The Bad Fire (Bob Skinner series, Book 31): A shocking murder case brings danger too close to home for ex-cop Bob Skinner in this gripping Scottish crime thriller

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Do you remember those, Dad?’ James Andrew Skinner asked as he stared up at the brightly coloured tramcars.

  Bob shook his head. ‘No, they were being taken out of service when I was born,’ he told his son. ‘They tried replacing them with trolley buses, great big heavy things that used the overhead power lines. The problem was that they pulled into the kerb, while the trams ran on rails. They were silent, and that was dangerous, because people couldn’t hear them coming. If they stepped off the pavement . . . well,’ he grimaced, ‘squish. They called them “the Whispering Death”. Grim, eh? It didn’t take long for the city council to realise they were a bad idea and take them out of service. Everything was buses after that.’

  ‘Why did they take the trams away?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Jazz. I don’t really know the answer, truth be told. Grandpa Skinner told me that they were very popular; they were a distinctive part of Glasgow culture. Also, there was a huge network of them, running all over the city, to places with wonderful names like Auchenshuggle.’

  ‘Ocken-what?’ the boy tried to repeat.

  ‘Auchenshuggle.’

  ‘Ocken . . .’ He laughed. ‘I can’t even say that.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a Gullane boy. Me, Ah’m fae Motherwell.’

  ‘Is that why you speak like that?’ Jazz asked.

  ‘It’s my curse, son; an accent that’s never left me in thirty-five years, not completely. You can take the boy out of Motherwell, but you can’t take Motherwell out of the boy.’

  ‘Mum says that about New England, where she was born.’

  ‘Copy her accent, not mine; that would be my advice. Come on,’ Skinner said. ‘Let’s go and visit the Tall Ship, then head back to Edinburgh. I need to call in on someone on the way back home.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your uncle Mario; Mario McGuire.’

  ‘How do you know he’ll be at home?’

  ‘I texted him from the hospital. He’s expecting us around three thirty.’

  Father and son were both fascinated by the history of the Glenlee, the steel-hulled three-masted ship moored at Pointhouse Quay, adjacent and complementary to the great Riverside transport museum. Built in Port Glasgow and launched five years before the death of Queen Victoria, she had sailed the world in a colourful cruising career before becoming a Spanish naval training vessel, when she had been named Galatea. She had come close to celebrating her centenary by being scrapped, but had been rescued by the Clyde Maritime Trust and towed back to Scotland to become one of its most notable landmarks.

  ‘I hope you remember all that,’ Bob told his son as they drove away from the museum car park, in search of the expressway and the connection with the M8. ‘You’re bound to be asked what you did on your holidays when you go back to school.’

  ‘I will,’ Jazz promised. ‘I have all the brochures and I’ve got lots of photos on my phone. How long is it until we go to Spain, Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘Three weeks. I wish it could be sooner, but that’s when Mum can take her holidays.’

  ‘Will Ignacio still be working in Perthshire?’

  ‘Yup. He’s there all summer; at least that’s the plan.’

  ‘Could I go and work there when I’m old enough?’

  ‘When do you reckon that will be?’

  ‘When I’m sixteen?’ he ventured.

  ‘I’d sooner get you a job in Spain when you’re that age.’

  James Andrew’s eyes shone. ‘Would you do that, Dad?’

  ‘I will do it; as long as you keep working on your Spanish with Ignacio.’

  ‘Can we speak Spanish now?’

  ‘Sì.’

  Father and son conversed in slow, clumsy but functional Spanish all the way to Edinburgh. Although Bob had owned property in Catalunya for over twenty years, he had never set out to master the language until his appointment to the board of InterMedia had made it a necessity. He had become fluent in Castellano and passable in Catalan. In the former, he had been supported by his oldest son, who had been born and raised in Spain, and Ignacio was only too pleased to help his half-brothers as well. Mark absorbed knowledge like blotting paper and had impressed everyone by watching Roma without subtitles. Jazz was making progress beyond his years, had begun French at primary school, and his father was determined that he would add conversational German at secondary.

