‘See,’ Sauce challenged her.

  ‘Come on, this is us,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve been married to two cops; I know you guys, you’re serial bullshitters. You can’t resist bragging about your cases.’

  ‘This one can.’

  ‘Why?’ she taunted him, smiling. ‘Have you turned into Sammy Pye’s poodle?’

  ‘If I had,’ her guest moaned, ‘I’d still need feeding. I’m faint with hunger here, Lisanne, and the smell of whatever is in that hostess trolley is making it even worse.’

  She grinned. ‘If that’s what it takes.’ She rose from her chair and walked round the table. ‘It’s chicken and asparagus bake,’ she announced as she picked up a dinner plate.

  ‘That’s appropriate,’ Sauce chuckled. ‘We’ve lifted Chaz Baker.’

  ‘What?’ Cheeky McCullough exclaimed, the highlights in her blond hair glinting as she swivelled round, staring at him. ‘The Merrytown manager? The guy that was pointed out to us at that Archerfield thing? He looked like a pretty smooth guy, not your homicidal type at all.’ She winked. ‘You can trust me on that. I come from a family of homicidal types.’

  ‘I’ve been a cop for a fair few years now,’ McGurk remarked. ‘In my experience very few homicidal types actually look like homicidal types. How did Baker look when you lifted him, Sauce? Foaming at the mouth?’

  ‘Terrified, more than anything else.’ He paused, recalling the moment. ‘He looked astonished too. I guess he must have thought we’d never see him as a suspect.’

  ‘Is he denying it?’

  ‘Of course he is; but he’s not very convincing.’

  ‘He’d hardly convince the Menu, would he?’ Lisanne said as she placed his supper before him.

  ‘Not when we know what we do about him.’

  ‘What have you got on him?’ Cheeky asked.

  ‘We’ve got him on security CCTV footage, right up to the door of Annette Bordeaux’s apartment, letting himself in, and then leaving again, forty minutes later. The time frame is bang in the middle of Sarah Grace’s estimate of when she was killed.’

  ‘That’s it?’ McGurk asked, his normal detective’s caution verging on undisguised scepticism.

  ‘Hell no,’ Haddock retorted. ‘He was wearing a Merrytown training top. All the players and assistant coaches have their initials on theirs, but Chaz Baker doesn’t. It’s a vanity thing with him; he reckons if you don’t know who the manager is, you shouldn’t be at the club. We went to the training ground this afternoon and looked at the kit that was there, waiting to be laundered. In among it we found a training top with no initials. There was blood on the sleeve.’

  ‘Did you match it?’ The DI’s expression had changed. His eyes were those of a hunter.

  ‘We took it straight to the lab in the Crime Campus at Gartcosh. The victim’s samples were there already. Both were O minus; we can’t say it was hers without DNA comparison, but it’s about twelve to one on. ‘

  ‘Okay,’ the tall detective agreed, ‘but without that absolute match can you proceed to a charge?’

  Sauce smiled as he picked up his fork. ‘Then there’s the belt,’ he said, softly. ‘Annette was strangled with a brown leather Hugo Boss belt. It was covered in prints. As soon as we got Baker to Fettes we printed him, and got an instant match. He’s still denying it, loud and long, but the chief’s signed off on a charge, and so has the fiscal.’

  ‘So relax,’ Cheeky told him. ‘Have a drink, love. I’ve been laying off all night, expecting to drive us home. Go ahead, tomorrow sounds like a formality.’

  ‘Yes, one might assume that,’ he concurred. ‘But when one gets to Fettes and finds out who Chaz Baker’s lawyer is, one rapidly thinks again. She was waiting for us there, demanding to meet with him in private before Sammy and I sat down with him . . . not that we were planning to do that tonight.’

  ‘She being . . .’ McGurk asked. ‘Susannah Himes, Frances Birtles?’

  Haddock took a mouthful of chicken bake. His head moved from side to side, slowly, as he chewed.

