Head Shot (20 page)

threshold of the third age.' She pushed herself up and walked around the body, slowly looking at it from every possible angle.

'Okay,' she said finally. 'Has the photographer finished?' She looked across at the red-haired Inspector Arthur Dorward, who was lifting fingerprints from the front door. He nodded in reply. 'Then turn him over, please, gentlemen.'

McGuire and Jay did as she asked, Mario flinching slightly as he rol ed his uncle on to his back, expecting to see a grotesque exit wound.

But there was none; apart from the blood on his forehead and his cheeks, Beppe's dead face was unmarked.

Sarah read his thoughts. 'Whoever did this used a hol ow bullet, and probably a large calibre firearm. This was an execution, pure and simple; very similar to a case we had a couple of years back. I'd say from the way he's fallen that the victim was forced to kneel and was shot once through the base of the skul . The bul et flattened out on contact with the first and second cervical vertebrae, shattered them and passed on through into the brain, pulverising it. I wouldn't look to get bal istic markings when it's recovered; it'll be pretty much destroyed.

'This wasn't a contact wound, or else it might well have blown the man's head clean off. The kil er probably fired at a distance of two or three feet.'

Sarah looked at Jay. 'Was Dr Alexander in all night, do you know?'

'Yes,' McGuire answered her.

'And did she hear anything at al that could have been a gunshot... or hasn't anyone interviewed her yet?'

'I spoke to her, and I asked her that. No, she didn't. The only unusual sound she remembered was a thud coming through the ceiling at around nine thirty, as if something heavy had been dropped in the flat above.'

She leaned over and touched Beppe's waxy face. 'He isn't stone cold, and there's no rigor as yet, so that may well be the time of death. The thud could have been your uncle falling forward as he was shot, Mario.

Big gun like this, he must have used a silencer, otherwise she would have heard it.

'There's no doubt in my mind, gentlemen,' she said, firmly, 'that this has all the signs of what the media love to call a gangland-style killing, or a contract hit. For what it's worth, I haven't had anything like this on my autopsy table.'

'What about that other case you mentioned, the one a couple of years ago?' asked Jay.

'There were two of those, in fact, but that investigation was solved at that time. In any case there are some significant differences here. In those murders a rifle was used, a lower calibre, higher velocity weapon, and there was another signature, a very distinctive thing. No, this isn't related.'

'I'll trust your judgement on that. . . especial y if the person involved is locked up,' the superintendent said.

'He's dead, actually.'

'Couldn't have been him, then,' McGuire grunted, from the side.

'When can you do the post mortem on Mr Viareggio, Dr Skinner?'

'Tomorrow morning, Mr Jay; first thing, if that's good enough for you.'

'Yes, that'll be fine.'

She looked at the other detective. 'Mario, can I ask you something?

Are you aware of any health problems your uncle might have had, anything I should look out for in my examination?'

'No, none at al . Beppe might have been a bit on the plump side, but he took his health seriously. He had regular BUPA medicals and came through them al with flying colours. Come to think about it, he had one a few weeks back; he was crowing about it at our family party on Wednesday night.

'Why do you ask?'

She grinned at him, wryly. 'Thoroughness, that's al .'

'Convince me of that.'

'You're too suspicious by half, McGuire. Okay,' she confessed. 'I saw a case like this back in the States once, when I was working there. It was similar to this, a prominent man shot dead in his home, and the cops tore up half of gangland over the next couple of days. Then the coroner found that the man was riddled with cancer. Subsequently, the police spotted a large cash withdrawal from his bank, made just a couple of days before his death.

'They never did find the shooter, but they started asking different questions, and came up with the answer. The man knew he was dying, and had actual y chosen to put a contract on himself. But if your Uncle Beppe was physical y fit, and financial y sound . . .'

'Which he was,' Mario confirmed.

Sarah glanced down at the body once more; her smile had disappeared.

'Then that can't apply here. So how did your uncle come to have upset someone badly enough for them to do that to him? Do you know much about his business?'

136

'Not as much as I'm going to. As of three hours ago, control of it passed to me.'

'What? I thought your mother was the cotrustee.'

