‘You are certain that he's in there, Mario?'
Abso-bloody-lutely, sir. He left here at eight thirty-two, and walked to his office in Queen Street. I tailed him myself, and young John brought the car round. He left again at eleven fifty-three and walked back here. I tailed him again. Here he's been ever since; that's, what, three hours and a quarter. All that time I've been watching the front door, and John's been watching the garden gate.'
'Is there a Mrs Cocozza?'
Not here, sir. They separated a year ago.'
Richard Cocozza's flat was on the ground floor of a converted grey stone mill-house on the banks of the Water of Leith, where the river wound its way through Dean Village, a city-centre enclave whose quaintness had been eroded by the attempts of various property developers to make it exclusive. The entry-phone system seemed to be in working order, but repeated pressing of the button alongside the name `Cocozza' had produced not a sound from the intercom.
`Try another,' said Martin.
Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.
`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.
`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come down and let us in, please.'
`Yeah, sure.'
Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see-'
Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.
`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Night shy;shift, are you?'
The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'
`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.
`Which may have to be quite a lot,' muttered Martin, as the steel lift doors closed.
The entrance to Cocozza's flat was set back in an alcove off the hall. There was a second bell-push in the centre of the door. Martin pressed it for a good twenty seconds, but its buzz was the only sound from within the apartment. He took his finger from the button. 'Okay, I have reason to believe that there may be a person in this flat who is involved in the commission of crime. Mario, see if you can do it the quick way. If the thing's mortised we may have to send for the locksmith, but try the size elevens first.'
Obediently, McGuire kicked out with his right heel, once, twice, three times. With the third blow, they heard the keeper of the lock tear loose, and the oak door swung open.
Four doors opened off a central corridor. One, at the end, lay ajar. Martin led the way along the hall and stepped into the room.
'Oh Jesus. Not another.'
Cocozza was sitting slumped in a dining chair, with his back to the door. He was held in his awkward position by black insulating tape which secured his forearms and ankles to the frame of the chair. He was naked, save for a pair of badly soiled white underpants. On his back, shoulders and upper arms, large angry bruises stood out against the yellowness of his skin. The back of his head was a mass of hair, bone and gristle matted together by blood and brain tissue.
Slowly and hesitantly, the three detectives stepped around the body, being careful not to bump against it, or touch anything in the room. Martin crouched on one knee and looked up into Cocozza's face. It was covered in blood, not only from the cranial wounds, but from the nose and from a cut over the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. A face shy;cloth or small hand towel had been stuffed into the mouth, making the cheeks puff grotesquely.
`Look there, sir.'
Martin followed McGuire's pointing finger. A line of blue circular indentations ran up each shin. Each knee was swollen and distorted. On the stained wooden floor, between Cocozza's feet, a heavy metal-shafted hammer with a black rubber grip lay in a pool of blood and urine.
Martin shuddered as he stood up. 'Mario, did you see anyone go out — anyone at all?'
McGuire shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. And John was told to call me on the radio if he spotted anyone.'
`Right,' said Martin assertively. 'Guard that front door. Brian, you and I'll search this place carefully.'
Splitting up, they moved swiftly through the flat, checking behind every door, in every wardrobe, in every cupboard, even in the shower compartment and the kitchen cabinets, but the house was empty.
`Andy.' Brian Mackie's call drew Martin back to the living room. The tall, thin man was leaning out of the window. For a second Martin thought that he was being sick, until he stood upright once more. 'I think this is how he got away. This window was open. From here he could have dropped down towards the river, and on to the walkway, without being seen by either Mario or young John.'
`How would he have got in?'
With the postman, maybe. It must have been while Cocozza was at his office, and our two weren't here. There were stairs back in the hall leading to basement storage. He could have hidden there till everything was quiet, then picked Cocozza's Yale. From what the boss was saying, it looks like Lucan.'
`Maybe. Let's see-what he thinks. I'll call him now. When he sees this mess he'll wish he hadn't eaten that lunch at the Balmoral!'