  ‘All the way back,’ he said, when he was ready, ‘I was assuming it would be one of them. Frankie Bristles would have been fine, even the Barracuda, because they’re known quantities. But it was neither of them. No, his wife’s hired Alex Skinner. She was there, dressed for battle.’

  It was his friend’s turn to pause for thought. ‘Okay . . .’ McGurk murmured, ‘. . . but still no panic, surely. We all know Alex, have done for years.’

  ‘Sure, we know Alex, the boss’s daughter. We know Alex, Andy Martin’s girlfriend as was. But we don’t know Alexis Skinner, solicitor advocate. From what I’ve heard of her in that role, she’s a tough cookie, up there alongside those other two already.’

  He sighed and drank half a glass of sparkling water. ‘The real worry, though, is that she wasn’t there alone. She’d brought an associate with her; big bloke, in his fifties. He said he was only there as her chauffeur. That’ll be fucking right!’

  McGurk’s eyes widened. ‘Oh Jesus!’ he whispered. ‘Every cop’s secret nightmare.’

  ‘What?’ Lisanne demanded.

  ‘Having Bob Skinner play for the other team; the big man outside the tent, pissing in.’

  Fourteen

  Thinking? Bob Skinner’s daughter wondered, looking at his profile as he drove. Or not wanting to say what he’s decided already?

  The road was clear of moving traffic, yet he checked both ways before turning into Fettes Avenue, heading towards Comely Bank Road. He was silent as he drove, listening to random music from the iPod he kept plugged into the car’s sound system.

  They had reached the bridge across the Water of Leith before her patience gave out. ‘Come on, Pops,’ she demanded. ‘Say something.’

  ‘You loved that track when you were wee,’ he remarked, as the Communards belted out ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’.

  ‘Well, it’s getting in the bloody way now!’ She pushed a button on the dashboard, killing the music.

  ‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘I was enjoying that, and thinking of me and your mum watching you bouncing up and down on your bed in your jammies with Jimmy singing in the background . . . and probably your mum singing along with him. Pity she missed the karaoke era,’ he mused. ‘She’d have loved it. You’d have had to tear the microphone out of her hand.’

  On any other night, mention of her mother would have triggered at least fifteen minutes of reminiscence, but Alex was not to be deflected.

  ‘Don’t dodge it,’ she said. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your opinion.’

  ‘My professional opinion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m on the payroll for this one?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes! Now stop stalling. What’s your view of our client?’

  He turned briefly, to look her in the eye. ‘I think he’s probably as guilty as sin.’

  ‘Really? What makes you say that?’

  ‘Experience,’ Skinner sighed, ‘coupled with the fact that they’re ready to charge him less than twelve hours after the crime was discovered. He’s admitted to us that he had a relationship with her.’

  ‘A friendship, he called it,’ Alex pointed out.

  ‘That’s his first lie. He told us that he went to the penthouse yesterday evening, at her request, and that he waited for her for about half an hour. She didn’t show up so he left.’

  ‘That’s right. So why don’t you believe it?’

  ‘Maybe I do believe it; part of it. But if she wasn’t there, how did he get in? Either he had a key or she left the door unlocked for him. Alex, I know that professional footballers live pretty controlled lives, but I do not imagine that it’s routine for the manager to have open access to every player’s front door. They were more than friends; trust me on it.’

  ‘If he was there,’ she protested, ‘if he did kill her, why would he admit to having been there? Surely he’d be denying ever having been near King Robert Village?’

  ‘He’s afraid they have him on video. A pound to a pinch of pig shit he’s right too. They’re bound to have CCTV in a place like that.’ He glanced to his left. ‘Look, here’s the scenario. Husband’s away, she’s called him ’cos she’s lonely. He goes along; whether he lets himself in or she does is neither here nor there. They have an argument about something, a big argument, our client loses it, and she winds up dead.’

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did she die? The police haven’t released that information.’

  ‘I know how,’ he said, ‘but I can’t tell you. We have to play this by the book, Alex, for Sarah’s sake. We know the woman is dead and it’s being treated as homicide. That’s enough for now. On the face of it, Chaz kills her, he panics and he runs for it. He admitted to us that he was in the flat because he’s smart enough to know he can’t deny it; even if he hasn’t been caught on camera, he’ll have left a trace.’

