Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Where’ll that get you?’

  ‘I’ll know that when I get there. What can you tell me about Mike?’

  ‘Hah.’ The single sound was laden with sadness and irony. ‘What’s to tell? Mike was a great bloke. The most gifted guy I ever knew. A warm kind man with a generous spirit.’

  ‘What was he like at school?’

  ‘He was a leader, but without being resented in any way for it. Everyone liked him, pupils and staff. He was brilliant academically, but never flaunted it. He was only average at games, but made up for it by trying wice as hard as anyone else. And if anyone had a problem, he’d always help, but never talk about it afterwards.’

  ‘Did he stay that way? How did university affect him?’

  ‘As a friend, not at all. But as an individual, he became more passion ate, more involved with issues. He took part in all the Union debates, although he said he was doing it as part of his preparation for the law.’

  ‘Was he political?’

  ‘Yes and no. He always refused to join the heavy political groups. Spoke in debates as an independent. But personally, you’d probably have calle him left-wing. He supported every oppressed group under the sun, Sout frican blacks, South American Indians, North American Indians, Palestinians, Soviet Jews; you name it, if a group was under anyone’s thumb, Mike would speak up for it.’

  ‘Girlfriends?’

  ‘In the four years that we were at Glasgow together, I remember him having two brief things then one steady relationship. That was with a girl called Liz something. It lasted till we all graduated, then she went off to study French in France, and it just sort of died a natural death.

  ‘After that there were one or two who were fairly close. Sleeping together, but no long-term commitment either way. Mike was too keen on the law to allow it to have a rival in his life. Until he went to the Bar and met Rachel.’

  ‘Did you see him much after university?’

  ‘Yes, a lot when he was in Glasgow. Once he moved to Edinburgh not so much. But we were still best mates. It was the sort of friendshi where you don’t need to see each other all the time.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Rachel?’

  ‘Of course. She was at our wedding last summer. Mike was best man Christ, I was going to be best man at his, when they finally got round to setting the date.’ Smellie’s voice faltered at the memory.

  Skinner allowed the man a few seconds to compose himself. ‘Did you know much about Mike’s professional life?’

  ‘A bit. Not the detail. He was meticulous. Never referred to his clients by name, or discussed cases in depth. But he did tell me that he liked criminal work, enjoyed defending a client who he felt had been victimised by the police - sorry, Mr Skinner, but that was the way he put it — an really fighting for him. He had a good record too. He and Rachel defended two Chinese guys who had been charged with rape and murder. Mike thought they were carrying the can for someone else. Between them, they took the prosecution to bits, and got them off.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Skinner, ‘I’ve heard about that case. Not one of the Crown’ s finest hours.

  ‘He never mentioned any work, or any private interest even, that was out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No, nothing that I can think of. No, never.’

  ‘Mm.’ Skinner paused. He sensed that the man was talked out. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Smellie; I’m sorry to have broken into your Sunday morning.’

  Skinner replaced his receiver and swung round in his chair, sliding his long legs under the desk.

  So that was it. The life of Michael. Brilliant, kind, and passionate about the law, oppressed minorities, and one woman. No enemies, save for Yobatu, and he was out of the picture.

  Another brick wall across the highway of progress.

  51

  As Skinner teased memories of Mortimer from Johnny Smellie, Martin in his office, made his way gently back into the life of Rachel Jameson

  He began by calling Kay Allan, by her mother’s reckoning her bes Edinburgh friend. Mrs Allan came to the telephone drowsily, after being wakened by her husband. He had been annoyed by a Sunday morning; call from anyone, let alone the police.

  Martin introduced himself.

  ‘How long had you known Miss Jameson, Mrs Allan?’

  ‘About four years. We were in the same squash club, then we went to a keep-fit class together. And we went out for drinks on occasion with other girls in our circle.’

  ‘What sort of person was she?’

  ‘On the outside a quiet, gentle sort of person, but nobody’s soft touch I went to see her in court once. She was really forceful. It took me by surprise. It was someone that I didn’t really know.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend?’

  ‘Mike? Yes, quite a few times. He was a really nice bloke. The sam type as Rachel, but with more showing on the outside. They were really well matched. What happened to him was just terrible. Poor Mike. Poor Rachel. To have everything, and then to have it all wiped out.’

  ‘Did you see Miss Jameson after Mr Mortimer’s death?’

  ‘Yes. I went round the evening after it happened. She was, well, funny; very quiet, very controlled, but it was as if a big black blanket had wrapped itself around her. I couldn’t reach her at all. I wasn’t really surprised when she killed herself. She was keeping all the grief inside And that’s dangerous, so they say.’

  ‘That evening, or at any other time, did she ever talk about her work?

  ‘Not much. She mentioned one or two criminal cases. She did tell me that she was worried about that last case. What was the man’s name. McGann? McCurin? No, McCann, that was it. She said that he scared the life out of her. She told me that she was sure he was guilty, but he had a defence and although she thought he was lying, she was worried that if the main prosecution witness wasn’t good, he might get off. The advocate’s dilemma, she called it. He didn’t get off, did he, but he escaped. Have they got him yet?’

