A Brush with Death

Book 29: BOB SKINNER

by Quintin Jardine

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Noir; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

When millionaire Leo Speight is found poisoned at his Ayrshire mansion, Police Scotland has a tough case on its hands. The charismatic young Speight was a champion boxer with national hero status. A long list of lovers and friends stand to benefit from his estate. Did one of them decide to speed things up? Suspecting links to organised crime, the Security Service wants to stay close to the investigation. They have just the man to send in: ex-Chief Constable Bob Skinner. Combining forces with DI Lottie Mann and DS Dan Provan of Serious Crimes, he's determined to see Speight's murderer put away for a long, long time. But there's a twist even Bob Skinner couldn't see coming…

Release date: April 19, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

One

‘Where the hell is the wee toerag?’ Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann muttered grimly, as the wide doors slid together behind a portly middle-aged man in a colourful shirt and shorts, pushing a laden trolley. ‘How big is that bloody plane? There must have been three hundred people through by now. It can’t be bigger than that, surely.’

‘Excuse me, please.’

The passenger had manoeuvred his unstable vehicle around the retaining barrier. Lottie looked at him, and realised that she was blocking his progress.

‘Sorry,’ she said, stepping aside. ‘Are you off the Dubai flight?’ she asked as he made his way past her.

The traveller nodded.

‘Are there many left in the baggage hall?’ she asked.

‘I’m the last one,’ he replied mournfully. ‘They’ve lost one of my wife’s cases,’ he added. ‘It just had to be the one with all the family presents in it.’

‘There’s nobody else there? No one at all?’

‘No, only a boy that got pulled up by Customs. They’re giving him a hard time, silly bugger.’

‘Maurice!’ A shrill voice rang out from a few yards away. The man looked across at its owner, a heavily tanned woman, shaking his head.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said.

‘You didn’t see a wee man, fifty-something, silver moustache, slightly scruffy?’

‘Not in business class, no. Sorry I can’t help you, but I’ve got troubles of my own.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks anyway. Don’t worry, they’ll find your case. They always do, eventually.’

‘Try telling her that,’ he sighed, glancing at his glowering spouse, then went on his way.

She looked back at the international arrivals gateway, as if she was willing it to open again, then realised that she was alone; the friends, the families, the men in peaked caps holding up scrawled signs bearing passenger names, the last of them had gone. She turned, looking at the signage, picking through the symbols for toilets, taxis and buses, until she found a large stylised ‘i’ with an arrow pointing off to the right.

‘Bugger,’ she growled. ‘What’s happened to the little shite?’

She took her phone from her pocket and checked it for messages, but there were none. Detective Sergeant Dan Provan was missing, officially. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, she thought. Apart from work, he’s barely been out of Cambuslang in twenty years. What the hell made me believe he could get to Australia and back, no bother?

Lottie Mann and the man some observers called her leprechaun had worked together for most of the DI’s career, and for all of her twelve years in CID. Under his tutelage she had risen from detective constable, while he had remained at sergeant rank, the height of his ambition, he said. Provan had achieved the status of an institution within the old Strathclyde police force, but when that was succeeded by the Scottish national police service, the general expectation had been that he would be pensioned off quietly, his experience counterbalanced by his irrepressible irreverence.

In fact, the opposite had happened. He had caught the eye of Bob Skinner, in the final few months of his police career as the last chief constable of Strathclyde, and Skinner in turn had marked the card of Deputy Chief Constable Mario McGuire, who had taken charge of CID across the country in the unified service.

McGuire had wanted to promote Provan, to put him in a position where he could teach others what he had taught Mann, but he had refused. ‘Look, sir,’ he had said when the DCC had made a futile attempt to insist, ‘my pension’s maxed out and it’s under the old scheme, so I’d leave wi’ two thirds of my final salary, and a lump sum in cash, tax-free. You try and put me somewhere I don’t want to go, and I’ll be out of here. You think I’m kidding? Ask Bob Skinner. He and I had much the same discussion. I’ll no’ be on a loser financially by retiring; what I’d have made in extra wages would have gone on train fares to work. Keep me with the big lass, sir, or I’m gone. She needs me,’ he had added. ‘Lottie’s no’ everybody’s cup of tea; the one thing I haven’t taught her is how to teach herself. She’d break more sergeants than she’d make.’

