Copyright © 2018 Portador Ltd
Extract from Cold Case © copyright 2018 Portador Ltd
The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
First published as an Ebook in 2018 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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eISBN: 978 1 4722 3888 7
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Quintin Jardine
Also by Quintin Jardine
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Read a sneak peek of the new Bob Skinner novel, COLD CASE
About the Author
Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West: of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propaganda and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb, he moved into the riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.
Now, more than forty published novels later, he never looks back. Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.
He can be tracked down through his website www.quintinjardine.com.
Praise for Quintin Jardine
‘A masterclass in how murder-mysteries ought to be written’ Scots Magazine
‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer
‘Very engaging as well as ingenious, and the unravelling of the mystery is excellently done’ Allan Massie, Scotsman
‘Remarkably assured, raw-boned, a tour de force’ New York Times
‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian
‘A triumph. I am first in the queue for the next one’ Scotland on Sunday
‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald
‘Gritty cop drama that makes Taggart look tame’ Northern Echo
By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline
Bob Skinner series:
Skinner’s Rules
Skinner’s Festival
Skinner’s Trail
Skinner’s Round
Skinner’s Ordeal
Skinner’s Mission
Skinner’s Ghosts
Murmuring the Judges
Gallery Whispers
Thursday Legends
Autographs in the Rain
Head Shot
Fallen Gods
Stay of Execution
Lethal Intent
Dead and Buried
Death’s Door
Aftershock
Fatal Last Words
A Rush of Blood
Grievous Angel
Funeral Note
Pray for the Dying
Hour of Darkness
Last Resort
Private Investigations
Game Over
State Secrets
A Brush with Death
Primavera Blackstone series:
Inhuman Remains
Blood Red
As Easy As Murder
Deadly Business
As Serious as Death
Oz Blackstone series:
Blackstone’s Pursuits
A Coffin for Two
Wearing Purple
Screen Savers
On Honeymoon with Death
Poisoned Cherries
Unnatural Justice
Alarm Call
For the Death of Me
The Loner
Mathew’s Tale
About the Book
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? Or was jealousy or rivalry the motive?
Suspecting links to organized crime, the Security Service wants to stay close to the investigation. They have just the man to send in: ex-Chief Constable Bob Skinner. Skinner might have retired from the police force, but solving crimes is in his blood. 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 . . .
Vast thanks to Dr Andrew Smith, Dr Miles Behan,
Mr Renzo Pessotto, Dr Ellis Simon, the staff of cardio-thoracic ICU and Ward 102, and everyone else who played a part in rebuilding my lovely wee wife’s lovely wee heart,
thus giving us back our life.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to m
y supremely talented friend Aine Divine, who helped me look at death in a different way.
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.’