The other stack of bills showed that the credit card was used infrequently, but that when it was, the balance was always settled in ful , before interest charges could accrue.
McGuire noted down the numbers of the bank account and the credit card, plus the address of his Clydesdale Bank branch, then picked up the piles, in the same order as before, to return them to the drawer.
He was about to put them in, when he saw what had been lying underneath, and froze in his tracks. It was a cutting from a newspaper
. . . the Scotsman, he guessed, by the typeface . . . beginning to yellow with age. It was a report on a high court trial, and it carried a photograph of one of the crown witnesses.
He had no need to read the caption, but he did: Seen leaving court after her evidence. Detective Chief Inspector Margaret Rose.
100
25
'I guess this means you won't be at the footbal tonight,' Neil Mcllhenney grunted. He stood in his living room with his sport bag in one hand, and the phone in the other. He had been on the point of leaving for North Berwick, only to be halted by its summons.
'You guess correctly,' Bob Skinner agreed. 'Give my apologies to the rest of the Thursday Legends and tell them I'll be back as soon as I can.'
'And when wil that be, d'you reckon?'
'Jeez, Neil, I wish I could tell you for sure. The bodies will be released tomorrow by the coroner in Loudonville, and I've instructed an undertaker in Buffalo to collect them and make all the arrangements.
Sarah's booked a flight arriving next Monday, but there's no certainty that we'll be able to have the funerals next week. Leo was an important guy so the service will be public; from what Brad Dekker tells me, half the city wil want to be there.
'Not just that, the new senator and her husband want to put in an appearance. That wil get the Secret fucking Service involved. I didn't break that news to Sarah when I spoke to her; I'm saving it until I see her, so keep it to yourself for now.'
'Of course.' Mcl henney hesitated. 'Boss, what do you think you've got yourself into over there?'
'I wish I knew, mate. Al I do know is that these three murders are linked. As soon as I read the reports I was certain of that; so's Joe, now he's looked at them. Every one of them was a professional job; in every one of them the items taken were the same; mere bloody trifles. You do not put three bullets in the middle of somebody's forehead just to steal his Rolex.
You do not ram a stiletto into someone's head just for his credit card. You do not garrotte a man and his wife because you want his cigars.
'On top of all that, you have the professional and political links, and the fact that the three kil ings have al taken place within a two-week period. I can't be wrong, can I?'
'Well . . . Motherwell could win the Premier League next year,' said the inspector. 'I think the odds would be about the same. No, you're right. But what makes you think it's the same man who did al three?'
He heard a soft familiar laugh on the other end of the line. 'That's a question none of my distinguished American law enforcement colleagues has asked as yet. Who says I do think that? We're talking in terms of one man, because that's the way the hare started running, but it's no certainty at all. Still...' There was a pause. 'We're into hunch territory now, but my feeling is that it was. Like I said, no one's questioned that assumption; not til you.' He paused. 'I'd expect no less of you, mate, but... My gut still says it's one man. There's been an efficiency about each murder that's like a trademark. If I'm wrong and there's a team of them out there, we're in real fucking trouble!
'On that basis, the FBI's flexing its muscles. Joe has agents checking al passenger movements through Greater Buffalo Airport, McCarran in Las Vegas and Great Falls International .. . that's around atfcidred miles from Helena, and it's where we're going this afternoon. People go to Vegas from all over the States for all sorts of reasons, but if we find someone who's been there, been to Buffalo, and been to Montana, all in
the last couple of weeks, he's going to be put under the microscope.'
'It's right up your street, all this, isn't it,' Mcllhenney observed. 'I don't mean burying your father-in-law; I mean jetting across umpteen states with an FBI big-wig on an investigation. If it wasn't for the circumstances, you'd be like a kid with the key to an ice-cream factory.'
'You're not wrong there,' Skinner admitted. 'I'm glad Joe asked me to get involved, otherwise I'd have gone out of my tree just sitting here doing nothing. God, I might even have started my own investigation.'
