‘We can,’ Wright interjected. ‘Claire’s a B cup at most, and those jeans, they were twenty-eight waist. She’s no more than a twenty-four.’

  ‘Okay,’ he continued, ‘so we know also that he has another girlfriend. We need to locate her. Tarvil, is there anything on his phone or his laptop to tell us who she is? If you’ve been able to get into them, that is.’

  ‘No problem with doing that,’ the Sikh DI said. ‘I didn’t even need the IT people to open it. His password on both was the same as the entry keypad. I don’t know why he bothered. There was nothing there to protect. There were no contacts on his phone, and no history on it either, or on his laptop. The guy must have deleted everything on a daily basis. The only thing I found was an incoming call around the time we believe he died. There’s a mobile number but the caller didn’t leave a message.’

  ‘How about his email address? Did he even have one?’

  ‘Yes, it’s G Ayre at gmail dot com. I’ve looked into that on both devices but, like I said, he’s deleted anything that was there, and not just from the bin, from the history as well. I haven’t looked at the desk-top yet, but I don’t expect to find anything there.’

  ‘Look at it, just in case,’ Haddock told him. ‘And pin down that incoming caller if you can.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The superintendent took a deep breath, straightening in his chair. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s consider where we are in this investigation. We have a man about whom we know little or nothing, the victim of what appears to be a well-planned professional assassination. Let’s focus on that word “planned”. Over the weekend we’ve had officers stationed at the beach car park in Gullane and near the crime scene, interviewing people and asking if they were in the area on Friday morning and might have seen the shooter. So far, we’ve drawn as big a blank as Gavin Ayre’s CV. We need to widen the scope of our questioning and focus on that word I used earlier, “planned”. Witnesses have told us that Ayre exercised his horse on the beach pretty much every day, at the same time. The shooter must have known that too, which means that he . . . yes Jackie, or she . . . must have observed Ayre for a few days before going, literally, for the kill. We need to widen our window in the hope that in the days leading up to the murder someone might have seen something helpful. I’ll ask Jane in the press office to make a public appeal to that effect.’ He turned to McGuire, seated by his side. ‘Agreed, sir?’

  The DCC nodded. ‘For sure, Sauce. That’s assuming that Ayre actually was targeted and that this wasn’t just a random nutter with a gun. God knows, they’re commonplace in America. If it was, there is every chance that he . . . or she . . . will do it again.’ He paused. ‘However, if I can make one suggestion. The female clothing that you found at Ayre’s place: some people . . . my Paula for example . . . have the annoying habit of cutting off the labels from garments, the bits with the washing instructions on them. When you get them back from the lab, as you should tomorrow, if any of those are still on the items from Ayre’s bedroom, they might also have barcodes that’ll tell you where they were purchased and maybe, if you get really lucky, by whom.’

  Twenty-Three

  Noele McClair was changing Mattie when her ring tone demanded attention. She ignored it, letting it go to voicemail. When her daughter was settled once again she found a message from the architect, asking her to phone him back.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t take your call, Mr Lloyd,’ she said as they connected. ‘A pressing matter demanded my attention. How can I help you?’

  ‘It might be the other way around, Detective Inspector,’ he said, but his tone sounded more positive than his words. ‘I remembered something, something away from the norm about Gavin. When I installed the keypad entry for him, as I told you I used a specialist contractor. The job was an add-on, not something included in Gerry Biggs’s quote. The firm offered me ten per cent off if I paid up front, so I did, then billed Gavin for the work once it was completed, up and running. He paid me by return, as he always did, but . . . that time the money didn’t come from his Jersey bank. It was from another account with Sabadell, a Spanish bank, and he paid me in euros. The same number, but not sterling, so he was about ten per cent short, but Gavin was such a good client that I said nothing about the shortfall and took the hit. The truth is,’ he confessed, ‘I’d left off the discount from my invoice, since I’d funded the work myself for that short period, so I was only a few quid out of pocket.’

