Head Shot (33 page)

'Ah well, Clan,' said Rose slowly, 'it's not going to be quite that easy.

The man I'm certain is Father Green was identified, by Dr Amritraj, as Mr Magnus Essary, of 46 Leightonstone Grove, Hunter's Tryst. The body was claimed next day by a woman named El a Frances, who said she was his business partner; it was cremated at Seafield last Saturday morning.'

'Aw, shite,' Pringle cried out. 'Why the hell did I not stay in a division?

The Frances woman; what do we know about her?'

'Next to nothing. Dr Amritraj gave PC Johnston ...'

'Charlie Johnston?'

'That's the man.'

'It'l be right then; big Charlie's a chancer, but he's a sound copper.

Sorry, Mags, on you go.'

'Okay; Amritraj named Ella Frances as the personal contact listed with the practice. He gave Johnston a mobile phone number. I've checked with the practice already; they had Magnus Essary listed al right, but he had a fictitious NHS number. The entry in their records was made by Dr Amritraj.'

'Lift him,' said Pringle, immediately.

'I wish I could,' Rose countered. 'But he doesn't work there any more.

He was a locum, hired on a two-month contract. He didn't appear for surgery on Tuesday and they haven't seen him since. He lodges with an Indian family out in Livingston; I've got officers going out to see them now. You know the chances of him being there.'

'Bloody hell! What about Frances?'

'The mobile number she gave was a pre-paid type. It was bought in the name of Ella Frances all right, but the address given was as phoney as Essary's NHS entry.'

Pringle tugged at his moustache, so violently that Maggie wondered that he had any left. 'What have we got here?' he muttered.

'Time wil tell,' she answered, 'but once my people confirm that Amritraj has gone from his digs as well, I'l put a trace out for him right across the NHS. Since nothing else is as it seems in this business, it's a pound to a pinch of shit that Father Francis Donovan Green didn't die of natural causes.'

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'I agree with you, but how the hell did he come to wind up in a doctor's in Oxgangs in the middle of the bloody night?'

'Good question, Clan. We'll need to involve Strathclyde in that end of the investigation. Father Green came from North Lanarkshire. I've got a contact in CID there, so if you're happy, I'll call him quietly and start them to work building up a profile of the man.'

'Do that,' Pringle exclaimed. 'There's another thing you should do as well; unless Amritraj is stupid enough still to be in Livingston, you should get a warrant to search his digs, and the surgery in Oxgangs, just in case the landlord and the doctors don't co-operate. We're no' going to be able to do a post mortem on a pile of ashes, so we've got to look everywhere we can to see if we can find out how he was killed.

'I don't fancy the Crown Office's job in this one, Mags. Once we catch this fella, someone in there's got to decide what the bloody hell we can charge him with.'

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'Mario, I'll search my memory banks al night if that's what you want, but I promise you, I never met either of those people. Stan reported to your uncle and me that he had been approached by a new importer wanting to rent space in the bonded warehouse; we agreed, and later he told us that a deal had been done. He needed the signature of one trustee.

Beppe said he would do it, and that was that.

'Later, I heard from Stan that there was some difficulty with them, but he said they were dealing with it, and that I shouldn't bother.'

He sighed, partly out of relief that his mother had taken no part in the family's business with the elusive importers. All afternoon, since Greg Jay's second call, he had felt a growing unease, a detective's sense that something was very wrong with the firm of Essary and Frances.

'Okay, Mum,' he said. 'I'm waiting for Stan to cal me when he gets in. I'l get chapter and verse from him, I'm sure.'

'Yes, I'm sure you wil ; Stan's very efficient. What's the fuss about anyway?'

'Nothing, really. I'm just doing a favour for Greg Jay.'

'Why? Is he interested in these people? Does he think they might have been involved in your uncle's murder?'

'Nah. He just wants to eliminate them from his enquiries, that's al .'

Christina McGuire snorted down the phone. 'Mario! This is your mother you're talking to, not the crime reporter from the Evening News. Don't give me any of your official police language. Are these people

suspects or not?'

He laughed, reproved. 'No, not exactly. Beppe had a dispute with them over the tenancy; that's al . Greg needs to check them out, but he can't find them.'