The Deputy Chief had given a great sigh. ‘I did ask Bob Skinner,’ he had confessed. ‘He said you were an insubordinate wee bastard, and that you gave up taking orders on the day you gained full pension rights. But he also said you’re fucking gold dust, and that I should hang on to you for as long as I can. So that’s what I’m going to do . . . with one proviso. You’ve taken just two weeks’ holiday in each of the last five years. You’re fifty-four, and you look every day of it, plus a few more. If I’m keeping you, I’m keeping you healthy, so you’re going to use up that unused holiday entitlement. You’re taking two months off, and no argument. It’s the end of February, so piss off somewhere warm and sunny – the Canaries, maybe. Eat properly and get some exercise; it probably won’t kill you. Don’t try telling me DI Mann will miss you; she’ll be too busy. While you’re away, she’ll be on a command course. Deal?’

‘Deal. To tell you the truth,’ Provan had confessed, ‘I’ve been thinking I should go and see Lulu, my daughter. She went to Australia a couple of years ago, and she’s been nagging me to visit her.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Gold Coast City. She’s a primary school teacher there.’

‘Then go, Dan. Stay for the whole time, if she’ll have you. The Commonwealth Games are on there in April.’

‘Big fuckin’ deal.’

He had gone nonetheless, astonishing Lottie when she had taken him to Glasgow International by checking in at the business-class counter. ‘Ah got a deal,’ he had insisted. ‘I know folk.’

While he was away, she had indeed been too busy to miss him, much. She had spent most of the time at the Scottish Police College near East Kilbride, on the command course to which she had been ordered. She was not a natural in the classroom, but she had persevered, and had emerged with a greater understanding of staff management, and the realisation that she had been leaving all of that to Dan Provan. She did not share that with her tutors, for she had decided within the first three days of the course that Provan knew far more than they did about the subtle art of getting the best out of colleagues, be they subordinate or senior.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ she murmured as she turned to head for the information desk.

She had reached the escalators when she stopped, realising that there was one thing she had not done. She took out her phone again, found ‘Dan’ among her contacts and called his number.

She blinked as she heard a ringtone, confused as she realised that it was not sounding in her ear, but on another mobile, somewhere close. She spun round, eyes sweeping the area, until they fell on a man of medium height, standing at the entrance to WHSmith a few yards away, beside a laden trolley. He wore a light cotton jacket, cream coloured, and tan trousers. He was clean shaven and suntanned. His silver hair, which shone with vitality, was close cropped, and he was smiling, at her.

‘Dan?’ she whispered, into her unanswered mobile.

His smile widened. There was laughter in his eyes.

‘Dan!’ she shouted.

He silenced his phone and slipped it into a jacket pocket, then walked towards her pushing the trolley with one hand. She met him halfway, frowning as she gazed at him, shaking her head slowly from side to side, in something close to bewilderment.

‘How did you . . .’ she began. ‘How long have you . . .’

‘Ah walked right past ye,’ Dan Provan replied; his accent had survived the transformation. He winked at her. ‘We’ve known each other for twelve years, too. Ah don’t know whether to be chuffed or insulted.’

‘I know what I am,’ she retorted. ‘I’m bloody amazed. What’s happened to you?’

‘I’ll tell ye in the car,’ he said. ‘Are you okay to go? Can I get you a coffee or anything?’

‘No, I’m fine. Coffee would be wasted on me. I’m still in shock; talk about a metamorphosis!’

Lottie led the way from the concourse, heading for the pick-up area. It was a mild April day, but Provan shivered as they stepped out of the terminal building. She stopped at the payment machine; he snatched the ticket from her hand as she produced it and validated it using his own credit card. He glanced at the receipt, and winced. ‘Nothin’s changed,’ he murmured.

She opened the boot of her car with a remote as they approached it. ‘Are they new suitcases?’ she asked, as he loaded his luggage. ‘I don’t remember those when you left.’

‘Aye,’ he confirmed. ‘The old ones were condemned as well.’ He grinned again as he closed the boot lid and moved towards the passenger door. ‘Everything was condemned.’

The shock of his transformation was beginning to wear off. ‘Come on, then,’ she chuckled, as she started the car. ‘Let’s have the whole story.’

Provan settled into his seat and fastened his safety belt. ‘You’ve met my Lulu, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, at her graduation party.’

‘D’you remember she’s a forthright lassie?’

‘Not really. I didn’t have much of a chance to talk to her.’

‘Well she is; always has been. She’s been able to put the fear of God in me since she was about six. And she’s gettin’ worse. When she met me at the airport, she took one look at me as Ah came through the arrivals door and said, “Father, what the hell have you been doing to yourself? You look like an old sofa with the stuffing coming out. You’re fifty-four and you look ten years older. I’m not having it, do you hear me?”