  ‘That is helpful,’ McClair told him. ‘I don’t know that bank,’ she said, ‘is it offshore too, like Jersey, or online?’

  ‘No, it’s conventional. There was an IBAN and a Swift code with the remittance. I’ll copy them and send them to you. As I said, I hope it helps.’

  ‘So do I,’ she echoed. ‘Mr Lloyd, thank you very much.’

  The architect’s text hit her phone less than three minutes later. By the time it arrived she was on her computer, running a search for the Spanish bank. Banco Sabadell was easy to find; it was one of the market leaders in Spain. She studied the information that Lloyd had sent her and was on the point of passing it on to Haddock, when she hesitated. What would he do? Pass it on to DC Tiggy Benjamin or another junior officer, who would in turn contact the Spanish authorities or the British consulate in Madrid to pinpoint the account. ‘To hell with that,’ she whispered. ‘It might be below my pay grade, but I can make a couple of phone calls.’ She returned to the bank’s homepage, in search of a contact telephone number. Fifteen minutes later, frustrated and confused by its opacity, she called the commercial section of the British consulate in Madrid.

  ‘Detective Inspector Noele McClair, Edinburgh Serious Crimes Unit,’ she began. ‘I’m looking for assistance.’

  ‘Then should you not be speaking to the Policia Nacional?’ a cut-glass voice replied. ‘They’re your official channel.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she snapped, ‘but I don’t speak Spanish and I don’t have time for them to dig up a translator. I’m part of a homicide investigation, and I’m looking for a swift answer to a fairly simple commercial question. Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ the man sighed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m trying to identify the location of a bank account. I believe it to have been held by a British national whose death we’re investigating. We know very little about him and I’m hoping that his Spanish bank can help. I have the international bank account number, it’s a Sabadell account, and I need all the information they have on the owner.’

  ‘Give it me,’ he said. ‘I’m a Sabadell customer myself. They’ve probably closed for the day, but I’ll call my account handler and see what she can do. Give me your details and I’ll get back to you. I see that you’re calling from a mobile. I’ll need an office number so that I can verify your bona fides, your good faith, that is.’

  McClair had studied Latin in her final year at high school; she fought to restrain an acid retort. Instead she spelled out the IBAN and added the direct line number of her unit at Fettes. ‘Once you’ve checked me out, call my mobile. I repeat, it is urgent.’

  Twenty-Four

  Darkness was descending and the Crime Campus was silent as Paul Dorward looked up at the approaching figure. ‘Boss,’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d have been away home by now.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ Bramley replied. ‘Not with you slogging away here in the lab. And stop calling me “Boss”. My name’s Jenny. How are you getting on?’

  ‘That’s me done with the clothing Edinburgh sent us,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s good. They want it back, soonest, I’m told. If you can package it all up, item by item, I’ll arrange for a car to take them all through tonight. Did you get anything from them?’

  ‘The garments are almost an evidential desert,’ Dorward said, ‘apart from two finds. I’ve got a semen deposit in a pair of knickers that I’ll be able to process. The obvious conclusion is that it’s Ayre’s but I’ll confirm it. And also, the swimming garment, the thong thing, that has a plastic liner in the . . . the . . .’

  ‘Gusset?’

  ‘That’s the word . . . but I’ve been able to extract from it a single black pubic hair, complete with follicle. I’m going to assume it’s female,’ he added, smiling. ‘That will let me confirm the claim by their witness, Ayre’s lady friend, that it doesn’t belong to her. I’m in the process of profiling the swab she provided.’

  ‘If you do get something from the hair,’ Bramley, observed, ‘and the owner’s on a database, it might even tell the investigating team who she is . . . but let’s not raise anyone’s hopes. Good work, Paul. I haven’t said this, but I really am glad that you decided to stay with us.’

  Twenty-Five

  Tiggy Benjamin held up the bikini bottom. ‘What do you think of this, Sarge?’ she asked Jackie Wright. ‘Size medium, it says.’

