‘Nobody you’d know about, Tarvil,’ Wright shot back. ‘They don’t make your size. Come to think of it, who does?’

  ‘Is there any good news coming?’ Haddock wondered aloud.

  ‘Maybe. There are some women’s items in his wardrobe. Not much, underwear . . . feminine rather than just serviceable . . . including a thirty-six C-cup bra, a dress, a shirt, a pair of jeans, twenty-eight waist, a bikini bottom . . .’

  ‘No top?’

  ‘Sauce, he’s got a private pool.’

  ‘Why would she just wear bottoms? Why wear anything at all?’

  ‘I can think of a reason, but it’s not relevant. Point being, these are the only items we’ve found here that relate to anyone other than Gavin Ayre. Sauce, do you remember the first sighting we had of Ayre, when Professor Grace recognised him from being in that restaurant?”

  Haddock’s eyebrows rose, very slightly. ‘Yes. He was with a woman, right?’

  ‘Right. Well, we know who she is. Inspector Hill called me this morning with an update. Her name’s Claire Hornell . . . Mrs Claire Hornell. She’s been back in the Main Course with a group of mothers from a local nursery school. I don’t know where she lives, but I do have her mobile number. I was going to call her when we were finished here.’

  ‘Jackie,’ he exclaimed, ‘you are finished here. Get on the phone and call the lady. Make an appointment to meet her, but without telling her what it’s about. She may have worked it out already after this morning’s press briefing, but if not, break it as gently as you can. She’s our only witness and we need her on-side.’

  Twenty

  Bob Skinner smiled as he looked out of the window of the InterMedia company aircraft. Its approach to Girona Airport took it over the old city, which he had always loved. There was something about the cathedral, overlooking its river, that reminded him of Notre Dame and the banks of the Seine. There was little architectural similarity and their two cities were vastly different, but each dated from the same era yet still stood proud and unbreachable, even if the French version had proved to be more combustible. He settled back in his seat as the Beechcraft continued its descent, closing in on the runway a few kilometres ahead.

  He had been making the journey for well over a year, since his friend Xavi Aislado, grieving from the loss to Covid of his beloved wife, had stepped away from the family-owned media conglomerate and asked him to take the chair in his absence. Skinner had assumed the arrangement would last for only a few months, but there was no sign of Xavi wanting to return. At first he had felt inadequate, an alien imported over the heads of people who could probably have done the job better than he, but he had settled into the role. He understood the business from his time with its UK subsidiary, and realised that at the very least he was a useful sounding board for the people on the ground who drove it forward on a day-to-day basis. Xavi had been a journalist in Scotland before joining his brother in Spain, his friendship with Skinner going back to that era. He had been old school, running a business that was expanding into areas well beyond his expertise, but he had been an excellent strategic decision-maker. Skinner had discovered that he was too. He had reached the point at which he would be secretly disappointed if Xavi decided to return, rather than focusing on preparing his daughter Paloma to be his long-term successor.

  The aircraft landed with barely a suggestion of a bump. ‘Welcome once again to Catalunya, sir,’ the pilot said through the small speaker as the plane began its taxi towards the executive reception area, where a police officer would be waiting to check his passport, another privilege he appreciated. It was turning off the runway when his phone sounded. He glanced at the name on the screen. ‘Indeed?’ he murmured. ‘What can I do for you, Deputy Chief Constable,’ he said as he took the call.

  ‘Is that engine noise I can hear?’ Mario McGuire asked.

  ‘Yes, but we’re on the ground.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Spain. We’ve got a board meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you do all that stuff by Zoom?’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Those whose business is driven by communications technology are only too well aware of how insecure that can be. Besides, I like to be in the room with people. I can smell insecurity; you can’t do that on screen.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ McGuire said. ‘We’ll be doing more of that Zooming from now on. Neil went up to Orkney and Shetland last week; tour of inspection, he called it. He had a couple of bumpy landings island-hopping and came back saying “Never again!” Conference calls will be standard practice from now on. That’s only the start of it. Some fucking genius in technical support is suggesting that we use drones for routine surveillance and cut down on manned patrols.’