  ‘I don’t go with your version,’ she replied, stubbornly. ‘I believe him; he says he’s innocent, and I accept that.’

  ‘Johnny Fleming came in this morning saying he was innocent,’ Bob pointed out. ‘You didn’t believe him.’

  ‘The evidence, the injuries, the broken table and his admission that he hit the bloke didn’t leave any room for doubt,’ she countered.

  ‘You haven’t seen all the evidence against Baker yet. It will be there, and it will be significant.’

  ‘We’ll make that judgement after the interview tomorrow. Will you come?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he declared firmly. He frowned, sighing. ‘What would be the point?’ he murmured. ‘They wouldn’t offer me a seat in the room, and I wouldn’t try to force myself in there. It wouldn’t be . . . appropriate. Wouldn’t be right for you either. This is your turf now; you have to show that without me backing you up.’

  ‘I know that, Pops,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean for you to be in there with me, but watching outside on video would be good, if they’ll allow it, which I’m sure they will. Sammy and Sauce will have to show their hand in the interview. If you could see how Baker reacts to it, your opinion might help me decide how to advise him and how to frame his defence.’

  He glanced at her, grinning. ‘If I say yes, will you put the music back on?’

  Fifteen

  ‘It’s your Goddamn phone . . .’ a synthesised voice chirped noisily on her bedside table.

  Scowling, Alex snatched up her iPhone and peered at the screen, focusing as she tried to read the incoming number; ‘Unavailable’ was calling her at twenty past fucking eight on a Sunday morning.

  ‘If this is an automated offer of a Green assessment,’ she growled as she took the call.

  Throughout her life, one attribute . . . she saw it as a virtue . . . had always sustained Alexis Skinner. Regardless of her situation, whether she was under pressure at school, then college, then work, whether her private life was serene or she was in an emotional tangle . . . as she had been on more occasions than she cared to recall . . . she had always been able to sleep.

  Her alarm had sounded at 8 a.m., but she was still dozing fifteen minutes later, as her ringtone forced his insistent way into her consciousness. She had downloaded it a month before; already she was coming to loathe it. Time for a change , she thought, as she picked up her phone and took the call.

  ‘Mizz Skinner?’

  The voice was male, and the accent was heavy, guttural. She swung herself round, to sit on the edge of the bed.

  ‘This is Alex,’ she responded. ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Dimitri Rogozin. I understand that you are the lawyer for my employee, Mr Baker.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘How much trouble izz he in?’ the caller asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ she replied, ‘for two reasons. One I don’t know, and two, for all I do know you could be some joker from a red-top newspaper.’

  ‘I am not one of such people, I ensure you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not about to take your word for it . . . Mr Rogozin. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss my client’s case with you.’

  ‘Mizz Skinner,’ the voice growled, ‘you would do well to listen to me. I am someone to be taken seriously.’

  She felt a small chill of apprehension in the pit of her stomach, and reacted instinctively against it. ‘So am I,’ she snapped. ‘I’m an officer of the Scottish Supreme Court and a member of the Law Society. As such I’m bound by its rules, and they forbid me from discussing my client’s business without his express permission. So please don’t call me with clumsy half-threats. They won’t have any effect.’

  ‘Mizz Skinner, I assure you . . .’

  His tone was a little more conciliatory, but she wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. ‘And I assure you, I will only take my client’s instructions, not yours.’

  She ended the call, laid down the phone and walked into her bathroom. As she turned on the shower, she was surprised to notice that her hand was trembling slightly.

  She was still thinking about her caller, although a little more calmly, as she ate breakfast. ‘Chaz Baker’s employer,’ she pondered. ‘How would that be?’

  Rather than taking the time to switch on her computer, she used her phone to run an Internet search for Dimitri Rogozin, making two incorrect guesses at the spelling of his surname, before getting it right. A photo came up, of a moderately handsome man, aged forty-three according to the Wikipedia profile that followed it.