‘Ah heard her all right. The whole fuckin’ airport heard her. The next morning she took me straight to this big shopping centre on the beach, and made me buy new gear.’ He touched the jacket. ‘Stuff like this, lightweight, bright. Even this fuckin’ shirt.’ Lottie glanced across, taking in a coconut motif. ‘A complete wardrobe, underwear, shoes, the lot. She made me leave the shop wearing some of the things I’d bought there. The clothes I’d walked in wearing went in the bin.’

He paused, chuckling quietly. ‘Was she done? Was she hell? From there she took me to this unisex hairdresser, the place she goes to, and handed me over to this bloke. He struck me as a bit of a mincer, but so what? To each his own.’

‘Excuse me?’ Lottie exclaimed. ‘Did Dan Provan just say that? Dan the closet homophobe . . . with the closet door open?’

He nodded. ‘You heard me right. Quite a few o’ Lulu’s friends in Australia bat for the other team. Ah talked to them, and let’s just say Ah understand them better now.’

‘Thank God for that!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve been wondering how to introduce you to my girlfriend. Joke!’ she added loudly, as his eyes widened. ‘I’m glad you’ve joined the twenty-first century, though.’

‘It’s a good place to be,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, back to the barber’s. “The moustache has to go,” Lulu told him. “That’s first. After that, turn him into something a little less unkempt.” So,’ he said, ‘the wee ’tache wound up on the floor – cut-throat bloody razor, too – then he shampooed my hair, blew it dry, and left me looking like . . . this.’ He tapped his head. ‘And you know what? When he was done and I looked in the mirror . . .’

‘You wondered where that respectable-looking bloke had been hiding for all these years,’ she retorted.

‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I really had let myself go, Lottie, had I no’?’

‘I tried to tell you often enough,’ she replied, ‘but you weren’t ready to listen. “Blending in”, you called it, without realising that even in the pubs you went to, you actually stood out, because most people don’t look like that any more. Just make sure you don’t regress,’ she warned.

‘No chance of that. Lulu says she’s going to Skype me at least once a week to make sure. Even if she doesn’t, there’s no worries. She did more than just dress me and groom me. The next stop was a sports shop, for runnin’ shoes, shorts and a couple of vests. Then she took me to her gym, would you believe, and signed me up for a fitness course with one of their trainers.’

‘Bloody hell! Does she want to inherit early?’

‘That’s what I asked her, but after the first couple of sessions, it was good. The lad gave me a circuit, using all their machines: treadmills, rowing, cycles, cross-trainers and this bastard of a thing called a Versaclimber.’

‘You look none the worse for it,’ she admitted.

‘I am none the worse for it. I don’t know if I ever told you, but in my young days, as well as playin’ junior football, Ah was a runner. Roads and cross-country mostly; I did a couple of marathons, finished both of them just inside three hours.’

‘No,’ she said, surprised, ‘you never told me that. Why did you stop?’

‘Marriage, kids, job, lack of dedication, got to like the beer too much. Ah’m going to start again, though. There are plenty of guys my age still running decent times . . . not that it’s about times, really. Just finishing’s enough.’

‘What else did Lulu fix up for you? Socially?’

Dan laughed. ‘Women, you mean? Her pals are all at least twenty years younger than me. Mind you, there was a work colleague, a divorcee in her forties, that she introduced me to at the beach party she had for me . . .’

‘Beach party,’ Lottie repeated. ‘A beach party for Dan Provan,’ she said in tones of wonder. ‘Absolutely surreal. So,’ she continued, ‘did you score?’

‘If Ah had, it’s been so long I wouldnae have remembered what to do. But no, she was a nice woman, sure, but no’ the type for a quickie with someone who’ll be on the other side of the world in a few weeks. Come to think of it,’ he mused, ‘neither am I.’

‘But you’re saying,’ she suggested, ‘that your interest in the opposite sex has been revived, now that you’re . . . more marketable?’

It’s never been missing, he thought, but declined to express it aloud. He was just about old enough to be her father, but his feelings for his colleague, boss and friend were complicated, and to be kept to himself.

‘Nah,’ he replied, ‘still dormant.’

‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ Lottie said.

‘I won’t; I’m five feet eight.’

‘You know what I mean. You’ve scrubbed up very well, Dan.’ She laughed. ‘I tell you, if you were ten years younger . . .’

