‘Sure. I thought I’d have trouble from Dan Pringle. He’s got a sergeant off sick, and his team had a call to another suspicious death this morning, near Merchiston Castle School. He was fine about it, though, and I repaired the damage by offering him Kwame Ankrah for the rest of the week. Our friend is very sharp. He can be a real asset.’
‘Into each life a little rain must fall,’ said the DCC. ‘Dan knows that. Not that I’m complaining about last night’s lot, mind. It’ll make digging a bloody sight easier.’
61
Until that moment, Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle had been remarkably cheerful for the time of day. With the onset of middle age, the detective had experienced difficulty in sleeping. Stress was something which, he believed, happened to other people, but eventually, Mrs Pringle, suffering from what she described as ‘secondary insomnia’, had compelled him to visit their GP.
After only two nights on the mild sedatives which the doctor had prescribed, he had enjoyed more sleep than in the whole of the previous week, and had rediscovered the pleasure of feeling fresh in the morning.
But when he leaned over the body in the copse, encased in his white crime-scene tunic, he felt all the old familiar weariness flow back, covering him like a blanket.
‘Not another,’ he moaned, quietly, to himself.
He looked across at Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Gibson, his second-in-command. ‘What stupid fucker described this as a “suspicious death”?’ he barked.
The man’s curly hair was caked dark red with blood. It had flowed copiously, forming a round puddle, in the centre of which the victim lay, face-down. His wrists were bound behind his back with a strip of ratcheted black plastic, so tightly that the flesh bulged on either side of the ligature.
The dead man was wearing a light brown leather jacket, jeans and heavy boots. Gibson leaned over and pointed at the jacket, towards a mark in the middle of the back. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘It’s torn, and there’s blood caked around it.’
‘Stab wound,’ grunted Pringle. ‘What was the point of doing that if you’re going to blow the guy’s fucking brains out?’
‘The same as the other one,’ Kwame Ankrah interjected quietly. ‘To bring up the head for the killing shot.’
The Detective Superintendent and his deputy stared simultaneously at the African. ‘The other one?’ asked Pringle, incredulously.
‘Superintendent McGrigor is investigating a shooting in a place called West Linton. From what I have heard, the method was identical to this killing. These are executions, gentlemen.’
‘We’d better touch base with Big John, quick,’ said Gibson.
‘With more than him, I think,’ his Divisional Commander retorted. ‘Let’s get finished here though. Are the photographers finished for now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Doctor too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, let’s turn him over and see what he looks like . . . that’s if he’s got any face left.’
‘He will have,’ said Ankrah, bending down beside Gibson and turning the stiffened corpse over on to its back.
The man stared up at them with sightless, terrified eyes. The face was red with blood, from the pool in which it had lain, but it appeared to be unmarked. The hair which was not soaked and matted, looked thick and luxuriant, and light brown in colour.
‘Who found him?’ asked Pringle.
‘A dog-walker, sir,’ the DCI replied. ‘Eight-thirty this morning.’
‘Why would this guy be here?’
‘Depending on where he lived, he could have been taking a shortcut home, from the squash club, possibly. Or he could have been brought here.’
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Not yet, sir. There’s no missing person listing to fit the bill.’
‘Let’s have a look, then.’ Pringle leaned over the body and, carefully, opened the blood-sodden jacket. He reached inside its inside pocket and took out a black leather wallet. Stepping away from the body, he opened it and looked inside. ‘Thirty-five quid in readies,’ he announced. ‘Let’s have a look at his plastic. Bank of Scotland Keycard, sort code 80-41-21; customer’s name C. Collins. Sunday Times Visa Card, holder’s name C. Collins. Colinton Castle Squash Club membership card . . . looks like you were right, Joseph . . . in the name of Charles Collins.’ He paused. ‘Territorial Army Mess membership card,’ he continued, more slowly, ‘in the name of Sergeant Charles Collins, Lowland Inf. Div.’
‘That’s who he is, then.’
He frowned slightly as an idle thought struck him. ‘Here, Stevie Steele’s away checking up on some TA guys for Andy Martin. Maybe we’ve found one for him.’