  ‘Yes, the French police picked him up last week in Dijon. He’s been charged with murdering an old woman for the sake of the forty-three francs in her purse.’

  ‘Horrible. Rachel was right about him.’

  ‘She surely was. Mrs Allan, did Miss Jameson ever mention anything she was working on that was out of the usual run of things; something that she might have been working on with Mike?’

  The woman was silent for several seconds. ‘Only the house. They’d bought a piece of land in West Linton. They were getting married next autumn and they were going to build a house.

  ‘But work, no. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Did Miss Jameson have any other male friends before Mike, or even while she was seeing him?’

  ‘You can forget the second part of that question. Those two were soul-mates - there’s an old-fashioned term for you. Before, I suppose she had There was some fat wimp of an accountant tagging along when I first knew her, and she did mention once that she’d been keen on some chap at university, but that was all.’

  Martin noted the two slim and unlikely leads. ‘Mrs Allan, that’s been a big help. I’ll let you get back to sleep now:’

  ‘No such luck! The baby’s awake!’ She laughed grimly, and hung up

  He chose another name from the list of friends. Marjorie Porteous had been Rachel’s equivalent of Johnny Smellie, her best friend through her schooldays at St George’s, and on through university. She had taken her Economics First to the City, and had married a property developer.

  When Martin called the Maidenhead number, the telephone was answered by a woman with an accent redolent of Morningside, that refined but decaying suburb of Edinburgh. ‘652375. Marjorie d’Antonio speaking.’ Rachel’s mother had voiced to Martin her suspicion that the husband, whom she recalled from the wedding, had been christened Anthony Muggins, and had had swift recourse as an adult to the deed poll procedure.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs d’Antonio.’ Martin introduced himself an explained the reason for his call. At once the assertive voice a
t the other end of the line softened, and the accent became less pronounced.

  ‘ Yes. Poor Rachel. How can I help you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘By telling me about Miss Jameson and your friendship.’

  ‘Where to begin? Rachel came to St George’s when she was fourteen You know what they say about St George’s? “All they teach you there is how to write cheques.”’ She laughed at her quip.

  ‘Well in our case at least, it wasn’t true. Rachel and I were sort of star pupils in our year. Did our full quota of “A” levels and went to Edinburg University together. At school, Rachel was always the popular one. Everyone thought I was a conceited little cow, and guess what, they were right, but Rachel had no airs and graces. She was head girl in our fina year, and she fixed it for me to be a prefect. I got my own back on a few then, I’ll tell you!’

  Martin chuckled at the woman’s openness. He was warming to her more and more as the call progressed. ‘What about university? Did you both live at home?’

  ‘In our first year, yes. Then my Dad bought a flat in Marchmont as an investment, and we moved in, with a succession of other girls.’

  ‘Was Rachel active in university clubs?’

  ‘No. Not really. We both joined the North America travel club, and spent our second summer vacation working in San Francisco, but that was all. She didn’t get involved in politics or anything of that sort. She thought it was a waste of study time, and so did I.’

  ‘If she had joined a political club, what do you think it would have been?’

  Marjorie’s answer came back without a pause. ‘The SNP. She was very into ethnic rights. Stood up for the oppressed and all that.’

  ‘Did she have any relationships at university?’

  ‘With men? Just a few flings at first. Quick grope in the Odeon, tha level of thing. But only one serious affair, in our third year. Her grades dipped a bit because of it. In fact that’s why she had to settle for a Two One, rather than a First; no doubt about it.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the man?’

  ‘Not even his name. She called him Fuzzy; we all did. He was some sort of Arab. They met at a Union disco. Quick dance, he flashed the brow eyes and that was it.’

  ‘What sort of a man was he?’

  ‘I don’t really know. He hardly ever said anything. He was about the flat quite a lot. I mean, he and Rachel were sleeping together, but he never strung together any more than yes, no, please and thank you, when anyone else was around. I think it might have been the fact that he was so shy that attracted Kachel to him. When they were alone you could hear them yakking away through the wall.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He left at the end of the year. But I could sense that it was running out of steam by then. Rachel told me so. She said that the trouble was his intensity, and his complete lack of humour. So he left, we went to the Côte d’Azur to work for the summer, Rachel met a big blond Swede with muscles everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and forgot about Fuzzy End of chapter.’

  ‘How about men after that?’

  ‘I didn’t see all that much of her after I moved south. But we exchanged letters often, and I gathered from them that there was no one serious for a long time, not until she met Mike Mortimer.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘In the autumn. She came down for a weekend in September. The time before that was when I visited my parents in the spring.’

  ‘Did she say anything on either occasion about anything unusual that she and Mike, or either of them alone, might have been involved in?’

