The Murder Stones

by Hania Allen

Genres: Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The latest gripping novel in the Polish detective series featuring DI Dania Gorska.

Polish-born DS Dania Gorska is called upon to investigate a seemingly straightforward case of an RTA - a car has crashed into a tree, having first hit a deer on an icy road. But a witness has come forward to say he saw someone fleeing the scene and then the autopsy reveals vicious marks on the head of the dead man. Suddenly Dania is looking at murder.

The dead man, Eddie Sangster, has had an intriguing past - the youngest of three brothers, he inherited the family estate after the oldest committed suicide and the other simply disappeared. But decades on it would seem someone is out for vengeance as murder stones - carved headstones attesting to the brutal murders of both brothers - start to appear on the grounds of the estate.

Clearly the key to the puzzle of the murder stones lies at Sangster Hall, where a calamitous incident in the past is now shaping the present, and it is up to Dania to discover the murderous secret of the Sangster family.

Praise for Hania Allen

'Nicely nasty in all the right places . . . The story rattles along until bringing the curtain down with an unnerving twist' Craig Robertson

'A fresh new find for crime fans ... the plot is intriguing, the characters are well drawn, and the end comes with an unnerving twist. Extremely readable' Sunday Post

'Captivating characters and an intriguing plot. A great new find for crime fans' Lin Anderson

'Pitch-perfect . . . a witty, tense crime novel written in a highly readable style' Russel D McLean

Release date: February 3, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

The officer sat back in the swivel chair and gazed at the mug of tea his NCO had just placed on the desk. He waited until he’d heard the door close before removing the bottle of Vat 69 from the desk drawer. Almost mechanically, he poured two fingers into the whisky glass. Since the tea was hardly worth drinking and he needed fortification for what lay ahead, a drop of Scotch this early in the afternoon was perfectly justifiable. And, in such strange times, who was going to tell him otherwise?

He’d been pulled off his current duties and assigned this task under instructions that it was strictly top secret. He’d suppressed a yawn. As an officer in one of several intelligence agencies in His Majesty’s Service, everything he was tasked with was top secret. Although what he’d been asked to do was surely beneath his rank – he was to make an inventory of the items in a large naval kitbag. But when he’d been told what the bag contained, the breath had left his body.

He sipped the whisky, his gaze straying to the cardboard box on the horsehair sofa. It contained his gas mask, as yet unused. He felt a prickle of anxiety as he listened to the hum of aircraft over London. With Norway and Denmark invaded in April, and now Holland crushed, the phoney war had come to an end.

The officer returned to his work. He was less than halfway through the process of registering the diamonds. The packets were mostly numbered and labelled, and tied securely with string, some even sealed with red wax. However, there were a few which hadn’t been sealed. After a surreptitious glance at the door – unnecessary, as his NCO always knocked before entering – he’d opened one of the small bags and emptied the contents on to his blotter. The irregularly shaped and poorly coloured stones told him these were industrial diamonds. It was then that he understood the significance of what he’d overheard on passing his CO’s office. At first, he’d caught only snatches of conversation – we have nothing to stop the Germans, who are now sweeping across Europe, it was a close-run thing, thank God they returned safely – but after putting his ear to the door, he’d learnt that a one-day mission had been mounted to retrieve the ‘industrials’ as well as the cut stones in Amsterdam’s vaults, and bring them to Britain. That the new prime minister had even authorised a destroyer to take the agents there and back was testament to how important this mission was. Given the speed with which the rescue had taken place, and the level of secrecy, he doubted the British public would learn of the operation. The officer smiled. In years to come, they’d make a film of the affair.

He counted the stones, replaced them in the packet, retied the string and made the entry on the sheet. He was coming to the end when he noticed a bag considerably larger than the others. It was made of thick velvet and had an elaborate gold crest embroidered into the material. The crest consisted of a shield with a saltire and crossed swords, and a feathered helmet above the shield. A label was attached to the sturdy drawstring, and on it someone had scribbled a name, and an address on Tolstraat.

The officer opened the bag and shook out a few stones. A wave of excitement coursed through his veins. These were not industrials, nor did they bear any resemblance to the tiny cut stones he’d seen in the other packets. These heart-shaped gems were expertly cut, and at least half an inch wide. They were faintly pink, and the large number and arrangement of facets caused them to shimmer and wink in the light that streamed through the window. Although he was no expert, he understood immediately that just one of these stones would be worth a king’s ransom. So, how many were there?

