‘It was actually Mr Hutton we were wanting to see,’ Wylie said. The woman just kept smiling.
‘Mr Graham won’t keep you,’ she said, turning back to her desk.
‘Oh, good,’ Hood said, lifting one of the papers. ‘My Financial Times didn’t turn up this morning.’
Wylie looked both ways along the narrow corridor, which disappeared round corners at either end. She got the feeling the corridor made a circuit of this floor of the building, and that the floors below would be identical. There were doors either side, leading either to a window view or to interior space. The windowed offices would be coveted. Working as she presently did from a windowless box in St Leonard’s, she herself coveted anything big enough to swing a cat in, even if the cat suffered minor concussion.
A man had rounded the far corner. He was tall, well built, young. His short black hair was professionally styled and gelled, his suit dark grey, immaculately tailored. He wore oval glasses and a gold Rolex. When he introduced himself as John Graham, and put his hand out to shake, Wylie saw a gold cuff link at the end of his pale lemon shirt. It was one of those collarless affairs that wouldn’t support a tie. She’d met men before who’d had about them the sheen of success, but for this one she almost needed Ray-Bans.
‘We were hoping to speak to Mr Hutton,’ Grant Hood said.
‘Yes, of course. But you’ll appreciate that Barry’s an incredibly busy man.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He’s in a meeting as I speak, and we wondered if perhaps I could be of assistance. Perhaps if we go through what it is you need, I can transmit that to Barry.’
Wylie was about to say that it sounded like a long-winded way of ‘assisting’, but Graham was already leading them down the corridor, calling back to the receptionist that his calls were to be held for the next fifteen minutes. Wylie shared a look with Hood: big of him. Hood’s mouth twitched, telling her there was nothing to be gained by riling the emissary — not just yet, at any rate.
‘This is the boardroom,’ Graham said, leading them into an L-shaped room at one corner of the building. A large rectangular desk filled most of the space. Water glasses, pencils and notepads were laid out, ready for the next meeting. A large marker-board stood unsullied at the head of the table. At the far end, a sofa faced a widescreen TV and video. But what impressed most was the view — east towards the castle, and north towards Princes Street and the New Town, with the Fife coastline just visible beyond.
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Graham told them. ‘There’s a plan to build an even taller tower right next door.’
‘A Hutton development?’ Wylie guessed.
‘Of course,’ Graham said. He’d motioned for them to sit, having taken the chair at the top of the table. He brushed non-existent specks from one trouser leg. ‘So, if you’d care to give me the background?’
‘It’s simple enough, sir,’ Grant Hood said, pulling his chair in. ‘DS Wylie and myself are carrying out a murder inquiry.’ Graham raised an eyebrow, and pressed his hands together. ‘As part of that inquiry, we need to talk to your boss.’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
Wylie took over. ‘Not really, sir. You see, in a case like this, we don’t really have the time. We came here out of common courtesy. If Mr Hutton won’t see us, then we’ll just have to take him down to the station.’ She shrugged, her piece said.
Hood glanced at her, then back to Graham. ‘What DS Wylie says is correct, sir. We have the powers to question Mr Hutton whether he likes it or not.’
‘I can assure you, it’s nothing like that.’ Graham held both hands up in a pacifying gesture. ‘But he does happen to be in a meeting, and these things can take time.’
‘We did phone ahead to warn we were coming.’
‘And we do appreciate that, DS Wylie. But something came up. This is a multimillion-pound business, and the unexpected does arise from time to time. Decisions sometimes have to made immediately; millions can depend on it. You do see that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, but as you can see, there’s nothing you can help us with,’ Wylie said. ‘You weren’t working for a man called Dean Coghill in 1978, were you? I’d guess that twenty years ago, you were still busy in the school playground, trying to look up girls’ skirts and comparing plook collections with your pals. So if Mr Hutton would deign to join us...’ She nodded towards a camera in the corner of the ceiling. ‘We’d be very grateful.’
Hood began to apologise for his partner’s behaviour. Graham’s cheeks had coloured, and he didn’t seem to have an answer. Then a voice broke in, coming from a loudspeaker somewhere.
‘Show the officers the way.’
Graham rose to his feet, avoiding their eyes. ‘If you’ll follow me,’ he said.
He took them into the corridor, pointed along it. ‘Second door on the left.’ Then he turned and walked away; his small victory over them.
‘Think this corridor’s bugged, too?’ Wylie asked in an undertone.
‘Who knows?’
‘He got a fright, didn’t he? Wasn’t expecting the one in the skirt to play tough.’ Hood watched a grin spread across her face. ‘And as for you...’
‘What about me?’
She looked at him. ‘Apologising on my behalf.’
‘That’s what the “good” cop does.’
They knocked at the door, then opened it unasked. An anteroom, with a secretary already rising from her desk. She opened the inner door, and they entered Barry Hutton’s office.
The man himself was standing just inside, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back.
‘I thought you were a bit rough on John.’ He shook Wylie’s hand. ‘All the same, I admire your style. If you want something, don’t let anyone stand in your way.’
It wasn’t that big an office, but the walls dripped modern art, and there was a bar in one corner, which is where Hutton was headed.
‘Can I get you something?’ He pulled a bottle of Lucozade out of the fridge. They shook their heads. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swallow. ‘I’m addicted,’ he said. ‘Used to be, when I was a kid you only ever got the stuff when you were ill. Do you remember that? Come on, let’s sit here.’
He led them to a cream leather sofa, and took the matching chair opposite. The portable TV in front of them was actually a monitor. It was still showing a view of the boardroom table.
‘Cute, isn’t it?’ Hutton said. He picked up a remote. ‘Look, I can move it around, zoom in on faces...’
‘And it has sound, too?’ Wylie guessed. ‘So you know what we want to talk to you about.’
‘Something about a murder?’ Hutton took another swig of his addiction. ‘I heard Dean Coghill was dead, but that was natural causes, wasn’t it?’
‘Queensberry House,’ Grant Hood stated.
‘Oh, right: the body behind the wall?’
‘In a room renovated by Dean Coghill’s team between 1978 and ’79.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s when the body got walled up.’
Hutton looked from one officer to the other. ‘You’re kidding?’
Wylie unfolded the list of people who’d worked in the building. ‘Recognise these names, sir?’
Hutton ended up smiling. ‘Brings back memories.’
‘None of them went missing?’
The smile vanished. ‘No.’
‘Was anyone else working there, casual labour maybe?’
‘Not that I remember. Not unless you’re counting me.’
‘We did notice your name was a late addition.’
Hutton nodded. He was short, maybe five-eight, skinny but with a developing paunch and jowls. His black suit was shiny new, and all three buttons were done up. His black brogues gleamed, the leather not yet broken in. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes, his brown hair cut above the ears but with prominent sideburns. Wylie knew she wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd as being especially rich or influential.