  Her colleague frowned. ‘I’d hate to see small,’ she said. ‘Whoever wore that must have had some extreme waxing . . . or wasn’t bothered. That would barely cover my minge and I wouldn’t say I was outsize. You’d better not either,’ she added.

  The young DC laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare!’ She had found her colleague intimidating in her early days with the Serious Crimes Unit but gradually, as her confidence grew, she had come to like her more and more. Wright’s humour was deadpan, but it was never far from the surface.

  ‘How are you getting on with those clothes anyway?’ she asked. ‘Have you made any progress towards finding their wearer?’

  ‘This thing’s my last hope,’ Benjamin admitted. ‘The other things had all been washed so often that any identifying marks were unreadable. The half bikini, though, that’s pretty much new. The barcode is still readable.’

  ‘How will you go about tracing it?’

  ‘I have to start with the manufacturer. The brand is Bershka. Ever heard of it?’

  ‘Not quite my scene, Tiggy.’ Wright paused. ‘But I do know there’s a branch in St James’s Quarter. My other half mentioned it. It’s the sort of place she would shop. I’m more of a Millet’s girl myself. Why don’t you get yourself up there now, show it to the manager and check where and when it was bought? They should be able to give you a rough idea from that code.’

  Benjamin checked the time on her phone display. ‘Ten to ten. Do you think they’ll be open by now?’

  ‘If not, they will by the time you arrive. On you go downstairs and I’ll get a patrol car to take you up there.’

  Wright was as good as her word. When Benjamin reached the entrance a police vehicle was waiting, with a constable at the wheel. ‘Your taxi awaits,’ the man said gruffly.

  The DC guessed that he might have been fifteen years her senior, possibly even more, an old lag filling in the days until his retirement on a plump old-style pension. ‘Will I sit in the back?’ she responded, eliciting a grunt from the driver as she took the seat beside him.

  ‘Been in CID long?’ he asked, finally breaking his silence as they passed Edinburgh Academicals rugby ground.

  ‘Since the year before last,’ she replied. ‘I was in uniform in East Lothian before that. That was my first posting after college.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Nowhere else?’

  ‘No, that was all.’

  ‘High-flyer then,’ he said, with a cynically raised eyebrow.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so.’

  ‘That’s a quick move to CID,’ he observed, ‘and that’s usually a sign.’

  ‘Would you be saying that if I was a male officer?’ Benjamin countered.

  ‘Hey,’ the PC chuckled, ‘don’t go “Me too” on me. I’m just sayin’. I never had a sniff at plain clothes, but most of the guys my age that did had to wait a minimum of eight years. That was in the old force, mind; and it was mostly guys. It’s a different world in the new set-up. More opportunities, I suppose, if you’re prepared to travel. But even without that, it’s a lot easier for you young ones. Look at that boy Haddock. He’s what? Thirty-odd and he’s a detective super.’

  ‘He’s my boss,’ she told him. ‘He’s brilliant.’

  ‘He was Maggie Rose’s protégé if I remember right. I was at the West End when she was there. He was so far under her wing he probably smelt of her deodorant. They said he was Skinner’s boy too, like the new chief, big McIlhenney, was. I remember him too, in CID, him and his mate McGuire, the DCC now. They were wild bastards, those two. They were good though, I’ll grant them that. Still, I never thought either of them would rise that high. Skinner’s Army; that’s what we called them when I was your age. That’s three of them made chief constable now; Martin, Rose and McIlhenney . . . but everybody knows McIlhenney’s only there because McGuire didn’t want it.’

  ‘What did you think of Sir Robert?’ Benjamin asked.

  ‘Big Bob? He was all right; no, he was better than all right. He was a good bloke, but fucking terrifyin’ if you got on the wrong side of him. I was surprised when he walked away, but I can see why now. He runs the Saltire newspaper, doesn’t he?’

  ‘And a lot more,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s your DI?’ the driver asked, suddenly.

  ‘Noele McClair,’ she told him. ‘She’s the reason I’m in CID, to be honest. She was my boss in uniform in Haddington. When she was pulled back in, I asked, no, I begged her to take me with her, and she did. She’s on maternity leave just now. DI Singh’s my line manager just now, I suppose.’

