Head Shot (22 page)

As they turned in off the street, two figures were waiting, both young men, one of them holding a camera, the other what looked like a smal tape recorder. They turned to look at them, and as they did McGuire heard the reporter exclaim, 'That's her.'

Before the photographer could fire off a single frame, the big detective stepped slightly in front of his cousin. 'Don't do that, mate,' he warned.

The man moved to his right, hunting for Paula with his lens, but he was too slow. Mario's hand shot out, grabbed the camera and ripped it from his grasp.

'Hey, gimme that! You can't do that!'

'I just did. Now stop shouting or I'l give it back to you piece by piece.'

'Want me to get the police?'

'He is the police,' said the reporter quietly. Close to, he looked a few years older than the photographer, as if he had left his thirtieth birthday behind him on the road. As he turned back to the couple, the evening sunlight seemed to glint on his designer jacket. 'You're Chief Inspector McGuire, aren't you? I'm Christian Sanderson, of the Sunday Mail. I'd like to talk to Miss Viareggio about her father's murder. We've just come from Mr Pringle's press conference at Fettes. Are you involved in the investigation, Chief Inspector?'

'That's Detective Superintendent, Mr Sanderson,' Mario told him. As he looked at him he could see the front page of the fol owing day's Sunday tabloid, but he knew that if he held back the truth and Sanderson found out, the headline would be that much bigger. 'And the answer's no; I'm not part of the CID team. This is a family matter; Beppe Viareggio was my uncle.'

He heard the reporter's gasp above the sound of a van roaring past on the street outside. 'Mr Pringle and Mr Jay never told us that.'

'Why should they? I'm as entitled to privacy as the rest of the family.'

'Aye, but now it's known, can I talk to you about it?'

'No!' McGuire bellowed. 'Don't be daft. I might be family, but I am stil a copper, and I couldn't tel you anything about my col eagues'

enquiries, suppose I knew anything.'

'It's been suggested that this was a contract kil ing,' said the journalist. 'Is that right? Was Mr Viareggio involved with the Mafia?'

'You. . .' He heard his cousin, standing beside him now, begin to explode, but he squeezed her arm hard enough to silence her outburst.

'What bright spark suggested that?' he asked.

'My news desk had a phone call half-an-hour ago. A guy rang in and told us that it was.'

'And did he leave his name and number?'

Many a journalist would have looked sheepish at that question, McGuire knew, but Sanderson kept a straight face. 'No. It was anonymous.'

'Surprise, surprise.' The big detective laughed, but only for a second.

'Right,' he said, abruptly. 'I wil give you a statement, but it's not from the police, it's from the victim's family, represented by my cousin and by me as the Viareggio trustees. My uncle was an honest, upright, wel respected businessman, as was his father before him. Anyone who suggests otherwise in the press or elsewhere, will find themselves dealing with our solicitors.

'You give that to your news desk, word for word.' He looked Sanderson 150

in the eye. 'Now the policeman's back; this is private property and my cousin is asking you to go.'

'Fair enough,' said the journalist. 'But what about my col eague's camera?'

'Sure, here you are.' He held out the Nikon to the photographer, pressing the shutter button as he did so and hearing the whirr of the motor drive as the rest of the film inside was exposed. 'By the way,' he cal ed after the two men as they left, 'don't approach any other members of my family. You've been fairly reasonable so far, but you don't want to piss me off

'Thanks,' Paula whispered as he took her key and opened the door to the building. 'I don't know what I'd have done if I'd come in on my own.'

Mario grinned. 'Probably the same as you did to that copper on the door last night. It would have made a great photograph.'

'Bloody vultures,' she muttered.

'Nah,' he countered. 'Just guys doing a job.'

'What? Acting on an anonymous phone cal ?'

'No, just checking it out. The police get anonymous tip-offs all the time. Do you think we don't follow them up just because the caller doesn't leave his name? To tell you the truth, cousin,' he said, 'the thing that worries me about the call to the Mail is that it was bloody close to the mark. Your father's murder did look like a professional job.' They stopped at the elevator and he pressed the call button; the doors slid open at once. 'I think I'l come up with you; there are a couple of calls I should make.'