  ‘Is that something you should tell a guy who oversees a national newspaper?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Maybe not, now you mention it. Forget I said it.’

  ‘Okay, but before I do, what’s Chief Constable McIlhenney saying to the eye-in-the-sky proposal?’

  ‘We’re discussing it at a chief officers’ meeting tomorrow . . . remotely, of course. I’m going to suggest that the things might as well be armed if they’re up there. Think of the money we’d save,’ McGuire laughed. ‘We see a violent crime in progress, we could zap them before they leave the scene.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of standing for Parliament? Some Tory voters would love you.’

  ‘I might,’ he conceded, ‘if only to identify them and eliminate them.’

  ‘An interesting concept,’ Skinner observed, as the aircraft came to a halt. ‘Now, before you’re co-opted as Donald Trump’s campaign director, is there a reason for this call?’

  ‘Yes,’ the deputy chief replied. ‘Gavin Ayre, the mystery murder victim. Are you up to speed with the investigation? I know that Haddock still uses you as a sounding board. I’m fine with that, by the way,’ he added. ‘I’m doing it myself, right now.’

  ‘Since you ask, I spoke to Sauce earlier on this morning. I suggested a couple of lines of enquiry, mainly about who might have ordered a professional hit, and why. I suggested he might broaden his investigation. How about you, Mario? Do you have anything in mind?’

  ‘Well, based on the update Sauce has just given me, after going over the victim’s place, I’m thinking . . . There’s a layer of mystery around the man, secrecy almost, that can only be deliberate. Then there’s the way his house was built, with a respectable local architect and straight-up unimpeachable contractors given pretty much free rein. On top of that, there’s the movement of funds, serious capital, with no apparent checks or declarations . . .’

  ‘Money laundering?’ Skinner asked. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ he conceded. ‘But if that’s behind it, why close the laundry down by killing Ayre?’

  Twenty-One

  ‘You’re sure you’re happy to be having this discussion here, Mrs Hornell?’ Jackie Wright asked.

  ‘I suggested it, so I think you can assume that,’ Claire Hornell replied, just a shade archly. She was a slender blonde woman; attractive, Wright acknowledged, although not her type. Her accent was possibly Yorkshire, the DS thought, although she did not consider herself an expert in English regional variations.

  Hornell looked around the café. ‘It’s handy for Poppy’s nursery school, I have to have lunch, and this is usually quiet on a Monday.’

  And maybe you didn’t want a police officer calling on you at home, the DS thought. A DVLA check had established that the woman was thirty-one years old and lived in Longniddry. Her husband was one Edward Anthony Hornell, according to the electoral roll.

  ‘Can I take your orders?’

  Wright looked up at the waiter. ‘I’ll have a baked potato with coronation chicken.’

  ‘And I’ll have the same but with tuna mayo,’ Claire Hornell said.

  ‘Your child?’

  She patted the tray of the high chair. ‘Poppy will share mine, thank you.’ She waited for the man to retreat to the kitchen then continued. ‘You’re going to tell me Gavin’s dead, aren’t you?’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m afraid I am. How did you know?’

  Her eyes moistened; the perceptive police officer, who had given the death message often in her career, saw grief but more. She read guilt, and something else. Might it have been relief?

  ‘I was riding on Friday at the stable along the road there.’ Hornell pointed, vaguely, westward. ‘When I got back, the owner said something about a body being found on the beach. The way she described it, I just knew.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to call us?’ Wright’s tone was a little accusatory. Inwardly she chided herself.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ she murmured. ‘I thought about it, but decided “no”. I mean it might not have been him and then . . . what . . .’ She stopped, her mouth set in a firm line. ‘Look,’ she whispered, eventually. ‘I’m married, happily married with a child. I just couldn’t come forward.’

  The detective sergeant nodded, recognising that an antagonistic witness would be no good at all. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can understand that. What does your husband do?’

  ‘He’s in the navy,’ Hornell replied. ‘He’s the executive officer on an aircraft carrier, the Prince William. He’s away a lot, always showing the flag somewhere. That’s part of the problem, I suppose, why I was . . .’