62
If Detective Sergeant Stevie Steele noticed the knowing look which Karen Neville threw in his direction as he entered the Head of CID’s outer office, he did not react to it. Instead he walked over to Sammy Pye’s desk.
‘Mr Martin wants to see me,’ he said.
The detective constable beamed up at him. ‘I know, sergeant. He asked us to take you in as soon as you arrived.’
Steele frowned. Neville’s glance had not unsettled him, but there was something in Pye’s tone which did. ‘Did he say what it’s about?’
‘He wouldn’t tell us, sarge. Come on, let’s not keep them waiting. You’re two minutes late as it is.’
Pye stood. ‘Tell you one thing though,’ he whispered, mischievously. ‘If you thought that Russian was tough, you should see Andy Martin on a bad day.’ As Steele’s jaw dropped, he led the two sergeants across the room, rapped on the Head of CID’s door and stepped inside.
‘DS Steele’s here, Boss,’ he announced.
‘Bring him in, then,’ said Martin, rising from behind his desk and moving over to the conference table, at which sat DCC Skinner, waiting.
The acting Chief grinned at the sergeant, registering his apprehension. ‘It’s all right, Stevie. Have these two been taking the piss?’
Steele glowered at Pye for a second. ‘One may have, sir.’
‘Sit down,’ said the DCS. ‘Have you got the names of those TA soldiers you told me about?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. ‘They’re . . .’
Martin held up a hand. ‘Let me guess at some of them. One’s named Sergeant Charles Collins.’
Steele looked at him, astonished.
‘Yes, Boss, Curly Collins.’
‘Found shot dead in Colinton this morning.’
‘Eh?’
‘That’s right. Let me guess another. Sergeant Ryan Saunders.’
Steele nodded slowly.
‘Found near West Linton a few days ago, shot . . . executed . . . in exactly the same way as Collins. Hands tied, made to kneel, jabbed in the back with a knife, or possibly even a bayonet, to bring the head up then . . . Bang!
‘A few days before that, Saunders, in uniform, paid two and a half grand in cash for a diamond pendant in Raglan’s, where, shortly afterwards, a major diamond robbery took place. That, of course, is the shop where Arlene Regan’s boy-friend worked. The same Arlene Regan who pulled the pints for Saunders, Collins and their pals up in the TA Club.’
Skinner leaned forward. ‘My turn to play now. I’ll give you two more. First, Nathan Bennett.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Steele, ‘known as Big Red. But I had to get on to the Ministry of Defence to get his details. He was registered as an ex-serviceman, but he was never in the Territorials.’
The DCC was surprised, but he went on. ‘Missing two fingers from his left hand. Shot dead in Saughton Prison while awaiting trial for the Dalkeith bank hold-up.
‘My second guess. Malcolm McDonnell.’
‘Yes, sir. Big Mac, a Sergeant during his service. But he was the same as Bennett. An ex-regular, but he was never a TA member either. I had to go to MoD for him too.’
‘That’s curious too. Anyhow, McDonnell was a prison officer, stationed at Saughton. He disappeared after Bennett
was assassinated, having set him up to be killed.’
Silence prevailed for a few seconds, until Stevie Steele sent it packing. ‘That’s very good, sir,’ he said. ‘Do you and Mr Martin want to try for the set?’
Skinner laughed. ‘No, it’s your turn now. Who are the others on your list?’
The sergeant looked down at his notebook. ‘Sergeant Rory Newton, sir, still serving. Nickname Bakey, because that’s his trade. Works in a supermarket as an in-store baker in Piershill. Address, 27 Feather Street, Danderhall.
‘Corporal Alan Clark, still serving. Nickname Tory, though I can’t think why. Works in a gents’ outfitters in George Street. Address, 43a Derbyshire Street.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Martin looked along the table at the young sergeant. ‘And these six were all big mates, you say.’
‘Thick as thieves, sir, according to Mr Herr.’
‘Literally. We’ve found them, Stevie. Some, maybe all of these, are our bank gang. Those robberies were carried out with military precision, we reckoned. No bloody wonder, because the team are soldiers!’