'That's fine,' said his friend quietly, 'until Monday, when Sarah gets over there.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that when she does, you should only be thinking of one thing; that she's lost her parents. She's borne up very well in Scotland, but when she gets back home, it's going to hit her hard. She's going to want to see them. She's going to want to see where they died. She's going to have a lot to come to terms with.
'So, Bob . . .' it did not occur to either of them that Mcllhenney had only once before addressed Skinner by his Christian name, '.. .you have to be with her, and completely focused on her personal and emotional needs, rather than tear-arseing around America on an inter jurisdictional investigation which, professionally at least, is none of your business.
'I'm sorry to be so blunt,' he concluded, suddenly awkward, 'and if 102
that didn't need saying I apologise. But, well. .. What the hell, I thought it did.'
Silence hung there for a couple of seconds. 'Aye,' said Skinner finally.
'And you were right. Thanks, pal, I appreciate it. The only thing is, I think that one of my big problems may be in keeping Sarah from getting herself involved in the bloody investigation!' He paused again.
'I do want to see her, though. I'd rather be with her than here, make no mistake about that, but that's how she wanted it. I'm sorry to leave you guys in the lurch too, in these times of change. Most of al I'm sorry to miss young ACC Martin's farewel party. Where's he having it? There was nothing arranged when I left.'
'We're going for a meal in La Rusticana in Cockbum Street, then we're off to listen to jazz in the Cellar Bar in Chambers Street. Kicks off at half eight; ambulances at one a.m.'
'What about Jimmy's senior officers' dinner tonight?'
'Postponed,' said Mcl henney. 'The Chief's going to wait until you're back.'
'Good for him. I feel better about that.'
"That leads me to something I have to ask you. What about my move to SB? It's supposed to happen on Monday, when Mario heads off to the Borders Division. Do you want to put a hold on everything, save Clan Pringle's move, and leave the deputy in charge in the Borders, pro tern?'
'No,' Skinner replied, firmly. 'I've thought about that. My private office is secondary in my absence; you go ahead with your move. Keep an eye on my stuff long distance, you and Ruthie can manage that between you. Take anything with a health warning on it straight to Willie Haggerty.
'But what I do want you to do,' he went on, 'is to appoint your own successor.'
'Eh? You serious?'
'Sure I am. You know better than anyone, bar Andy, how I think and how I work. Look at the available talent, either a detective sergeant or a recently promoted DI, and make a choice.'
'I'd pick Jack McGurk, right now,' said Mcl henney, 'but Mr Pringle plans on bringing him in as his own exec.'
Skinner thought for a moment or two. 'Listen, if you think big Jack's the man for the job, pul rank. Tell Dan I want him and that's that. He'l huff for a bit, but he owes me one, and he bloody knows it. Go on; do it.
I'll hose down the new head of CID if necessary.'
'Okay, if you say so. Christ,' the Inspector laughed, 'you can cause bloody chaos from three thousand miles away.'
26
'Wel my God; it's our Mario! It's not like you to frequent the family business. What brings you here?' Paula Viareggio grinned at her cousin across the counter, her dark eyes carrying a mix of mockery and challenge, as they had done since they were children.
'A packet ofporcini mushrooms and some Seranno ham, actual y,' he said.
As he looked at Paula, across the counter, he was struck by the contrast she presented to the girl he had just left. Ivy Brennan was locked in a sort of extended childhood, her life shaped by her diminutive size and her elfin features. Paula, on the other hand, was ageless, her silver hair, high cheekbones and velvet skin giving her the appeal of a work of art, of an old master oil painting.
For a time in his late teens and early twenties, Mario McGuire had lusted after his Uncle Beppe's older daughter. . . something which Paula had understood from an early stage. The chal enge had been in her eyes from that time on, but he had been sensible enough to know that if he rose to it, he would be setting off down a dangerous path from which there would be no turning. There had been a couple of close cal s though; one at a party at Beppe's, and another after he had left home, when Paula had turned up at his flat late at night with a couple of drinks under her belt and mischief on her mind. And in truth, there had been another night, another party at which everyone had been very drunk, after which he had never been entirely certain what had happened. He had never asked, and Paula had never mentioned it.