He emptied out the bag, taking care not to lose any gems, and grouped them into clusters of ten. After he’d finished, he straightened, and smoothed down his moustache. There were one hundred and thirty-nine. Enough to purchase the moon. He realised he’d been holding his breath. Slowly, he let the air out of his lungs. One hundred and thirty-nine. Was this the entire stock held by the firm? He imagined the scene: the agents arriving, trying to persuade the meneer to part with his diamonds – no, it would be too risky to send them overland to Paris or Switzerland, they would be safe in Britain, we have a destroyer at our disposal. And then the meneer, in despair, hearing shots in the street and the heavy sound of boots on the stairs, opening his safe and emptying its contents into the bag, in too much of a hurry to count the diamonds, remembering at the last minute to scribble his name and address on the label in the hope that his fortune would be returned to him after the war.

One hundred and thirty-nine. The man wouldn’t have had time to count them.

The officer picked up the pen and added the merchant’s name and address to the inventory. Then, next to it, he added the words: one hundred and twenty.

Eddie Sangster tapped the Morris’s brakes as he neared the junction. A pall of snow had shrouded the land since the heavy fall earlier in the day. It wasn’t often that Dundee had such weather, but he’d expected the ploughs to have cleared the road by now. Yet, as with so much in life, expectation and reality were two different things. He was now anxious to be home. The sun set early in February, right enough. Although the snow reflected what little light there was, the clouds had long since dispersed, leaving the frozen stars to gleam only faintly, and darkness to settle on the land.

Eddie knew these roads well, the fields corn-yellow in summer and ridged brown in winter, so he’d not bothered buying one of these navigation contraptions because he could find his way easily enough by the landmarks he’d known since childhood – the characteristic stone walls, the rise and fall of the land, the ancient trees, the places where woodland began and ended. But with this endless cladding of snow, one field or tree looked very much like another, and he felt strangely unnerved. However, the approaching junction was one he recognised, and it told him he hadn’t far to go. Once back at the Hall, he would settle himself beside the fire with a glass of Balvenie. It was one of the few pleasures left to him. Aye, perhaps the only pleasure. Other than going for his wee drives.

He turned left on to the narrow road, relieved to see that the local farmer had swept away the snow. That was something, at least, and meant he could get his speed up. The Traveller’s engine purred into life as he rammed his foot on the accelerator. Ach, that was more like it. The headlights picked out the trees on either side, the snow banked up against the trunks, the branches spectral white.

Ahead was the treacherous bend. But as he slowed and was preparing to rev up to take the curve, he thought he saw something stir in the trees. Aye, there it was – a figure slipping into the woodland. It stopped suddenly, then wheeled round to gaze in his direction. It was a man, Eddie saw then. He seemed to be breathing heavily, the breath condensing into fog that veiled his face. And then the image faded as the headlights slid away, and the car accelerated into the bend.

There was something about the way the man had held himself that made Eddie’s throat tighten. He had a sudden presentiment that he’d not been there by chance, that he’d been waiting. But why? For him, perhaps? The thoughts were swirling round his head when he heard a metallic bang. Something seemed to grip the car and yank it off course. He grabbed at the wheel and tried to steady the vehicle, but no sooner had he straightened it than he saw something that made his heart lurch. A looming, amorphous shape blocked the road. He would never pull up in time. He slammed his foot on the brake, simultaneously swerving to the right. The bumper hit the object, causing the car to fishtail wildly, and in a sweat of panic he knew he’d lost control. And then, in one blinding second, he understood who had been standing watching from the woodland.

A moment later, crashing thunder shook his body and he heard a noise, like the splinter of bones. On the threshold of consciousness, he thought he saw the figure again. Then darkness raced past him.

‘Come on, Gorska! You can do it!’

DI Dania Gorska wiped the mud from her eyes, wondering yet again why she’d agreed to take part in the team-building assault course. Climbing the ten-foot wall at speed followed by the twenty-foot net had been bad enough, but then there were the obstacles to jump over and crawl under, to say nothing of dragging herself through pipes and swinging from trees. And this was at night, under the glare of arc lights because the course was used for commando training during the day. At least she didn’t have to carry full pack, she thought sourly. And the morning’s snow had been shovelled away. That was something, although it had left the ground soggy and slippery. No concession had been made for this by the instructor, Sergeant William Fairbairn.