  ‘Vulnerable?’ Wright suggested.

  She nodded, with a small smile. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it. I’m not a slapper, you know. Gavin’s . . . Gavin was . . . the only fling I’ve had since I’ve been married, but Eddie’s been away for months, not for the first time, and I was feeling neglected.’

  ‘How did you meet Gavin?’

  ‘I was riding, early June it was, a Tuesday. Cassie, my pony, was a thirtieth birthday present from my dad. I keep her at Luffness because it isn’t on a main road, but close to the beach. I’m new there, only just getting to meet people, so up until now mostly I’ve been riding on my own while Poppy’s at nursery. I was on my own back then, walking Cassie through the woods beyond the new golf course, when I met Gavin on his horse, Winalot.’

  ‘That’s a funny name for a horse,’ the DS observed.

  ‘That’s what I said, but Gavin said that Shergar had probably wound up in a dog-food tin, so he thought it was sort of okay. He said he was going to call it Pedigree, but he decided that was too tame so he went for Winalot instead. Anyway. That’s how we met. Truth be told, I was lost at the time; literally, not emotionally,’ she added. ‘I didn’t know how to get out of there. He led me down to the beach. The tide was very low so we were able to trot the horses, although he was holding Winalot back. It’s a gelding; a big horse but Gavin was a big bloke. Afterwards he put me back on the road to my stable. When we were going our separate ways he asked if he could see me again, without the horses. I’d already said I had to pick up my child, but that didn’t seem to deter him. I don’t know why I said yes, but I did. So, I got a baby-sitter and we met for dinner in the Italian restaurant in Gullane two nights later, a Thursday when it was relatively quiet.’

  She fell silent. Wright said nothing, asked nothing, waiting.

  ‘So yes,’ Hornell continued, ‘we went back to his place. He’d come in a taxi. I hadn’t been drinking so I was able to drive. Have you been there?’ she asked.

  ‘This morning,’ the detective replied.

  ‘Then you’ll understand why I was surprised when I saw it. It’s beautiful, like something you’d expect to find in Dubai but not in East Lothian. I told him as much. He showed me round; I was gobsmacked when I saw the pool, the gym, the sauna. I didn’t mean to be bold, but I said, “Next time I’ll bring a cossie.” He looked at me, smiled and said, “Really?” And that was it, really. We didn’t sleep together that night, but we met up on the following Monday on the horses and a couple of days later I got the baby-sitter again and went to his. We had a swim. No, I didn’t take a cossie, and the rest you can take as read.’

  ‘How long did the affair last?’ Wright asked.

  ‘It never stopped. We saw each other a couple of times a week all through the summer. We went back to the Main Course once, but I was a bit nervous. Even though I’m not known in Gullane, you never know who might see you. People go there from all over. Mostly I would just go to his place. Sometimes during the day when Poppy was at nursery, sometimes . . .’

  The DS held up a hand, a warning that the waiter was returning with their meals. Hornell stopped in mid-sentence.

  Poppy had been dozing in the high chair; the prospect of lunch revived her. The narrative was paused as the mother fed her child, before turning herself to what remained, no more than half of the baked potato and its filling. No wonder you’re slim, Wright thought.

  When she could see that Hornell was ready, the DS asked, ‘When was the last time you were there?’

  ‘Last Thursday. We’d agreed that I would go back tomorrow morning,’ she added.

  ‘How did you communicate?’

  ‘We didn’t really,’ she said. ‘We made arrangements and stuck to them. Yes, we exchanged mobile numbers, in case one of us couldn’t make it, but we didn’t call each other. A couple of texts, that was it. Look, Sergeant, we weren’t in love or anything like that. He was an attractive, kind and charming man and he was very good in bed, but I wasn’t going to leave Eddie for him, however bloody rich he was. Not that I was ever asked,’ she added. ‘Friendship with benefits, that was the extent of it. In fact, I was going to end it tomorrow. Eddie’s due home in a couple of weeks, plus . . . Poppy’s getting to the age where she’s starting to notice things and remember them . . . things like having baby-sitters every week.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wright said. ‘Mrs Hornell, I’m not being judgmental. The reason I need to speak to you is that you’re one of only two people we can find who knew Gavin Ayre. The other was his architect.’