  One language that was not on his list was Italian, in which Paula Viareggio McGuire greeted them as Skinner arrived for his meeting with her husband. Mario had been his protégé, one of several young officers he had plucked out of uniform and trained as detectives. He had risen to become deputy head of the Scottish national force, success that pleased his mentor. McGuire and his bosom friend Neil McIlhenney, who had moved south to become a deputy assistant commissioner in the Met, had been two reckless young men. Their progress under Skinner’s tutelage, together with the chief herself, Maggie Rose, gave him belief that his police career had actually been worth something.

  ‘Hey, boys,’ Mario exclaimed as he came into the hall with young Eamon, his son, perched on his shoulder. He was massive in shorts and a sleeveless blue shirt. ‘Good to see you, Jazz. You a police cadet now?’

  ‘I’m not joining the police, Uncle Mario,’ James Andrew replied earnestly. ‘I want to join the army.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the big man murmured, glancing at Skinner. ‘What does your father say to that?’

  ‘At the moment,’ Bob told him, ‘he says, “Your life will be your own, son, but you’re making no such decision until you’ve done a relevant university degree – languages or business studies, or both.” On that, James Andrew and I are agreed. Just about everything else is open to debate.’ He glanced down at the boy. ‘Can I park him somewhere while we talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mario said, setting his own son on his feet. ‘Eamon, show Jazz your Lego. Maybe he can help you build something. Please, Jazz,’ he added in a whisper. ‘Bloody stuff’s doing Paula’s head in, and mine.’

  The two boys had met before, and Eamon was star-struck. He allowed James Andrew to take his hand as he led him towards his playroom.

  The adults made for the kitchen. McGuire took a Peroni from the fridge, and without asking handed Skinner a zero-alcohol Heineken. ‘Who’s dead and who did it?’ he asked. ‘I know it’s a crisis for you to dig me up on a Saturday.’

  ‘Crisis, no. It’s a cold case that was never hot, although it bloody well should have been. We thought we had heard the last of Austin Brass when the guy who killed him was locked up. But no, the bugger’s reached out from beyond the grave.’

  ‘No,’ the deputy chief constable sighed. ‘Not another bent cop uncovered by Brass Rubbings. Tell me it’s not.’

  ‘There’s no indication of that, although one might emerge from the mess left behind by a seriously incompetent pathologist who allowed a very obvious homicide to be categorised as a suicide: Marcia Brown, Austin’s mother. No fucking way did she kill herself.’

  McGuire necked half of his Peroni, then shook his head and looked at his old boss with a grin. ‘You don’t do ordinary, Bob, do you. You take your laddie on a day out in Glasgow and come back with a previously undetected homicide. Any thoughts on what I should do about it, or you, for that matter?’

  Skinner smiled back at him, took a sip of Heineken and winced. ‘Oh, I know what I want to do about it,’ he replied. ‘I want your approval first, then your co-operation; that’ll do for starters.’

  Nineteen

  Alex Skinner had never seen herself as the maternal type, and so the unexpected arrival of her new baby half-sister, Dawn, had taken her by surprise. She had looked at the child for the first time and had been overwhelmed. Tears filled her eyes, and if she had tried to speak, the lump in her throat would have struck her dumb.

  They had the same father, but there was thirty years between them in age. Had she lived, Myra, her mother, would have been mid fifties. That conceded, Sarah, her stepmother, was looking over her shoulder
at forty. She had been shocked when she had fallen pregnant. As a doctor, she should have known better, she had confessed to Alex, but with the surprise of her unexpected reconnection with Bob, things had been overlooked.

  Since the birth, Alex had spent much of her free time in Gullane, ostensibly helping Sarah at weekends, when the children’s beloved Bajan carer, Trish, was on her leisure time. She doted on Dawn, but not to the exclusion of her other siblings. In particular she spent more time with Seonaid than she had before. She had come through her nursery years and was well established in primary school, her literacy mastered, and showing signs already that one day she might follow her mother into the field of medicine. Her interest in Sarah’s work was awkward in the sense that much of it could not be discussed with a seven-year-old, but it showed a remarkable imagination that could be focused on other areas.