The course had been the brainchild of DCI Jackie Ireland, a woman who’d started out in the military before moving to Police Scotland. The others in Dania’s team, specifically DS Honor Randall, had been enthusiastic. That is until they’d seen what they were expected to do and how little time they had in which to do it. Sergeant Fairbairn, a muscular man with a washboard stomach, had tutored them thoroughly, giving them enough time to master the various stations of the course. After a short break, they then had thirty minutes in which to complete it. Today, it was only Dania and Honor who were on the list.

Dania was less than halfway through when she glimpsed someone running over the turf towards Fairbairn. She was about to start climbing the netting when she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. The sergeant gripped her arm and pulled her to one side.

‘Sorry, Gorska, that’s as far as you go.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ she said, panting.

He smiled. ‘Aye, and I never thought I’d hear a copper say that.’ He had striking blue eyes and close-cropped hair, which could have been dark, but it was hard to tell in the weird light. ‘You’re wanted back at HQ.’ He released her arm. ‘Pity. I thought we could have gone for a wee bevvy afterwards.’

‘I’m on duty.’

He had an easy laugh. A wee bevvy would have made the exertions of the day worth it, Dania thought, trying to keep her eyes on his face.

He inclined his head. ‘You can come back next week and do it again if you want. I’ll keep a place for you.’

She thought of the brutal assault course, the exhaustion, the mud in her hair, and decided she would be tied up with whatever this new case would be.

‘Perhaps my colleague would be free for a drink,’ she said, watching Honor crawling under the low planking.

‘Randall?’ he said, following her gaze. ‘Aye, maybe.’

She left him studying Honor’s wriggling backside and headed towards the main building. After a quick shower, she climbed into the Fiat 500 and was soon heading west on the A92 towards the city centre.

‘A car crash?’ Dania drew her brows together.

‘I wouldn’t have pulled you off your course,’ Jackie Ireland said, ‘but there’s evidence it wasn’t a simple accident. We had a phone call from another driver, who said he saw the car hit a tree. When he went over to investigate, there was a man leaning in. He ran off sharpish when he saw him.’

‘Have the SOCOs arrived?’

‘Aye, and Milo’s already out there.’The DCI glanced at Dania’s wet hair, then nodded at the pegs on the wall. ‘You’d better take my woollen hat. You’ll catch pneumonia otherwise.’

Back in the Fiat, Dania punched in the coordinates Hamish Downie had texted, and started the engine. She turned the heating to the highest setting, wishing now that she’d grabbed a coffee before leaving the station. Tiredness was settling in her bones, and she wondered if she’d be able to stay awake. The city streets had been cleared of snow – if piling it up on the pavements could be called clearing – but where she was headed was part of Dundee’s rural hinterland, and she doubted the snow ploughs had been in action. From what she’d gathered, it was left to the individual farmers to deal with the roads and, if they thought the snow would melt soon enough, they didn’t always bother. She would need to be alert. She turned the heating down.

The scene of the accident was north of the A90, but to get there meant negotiating the roundabout at Longforgan and hoping she didn’t miss the underpass. She’d never have found it in the dark, but then that was why God had invented sat-navs. It was as she’d expected: the roads were mostly uncleared. She eased her foot off the pedal and shifted down to second gear.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the crash site. A number of arc lamps had been erected, their eerie light illuminating the white-suited people wandering around like ghosts. The snow had been shovelled away, which meant that the SOCOs would have a better chance of picking up clues. Assuming there were any.

As she drew near, she caught sight of the blue vehicle, its nose up against a tree. Milo Slaughter, the chief pathologist at Ninewells Hospital, was speaking with someone holding a camera. It could only be Lisa. She had a keen eye for detail and was the photographer of choice of everyone at West Bell Street.

Dania pulled up behind a row of vehicles. Hamish drew away from the group and hurried over with a suit, latex gloves and over-shoes.

‘Love the hat, ma’am,’ he said wryly, watching her struggle into the suit. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the DCI have one like it?’

Dania smiled. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

The hat had been the cause of hilarity at West Bell Street. With its bright stripes and cat’s ears it was more the kind a child would wear. It said something about Jackie Ireland’s standing that no one said anything to her face. And it said something about her personality that she wore it without a trace of embarrassment.

