and spoke. ‘It’s a routine police procedure known in the business as “covering your arse”. Since you’ve been here, what’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve taken my fingerprints and palm prints, and put a swab inside my cheek. Oh yes, and they scraped the inside of my fingernails as well.’

  ‘But they haven’t charged you with anything?’ Alex Skinner asked.

  ‘No. Should they have?’

  ‘It’s a grey area,’ she said. ‘It can be argued that they should have, but once they do, they won’t be able to question you any further. They’ll have to charge you by Monday morning at the latest, and bring you before the Sheriff Court, for a formal remand.’

  ‘Can I get bail in the meantime? Christ, I don’t want to stay here overnight.’

  ‘I’ve asked already, but that was a pure formality. The SIO said no. They don’t know you, it’s a high-profile crime and they’d have to assume that you’d be a flight risk if they let you leave here.’

  ‘Can we challenge them?’ he asked. ‘Make them charge me now or let me go?’

  ‘They would, Mr Baker; charge you, that is.’

  ‘But I didn’t do it!’ he cried out . . . then seemed to sag into his chair. ‘Don’t say it,’ he moaned. ‘All of your clients are innocent.’

  ‘Most of them have been, so far,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Let’s start with the assumption that you are too.’ The smile left her face. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘two bright, experienced detective officers have evidence that makes them believe that you’re guilty. Plus, people higher up the food chain believe it too, for they didn’t arrest you on their own authority alone, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Then make them put up or shut up; make them charge me right away.’

  ‘If you insist,’ she replied, ‘I will do just that. I’ll call DCI Pye back in and demand it. But . . . I’d rather not. I want them to interview you.’

  ‘So you know what they think they have on me?’

  ‘They’ll have to tell me that anyway. No, if this thing goes to trial, I want you on record denying the accusations in a police interview, under caution, so that I can refer to that in court. Juries like to be clear that the man in the dock isn’t relying on technicalities to get him off, he’s relying on his innocence.’

  Baker glanced at the grey-haired man. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘It’s not my place to disagree,’ he said, ‘because I’m not a lawyer. But as it happens, I’ve seen more juries than my daughter has, and I’ve got no doubt that she’s right.’

  ‘Then I’ll go with that. But how soon can it happen? How many nights do I have to stay locked up here?’

  ‘You’ll be interviewed at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ his solicitor said. ‘I’ve already set that up. After that, I expect them to charge you. Then, because these are special circumstances, they’ll arrange for the Sheriff Court to sit in closed session at midday, when you’ll appear for remand to prison.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘It’s a murder charge, Mr Baker; that’s the norm. But it’s not mandatory, not any more. I’ll ask the sheriff to grant bail, on whatever conditions she likes. If she refuses, I’ll go straight to the High Court and petition there. There’s a better than even chance it’ll be granted.’

  He sighed. ‘Let’s hope you’re as good as they say.’

  ‘I am, trust me. But I need your help. You can begin by telling me all about your relationship with Annette Bordeaux, and where you were yesterday evening, when she was being murdered.’

  Thirteen

  ‘Fizzy water for me, mate, that’s all,’ Sauce Haddock replied.

  Jack McGurk, his host, stared at him. ‘Eh? After the day you’ve had?’

  ‘This is only a brief respite,’ he explained. ‘We’ve booked our prisoner in at Fettes; we took him there rather than St Leonard’s, the divisional HQ, because there’s more space around it to manage the media if the story leaks and we get besieged. Sammy’s plan is to interview him tomorrow morning, then charge him. I need to keep a clear head for that. We can’t afford any slip-ups on this one. It’s as high-profile as they get.’

  ‘Who is it you’ve arrested?’ Lisanne McGurk asked, eyes wide as she leaned over the supper table. The detritus of three desserts remained; the new arrival’s place was as she had set it three hours earlier. ‘We’ve been sitting here speculating all night.’

  Sauce frowned. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you,’ he said.

  ‘No way!’ she gasped. ‘You can’t do that.’ She looked up at her towering husband. ‘Pull rank on him, Jack. Make him.’

  ‘I can’t.’ The off-duty detective inspector frowned, pursing his lips. ‘The suspect has rights; he hasn’t been charged yet.’