  Am I broody? Alex asked herself as she reached into the fridge for a bottle of orange and mango juice. Her sleep pattern was chronically awful; invariably she would waken after three or four hours with a dry mouth and a fully active mind. Maybe I am, she thought. Maybe this wakening in the middle of the night is mimicking being a mum, four-hourly feeds and all that stuff. Smiling, she weighed her breasts with her free hand as she put the bottle to her lips. Not insubstantial but no heavier than they should be. But if it is, having a baby might not be the best way to cure it.

  ‘Mmm,’ she whispered. ‘Still, Alexis,’ she asked herself, ‘is this your life? Standing naked in the dark in your kitchen at three a.m.? Maybe this is it, for us single ladies. On the other hand, it could have been worse. You might have married Andy Martin.’

  She let the thought fade away. The idea of comparing notes with Carrie McDaniels took its place. Another single woman, in the same age bracket. Did she experience nocturnal omissions too? On the other hand . . . She knew that Carrie had relationships with men, and yet, had there been a vibe, an unspoken suggestion that she might be open to offers? Not my game, she thought mischievously, but if it was, she isn’t unattractive.

  Guilt bit her on two levels: her moment of fantasy, and the fact that she had stood up her investigator without even knowing about it. She had spent late morning and all afternoon at Gullane, waiting until her father and James Andrew returned from their Glasgow adventure. Her dad had been in a curious mood; she had sensed that something important had happened, but when she asked how his day had been, he had shrugged and said, ‘Fine. The Riverside Museum was great, wasn’t it, Jazz?’ Her brother had nodded, but only after a glance towards him. Those two were keeping a secret: no effing doubt about it. It had amused her, and it still did; she was enjoying James Andrew’s development, watching him absorb more and more of their father’s habits and mannerisms.

  It was only when she had returned to her car that she realised she had left her phone on charge in its socket. She had checked her voicemail, finding only one message, from Carrie, asking for a five-thirty meeting in her office. She had missed it by an hour. She had called her back, but it had gone unanswered. Instead she had sent an apologetic text, suggesting the following afternoon as an alternative, but there had been no response. She frowned as she thought about it. She was good at reading people – it was part of her skill as an advocate – and there had been an underlying tension in her investigator’s voice. Without reading too much into it, she wondered whether the David Brass investigation might be less straightforward than she had expected.

  She turned to replace the juice in the fridge; as she did so, the corner of her eye registered a flash, reflected in the kitchen window, a flash that came from behind her. She spun round and saw two men, and the knife that the one closer to her was brandishing, the knife that had reflected the light of the full moon. ‘What the fuck!’ she yelled instinctively as he approached, stepping around the island that held her hob and food preparation space. Black fucking balaclavas! she thought hysterically. These guys are so fucking stereotyped!

  She threw the juice bottle at the nearer and more threatening of the intruders. He batted it away and closed on her, but rather than back off, she stepped towards him, grabbing the sauté pan that sat on the hob and swinging it at him back-handed. The Le Creuset had been a gift from Ignacio; that was the only reason she used it, for she found it heavy and hard to handle. For the first time she was grateful for its heft as it caught the man on the side of the head and sent him sprawling.

  The second man did not react to his partner’s fall; instead he stepped forward and moved towards her. He was bigger, more agile, and even without a blade he seemed more dangerous. Alex still held the pan, but that had been a one-off; all she could do was throw it at him and she did. The mouth in the black mask grinned as it missed. She took a step to the side and made to grab the biggest knife in her butcher’s block, but she was clumsy, and it snagged.

  He was almost on her when a figure, as naked as she was, burst into the kitchen with an improbable cry of ‘Police officer!’ He dived at the attacker from behind, catching him in the middle of the back, driving him downwards and face first into the door of a cupboard. ‘Alex,’ he called out. ‘Gimme a towel, something, anything to tie this bastard up.’

  She looked around, but there was nothing in sight that was big enough to do the job. For a moment, she was helpless as the two men on the ground struggled. Her attacker looked strong enough to fight his way free, but in the event the duel was ended when the first man climbed to his feet, unsteadily but with knife in hand, and slashed his companion’s captor viciously across his lower back.