‘So, bring me up to speed, Hamish.’

‘It looks like an accident, but the professor believes there’s something not right about this.’

‘A man was seen loitering and behaving suspiciously, I understand.’

‘Aye, that’s about all we have so far. The witness is a local man, Tam Adie.’

‘Adie? I think I know that name.’

‘He was fair shaken by what he saw. He said the car swerved and hit the tree.’

‘Where was he when this happened?’

‘In his car, a black Volkswagen Polo. He was travelling from the other direction, which is how he saw the accident. He left the Polo and hurried across. The driver’s door was open, and there was a man bent over, leaning inside. At first, he thought the driver had managed to get out, so he called to him. But as soon as the man saw him, he legged it and disappeared into the woodland.’

‘And Adie called the police?’

‘That’s about the size of it. I came straight over with one of the uniforms. Tam was sitting in his car, waiting for us. I took a statement, then sent him home.’

‘I take it he didn’t check for signs of life?’

‘Aye, he didn’t. He assumed, given the force of the crash, that the driver was dead. And he added he didn’t want to contaminate the scene.’ Hamish threw her a crooked smile. ‘Maybe those detective shows on telly have done some good, eh.’

‘Okay, Hamish, thanks.’

She ducked under the tape and made her way to the car. It was an old model, she saw then, an estate vehicle with wood along the sides and across the two rear doors.

Milo glanced up. ‘Dania, good to see you.’ He peered at her over his half-moon glasses. ‘I hear you’ve been training to become a commando.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Hamish. He was relieved he had to stay behind and hold the fort at West Bell Street.’

‘His chance will come next week,’ she said, savouring the thought of the stocky Hamish hurtling through the trees on a zip wire.

She turned her attention to the car. The driver’s door was open, giving her a clear view of the heavy figure slumped face down over the wheel, his arms dangling. There was no air bag. What she could see of his dark hair was flecked with grey, and blood had seeped through it and trickled into his ear. His sheepskin jacket was worn and patched in places, although the matching gloves looked new. His head was almost touching the windscreen, which had shattered so completely that the mere touch of a finger would dislodge the webbed glass. She brought her face close to the man’s skull, then straightened and gazed at Milo. From the expression on his face, he’d seen it too – the array of wounds to the back of the head.

‘I’m about to move him,’ he said. He glanced at the photographer. ‘Ready, Lisa?’ He leant into the car and gripped the man’s shoulders. Using no more force than was necessary, he eased him back and rested him against the seat. It was then that Dania noticed he wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Milo stepped back, inviting her to look.

The man’s craggy, lined face put him in his sixties, although he might have been older. His eyes were open and their expression of terror made it clear he’d been fully aware of what had been about to happen. The purplish-blue bruise on his forehead and the smashed nose suggested that it was the force of the blow on hitting the windscreen that had killed him.

The photographer took several photos, then picked her way round to the other side, leant in at the open passenger door and took several more.

‘That’s me done, Prof,’ she said, fiddling with the camera.

Trying not to disturb the clothing too much, Dania fished around in the man’s pockets. She found only a crumpled white handkerchief, and a small colour photograph of a young woman with fluffy blonde hair. She was laughing as though she’d been caught out by whoever was taking the picture. Dania turned it over, but there was nothing scribbled on the back.

‘His daughter, perhaps?’ Milo said, peering over her shoulder.

‘Or his wife when she was young.’

Dania beckoned to one of the SOCOs, who put the photo into an evidence bag.

She made her way to the passenger side and checked the glove compartment. It contained a single item: a Morris Traveller handbook.

‘Is that what this car is?’ she said to Milo. ‘A Morris Traveller?’

‘Indeed. You don’t see many of them around these days.’

‘There’s no indication of who he is. We’ll have to get an ID from the DVLA.’ She glanced at Milo. ‘Do you know much about these cars?’

‘I used to drive one, would you believe. I bought it when I was a student. Lovely maroon colour. There was a girl in my class I wanted to impress, you see, and I thought having a car would do it.’

Dania looked at him with curiosity. She knew nothing about his private life. She didn’t even know if he was married. ‘And did you?’ she said. ‘Impress her, I mean?’

‘Alas, no. She fell for a boy with a motorbike. The two of them dropped out of medical school and went touring round the world.’

Dania smiled. ‘I see. And do you happen to know if Morris Travellers come with air bags?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware; at least mine didn’t when I bought it. Although it may be possible to have them fitted. But don’t quote me on that.’