‘So who’s knocking them off?’ Skinner pondered. ‘It looks as if someone involved in this wants all the money for himself.’
‘That leaves us with Newton or Clark, Boss,’ Martin answered. ‘Of them, it could turn out to be the one who’s still alive.’
Stevie Steele raised a hand, as if he was in a classroom. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he ventured, tentatively, ‘but there was another man. Barry Herr mentioned him. The others called him Hamburger, nothing else. He was only there occasionally, but Arlene was keen on him.
‘He wasn’t a member of the Mess, though, and the nickname meant nothing to the TA people.’
‘No one knows his real name?’
‘No, sir.’
‘We’ll have to find him, nonetheless,’ said Martin. ‘But first, let’s pick up Newton and Clark . . . pronto. Superintendent Pringle is on his way up here. Stevie, you and he can go to the place in Piershill for your baker man. Sammy, you and I will head for George Street, to pick up this Tory chap.
‘That’s unless one or the other of them isn’t face-down in another wood somewhere.’
63
‘This is the place, sir,’ said DC Pye. ‘The most exclusive men’s shop on George Street.’
‘Do you shop here then, Sammy?’ Martin grinned.
‘When I’m in your job, Boss, I’ll be able to afford it.’ They looked at the glass-fronted edifice, behind which skeletal structures modelled the latest in designer suits. A police patrol car stood at the kerb behind them, its uniformed driver behind the wheel.
‘Eh, Boss,’ said the young detective, tentatively.
‘Yes.’
‘I think Sergeant Neville was a wee bit upset that you left her in the office.’
‘Yes, I could see that. I’ll have a word with her when we get back. The thing is, we don’t know anything about this guy, other than that he’s an ex-Para. He may not want to get into the motor and come quietly. Should that happen, I’d rather have you alongside me than Karen, for my sake, and hers.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her, sir. Karen can handle herself in a bundle. She has a black belt in Tae Kwan Do.’
‘Fair enough.’ Martin grunted. ‘But how would that help if someone grabbed her by the bra-straps and nutted her? No, Sammy; I’m all for the advancement of women in the force, but horses for courses, okay.’
He led the way into the shop, through the double doors, which swung lightly on his touch. At once, a middle-aged man approached them. The Head of CID thought that he looked a little self-conscious in his Armani jacket.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen? I’m Lorimer Davidson, the manager. I saw you get out of your car.’
‘And you guessed we haven’t come to shop,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘You’re right. We’d like to speak with a member of your staff, a Mr Clark.’
The manager sniffed, a slightly comic gesture. ‘Alan? I’d like to speak to him too.’
‘You mean he isn’t here?’
‘No, he bloody well isn’t,’ Davidson exclaimed. ‘He had a phone call, around forty-five minutes ago . . . notwithstanding that personal calls are strictly against the rules. He took it, then, without a “please” or a “by-your-leave”, just rushed out.
‘I haven’t seen him since. I hope he has a bloody good excuse, but with you turning up and wanting to see him, somehow, I rather doubt that he will have.’
‘So do we, sir,’ said Martin. ‘So do we. I think you should start advertising for a new sales assistant.’
64
‘Rory Newton?’ the woman exclaimed. ‘My bakery foreman? Of course you can see him. Come on, and I’ll take you along.’
Jennifer Tate, the general manager of the Piershill superstore, was a bustling, blue-suited woman in her mid forties, who radiated charm and efficiency. Her mezzanine office, in which the two policemen sat, had a panoramic view of the shopping alleyways and the checkout counters.
Dan Pringle shopped there often with his wife, and had always been impressed by its cleanliness, its product range and its efficiency. Now he knew that it was literally under the eagle eye of such an impressive supervisor, he understood why it stood out.
She led them past the fresh fish counter, a unit which prepared pizzas with the customer’s choice of topping, and a cold storage area for dairy products, up to twin doors at the back of the store, close to the bakery shelves.