‘Stop it, you’re breaking my heart.’ She had no idea of the truth that he spoke.

‘So what’s the Gold Coast like?’ she asked.

‘Pretty golden, Ah’ll give them that. It’s hot, that’s the main thing. They could never have held the Commonwealth Games there at the height of their summer; people would have died.’

‘And Lulu, is she happy there?’

‘Mmm,’ he murmured, a little sadly, Lottie thought. ‘She’ll never be back, I’m sure of that. She’s tryin’ to talk her brother into going out. I don’t think he will, though; Jamie’s doing well in Fire and Rescue, and he likes it. He’s in line for promotion to station manager in a couple of years. If he went to Australia, he’d have to start at the foot of the ladder.’

‘Literally?’

‘Eh?’

She grinned. ‘Ladder. Fireman. Get it?’

‘Ah! The jet lag must be worse than I thought. Aye, very funny.’ He paused. ‘Talking about kids, where’s the wee man? Where’s wee Jakey? Ah thought he might have come with you.’

Even in profile, he saw her face cloud over. ‘He’s with his dad today,’ she said, quietly, ‘until five, when he drops him off with my Auntie Ann at my place.’

Provan frowned. ‘And that’s okay wi’ you?’ he asked her, quietly.

‘No, but it’s okay with the sheriff, and that’s what matters. Scott went to court and asked for full visitation rights.’

‘Even though he’s still in jail?’ he exclaimed.

‘He’s on home leave at weekends, and he’ll be released on parole within the next fortnight.’

‘Even so. Visitation rights? Fuck! After what he did?’

‘His dad got him a lawyer. Moss Lee; heard of him?’

‘Who hasn’t? He’s a nasty piece of work.’

‘Agreed, but he’s flavour of the month, especially in family law. The judges are wary of him because he always goes to appeal if he loses, and in sheriff court cases he has a record of judgements being overturned. He argued that supplying police uniforms to criminals doesn’t alter your parental rights. Scott submitted a statement to the hearing; he claimed that I was influencing Jakey against him and . . .’

Lottie’s mounting anger and outrage were obvious. As she stopped in mid sentence, her knuckles showed white on the wheel.

‘Go on,’ Dan said, quietly. ‘What else?’

‘He claimed that you were too.’

‘Me?’ he exploded.

‘I’m afraid so. He told the sheriff you were a drunk and a waster.’ She hesitated for a moment before adding, ‘And he implied that there was something between us.’

‘Us?’

‘You and me. Outside work. Jakey’s grandpa heard him call you “Uncle Dan” one day. The bastard Lee went to town on that.’

‘In open court?’

‘No, it was what they call a child welfare hearing,’ she explained.

‘Did you have a lawyer?’

‘I didn’t think I’d need one. It was pitched to me as a simple discussion before a sheriff. I’d no idea Lee would be there until I turned up at the court.’

Dan whistled. ‘When he said what he did, what did you say?’

‘I told the sheriff that was bollocks, that you were a family friend as well as a colleague and that Jakey calls you that out of respect and nothing else. And don’t worry, I also told him that you’re a well-respected officer with a clean record, and absolutely no history of alcohol abuse. The sheriff didn’t press the point. She asked me if I was firmly opposed to Scott having access. I couldn’t say that I was absolutely against it, so the Sheriff said he could have him every other weekend, under the supervision of his own parents. But she also added that Scott’s mother should be involved in his day-to-day care as well as my Auntie Ann. That I didn’t like, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.’

‘I’m sorry, Lottie,’ Provan growled. ‘Ah should have been there as a witness. Lee would never have said that if I’d been in the room.’

‘Yes he would, Dan. But you couldn’t have been there; the rules don’t allow it. Suppose you had been, and gone off at Lee, it would have made things worse, not better.’

‘Thanks a bundle. Ah’ll get that shite of a lawyer, though, I promise.’

‘No you won’t. You’ll forget it, and let it lie.’

‘It’s Scott that’s the drunk waster,’ he protested.

‘Maybe prison will have sorted him out.’

‘Sure, and a bright fuckin’ light will have shone in his eyes on the road to Damascus. What about his girlfriend? Is she still inside?’

‘Christine McGlashan was paroled three months ago. Her name was never mentioned at the hearing, and I never thought to ask. To be honest, I don’t know if she’s still in the picture.’

‘Leave that to me,’ he said. ‘Ah’ll find out.’