‘Kimmie should be able to tell me. What she doesn’t know about cars isn’t worth knowing.’

‘And what’s your current thinking? That there’s an air bag installed, and it failed?’

‘It’s possible. But what puzzles me more is that he wasn’t wearing his seat belt.’

Milo frowned. ‘It never fails to amaze me that even now there are people stupid enough not to buckle up. Right, I’d better get him to the mortuary.’

She watched him leave with one of the SOCOs, then called Hamish over. ‘This man that Tam Adie claimed to have seen leaning into the car. Did he give you an indication of where he was headed? You mentioned woodland.’

‘Aye, into those trees behind you.’

She stared into the wood. The day-old snow covered the ground as far as she could see. ‘What about footprints?’

‘We thought of that. Johnty is already in there, following the tracks. He’s using his scanner.’

‘That must be a thankless task.’

‘You know what Johnty’s like. When it comes to footprints, he never lets up. He said he’ll keep going until he gets to the other side. According to Google Maps, the woodland comes out on to a road. My guess is this unknown man left his car there.’

‘I won’t even ask if there are traffic cams.’

‘Nothing for miles. The nearest are on the A90.’

‘I wonder what made the car crash into the tree. Is there ice on the road?’

‘If you come this way, ma’am, I’ll show you.’

Hamish picked his way through the cluster of SOCOs, Dania following.

She gazed in astonishment at the shape in the road. ‘Good Lord, I’ve never seen a deer that big.’

‘He’s fair bonnie, and no mistake. A red deer, according to SOCO.’

‘Why hasn’t it got antlers?’

‘Aye, well, they shed them in winter, then regrow them.’

‘Seems a waste of time and energy.’ She glanced back towards the Morris. ‘Okay, so he was driving along the road, saw the deer—’

‘Hit it and crashed into the tree. Or swerved to avoid it and crashed into the tree.’

‘Seems straightforward enough. But there’s one thing that bothers me.’

‘Aye?’

‘He had wounds to the back of the head. Hitting the windscreen wouldn’t have caused that.’

‘You think it was this man Tam Adie reported?’

‘Possibly.’ She examined the deer. ‘This animal’s been hit, which must have been the Morris Traveller. But the damage isn’t enough to have killed it.’

‘You think it was already dead?’

‘And here’s the evidence. See these tracks here?’

Hamish squatted on his haunches and peered at the ground. ‘Aye, I ken what you mean.’

‘They suggest the carcass was deliberately dragged.’

‘Which means—’

‘That whoever did it, intended to cause an accident.’

 

 

 

It was close to ten before Dania let herself into her flat on Victoria Road. She was shaking with cold, although she put that down partly to exhaustion. What she needed was a nourishing meal, and a hot bath. But as soon as she stepped into the living room, she knew that something was wrong. It was so icy, she could see her breath clouding the air.

She hurried into the kitchen and opened the door to the boiler cupboard. The machine was stone cold. Pressing the restart button did nothing: instead of the boiler whooshing into life, it sat there, stubbornly refusing to ignite. Was it a problem with the gas supply? She checked the gas fire in the spare bedroom, but it fired up normally. She swore softly. With the boiler dead, the tiny appliance was the only source of heat in the flat, as the other rooms had radiators. But even if she left it on all night, which wasn’t a good idea, she’d never heat the place sufficiently to get the temperature up. There was only one thing to do. She pulled out her phone.

A short while later, she was pressing the buzzer to her brother’s apartment. She’d had the presence of mind to call him first in case he was entertaining a lady, but she was in luck. Or he was out of it, depending on which way you viewed these things.

The door opened. She was surprised to see Marek dressed more casually than usual in jeans and dark blue sweater. It suggested he’d had the day off. Or, given that his straw-blonde hair was more messy than usual, maybe he’d come back from an undercover investigation. A third possibility, which gave Dania a twinge of guilt, was that he had indeed had a lady with him, and on receiving Dania’s call had asked her to leave.

‘Danka, come in,’ he said, in Polish. His expression changed to one of alarm. ‘What happened to you? You look terrible.’

‘Thanks.’ She stepped into the hall and dropped her overnight bag on the floor.

He seemed to remember himself then. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

‘Not since lunchtime.’

‘I made soup earlier. I’ll heat it up.’