Paula's flat was on the top floor, not unlike her parents' in that the living space was open plan. Mario had never been inside in the two years she had lived there; he looked around, taking in the fabrics wound round the pillars, the tasteful modern paintings on the walls, and the expensive lighting which hung from the high ceiling.

'The sauna business must be good,' he chuckled.

She bristled at once. 'Not bad, thank you very much. God, you sounded just like my dad, there.'

'Never in my life have I sounded like your dad, rest his soul.'

'Wel , stop going on about it, then. I saw a chance to get a wee business for myself, and I took it. What's wrong with that?'

'In principle, nothing; it's the "wee business" you chose to get into that I don't like. You know what these places are, Paula; they're knocking shops.'

'They're all licensed by the city council,' she protested.

'Which turns a blind eye to what goes on in them because it gets the girls off the streets. Tell me this. Do you pay the girls who work there, or do they pay you?'

'They don't pay me a penny, and they get decent wages! The punters pay for their saunas, cash or credit card. What happens between them and the attendants is their business, but I do not take a cut.' She stepped up to him, her dark eyes flashing, with real anger. 'I'll tell you what I do, though; I insist that they use condoms and I make them have monthly blood tests . . . not just for the clap, but for drug use. If someone's working just to feed a habit, she won't get through the door.

If someone's working to feed her kids, she's welcome.'

'That's very moral, cousin, very moral,' he flared back, his gaze as fiery as hers. 'You're a madam with a heart of gold! But what about the guys whose kids go short because they spend their dough getting blown on your massage tables? What about them, eh?'

'Would you rather have them prowling the streets looking for it?

Better they pay for it, otherwise even some of those kids you're talking about might not be safe.'

'You . . .' He stopped himself short, as a vision of his wife filled his mind; until then he had been at pains to keep it at bay, but in the heat of the argument it managed to sneak under his defences.

Paula turned away from him. 'Let's cal a truce, Mario. Just make your phone cal s, then you can go.'

'Fine,' he agreed, 'but tell me this. Did Uncle Beppe know about those places?'

She paused. 'I never told him,' she answered. 'You only know because you're a clever bastard copper. But my mum doesn't know, nor does Nana.'

Mario smiled at her. 'The latter goes without saying. I'll tell you this too; if she ever finds out she'l boil you down for soup.'

'That's your hold on me.' She grinned back; her olive skin had a weary, yellowish tinge. 'Who've you going to phone anyway?'

He walked over to a big soft armchair, sat down, and picked up the mock-fifties telephone that lay on a table beside it. 'Listen in.'

He made two calls. The first was to Greg Jay, to advise him of the anonymous tip-off to the Sunday Mail. The second was to John Hunter, a trusted veteran freelance journalist, to whom he repeated the statement that he had given to Christian Sanderson. 'There,' he said as he put the big black handset back in its cradle. 'John'l put the word around. If that bastard's cal ed any other papers, he won't go unanswered.'

152

miAU anui

She stood in front of him, laying her hands flat on his broad chest, running them up under the lapels of his blazer. Raising herself slightly on her toes, she kissed him, quickly, on the lips, then again, longer, then a third time, drawn out, her tongue flicking his teeth.

At last he gripped her by the elbows and held her away from him.

'Hey,' he whispered, 'what was that for?'

'It was for not being such a bad guy after al .'

'Don't tell anyone else, though.'

'I promise. Would you take me to bed, please, cousin?'

'We've been over this before ... and I was single then.'

'We have indeed,' she murmured, pressing her body against him. 'And I wasn't as drunk as you either. You do owe me one, you know. There is absolutely nothing worse for a girl's morale than when a guy fucks her and can't remember it next morning .. . unless it's when they're in bed together and he doesn't fuck her at all.'

'So which was it then?' he asked, eventual y. It was a question he had put off asking for years.

'Actual y. . .' She gave a deep throaty chuckle. 'Truth be told . . .' She looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. 'It was more a case of me fucking you, big boy ... or as I remember, very big boy.' She slid her right hand down, searching for him: he did nothing to stop her. 'Oh yes,'

she hissed. 'That's the fella, all right.'

She gave him a quick squeeze then slid her arms around his waist.