  ‘A self-made multimillionaire,’ she read, her lips moving soundlessly, ‘Rogozin created his fortune through his company Rogotron, building it over the last fifteen years into one of Russia’s leading brands in leisure, travel and property. A potential move into the British market was signalled by his purchase of Merrytown Football Club, a side based in South Lanarkshire, and usually to be found around the middle of the Scottish Professional Football League. A substantial injection of cash funded the acquisition of several star players including Spanish international striker Paco Fonter from Italian club Pugliese, and manager Chaz Baker, whose appointment came as a surprise after his acrimonious departure from FC DuPain, a Ligue Un side in France.’

  She closed the page and turned back to her cereal. ‘So that’s who you are, Dimitri,’ she said. ‘A wannabe with not quite enough cash to dine at the top table in the English Premier League, but enough to ape the big boys.’

  When her father called her from the road to say that he was on his way, Alex’s mind had moved on from the encounter. She was focused entirely on preparation for her client’s forthcoming interview. She had forgotten about Rogozin entirely when she climbed into his car.

  ‘Ready for battle?’ Skinner asked.

  She noted that he was dressed more formally than on the previous evening, in a black leather jacket, with grey trousers, a white shirt and pale blue tie. ‘Not for battle,’ she replied. ‘This is about coaxing the police case out of Pye and Haddock.’

  ‘And seeing how your client performs,’ he suggested. ‘Try to read his body language as he responds to their questions. See if he makes eye contact or avoids it.’

  She glared at him. ‘Are you trying to teach me my job?’

  He smiled, affably. ‘Too right I am; this part of it at any rate. I have a little experience in these circumstances. I’ve been questioning and observing suspects for as long as you’ve been alive. It’s all about eye contact in there.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said, archly.

  The roads were virtually traffic-free as he drove through the city centre. When they arrived in Fettes Avenue, he saw that the vehicle gates to the police building were closed, but there were very few cars parked in the street. He chose an empty space, and pulled in.

  He failed to notice the man in the dark suit until he was almost upon Alex, blocking her way as she closed the car door and stepped on to the pavement.

  ‘Mizz Skinner!’ he heard him snap as he closed on her.

  What the . . . he thought, springing from his seat, only to find his own movement obstructed by another well-tailored man, younger, leaner, clean shaven, with a tan that he knew instinctively had not been acquired within a thousand miles of Edinburgh.

  ‘You will talk to me,’ the one on the pavement barked, as Skinner closed his door. As he straightened, he smiled at the guy who was confronting him, stamping hard on his left foot in the same instant and slamming his right forearm into his crotch.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, shoving him away as he folded up, then reaching Alex on the other side of the car in four strides, interposing himself between her and the potential threat.

  ‘Her bodyguard’s better than yours, chum,’ he said. ‘Now . . . explain.’

  He edged towards the man, forcing him to step back, his eyes looking past Skinner as he weighed up the unexpected turn of events.

  ‘I am Rogozin,’ he announced. ‘I am the owner of Merrytown Football Club. This woman is representing a valuable asset of mine and I wish to give her clear notice of my expectations.’

  ‘This lady is my daughter,’ Skinner told him. ‘If you want to speak to her, you make an appointment and go to her office.’

  The Russian glanced past him again. ‘You have hurt my driver,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ he agreed. ‘I wouldn’t like to think I was losing my touch. I’ve heard of you, Mr Rogozin. I read the sports pages.’ With two fingers he took a card from the breast pocket of his jacket and slipped it into the same place in the other man’s mohair suit. ‘Take that,’ he said. ‘Later on you can Google me. Now you’re going to tell me who told you we’d be here.’

  Alex tapped him on the shoulder. ‘This guy’s getting up and he doesn’t look pleased.’

  ‘Neither would I if my balls were suddenly the size of grapefruits,’ her father murmured. ‘Tell him to get back in your car,’ he ordered.

  The Russian nodded, and called out in his own language. From behind him Skinner heard a response. Even in a tongue he could not understand it sounded pained.