'I see. You might have said that in the first place. Your col eague must be scraping the barrel; that's al I can say. Who's going to resort to murder over a few feet of warehouse space?'

'You're absolutely right. It has to be done, though, Mum.'

'If you say so. Just make sure it doesn't distract your friend from 228

pursuing the real criminal; Sophia and Viola are at their wits' end.'

That's not very far, Mario thought, but he knew better than to say it.

'We'l catch him, don't you worry.'

'Hmm. Now you're talking like a policeman again. Good night, darling.'

'Night, Mum.' He cradled the phone and checked his watch; it was pushing nine, yet Maggie still was not home. She had called him to say that she would be delayed, and that she would bring in a takeaway. He was hungry enough to eat a bear, but there was stil no sign of his wife, or of the chicken Madras, or the naan bread.

The phone rang. 'Stan's late back too,' he muttered, thinking it would be his cousin's husband. But he was wrong.

'Is Detective Superintendent Rose in?' a man asked.

'No, but I'm a detective super as well. Will I do?'

'I suppose so, sir,' the voice was smooth, confident, with a hint of a laugh in there. 'This is DI David Mackenzie, N Division, Strathclyde Police. Ms Rose cal ed me this afternoon, and asked me to make some enquiries about a priest off my patch who's turned up dead on hers. She said I should cal her whenever I'd something to report.'

Mario had heard of Bandit Mackenzie, from Maggie. 'Flash' was how she had described him, but beneath that too-self-assured exterior, she had also said, there lurked one very good detective. And that was not her view alone; Bob Skinner seemed to rate the guy, too.

'Fine. Do you want to tell me, or leave a number for her to call you?'

'You'l do, sir. It's my wife's birthday today, and I'm in bother as it is.

Would you tel her that I've spoken to Father Green's curate. Father Tomkinson; I put him in the confessional, so to speak. I didn't tell him his boss was dead, but I did lean on him a bit, and he was a bit more forthcoming than in his first interview. He admitted to me that the late father wasn't exactly celibate. He liked the ladies, and he liked them youngish and attractive. Naturally, he was discreet about it; he never fished in his own river, so to speak. He used to go cast his line through in Edinburgh; whenever he went off to visit his sister, that's where he was real y going.'

'How did the curate know this?'

'Father Green told him. Whether it was in formal confession, or a casual conversation, I don't know; I didn't ask and the lad didn't say.

Green said that he used to go down the pubs in the Royal Mile in his dog collar. Never failed, he claimed; his experience was that there's any number of women out there who'll jump at the chance to shag a priest.

It's an interesting thought that, eh, sir? Any time you fancy an il icit leg over, all you need to do is put on a dog col ar.'

'I'll bear it in mind. Inspector. I'l give your message to my wife.

You'd better hurry off home to yours; I just hope you don't find her dressing up like a nun when you get there.'

Mackenzie laughed. 'Nice one, sir. I'll be in a bit late tomorrow, if Ms Rose wants to talk to me about what the curate said.'

'Did he mention any specific pubs?'

'No. But now you mention it, he said the busy pubs; yes, he did say that, the busy ones.'

'Thanks; that cuts a few out. Good night, Inspector.'

He hung up, then made a brief note of Mackenzie's information on a pad beside the phone. He had barely finished when it rang again; this time it was Stan Coia on the line. Mario told his cousin's husband, briefly, about Greg Jay's problem. 'Murder investigations are about talking to people and knocking them off one by one as potential suspects.

That's al Greg wants to do with Essary and Frances, but we can't find either of them. There's no answer at their registered address, and no trace anywhere else. Have you got a contact for them?'

'I've got the address on the lease, but I don't remember having any other details.'

'I can guess what the address is. How did you set the tenancy up? Can you remember?'

'Ella Frances phoned me; she said that she and her partner were starting an import business, and they needed to show Customs and Excise that they had the facility to bond stock in the UK. She asked if we rented out space; I said yes we did, she asked how much per square metre, I told her and she said "Fine", and asked to lease some for a year, with an option for a further twelve months.

'I sent her a standard draft agreement, and told her we'd want payment in advance.

