‘Is he in custody, this witness?’
‘No,’ the superintendent replied. ‘We didn’t have grounds to hold him, although we know he helped Valdas bring the girls in. We released him on bail, until we can stick him in a line-up for Anna Romanova to pick out. Even then, we’ll be struggling to prosecute him without a second witness.’
‘If he’s out there,’ Martin retorted, ‘and he can tie Goldie Brown to these girls, you’d better bring him in for his own safety. Meantime. .’ He looked at his companions. ‘Do you guys fancy some overtime, and some activity completely unbecoming to your rank?’
Skinner smiled. ‘I’m always up for an away day.’
‘In that case, why don’t we head straight for Dundee? I’m not having anyone else pick up Henry Brown, or his lovely wife.’
Seventy-three
‘You do know where we’re going, Andy, yes?’ Bob Skinner asked, as he drove up the Kingsway, the dual carriageway that skirted Dundee to the east.
‘Of course I do, Bob. I have all the McCullough family addresses committed to memory.’
‘I would doubt that of anyone else,’ Neil McIlhenney murmured, ‘but not you.’
‘Left at this roundabout,’ Martin instructed, ‘then right, about half a mile along.’ The three officers sat in silence as the chief constable followed his directions. ‘That’s fine,’ he declared, as they made the second turn. ‘The Browns’ place is the fourth on the left, the one on the double plot.’
‘Chunky pad,’ the superintendent commented, as they drew to a halt. ‘Has it got a name?’
‘Would you believe South Fork?’
‘It was either going to be that or the Ponderosa. That’s fucking gangsters for you.’
‘Not really; all the house names have TV themes. CamMac homes built this place, and the rest; it’s owned by CamMac Metals and Henry and the wife pay a market rent. But you’re right in a way. This street’s becoming a compound. Tommy Murtagh lives in the last house on the right.’
‘What about the Bentley Continental there in the driveway?’ Skinner asked. ‘Is that a company car?’
‘That’s Goldie’s; a birthday present from her big brother.’
‘You know a lot about these people, Andy.’
‘I know everything about these people, Bob. I looked at going the Al Capone route; you know, setting the Inland Revenue on them, but Grandpa’s accounting is always immaculate, and everyone always pays their taxes.’
‘Is there a Grandma McCullough?’
‘No. She died ten years ago; throat cancer.’
As Martin spoke, McIlhenney’s mobile sounded. He snatched it from his pocket, almost as if he was fearful that the sound would alert those in the house. ‘Yes? Jack, hi. Have you got him?’ Pause. ‘Fuck. Have you talked to the neighbours?’ Pause. ‘Not since then? Did you look for his passport? Of course, sorry. Them too? Ah Jesus. . Listen, Jack, check with DVLA, for a car registered in his name. If he’s got one, look for it parked locally. Then check with the other Lithuanians. Who knows, they’ve maybe got a regular Monday card school; the bugger might be there.’ Pause. ‘Sure, but do it.’ He ended the call and turned to his colleagues. ‘McGurk,’ he said. ‘He’s at Scotland Street; Marius Ramanauskas isn’t there. He hasn’t been seen since Friday night. Jack kicked the door in and went through the place. There are dishes in the sink, and a bottle of turned milk on the work surface beside the kettle. No sign of recent occupation, though.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Martin drawled. ‘The cleaners have been.’
‘Just because he could identify this Goldie woman?’ McIlhenney exclaimed.
‘Absolutely because, I’d say. These are very efficient people. The best we can hope for is that they’ve scared the shit out of your man Marius and told him to disappear for good. The worst is that they’ve made him disappear for good.’
‘Not in my back yard,’ Skinner growled. ‘Let’s go and see this man Brown and do some scaring ourselves.’ He took his key from the ignition and stepped out of his car into the street.
‘How are we going to play it?’ the superintendent asked.
‘With no subtlety at all. Come on. Andy, you with me. Neil, keep out of sight at the side of the house, in case our man thinks of slipping out the back.’ He led the way up the ungated driveway, towards the big floodlit villa. A few drops of rain were falling, with the temperature low enough to offer the threat that they might be followed by snowflakes, but the front door was set back in a covered porch which offered some shelter. He rang the bell. As they waited, he noticed a spyglass just above it. He held his thumb against it, cutting off the view from within.
‘Who’s the comedian?’ said a female voice, as the door opened.
‘Nobody’s joking, Goldie,’ Andy Martin replied, stepping into the light.
‘Jesus!’ the woman snapped. ‘Not you again. I heard we’d got rid of you.’ She was blonde and high-breasted, barefoot but dressed in a tight-fitting leotard. Her cheeks were pink, glistening with a light sheen of perspiration.
‘Technically not till the end of the month, but even then, you won’t be rid of me.’ He glanced at her, and sniffed. ‘You’re a bit sweaty.’
‘I was in the gym,’ she retorted, ‘and I want to get back there.’ She stared up at Skinner. ‘Who’s your pal?’
‘I’m a police officer from Edinburgh,’ he told her, unsmiling. ‘You’ll be Daphne Brown, I take it.’
‘Take what you fucking like, as long as it’s not liberties. What do you want?’
‘In due course I want to talk to you about eight missing Estonian girls, but right now, we want your husband.’
‘What for?’
‘We plan to charge him with at least one murder, maybe more. That’s for starters. Please tell him we’re here, or we’ll go in and get him.’
‘You’ll have a job. He’s no’ in. See for yourself; his car’s no’ there.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Why the fuck should I tell you that?’
Martin leaned against the door frame. ‘Why doesn’t come into it, Goldie. You’re going to talk to us, either here or along at Tayside police headquarters, after as much exhausting questioning as it takes. If you don’t tell us now, we’re going to arrest you in connection with harbouring illegal immigrants, maybe abduction, and also for the murder of a man called Marius Ramanauskas. You know him; you visited his flat in Scotland Street, in Edinburgh, last week, and relieved him of some guests; you and another woman that I believe was your niece Inez.’
‘What do you mean murder? He’s. .’ She stopped in mid-sentence. ‘I’m saying fuck all to you, here or in the polis station.’
‘That’s not how it’s going to be,’ said Skinner quietly. ‘You know my friend here, but you don’t know me. Your family seem to think that they can invade my city, cause however much mayhem they like, then walk away from it.’ Goldie Brown looked away from him, but he seized her jaw and twisted it, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘You focus on me when I’m talking to you, lady, because I’m here to tell you that however clever you think you are, however far above the law you believe you and your crowd are, you have got it fucking wrong. I have a team of very capable people who have built a cast-iron case against your husband. We are here for him, and every second that you refuse to tell us where he is makes it ever more likely that you’ll be charged as his accomplice. So. . where is Henry Brown?’
She stared at him even after he had released her from his grasp, realising just how serious he was. ‘He’s. .’
Whatever she was about to say was cut short by the noise from within, of a loudly creaking door. ‘Is he in there after all, Goldie?’ Martin barked. ‘Enough of this.’ He barged past her, just as a dishevelled figure in his shirtsleeves, his jacket held in his hand, dashed down a wide staircase, swung himself round the post at the foot and bolted through a door at the rear of the hall.
As Skinner held on to the woman, tight, not joining the pursuit, a strange smile spread across his face. ‘Is your gym upstairs, Goldie?’ he asked.