'My mother's retiring,' he explained. 'I'm taking her place, and with Beppe dead, I'm the senior partner, with the casting vote.'

'God, won't that make things difficult for you?'

'I guess it wil . I didn't ask for this, Sarah, I assure you, but it all goes back to my grandfather's wil ; I can't walk away from it, however messy it is.'

'Not even if there was a conflict of interest with your duty as a policeman?'

'Not even then.'

'Couldn't you persuade your mother to stay on for a while?'

He gasped. 'After this? What if Beppe's murder is connected to the business? Do you think I'd put her in the firing line?'

'No, of course not,' she replied, quickly. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight.'

'There is one up-side, though,' he told her. 'Greg Jay won't have any trouble gaining access to the books and records of the Viareggio Trust.'

34

'You ever been in an air terminal that you really liked as a place?' asked Joe Doherty.

'Barcelona.'

'Lucky you. I hate 'em, all of them, whether they're monsters like Heathrow and O'Hare, or small-town operations like this one. And when it's dark outside, I hate 'em even worse.'

'Bollocks!' Skinner laughed. 'What you're really saying is that you hate flying.'

His friend's lip curled into a sneer. 'Show me a man who says he actually likes it... especially since September 11 ... and I'll show you a liar.'

'You don't have to like it, Joe; you just have to do it. Personal y, I cannot see how heavier-than-air machines ever make it off the ground, but they do, so I take it on trust.

Now if you were talking about sailing,

that would be different.'

'Uh? You don't like boats?'

'The smal er they are, the more I dislike them. I'l go on cross channel ferries when I have to, like when I take the kids on holiday, but that's it.'

'You get sea-sick?' Doherty's sallow face was lit by his broadest smile. 'The great Bob Skinner gets seasick?'

'No. I've only ever felt sea-sick once in my life, and that was on the waltzer at Portobello funfair with Alex when she was a kid. All I could think about was how wide it would spread if I actually did throw up. I made it to the end of the ride . . . just. But boats; I don't like them, that's all.

'It's a childhood thing; my mum used to tel a story about a time she and my dad took me to Mil port for the weekend, when I wasn't much more than a baby. Somehow, my old man managed to miss the last ferry on Sunday night, and since he had to be at work next morning, he hired a local bloke with a motorboat to take us across to Largs. I've got no conscious memory of it, but Mother said that it was a hell of a 138

chooDV trip, and that she was terrified. I suppose that communicated itself to me and that it's stayed with me ever since.'

'Oh' said the American. 'In that case there's something I'd better share with you: the location of our meeting with Jackson Wylie, your father-in-law's ex-partner.'

Skinner stared at him. 'Not his fucking boat! Christ, when I met the guv at Leo's place I had to dredge the bottom of the barrel to find an excuse not to go out fishing with the two of them. Joe, tell me Kosinski hasn't booked us on to his fucking boat!'

'Wylie cal s it his cruiser, but you got it, buddy; that's where it's at.

You want to duck out?'

The stare became a glare. 'Duck out? So you can tell your pals in Washington all about it? There's two things in this life I don't like; small boats and looking at dead bodies. From time to time, I have to do the one, and I'l fucking well do the other if it's necessary. Not liking is a human feeling; not doing is a human weakness. I'l go across Wylie's gangplank, don't you worry.'

'In that case, the good news is that it'l be moored in the marina. This ain't no fishing trip . . . other than for any information the guy might have.'

The airport announcer broke into their conversation, calling them to the boarding gate for their flight to Buffalo. Skinner glanced up at the departure hall clock; it showed twelve minutes after six. Through the glass walls he saw the lightening sky, realising that already it was breakfast-time at their destination, and that further east, Sarah and the children should be having lunch. A wave of homesickness washed over him; he took out his cellphone and called home.

Trish, the nanny, answered; she was a friendly girl, the daughter of a Barbadian mother and a Yorkshire father who had met on a county cricket tour of the West Indies. 'No, Mr Skinner,' she told him. 'Sarah isn't here.

She's up at the Royal, doing a post mortem on a murder victim.'

He laughed. 'She can't resist, can she. I'm married to a workaholic, Trish.'

'I guess you are, although she did say there were special circumstances involved with this one.'