  ‘The big Sikh? I think he was moved to CID because they couldn’t find a uniform to fit him.’ He paused. ‘McClair,’ he murmured. ‘Isn’t she the one that’s husband got . . .’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ the DC corrected. ‘But yes, she’s the one.’

  ‘So, if she’s on maternity leave, and she’s single like I heard, who’s the . . .’

  ‘That’s her business, don’t you think?’

  ‘Aye, maybe so but . . .’

  ‘No buts,’ Benjamin said, as they approached York Place. ‘Just drop me here, thanks. It’ll be easier for you if I walk the rest. That way you won’t get caught up in the Picardy Place traffic.’

  ‘I don’t mind taking you right into the car park,’ the driver insisted.

  ‘Just drop me here,’ she repeated.

  ‘Okay, if you say so.’ He drew up, opposite the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.

  She jumped out with a quick ‘Thank you,’ taking advantage of a gap in the traffic to cross the road, putting distance between herself and the inquisitive PC. She knew that the identity of Matilda McClair’s father was the subject of much speculation in the office. A very small circle knew the answer to that question. She was one of them and had no wish to be suspected of leaking the secret.

  Easing her way through the knot of pedestrians outside the gallery, she headed for Elder Street. She had visited the recently completed St James Quarter before, but had no idea where to find Bershka. Luck was on her side as she spied the sign quickly, not far from the entrance. She felt at home immediately in the place; the browsing customers seemed to be all female and in her age group, apart from a couple of teenagers and a few males, each with the anxious look of someone expecting an imminent hit on his credit card. There was a queue at the cash desk, and so she chose a woman who appeared to be the oldest of the shop floor assistants and approached her.

  ‘Detective Constable Tiggy Benjamin,’ she began. ‘I’m looking for information about one of your products. Is the manager available?’

  ‘At your service,’ she said. ‘Margaret O’Reilly. Which piece are we talking about?’

  The young detective delved into her shoulder bag and produced the garment, in a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘This one. I don’t have the other part, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ the manager replied. ‘We price the tops and bottoms separately.’

  ‘Ideally I’d like to know who bought it, where and when.’

  The woman winced. ‘Ouch! I can’t guarantee all three, but with a bit of luck I can get you a location and a time. Can I take it out the bag?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Benjamin watched as she removed the tiny garment, frowning as she peered at the information on the label.

  ‘I can tell you right now,’ O’Reilly volunteered, ‘that it wasn’t bought here. I think this is Spanish.’ She held the clothing up, brandishing the code. ‘You see that letter, T, beside the M? I think that means “size” in Spanish. Maybe it’s Italian, but I don’t think so. I’ll need to go into the office and make a couple of phone calls. I might be a wee while, are you okay with that? I can get you a coffee.’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks,’ the DC assured her. ‘I’ll just browse while you do that.’

  The manager was gone for twelve minutes, time enough for Benjamin to have bought a jump suit, a T shirt and a biker jacket that she was sure she would regret the moment she left the store. She returned just as she was stepping away from the pay point. ‘Let me see your receipt,’ she said at once. ‘I’ll give you a discount.’

  ‘Thanks, but that’s okay,’ the detective assured her. ‘I don’t think I’d be allowed to accept it, as I’m working.’

  O’Reilly checked her watch. ‘It’s half past ten,’ she pointed out. ‘Time for Popmaster. Let’s assume I’m Ken Bruce and you’re on your tea break like most of the country.’

  Benjamin smiled and handed over her till receipt. ‘Let’s do that. Before you went off you told me something,’ she continued, ‘didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. I’ve got you all three.’ O’Reilly beamed, looking more than a little pleased with the outcome of her research. ‘The item was sold on April thirtieth, in our outlet in a mall called Espai Girona, which is . . . believe it or not . . . in Girona, Spain. It was paid for with a Mastercard from a bank called Sabadell, but that’s all they could tell me.’