‘No, Dan, please. Do nothing.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ he murmured grudgingly. ‘Let me ask you something, though. How do you feel about Scott now? I know it wasn’t the ideal marriage, with his drinking himself out of the police service, but . . . is there still anything,’ he tapped his chest, ‘in here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, there is. Contempt. Maybe just a wee bit of pity that he’s made so big a mess of his life, but nothing else, I promise you.’

‘Do you want me to stop seeing the wee fella?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Absolutely not! Jakey likes you and he respects you. Dan, I need you around more than ever, now that Scott’s parents have suddenly wakened up to the fact that they have a grandson.’

He nodded. ‘Then Ah’m here for you. Now,’ he said abruptly, his tone changing, ‘what about the job? What have I missed there?’

‘About the same as me. This is my first weekend on call since I got off the course.’

‘How was it? Useful?’

‘Time will tell. Most of the stuff I knew already.’ She glanced across at him. ‘Are you pleased to be back, or has this break made you think about cashing in your pension?’

‘Yes and no,’ he replied, ‘in that order. What it has done is waken me up. I’ve been asleep at the wheel, being dragged along on your coat-tails.’

‘There are people who’d say it was the other way around,’ Lottie told him.

‘Then they’d be wrong. My coat-tails arenae big enough for you.’

‘Cheers, pal,’ she chuckled.

‘Metaphorically. You know what Ah mean. McGuire didnae send you on a course just to keep you occupied while I was away. You’re bound for command rank; being in Serious Crimes is just a step on the way.’ He put his hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn.

‘Jet lag?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on the overhead road signs that showed the exit from the M8 on to the M74.

‘So they tell me. Lulu’s advice is to ignore it and just stick to a normal routine wherever you are.’

‘So we’ll see you in the office on Monday as usual?’

‘Bleary eyed and kangaroo tai—’

The blare of Mann’s ringtone, magnified by the car’s Bluetooth speakers, drowned out the rest of his Antipodean metaphor.

‘I’d better take it,’ she called out, then hit the receive button on the steering wheel. ‘Yes?’

‘DI Mann?’ A woman’s voice: one they both knew. Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Bulloch was their line manager in the Serious Crimes division.

‘Two for the price of one, gaffer,’ Provan called out.

‘DS Provan? You’re back?’

‘Fresh off the plane. I brought you a boomerang. I thought it was appropriate, since everything winds up back on your desk.’

‘Where are you, DI Mann?’ Bulloch demanded, ignoring his wisecrack. The tension in her voice surprised them both.

‘I’m on the motorway, on the way to drop Dan off in Cambuslang.’

‘Then turn around, please, you’re needed in Ayr. Sergeant, you’d best be involved from the start, so you should come too.’

‘As long as you’re ready for the coconut shirt, ma’am.’

‘The crime-scene tunic will cover it up,’ she replied curtly. ‘It’s a fatality, and it’s landed on us rather than divisional CID.’

‘High profile?’ Mann asked.

‘You could say. Remember the supermodel that was murdered in Edinburgh last year? This will be even bigger.’

Two

‘Ah don’t like that woman,’ Dan Provan confessed, as Mann set her speed limiter to fifty on entering the average speed camera zone. He had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the journey; the DI suspected that he had been dozing.

‘Which one?’

‘The one we’re going to meet, Bulloch.’

‘Sandra’s not here to make friends. That doesn’t make her a bad boss.’

‘Just as well, for she never will make any until she learns to smile. As for bein’ a bad boss or a good one, popularity, motivation and success are interlinked. People will work harder for you if they like you than they will if they fear you; that’s basic, and by that measure she fails.’

‘That’s also what they tell you on command courses,’ the DI conceded. ‘You’d make a better tutor than most of the people there. But don’t be too hard on her; okay, she’s serious, but it doesn’t make her a bad cop. She can’t be; she’s made detective chief inspector. Bob Skinner took a shine to her, remember, when he came into the old Strathclyde force as the last chief constable pre-unification. He made her his exec.’

‘So he did,’ Provan agreed, ‘but Ah always assumed that was because he wanted a hatchet woman in his outer office. Max Allan, the old ACC, stuck her away in Special Branch, because there it didn’t matter whether she pissed folk off or no’.’

‘Maybe not,’ Lottie countered, ‘but Andy Martin put her in Serious Crimes when he was chief, and DCC McGuire’s kept her there . . . the same perceptive man that sent you to Australia for two months.’

He grunted. ‘We’ll see. Does this car know where it’s going?’

‘The satnav does. Kirkhill Road, Sandra said; that’s what I programmed into it. We’re not far from Ayr now; it won’t be much longer.’