'Mushrooms and ham indeed,' she laughed, scornful y.
'Why not? We're having friends for dinner and Maggie's got this new recipe.'
'So she sends you here to shop for her?'
He glanced around the big, double-fronted shop. 'This is still a deli, isn't it?'
'For the moment, yes. Come on, cuz, this is Paula; you're not kidding me. Your office is just along the road, but in al the time you've been 104
working out of it, you've never set foot in here. Now, the day after Aunt Christina drops her bombshell, here you are. This is an inspection visit by the new trustee, isn't it?'
He smiled at her; the full high-octane Mario smile, the killer leg opener from his single days which he had always been careful, until then, never to flash in her direction, for fear of what it might unleash.
'No fooling you, eh. Okay I admit it; I thought I'd drop in for a chat.'
'I'll chat to you any time, Big Irish, but why here? You can come round to my place any time you like.'
'I don't like to drop in there unannounced; you might have company.'
'Not right now, I don't; the lady is on her own. Anyhow, I never used to bother about paying you a surprise visit.'
'I remember.'
'Much good it used to do me, too. So what do you want to chat about?'
It was his turn to throw her a chal enging look. 'Now who's being coy? You know bloody well; I want to talk about you, our Paula, and your place in the family business. By the way, how's Uncle Beppe taking it?
I thought he was uncharacteristical y quiet after Mum made her announcement.'
'Dad's very sad that she's going. He's relied on her advice whenever a major decision has had to be made in the past, and he'll miss her greatly.'
Mario laughed out loud. 'Hah! That's a belter, that one. Whatever Mum said he did the opposite. Remember after Papa died, he left a plan to launch Viareggio fish and chip shops as a franchise? My mother was all for going ahead with that; she pleaded, almost, with Uncle Beppe to agree to it. But did he? Not on your life. I was only sixteen then, and more interested in birds than business, but I remember Mum coming home from that last meeting with him. I've never seen her so angry; before or since. At the end he'd laughed at her. "Franchised fish and chip shops," he'd said. "Never heard anything so fucking stupid in my life."
'He's a real business tycoon, is your dad,' he chuckled, sarcastically.
'If he'd relied on my mother's advice, he'd be the chairman of a pie right now. D'you know there's a Harry bloody Ramsden in Singapore? If Papa Viareggio hadn't dropped down dead twenty years ago, it would have been his name . . . and yours .. . over the door.'
Paula looked at him cool y. He had tried to rattle her, but he had failed. 'Do you think you're going to change things then, Mario? Because if you do, I have to remind you that my father stil has the casting vote in the event of a disagreement between the two trustees. You've got no more power than Aunt Christina had. You'l be a figurehead just like she was.
McGuire crumpled up his mask of false bonhomie, and threw it away.
He looked at her without a flicker of humour in his eyes. 'Don't you believe that, cousin, not for one moment. You see, I'm not blind to my mother's only fault; she had this classical y Italian thing against washing the family linen in public. That's why she let Uncle Beppe get away with it, that time and on every occasion since. But I'm not like that; if I believe as a trustee that the casting vote is being used in a way that's against the best interests of the beneficiaries, then I won't hesitate for one second to go to court to have it overturned. That's the truth, a our dad better believe it. You too, for that matter.'
A flame kindled in her dark eyes. 'Are you threatening me, Mario?'
He shook his head, firmly. 'No. I'm telling you, that's all. Paula, I've got my own life to lead and a career outside the family business, so I've got no wish to get involved in day-to-day management things. I have got one or two ideas that I'm going to air, but I don't think that Uncle Beppe wil have a problem with any of them. There's contracts of employment, for example. As I understand it, our managers have none at the moment; not formally, at least. That's dodgy legal y, and it's not right moral y, so I'm going to propose that they have.
'They don't need to be fancy; just the standard rights and obligations, and the customary loyalty clause.'
'What's that?' asked his cousin.
'You know, the one about no additional like employment without approval. It just means that if one of our managers, like you are, wanted to take on a second managerial appointment in her spare time . . . let's say she ran a few saunas for example . . . she couldn't without the approval of her principal employer, the trust.'