  ‘Tim Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  Hornell shook her head. ‘No, but Gavin talked about him all the time. He told me that Tim had designed and built the place for him. He said his lifestyle meant that he needed to have someone on the ground in charge of the construction.’

  ‘Did he elaborate on that? His lifestyle? We’re trying to create a picture of Mr Ayre. So far, we know nothing about him.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. In fact, he said from the start that the less we knew about each other the better. He didn’t want to know anything about Eddie, he said, or guilt might kick in and ruin what we had.’

  ‘Did he ever refer to his background at all?’

  ‘No.’ She frowned, briefly. ‘I know he had a brother, but he didn’t volunteer that, not really. I mentioned once that my younger brother, Jude’s, twenty-first is this year. He said, “Is he all you have?” I said, “Yes”, and he said, “Me too, but not the full shilling, a half-brother.” But that was all; he didn’t put a name to him.’

  ‘Did he say anything about his business interests? Or about the source of the wealth that built his house?’

  ‘No, nothing. You’re making me realise, Detective Sergeant, that he was as big a mystery to me as clearly he is to you. The only time I asked him a personal question was the first time I was there, when he showed me round the house. I asked hm where all this had come from, what did he do? “Let’s just say I’ve been lucky,” was all he said, with a smile, mind you. He really was a nice man. It’s tragic he should die in a stupid accident. Winalot really got his own back for that name. What will happen to him?’

  ‘He’s being taken care of,’ Wright replied. ‘But Mrs Hornell, there’s something I have to tell you. Mr Ayre’s death was no accident. He was murdered.’

  Hornell’s eyes widened; her tanned face paled. ‘He was what?’

  ‘He was killed. I’m part of a homicide investigation, and so far we have absolutely no leads. There’s nothing in the house to give us a clue, nothing that we wouldn’t have expected to find there, apart from a few items of your clothing, that is.’

  The woman stared at her. ‘My clothing?’

  ‘Yes, we found female items in his bedroom.’

  At least twenty seconds passed in silence as Claire Hornell considered what she had been told. When she was ready, she murmured, ‘DS Wright, I swear that everything that I wore to Gavin’s I put back on before I went home. Whatever you found there . . . it isn’t mine.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I have no reason not to, Sauce,’ Jackie Wright replied. ‘She didn’t try to hide anything, she was frank in her answers. When I told her that Ayre had been murdered I believe she was genuinely gobsmacked. If she’d even had a whiff of something shady about him she wouldn’t have reacted like that; I’d have caught a flicker of it.’

  ‘What about her background?’ Singh asked. The trio were seated at the conference table in Haddock’s room at the Fettes building. A fourth participant sat on the detective superintendent’s right: Deputy Chief Constable Mario McGuire. His arrival had been unexpected; prefaced by a voice message on Haddock’s mobile advising that he was on his way and would like to be briefed.

  ‘Privileged, but not minted, I would say. They live in one of the new houses in Longniddry on the south side of the railway line, having moved from Gloucester four years ago. She told me that her dad has a metal bashing business . . . her description . . . near Halifax in west Yorkshire. He pays the kid’s nursery fees and her stable costs as well. She told me that long term her younger brother will inherit the business, so her father’s making sure she wants for nothing.’

  ‘And the husband?’ McGuire asked.

  ‘Lieutenant Commander Hornell, Royal Navy, like she said. His ship’s on patrol in the Far East.’

  ‘Trying to impress the Chinese, I suppose,’ the DCC grunted. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘she’s been able to advance our knowledge of the victim by not one inch.’

  Haddock shook his head. ‘Not quite, sir, maybe by a foot or so. We know now that he’s got a half-brother. Also, if we accept Mrs Hornell’s insistence that the clothes we found aren’t hers . . .’