'Come on. Find out what you snorted and mumbled your way through last time. Who was Bridget, by the way?'

He frowned. 'She was the barmaid in my local. Why?'

'That's what you kept calling me.'

She took his hand in hers and turned, pul ing him towards a door off the big pil ared room. He stepped into her bedroom, but then tugged her back towards him. 'Don't play games, Paula. Al right, we gave each other one when we were youngsters, and I'm sorry I wasn't more up for it. . .'

Her laugh cut across him. 'What do you mean? Even in your sleep, you were as up for it as you could get.'

'Maybe so, but it isn't going to happen again, and you know it. Listen, it's been a hellish twenty-four hours, I know. Why don't you just have a big drink and get some sleep?'

She looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were glazed with tears once more. 'Just stay with me, Mario. Please. I won't threaten your virtue if you don't want me to, but don't go. I can't get the sight of my father out of my mind. Whenever I close my eyes, I can see him lying there, with his arse sticking up in the air and the back of his head blown out.'

'You'l see that whether I'm here or not, love. So will I. I wish I could tell you different, but you'll see it for a while. When someone's murdered, there's usual y more than one victim.'

She seemed to slump against him. 'It's not just that, though,' she cried into his chest. 'What if there is something about the business or about Dad, that we don't know? What if it passes to us now? You're a policeman; no one's going to threaten you. But what about me? What about me?

'I don't want to be next!'

154

38

Bob Skinner and Joe Doherty stood on the gangway beside Jackson Wylie's mooring, looking at what was left of his boat. Al of the superstructure and the deck had gone, save for the twisted metal framework of some of the fittings; below, virtually all that was left was a black, soggy mess, where the firefighters' hoses had pounded the blaze into extinction.

The exception was a rectangle ofDay-Glo yellow, a tarpaulin laid by the sheriff's deputies over the remains of Leopold Grace's former partner.

'Wel , Bob,' asked Doherty, 'what do you think? Was it a stray spark from the barbecue and it's hooray and up she rises?'

'It's possible,' the big Scot murmured. 'So, I'm told, are interstellar travel, miracle cures for terminal il nesses, and peace in the Balkans. As a friend said to me the other day, it's also conceivable that Motherwell Footbal and Athletic Club could win the Scottish Premier League in my lifetime. But I don't believe that any of those things is actually going to happen, any more than I believe that this was a fucking accident.

'If our theory of a link between the murders of Leo, Wilkins and Garrett is correct, then that thing lying under the sheriff's groundsheet, done to a cinder, is number four. You're not going to tell me any different, are you?'

'No, sir, I am not. We'd better find out all we can about him, quick as we can. How much do you know? You met the guy, after al .'

Skinner shook his head. 'I know nothing about him. Yes, we met one time at my father-in-law's but we didn't exchange life stories.'

'Did Mr Grace ever talk about him?'

'Very little. He mentioned once that he had brought Wylie into the law firm back in the early seventies, and that he had appointed him as senior partner on his retirement on a sort of caretaker basis, a safe pair of hands while the younger guys were gaining more experience.'

'How old was he?'

'About ten years younger than Leo, I'd have guessed. He'd have been looking towards retirement himself now.'

'Married?'

'Widowed. His wife died a few years back. When we spoke he mentioned a son in Florida, a journalist with the Miami Herald.'

Doherty touched his head wound, gingerly. 'Gotta take another painkiller,' he muttered, taking a small bottle from his pocket. 'Let's go back to the office; I can't take these damn things without water.'

They walked silently along the gangway. Eventual y the American gave a heavy sigh. 'Guess I'd better break into the guys' weekends.'

'To do what?' asked Skinner. "They can't make any progress on Garrett or Wilkins till Monday. We're on the ground here; we can get Dekker's men moving on this new investigation, and we can do a couple of things ourselves.'

'Such as?'

'Well, eventual y, we can sit down and think, but first we should find Mrs Thorpe, Wylie's secretary. We need to find out who might have known that he'd be on that boat. Brad Dekker's digging up her address for us.'

'Yeah. Who knows, maybe she can tell us a lot more than that. She worked for both him and Grace; maybe she can tell us what this is all about.'