  In a matter of seconds, both of the invaders were upright and facing her, side by side, but by that time, Alex had armed herself with a long knife and a cleaver from the block, one in each hand.

  ‘Just in case you think I’m only a girlie,’ she hissed as her wounded protector pulled himself painfully to his feet, ‘I promise you that I have been combat trained by an expert, and that if you put me to the test, at least one of you will not leave this room.’ She waved the knife. ‘This is for slicing Serrano ham; you won’t believe how sharp it is until it takes your fucking head right off.’

  The two men gazed at her, made a shared professional judgement, then turned on their heels and ran from the apartment.

  Twenty

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Alex,’ DI Harold Haddock exclaimed as he stepped inside the curtain that screened cubicle C from the rest of Edinburgh Royal Infirmary’s Accident and Emergency Department, ‘are you okay?’

  ‘She’s fine, Sauce.’ The ground-out reply came from a man; he lay face down on a hospital trolley, frowning, teeth clenched as a green-clad doctor stitched a long gash across his lower back, just above his buttocks. ‘It’s me you should be concerned about; I’m the one who nearly had his arse sliced off.’

  ‘You’ve been back in uniform too long, Inspector Montell. “Superficial knife wound”, that’s what the paramedic who brought you in told me. There’s a guy two cubicles along who was brought in with his right ear in a bag. Just another Saturday night in Scotland’s capital city; on scale of ten that cut’s no more than a three. By the way,’ he added, ‘I didn’t know you two were an item again.’

  ‘We’re not; just grown-up friends who both happen to be single at the moment.’ Griff Montell winced. ‘Ah, you wouldn’t understand, Sauce, you’re happy ever after.’

  ‘I think I can work that one out, though. Who called who?’

  ‘I did,’ Alex replied. ‘I’m not sure why; possibly because I’d spent the day with my very young siblings and felt like some adult company. I’m glad I did.’

  ‘Me too,’ Haddock agreed. ‘I’m more than glad. I ask again, are you okay? The paramedic said possible delayed shock, and that you might have a reaction later on.’

  She looked up at him from her seat, knees hunched up in what seemed to him a defensive posture. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was dressed in a green sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, and she wore no make-up. Haddock had known her since his earliest days on the force, bu
t he had never seen her so tired, gaunt or angry.

  ‘I’m fine, Sauce,’ she replied, tight-lipped. ‘As you said, the doctor checked me over, but I have no physical injuries; only hurt pride and outrage. There will be no delayed reaction. Griff’s right: he’s the one with the damage. When you catch the bastards, make sure the arresting officers know they knifed a cop. I take it you haven’t caught them yet.’

  ‘No such,’ Haddock admitted. ‘Emergency services prioritised the ambulance when you told them that a police officer had been wounded, but the nearest of our cars were attending a club disturbance on Lothian Road and a mugging in Leith Walk. The pair must have been long gone by the time we got there. We didn’t know from your call that it was a home invasion. The 999 operator had it down as a Saturday-night domestic.’

  ‘It was that all right,’ she growled.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help us?’

  ‘Physical descriptions, you mean? They were both wearing masks, so facially nothing. The one with the knife was stockily built, about five nine. His mate was at least six feet, moved like an athlete and could handle himself.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Montell called out from the trolley. ‘He was all mine.’

  ‘Only after you went through him from behind like a Springbok flanker, and even then he wasn’t done.’

  ‘I still had him down, though. If only you’d had some proper tape in the kitchen.’

  ‘If only you’d brought your handcuffs and your pepper spray.’ She looked back at Haddock, who seemed mildly amused. ‘One thing that might help. When you do catch them, the smaller one will have a very sore head, maybe even a fractured skull. I beaned him with a French sauté pan just before Griff drilled through his mate.’

  ‘Thanks. I doubt that he’d be crazy enough to come to this A&E,’ the DI suggested, ‘but we’ll check all the others. Which side of the head?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Okay. How about you, Griff? Did you hear anything said?’