‘It is, sir,’ the DS replied, ‘or I wouldn’t have called.’ She sounded offended.
‘OK, Lisa,’ Skinner called out, ‘let’s hear it.’
‘I’ve finally had feedback from the translator, sir,’ she said.
‘What translator?’
‘We found letters in Mustafic’s van,’ she explained. ‘They were in the Cyrillic alphabet, in Bulgarian we thought. We sent them for translation, with the label on his jacket. The reason it’s taken so long is that we sent them to the wrong translator. It isn’t Bulgarian at all, it’s Serbian. And the jacket wasn’t bought in Bulgaria, but in Zagreb.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ said the chief constable quietly. ‘Tell me about the letters.’
‘They’re love letters, sir, and they’re years old. They’re from a woman called Danica, to somebody called Mirko Andelič.’
‘Yes,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘Lisa, you’ve just tied something up, with a neat bow. Thanks.’ He reached out and flipped the phone shut, to end the call. ‘So that’s it. Asmir was really Mirko Andelič, the key witness in the Tadic trial. I see what happened; after it was over, Lazar Erceg, the man who found him, took him underground, away from the Cleanser’s people, who were undoubtedly very keen to kill him. That’s why Coben got involved with the project: Mount and Glover were looking for him, so he joined with them, let them do his work for them, even guarded against outside interference by having Andy Martin warned off, then followed up until he found something to discredit him. Finally, he got his man.’
‘That means that Tadic goes free,’ McIlhenney pointed out.
‘To what fate? Tadic is a pariah; if the Americans don’t kill him, his own people probably will, especially after we eliminate Coben.’ He frowned. ‘But,’ he murmured, ‘how did he get to know about Playfair and Asmir?’
‘There was a report in the East Lothian Courier,’ said George Regan, ‘a few weeks ago, of the council’s application for an interdict against Derek Baillie’s traveller group. Playfair spoke on their behalf in court and his name was in the paper.’
‘OK, but that doesn’t help. How did he know who Playfair was?’
‘Well,’ the DI murmured.
‘Spit it out, George.’
‘Colin Mount told me that his father made a mystery trip a couple of weeks back, to a prison in England.’
‘What? Brankholme?’
‘Yes, sir, how did you know that?’
‘Because Neil and I have just been there, and the man we saw didn’t say anything about having had a visit from Henry Mount.’ He gazed at McIlhenney. ‘Now why weren’t we told that, I wonder?’
‘Dražen only contacted us when he saw the photo in the paper,’ the superintendent replied. ‘Why would he tell us if Mount had visited him? And why would Boras contact him in the first place?’
‘Mount contacted Dražen, man. We’re sure he has a source in the Foreign Office who’s been feeding him information on the Tadic case. Tomorrow Amanda Dennis will put a name to that person, and we’ll find out, I’ll bet you, that he told Mount about Dražen’s involvement. Clear as day: Henry goes to see Dražen, he’s told about Hugo Playfair, and he goes back and tells Coben, the third man in the project. That’s what Coben needs and, bingo, they’re all fucking dead. Why didn’t Dražen mention Mount? Who knows. .’ he frowned, thinking fast ‘. . unless he genuinely was doing us a favour but didn’t want to attract any more attention to himself than that. And why would that be? Oh no,’ he gasped suddenly. ‘No, no, no, surely not.’ He snatched the phone from the table and called the communications centre. ‘Chief Constable,’ he barked. ‘Get me HMP Brankholme, now.’ He sat waiting, his three companions drawing tension from his. Finally the prison switchboard replied. ‘Deputy Governor Arnott, please.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The telephonist sounded rattled; Skinner seized on it.
‘Governor, then, now; this is Chief Constable Skinner, Edinburgh. We were in your place today.’
He waited for over a minute, until a man came on the line. ‘Garfield Haywood, Governor. I’m sorry, Chief Constable, you find us in crisis. We’ve lost our star prisoner, the man you visited earlier.’
‘And how the fuck did you manage to do that?’ Skinner growled.
‘It looks as if our security is better on the way in than on the way out. My deputy seems to have taken the man home with her. Her husband called to see her, then they left together, only it wasn’t him. It was Dražen Boras wearing his clothes. We found Jake bound and gagged in his underwear, and locked in her office. I’m still not convinced he isn’t an accomplice. What the hell would make her do it?’
‘Have you any idea how wealthy the man is, Mr Haywood?’ He hung up, staring at McIlhenney.
‘Gone?’
‘Gone, and I am not looking forward to telling Maggie. Fuck it!’ He turned to Regan. ‘That was a blot from the blue, George. Any more while you’re at it?’
The DI twisted in his seat, nervously. ‘Maybe, boss,’ he said. ‘Those cigars: Colin said they were a gift to his dad from the Edinburgh Book Festival.’
‘Jesus.’ Skinner clenched his fists on the desk. ‘And how many people are involved in running that? Dozens, including the board, and maybe more, if you count part-timers. I shouldn’t be surprised. This whole thing started there.’ He closed his eyes for a second or two; when he reopened them they were staring, at nothing in particular. ‘Didn’t it, though?’ he whispered. He reached out for Pye’s bulky folder, his murder book, spun it round and opened it. The first entry was Ian McCall’s report, of the discovery of Glover’s body. The second was Randall Mosley’s statement. The third was the text of the dead author’s email, sent in the last moments of his life. He read the words aloud, ‘randy yurt dying,’ then looked at his colleagues. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A dying man’s cry for help,’ Pye replied.
‘It looks that way,’ Skinner agreed. ‘But. .’
Eighty
Next morning, the chief constable was behind his desk at five minutes past eight. He knew that Amanda Dennis, a single, career-driven woman, was an early starter as well as a late finisher, and wanted to be there when she called. As he waited, he scanned the morning’s press, left in his outer office by the night staff before they departed.
Ed Collins’ death was as widely reported by the Scottish titles as he had expected, given the man’s profession. Some newspapers speculated upon possible reasons for the murder, ranging from gambling on football matches to his being silenced to prevent him breaking a story. ‘Closest to the truth,’ he murmured. But none made a connection to the death of the two authors, other than the Sun, which splashed a front page picture of ‘Tragic Carol Glover, the woman who lost dad and lover in the same week’. The wording seemed to imply carelessness but stopped just short of hinting at guilt. Only the Saltire hazarded no guesses, as only its editor had been told the truth by Skinner, and Aislado had no wish to share it with his rivals or anyone else.
But the main story of the morning was the astonishing disappearance of Dražen Boras from Brankholme Prison. The entire story had leaked. Ngaio Arnott’s husband had been held in custody for a while, then released on police bail. He was probably in the clear, but the Secretary of State for Justice was twisting in the wind. Skinner was fairly sure that Garfield Haywood had a very limited future in the prison service.
He had broken the news in person to Maggie Steele, barely five minutes before it was confirmed by a police spokesman. She had been less angry than he had feared, and eventually philosophical, after Skinner had told her about Boras’s volunteering information to the investigation.
‘Do you believe him, Bob, that he feels some sort of contrition?’
‘I reckon I do; so does Neil.’
‘Will they catch him?’