Her spirits lifted. ‘What kind is it?’

‘Solianka. With mushrooms.’

There were three variants of this Russian soup. It could be made with fish, meat or mushrooms, and in all of them Marek used Maggi seasoning, which he obtained in stock-cube form. Her preference would have been for meat, but she was in no position to object and, anyway, everything her brother made tasted good. When it came to culinary talent, she was the polar opposite. She’d discussed this once with her mother. They’d concluded that, with twins and cooking ability, God divides: one twin gets the talent in the kitchen, the other gets it somewhere else. In her case, it was the piano.

She flopped on to the kitchen chair and pulled off the DCI’s hat. Her hair was damp and scrunched up, and probably looked awful. But she was beyond caring.

Marek was cutting thick slices of dark rye bread. ‘And the boiler’s packed in, you said?’

‘Completely.’

‘Did you check the fuse?’

‘No need. The starter-button light was on, but nothing happened when I pressed it.’ She ran a hand over her face. ‘Thanks for putting me up. I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in that cold flat. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’

He glanced at her. ‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars.’

‘In a way I have. I was on an assault course earlier.’

‘What on earth made you sign up for one of those?’

‘It’s part of a team-building initiative at Police Scotland.’

‘In your case, I don’t know why they’d bother. You’ve built a great team. They’d walk through fire for you.’

Dania stared at him in surprise, wondering what had made him reach this conclusion. He hardly knew her colleagues. Then she remembered the number of times their cases had collided, some of which had nearly led to his arrest by members of said team. As an investigative journalist, he occasionally crossed the line. But then, as a detective inspector, so did she. When her promotion had come through it was not, as she’d suspected, for loyalty and following correct procedure, but for getting results.

He brought the soup and bread to the table. ‘Now tell me more about this course. Is it only the brass who get to go?’

‘We’re all doing it. And there’s a test at the end. You have to keep taking it until you pass.’ She wondered idly how Honor had fared. And whether she was now on a hot date with Sergeant Fairbairn. Lucky Honor.

‘And who catches the bad guys when you’re climbing walls and jumping over obstacles?’

‘It’s staggered. Honor and I were the only ones on today.’ She took a spoonful of the solianka. ‘This is divine,’ she murmured.

‘There’s plenty more.’ He studied her. ‘And you’re back from this course only now?’

‘I was pulled off it early,’ she said, remembering that, since she hadn’t completed it, she would have to return. She could feel her shoulders sagging.

‘A case?’

‘A car crash.’

‘Surely you don’t get assigned those. You’re in the Murder Squad.’

‘Someone went to great lengths to make it look like an accident.’

‘I’ve read so many cases where murderers tried to do that. Either accident or suicide. And they always made a mistake. It could be a tiny error, but it betrayed them every time.’

‘Like the rifle fired through the mouth, made to look like suicide, but the arms were too short to reach the trigger?’

‘Or the body placed in the driver’s seat in a car, which had been driven to a viaduct and shoved over, but on examination the seat had been pushed back and the victim’s feet couldn’t reach the pedals. So was your case like that? The victim was already dead when the car crashed?’

‘His injuries suggested he’d definitely driven the car himself. What raised our suspicions was that there’s evidence of trauma to the back of the head.’

Marek cleared away the plates. ‘Had it been me, I’d have employed a contract killer.’

‘Who would have kept the evidence that you’d employed him and blackmailed you for the rest of your life.’ She watched him make coffee. ‘Anyway, what are you up to these days?’

‘Today’s task was to write up my recent investigation.’

‘Will I be reading about it in the Courier?’

He threw her a strange look. ‘You’ll be reading about it at West Bell Street. I’ve sent my findings to the Fraud Squad. One of the local councillors is on the take. He’s been getting backhanders from Euan Leslie.’

‘The gangster? I mean the property developer?’

Marek smiled. ‘You were right the first time. Anyway, I managed to infiltrate the company.’

‘Leslie’s?’

‘Don’t look so surprised.’

‘What I’m surprised about is that you’re not floating in the Tay with your throat cut. I take it he doesn’t know who you are?’

‘He will do when he reads the article. I used my nom de guerre, Franek Filarski, when I worked for him, but he’ll know from the details that Franek Filarski and Marek Gorski are one and the same.’

She felt her pulse quicken. ‘That was stupid, Marek,’ she . . .