‘Whether it had or not,’ said the head of CID, ‘his death isn’t something for us to follow up. The aftermath will be for Zaliukas’s lawyers. The man blew his brains out, unassisted; that’s how it was. Dorward’s people won’t find a scrap of evidence that says anything different.’
‘But he still has to be identified,’ Skinner pointed out. ‘From what you’ve said, he isn’t recognisable, and there won’t be enough left for a dental match-up either. His tattoo isn’t going to satisfy a court.’
‘We’ll get DNA from his car, or from his house, and we’ll match it to the body. That’ll do it.’
‘You’re probably right,’ the chief granted. ‘But the thing is,’ he continued, ‘I want us to investigate it. Unless the post-mortem shows up a credible reason, I’d like to know what it was that drove Tomas to do something as out of character as taking his own life. What’s the responsible division? Arthur’s Seat? Central, yes. I’d like you to have Becky Stallings and her team do some digging. They don’t necessarily have to go looking for Regine, but they should talk to his team, the people who worked for him, talk to everyone who had regular dealings with him. Find out if anything had happened lately, anything serious enough to make him do something as drastic as this.’
‘Is that really our business? We all have to prioritise, boss.’
‘It’s a sudden death, from gunshot wounds. We’re required to make a report to the fiscal, so that he can decide how to categorise it. That makes it our business; let’s just spend a bit more time on this than we normally would on a suicide.’
‘Even if it leads us nowhere?’
‘Even if. .’ he stopped abruptly. ‘My friend,’ he went on, ‘I might be the wearing chief constable’s epaulettes, but I’m still a detective, and I will be till I die. All my career, I’ve found success by following my instincts. This time they’re telling me there’s something not right here.’
Five
Maggie Steele looked up at the façade of the divisional headquarters building in Torphichen Place. She had left her car in its secure park, but preferred to make her entrance boldly by the front door rather than casually by the back. She knew that word of her arrival would have been spread by the gate officer, but that made no difference. She remembered Skinner’s advice at the morning briefing, and wanted to gauge reaction as she walked into her old office for the first time as an ACC.
The grey stone pile was not impressive. It was an old structure, and if it had been purpose built, then it had been for an era long left behind by modern policing. Any newcomers looking at it would have been forgiven for doubting its fitness for purpose before ever stepping inside; indeed they would have been right. It was small, it was cramped, and it was yards away from the complex Haymarket road junction, making vehicle access a nightmare at the peak periods which seemed to be extending to fill most of the day. It was always a shade too hot or a shade too cold. There was nothing about it that did not need improvement.
And yet Maggie loved the place. Much of her police career had been spent there, in uniform and in CID. Its faults had been no hindrance to her rise through the ranks, and it had been the scene of the most unexpected yet uplifting turnaround in her personal life. It was where she and Stevie Steele had made their great discovery. Newly out of her unsuccessful marriage to Mario McGuire, she had been in charge of the Central CID office and Stevie had been her DI. They had known each other for years as friends and colleague. He had carried a reputation as something of a playboy, more because he had been attractive to women than from any headlong pursuit on his part, but it had meant nothing to her. He had been a nice guy and a good cop and that had been it. Until one night, one completely unexpected night when she had looked at him and everything, all her assumptions, all her certainties even, had been turned upside down. They became lovers, she fell pregnant, they were married, it was all unbelievable. . indeed, if not for Stephanie, she might have believed that she had imagined it all. Not too good to be true, but too good to last.
Life, she reflected, standing in that cold drab street, where the sun rarely shone in winter, is a series of judgement calls. We cross the road through traffic how many times a day? We flick how many switches that might be live, but are not? We drive through how many green lights trusting that we are not about to be T-boned by a skidding truck? Stevie’s fatal miss-call was to rush though a door in a cottage in Northumberland; the wrong door.
By that time she had known of her illness, and had been faced with a life-threatening judgement of her own: to carry on with her pregnancy until Stephanie was almost full term, or to have her delivered weeks early, on the edge of viability, so that she could have surgery. In the aftermath of Stevie’s death, she had taken the gamble, put the egg before the chicken and delayed her vital operation. Since the end of her follow-up treatment, her regular scans had been clear, and her consultant was smiling. Most of all, though, her baby was perfect, and every time she looked at her, she could see her father.
She shuddered, not only from the cold, and stepped towards the door entrance to the Divisional building. The door was pulled open before she reached it, by a veteran officer. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said PC Charlie Johnston, looking far more neat and tidy than she had ever seen him, ‘and welcome.’
‘Thank you, Constable,’ she said as she stepped inside, with a brief, formal nod, thinking, Bob was right. No more advance warning of visits.
Superintendent Mary Chambers, in uniform, was waiting for her in the public area. She repeated Johnston’s ‘Good morning ma’am’ in a voice loud enough to be heard by the sergeant and two constables who were standing, almost at attention, behind the counter. ‘Jesus,’ Steele asked herself, mentally, ‘when Bob Skinner walked in here unannounced in my time, what did he see?’
‘And to you, Superintendent,’ she replied, feeling that she wanted to loosen up, but knowing that she had to maintain the formality. Chambers half-turned, stretching out an arm as if to escort her. Just then, the door at the back of the public office swung open, and Neil McIlhenney stepped through, slipping a waxed cotton jacket over his suit. ‘Hi, Mags,’ he said with a cheery smile, and carried on his way.
Quickly, Steele headed in the direction from which he had come, leading the way upstairs, to what had been her office less than a year before. As she had expected, her former desk was neat; the files in the out-tray were stacked much higher than the in-tray. She hung her cap on the stand and slumped into a chair. ‘Bloody hell, Mary,’ she exclaimed, ‘I feel like a schools inspector.’
The superintendent laughed. ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Tea, if you have it.’
‘No problem.’
Steele watched as Chambers switched on her kettle, and found a mug and a tea bag as it came to the boil. ‘How goes?’ she asked, as Chambers finished brewing up.
‘Job or personal?’
‘Job.’ She took the mug as it was passed to her, handle first. ‘Thanks.’
‘Official report?’
‘No, I’d need that in print. Just you and me.’