'She called me back a couple of days later; I said that I'd draw up the official document, and fixed a date for us to meet them to sign it. I insisted that both of them had to sign it, in person, on the premises. She huffed a bit, but eventual y they met Beppe at the warehouse; they did the business there and they paid up.'

'So you've got bank details?'

'Cash, Mario. They paid in cash. I remember Beppe bringing this wadge of money back to my office, and asking me to bank it in the property account.'

i

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'When did al this happen?'

'Last September.'

'And when did Beppe write to them about terminating the lease?'

'A couple of weeks ago.'

'Mmm.'

He stood with the phone in his hand, aware vaguely of the living-room door opening. 'Is this significant, Mario?' asked Coia. 'Could those two have been behind Beppe's murder?'

'I can't say yes, Stan,' he answered, 'and I can't say no. Al I can tell you is that Greg Jay and I want very much indeed to speak to Mr Magnus Essary, and his partner.'

From behind him, there came a crash as a chicken Madras takeaway, still in its carrier bag, hit the floor.

'What did you say?'

He turned and surveyed the scene, incredulous. 'Is that our dinner on the floor?' he asked, irrelevantly.

'Never mind that. What did you say there? What was that name you used?'

He realised that he still had the phone in his hand. 'Sorry, Stan,' he said, 'got to go.' He hung up and turned back to face her.

'Magnus Essary. He and his partner rented space in our bonded warehouse a while back; Beppe wanted to terminate their lease and they were kicking up about it. Greg Jay wants to talk to him but he can't find him.'

'I'm not surprised,' Maggie exclaimed. 'Magnus Essary was identified as having died of a heart attack, just over a week ago, in a doctor's surgery in Oxgangs.'

'Ah shit. Greg .can take him off the list then.'

'Oh no he can't. We're one hundred per cent certain that the man identified as Essary was actual y Father Francis Donovan Green, a parish

priest from Holytown in North Lanarkshire.'

'.. . Who liked to cruise the Royal Mile pubs looking for friendly ladies with an eye for a new experience, like screwing a priest, so they could tell their pals about it.'

'How did . . .'

He cut her off in mid-exclamation. 'Bandit Mackenzie phoned a few minutes ago. Green's curate told him the whole story. Who certified the death?'

'A doctor named Amritraj; a locum.'

'Who's now missing?'

'Of course; leaving a mountain of debt in his wake. I was late home because I had to dig up a sheriff to give me warrants to search his digs and the surgery.'

'Where's he from?'

'Goa, in India.'

'He won't be Goa-in' back there, then.'

She groaned at his bad joke. They both became aware at the same moment of the odour of spil ed Madras. She bent to pick up the bag, and carried it into the kitchen. Mario watched her as she scooped the curry into a Pyrex bowl, then transferred it to two plates, laying a naan bread on each one. He pulled up two stools and they ate, hungrily, at the breakfast bar.

'What do you think al this business is about, Mario?' she asked.

He smiled, his cheek bulged out with a chunk of sauce-dipped bread.

'Money,' he answered, when he could. 'Two people go through al the motions of setting up a company; they register, they take commercial space, they have a business address. But they never use the space, and they can only be contacted by mail, through the address.'

'A rented house near where Amritraj worked,' she interposed.

'Why would they do al that?'

'As a front, of course. Smuggling?'

He frowned at her. 'How about insurance? We've got an Essary, dead, only he isn't real y.'

'And who, it turned out, never existed in the first place . .. not as Essary, anyway.'

'But what if there's a bloody great policy on his life, the kind smal companies take out to cover the death of directors, so that their shares can be bought in?'

Maggie nodded. 'What if, indeed.'

'Where's the body?'

'Up the chimney at Seafield; it was claimed by the partner of the so called deceased.'

'Ella Frances?'

'The same. She had him cremated on Saturday.'

Mario laughed out loud. 'First thing tomorrow, love, you'd better check with al the main corporate insurers.'

'A day in the rank,' she snorted, 'and you're telling me how to do my job?'

'Funny, Greg Jay said much the same to me today. Here, that's a point.

Whose investigation is this anyway, yours or his?'

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ri.ti.rt-L' onvn

'It's Dan Pringle's. And you know what? I'm going to see him, right now.