'Wonder what she meant by that?' he mused, aloud. 'She'll tell me, I expect. Meantime, let me have a word with Mark.'

He had a brief conversation with his son as he walked to the gate, catching up on school news, then switched off the cellphone and put it away as his boarding card was checked.

The flight was even and uneventful; after a while, Joe Doherty almost relaxed. This time there was no view, other than of a cloud blanket that

lasted all the way to the Great Lakes. So, instead of sightseeing, Skinner passed the time thinking, searching in vain through his sketchy knowledge of his father-in-law's business and personal history for any pointers to the mystery of his death.

The flight to Greater Buffalo International ended with a textbook landing and a sigh of relief from the Deputy Director of the FBI. As they stepped out of the aircraft they were hit by the warmth of the morning, a contrast from the Montana chil .

'Nice day for a sail,' Doherty remarked.

'Fuck off,' Skinner grunted, grimly.

They collected Kosinski's fax, in a white envelope, from the airport information desk, and returned to the rental car in the long-stay car park.

Doherty climbed in and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. 'Shit!'

he swore. 'Dud battery.'

Luckily, they were parked close to an exit booth; within ten minutes, an airport worker arrived with a ful y charged start-up pack, and they were mobile once more. Still, they had lost time and were tight for their scheduled water-borne meeting with Jackson Wylie.

The Scot took the Special Agent's map as they set off; as soon as he looked at it, he realised that the drive would be longer than they had anticipated. The airport was around ten miles north of Buffalo, and Bayview, on Lake Erie, where the marina was located, looked to be the same distance to the south. The route that had been plotted for them took them round the outskirts of the city, but nonetheless, the Saturday traffic on Lakeshore was heavy.

Fortunately Bayview was a small community; the signs were poor, but stil the marina was easy to find. They found a space at the rear of its dedicated car park, and set out to find Wylie's cruiser.

The marina was a bustle of activity; Skinner guessed that most of the boat-owners were strictly fair-weather sailors and that the fine spring day had drawn them in droves to ready their vessels for the summer to come. 'Says here that we're looking for mooring number two-seven three,' Doherty muttered. 'The boat's called the Hispaniola.'

'Treasure Island, eh. D'you think our man fancies himself as Long John Silver?'

'Maybe so. Robert Louis Stevenson spent some time in New York State.'

'Ah, come on, next you'll be telling me that John Logie Baird was an 140

American.' Skinner paused. 'Hey, wait a minute.' He pointed along a boardwalk jetty not far from the gateway to the marina, where they stood. ' See that cruiser there; about ten boats along. A big bugger of a thing with an awning on top. There's a guy on deck, and I'm pretty sure that's Jackson Wylie.

'Fuckin' hell,' the policeman chuckled, 'he's got a barbecue going.

He's on a boat, and he's got a barbie lit.'

'You should be pleased then; it means he really ain't planning to sail anywhere.' Doherty glanced at his watch. 'Come on then, let's go see

him. It's not too bad; we're only just over five minutes late.'

Skinner nodded, looked down automatical y to check his footing among the ropes and paint-pots that littered the wide walkway, and set out after him. He had taken two steps when, with no warning, he felt his head swim, and his knees buckle. The strangest sensation swept through him; it was as if he had stood in that spot before, had played the same scene in a parallel life. He felt as if he was in a throng of rushing, relentless people. 'Joe,' he heard himself call out, hoarsely.

The American stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning as he caught sight of his friend's face. 'Bob, you okay?' he asked.

But Skinner's spell had passed, as suddenly as it had come upon "him.

'Yes, yes,' he said, quickly.

'You sure? You look as though you'd seen a ghost.' He walked back towards him.

'For a minute I thought I had; it was . . . Shit, I don't know. For a second there, I thought I was going in the drink. You know what I reckon it was? The water; the way it moves as you look through the planks. I know I said I don't get sea-sick, but I think I was pretty close to it there.'

'Listen,' said Doherty. 'Go back to the car if you want. I won't tell anyone, honest.'

'Don't be daft, man. I'l be al right.' They waited for a minute or so, until Skinner nodded. 'No, it's gone; I'm okay. Come on. Let's not keep the man waiting any longer.'