‘Rory,’ she called out, as she pushed them open and held them for Pringle and Stevie Steele. They stepped into a spotlessly clean kitchen area, where white-uniformed staff were preparing dough for the ovens, and film-wrapping newly baked loaves, bread rolls, scones and buns.
‘Mr Newton?’
A tiny woman, in a white coat and trilby hat, turned towards her, diffidently. ‘Rory’s no’ here, Mrs Tate.’
‘Is he on his break, Molly? Should we try the canteen?’
She shook her head. ‘No, a dinna’ think so. He’s been awa’ for about an hour, like.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘Naw. It was funny, like. The radio was on like ayeways, an’ the news came on. Bakey was listenin’ tae something I think, and his face went a’ funny. He went ower tae the phone, made a couple of calls, then he jist took aff his coat and hat and walked oot the door.’
Jennifer Tate turned and looked, astonished, at Pringle. He turned and looked, knowingly, at Steele, then reached into his pocket, took out a mobile phone and called the Fettes number.
‘Alan Royston, please,’ the sergeant and the general manager heard him bark, his face like thunder.
‘Alan, Dan Pringle here. Did your office release the name of the Colinton murder victim?’
He waited.
‘On DCI Gibson’s authority, you say?’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Okay. Do you know whether it’s been broadcast on radio yet?’
There was another pause.
‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ The superintendent’s grin had a savage look to it. ‘Do me a favour, Alan, will you. Call Gibson back, tell him to find the longest grass he can and hide in it, before Bob Skinner catches him.
‘No. On second thoughts, tell him to take sanctuary in the nearest church. Big Bob would just set the bloody grass on fire!’
65
‘Is this investigation jinxed, or what?’ the Head of CID growled. ‘Every time we turn up potential witnesses they either die or they go underground.’
‘Look on the bright side, Andy,’ said Skinner, stretching his legs as he leaned against the back wall of the squash court, deep in the bowels of the Headquarters building. His white towelling shirt and the red band around his forehead were heavy with sweat as he spun his handmade Worton racquet in his right hand. ‘You’ve identified the gang, and they’re out of business for sure.’
Like many squash players of his generation, he eschewed the modern high-tech alloy frames and synthetic strings, preferring
to stick to traditional gut-strung wood. ‘If you’re good enough, son,’ he was fond of saying to his younger friend, ‘it doesn’t matter what you use. So my racquet’s an ounce or two heavier than yours? So your frame widens the efficiency of the striking surface? So what, if you do what you’re supposed to do and hit the ball dead in the middle of the strings every time?’
If pressed, Skinner would admit that of all the ball games he played, squash was the one at which he really excelled. He was a low-handicap golfer, but he knew that his game lacked the finesse ever to allow him to make scratch. As a footballer, he was capable, but his sheer size made him less adept than smaller players, particularly in indoor sports halls. But on the squash court, he was able to blend touch, timing, power and economy of movement into an irresistible package. In middle age he played less frequently than in his twenties and thirties, when he had been the number-one player in one of the city’s most prestigious clubs, but he was still good enough to be untouchable by any user of the Fettes courts.
Andy Martin had learned everything he knew about the game from his friend. However he was still a long way from having learned everything that Bob Skinner knew.
Yet, as they gulped in air during the short break between games, the older man glanced across at his opponent and smiled. Martin was playing with a ferocity born of frustration, and had taken an early lead, only to be hauled back to two-all, in the five-game match.
The Chief Superintendent slapped the side wall of the Court with the flat of his hand. ‘We’ve identified the gang, you say. Yet the truth is, Bob, that we’ve stumbled over them. They might be out of business, and three of them might be dead, but the survivors are still a few million quid to the good.’
‘I know, and that’s bad luck for the insurers; but at least the public are safer than they were. You’d better postpone the rest of this conversation, though. You’ve got a chance of beating me here, but only if you’re concentrating on nothing but the game.’
He replaced his eye protectors, tossed up the small, hollow, rubber, yellow spot ball, which he had been holding to keep it warm, fired it against the front wall once, twice, three times, at blinding speed, then caught it.
08 - Murmuring the Judges Page 27