‘Ayr,’ the refurbished DS murmured. ‘When I joined the force, they used to say that the top gangsters in Glasgow lived down this way. I’ve got no idea whether that was true.’

‘That would be before they all moved to the Costa del Sol,’ Mann chuckled.

‘Aye, but now we’ve got European arrest warrants, they might be movin’ back.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder if this is a gang thing we’re going to. It’ll no’ be a run-of-the-mill suspicious death if it’s been passed straight on to our division.’

‘Time will tell.’ She grimaced. ‘Bloody average speed cameras,’ she grumbled.

‘Lottie,’ Provan sighed, ‘we’re the fuckin’ polis. Blue lights and put the foot down.’

She smiled and took his advice.

Kirkhill Road was a narrow thoroughfare located in one of the most affluent parts of the prosperous burgh. The entrance from the larger approach thoroughfare was partly blocked by a police minibus, with two uniformed officers on duty. Mann showed her warrant card and they waved her through; as she made the turn, a man ran up to her car brandishing a mobile phone. Her suspicion that she was being filmed was confirmed when he shouted, ‘Fergus Muirhouse, South Ayrshire TV; can you tell me anything about the incident, Detective Inspector?’

She braked, pushed a button to lower her window and gazed at him evenly. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘because as you can see, we’ve only just arrived. How do you know me?’ she asked.

‘I saw you in Glasgow City Chambers, DI Mann,’ he volunteered, ‘when Chief Constable Field was shot. You were with Bob Skinner.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember you.’

‘No worries. The place was mobbed; I was right at the back.’

‘You’re quick off the mark today.’

‘I live in Irvine,’ the reporter explained. ‘I won’t be on my own for long, though. Can’t you give me a head start on the rest? All my source told me was that paramedics had been called to an incident down the road there, at Leo’s place.’

‘Then you know as much as we do,’ Mann lied. ‘When we find out more, there might be a statement, but I can’t make any promises. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ She closed the window and slipped her car into gear.

The street was in shadow, beneath mature trees in gardens on either side; the houses had names, not numbers, but the detectives were guided to their destination by two parked patrol cars, and by a uniformed constable standing guard at a stone-pillared gateway.

Mann parked behind the first police car. ‘Hold on,’ Provan said as he unclipped his seat belt and climbed out, then opened the boot and rummaged in his cabin bag. ‘Got it,’ he muttered as he hung around his neck the lanyard that carried his warrant card.

‘Did you take that to Australia?’ the DI exclaimed.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Do you think I forgot about the job for a whole two months? I had a look at the force out there.’

‘Tempted?’

‘It would be a nice place tae work and the money’s good. But like you said, I’m past it.’

‘I never said that!’ Lottie protested.

He smiled. ‘If I was ten years younger, ye said.’

‘I didn’t mean that you were past it,’ she exclaimed.

‘Then what did you mean?’

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered quietly.

They moved on towards the crime scene. As they approached, they saw that the house had a name, emblazoned on a plaque on the wall beside one of the pillars ‘Invincible,’ Provan read aloud. ‘That’s a bit out of the ordinary.’

They identified themselves to the PC at the gateway and turned in to the driveway. It led to a two-storey mansion, built in red sandstone that had a look of the genuine article about it rather than a facing placed on brick. To its right there was a double garage, and on the left, set back and surrounded by tall trees, another large outbuilding. It was flat roofed, and its walls were mostly of glass, giving the detectives a clear view of the interior.

‘It’s a gym,’ Mann murmured. ‘And is that . . . ?’

Provan nodded. ‘Aye. It’s a boxing ring.’ He frowned. ‘Oh my,’ he whispered. ‘Leo’s place, the boy said.’

‘What are you thinking?’ the DI asked.

His reply was forestalled by a cry from the doorway of the house: a female voice. ‘DI Mann! DS Provan! This way.’

Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Bulloch stepped out of the vestibule into the dying evening sunshine, moving past a parked ambulance, and two other vehicles that stood beside it. One was a black Range Rover; it had a distinctive registration, a prefix, then ‘MMG’. Provan raised an eyebrow, jogged Mann’s arm with his elbow and nodded towards it. ‘Serious enough tae bring DCC McGuire from Edinburgh on a Saturday,’ he whispered.

‘Good,’ Bulloch said as they reached her. She wore a white crime-scene onesie; a few strands of dark hair had escaped from the hood. Despite the enveloping costume, tension seemed to