Alafair had remembered to lock the gates. I had to press the entryphone button. ‘Yes?’ She sounded annoyed, impatient.
‘Police,’ I announced. ‘Detective Superintendent Skinner and colleagues.’
‘Oh, go away, will you!’ she shouted.
‘We’re coming in, one way or another,’ I told her evenly. ‘So choose the easy option.’
After a few seconds, she did. There was a buzz, Martin pushed the gate and it opened. The Afghans were in the garden. They came bounding up to us, barking, their long, high-maintenance coats flying. They’d lost whatever hunter instincts the breed was supposed to have. They were friendly, designer pooches that would have been as much use as guard dogs as the hamster I’d bought Alex when she was six. Shannon made a fuss of them and they fell in with us as we walked up to the door.
Alafair was waiting for us, on the threshold. Any traces of her bruising was covered by make-up, her hair was salon set, and she wore a gold lounge suit that made me think of Hello! magazine. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she snapped. ‘Three this time? Look, I don’t give autographs, okay. Where’s the other young guy? He was nice.’
‘This is his day for helping old ladies across the street,’ I replied. ‘Or for taking young ones off it. Invite us in. You need to talk to us.’
‘Like hell I do,’ she retorted, ‘but if you insist, come on. Sasha, Pasha, you stay.’ The dogs fell back, obediently.
The house was the type that estate agents were once fond of describing as ‘architect designed’, all flashy features, but not, at first sight, comfortable. The room into which she led us was enormous: one wall was all glass, a picture window, with doors set in it, that looked up towards the Royal Observatory, and there was an upper level that the sales brochure might have called the ‘Minstrel Gallery’. The furniture was there to be admired rather than for comfort.
‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Why are you hassling me? Have you found the driver yet?’
‘There was no driver, Alafair, as you know very well. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question. Has Tony told you about Marlon?’
‘Who the hell is Marlon?’
‘His driver. A lad about your own age. Solidly built kid, not too smooth, very Edinburgh. I’m guessing he might have picked you up sometimes when you were going to meet Manson. I don’t imagine the Ibiza trip was your only encounter.’
He tossed her head back. ‘Ah,’ she said, airily, hamming it up like the failed actress she was. ‘That boy. Was that his name? What about him?’
‘He’s rather dead, I’m afraid.’
That wasn’t in the script. ‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed.
‘I mean he’s not breathing any more,’ I snapped. ‘I mean he’s starting to go off. I mean he’s in a box, paid for by Tony for sure, waiting to be put in a hole in the ground. Is there anything about being dead that you don’t understand?’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dorothy Shannon flinch, but I was off and running. ‘Your question should have been “How did he die?” Answer, somebody killed him. Next question, “But why, the poor boy?” Answer, because of you!’
‘Me?’ she squealed; ex tempore she was lousy.
‘Yes, Alafair, you.’ I took my voice back down to normal. ‘This is how it happened. You’d been playing about with Manson for a while, and maybe others but I’m only concerned with him. He asked you to go with him for a week to Ibiza, while your husband was away with his international mates. You agreed, but then you did something fairly stupid… the norm for you, I imagine… and Derek found out. He didn’t have the nuts to face you about it, so he called your dad, the father-in-law that he thinks is a nice guy, Perry, Mr Holmes.’ The make-up changed shade as the skin beneath it paled.
‘He asked him for help, and your dad in turn asked you what you were playing at. You told him it was none of his business. He asked you who you were playing with, you told him, and you probably said there was nothing he could do about it, the poor old quadriplegic cripple.’ I paused.
‘Good, you’re not contradicting me. I’ve got it right. Now,’ another pause, ‘here’s what happened next. Your dad can’t move much, but he’s still got a long arm. He reached out, to an old associate in Newcastle, and he hired two men, thugs, brutes, musclemen. They came up to Edinburgh, they got hold of Marlon, and they killed him. I spent some time thinking they were trying to get information from him, but I don’t believe that any more. I reckon they just killed him, pure and simple, to order. You see, Manson himself is too difficult a target, and he might also be too financially important to your dad to be killed. But the word was sent. “Play around with my nearest and dearest and this is what happens to yours.” So act your way out of that one, kid. You indulged yourself, and a boy died. How does it feel, Alafair?’
She sat down, abruptly, on one of her designer chairs, then reached out for a box on a table, and found a cigarette and a lighter. I took them from her. ‘Not while I’m in the room, please. I detest the habit.’ I did and I always will, but that was a… a smokescreen, if you like; at that moment I didn’t want her finding any crumb of comfort.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she murmured. ‘Because I won’t. I know whose daughter I am, Mr Skinner.’
‘Yes, I thought you might. But know what? There’s another twist. I don’t believe that Derek slapping you around had anything to do with him being attacked. Way I see it, Perry sent Tony a message, and Tony sent him one back. Christ, he told me as much, before I really knew why. Now they’re quits and Manson won’t be lifting your skirts again, lady.’
‘Tough,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be missing much.’
‘The story’s not done yet, though,’ I told her. ‘The Newcastle guys were sloppy. They used a traceable van and we got on to them. Your father found out about that. It was a problem for him; if we caught these men, and they talked… you can see, can’t you? So he took action, and now they’re dead too. You might not have had a memorable shag with old Tony, but it sure had consequences.’
She snatched the fag and the Zippo from my hand and lit up. I opened the glass doors.
‘Thanks,’ she said, tight-lipped, and it wasn’t for the fresh air. ‘I didn’t know any of that, apart from the first bit, about Derek crying to my dad, instead of setting his football team on Tony. But even if it’s true, I won’t help you.’
‘Have you always been so fucking self-centred?’ I asked her. ‘You’d be no use to us as a witness. I’m not interested in you, Alafair. It’s your brother I want. Your dad couldn’t have done all that stuff on his own. He can’t even make a phone call unaided any more. In the old days your Uncle Alasdair was his executive arm, so to speak. Now he’s dead. And so’s Johann Kraus, the guy who did the really messy stuff for your father and uncle. So your brother’s had to take everything on himself. I can place him at the murder scene on Tyneside: I know he killed those three guys. I need you to tell me where I can find him now.’
She shook her head. ‘No chance. Anyway, Hastie’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.’
‘He couldn’t do what? He’s an ex-soldier; Christ, he’s trained to do that sort of work. Your big brother killed two men in cold blood, close up, and then he found the third and ripped…’ And then it hit me. ‘What did you call him?’
She saw my confusion and knew that she’d made a huge mistake. She realised how, too, and tried to back off from it. ‘Nothing. I said Peter, his name’s Peter.’
But it was out there. It was in the room. ‘Peter Hastings McGrew, Hastings after your granny. You called him Hastie, because that’s his family name. I’ve met him, I’ve even bloody met him!’ I shouted to the room. ‘He’s hiding in plain sight. He’s your dad’s nurse.’