  ‘No. All she talked about was how happy they were, and how she would be able to take a year off from practice to have a baby when the time came, and how super everything was going to be. And then!’ Suddenly Marjorie, on the other end of the telephone, burst into tears. ‘What a shame What a bloody shame. And what a waste.’

  52

  The cobbles roared under the wheels of the Astra as they drove throug the New Town. Martin parked on a yellow line across the street from Mortimer’s flat. There was an old-fashioned remote entry system on the heavy outer door. Skinner rang the bell and after a few seconds the door creaked open. They stepped into a cold, dull hallway, and went through a second door, glass-panelled this time.

  ‘Up here!’ Brian Mackie called down to them.

  The two detectives trotted up to the second floor. At the top of the stairway, the DI held a door open.

  Mike Mortimer’s living room was furnished conservatively, mostly with reproduction items, but with one or two antique pieces situated prominently.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Martin.

  ‘A change from your bloody Habitat warehouse!’ Skinner suggested

  Mackie grinned. ‘You should take a look in the bedroom. The four poster must have cost a bob or two.’

  ‘Does it have a canopy?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Yes, boss. And we’ve checked. There’s nothing stashed up there. Mackie smiled, unable to hide his pleasure at having anticipated the question which had been bound to follow.

  ‘We’ve been all over the place. All his personal and business records were in that big desk over there, or in these two cupboards. He’s had them converted into filing cabinets.’

  Mackie walked over to a door set in the wall to the left of the east-facing window. He threw it open. The space behind was filled with side-hung file racks, most of them stuffed with papers and manila folders.

  Skinner looked inside. ‘You’ve got some work ahead of you. Is the other one the same?’

  ‘There’s this thing as well. We’ll need to look at it.’ He turned agai towards the desk. The only incongruous object in the room was a grey micro-computer with a small dot-matrix printer attached by a ribbon cable. By its side was a small box with a clear plastic lid, containing a number of computer disks in cardboard holders. Mackie picked one out and howed it to Skinner and Martin. ‘He’s been kind enough to label all of these. All I need now is to be able to read them.’

  Skinner moved over to the desk. ‘I think I can show you how, Brian.’ He looked at the computer. ‘Yes. It’s an Amstrad 8512, twin-drive, bog-standard machine. My daughter has one for her studies. Watch me.’

  He ran through the start-up procedure for Mackie. ‘Is that clear enough, Brian?’

  ‘Yes boss. Thanks. Thanks for God knows how much work. Each of these things could hold a hell of a lot of files, and we’ll have to look at them all.’ He counted fourteen disks in the box.

  ‘Sorry Brian, but you’re right. A complete search does include our friend Mr Amstrad. Just make sure that you don’t alter any of the files as you read them.’

  He turned away then turned back towards Mackie. ‘By the way, have you discussed your search procedure with Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, boss, we’re going about it the same way.’

  ‘That’s good. We’ll pay her a visit now, to see how big a task she has.’ He made the slightest move towards the door, then turned back again, as if with another afterthought. ‘Brian, let’s try to make life a bit easier for you. Did friend Michael have an address book, or a card index and a diary?’

  ‘All in one, sir. He had a Filofax. A yuppie’s handbook.’

  His smile turned watery as he remembered the black leather personal organiser which Martin always carried, and felt the green eyes boring into him. Skinner picked up the gaffe and laughed. So did Martin. Eventuall Mackie, looking relieved, joined in. From the desk he picked up a heavy brown leather binder secured by a strong clasp. The initials ‘MM’ were picked out in gold leaf in the bottom right comer. He handed it to Skinner.

  Rachel Jameson’s flat was also in a New Town block, but different in style to that of Mortimer. In estate-agent terms, it was a typical Edinburg garden flat, in the basement of what had once been an entire house on four floors. Its entrance was below street level, accessed by a short fligh of steps. French doors opened from the living-room on to a small rear courtyard, which Rachel had brighten
ed with an array of hardy shrubs and flowers, set out in earthenware vessels. Skinner noted, with amuse ment, plants set in two tall chimney-pots, scavenged, no doubt, from a demolished building.

  Like Mortimer’s flat, it was part home, part office. Rachel’s files were contained in two steel cabinets which stood, as Maggie Rose showed Skinner and Martin, in a deep cupboard off the hall.

  She pulled open the four drawers in the two low cabinets.

  ‘Fewer documents than Mortimer,’ Skinner remarked.

  ‘She seems to have been a very neat person, sir. I’ve been right through this flat, while Mario ... ’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘DC McGuire, sir. His first name’s Mario.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, what a mixture. Ice-cream and Guinness! Sorry, go on Maggie.’

  ... while Mario sorted out the papers. I’ve been trying to judge what sort of a woman this was. To imagine myself as her, in fact.’

  ‘Very good. So what sort of a picture have you formed? Describe your self to me.’

  The red-haired woman hesitated, took a deep breath and began. ‘Well sir, as I’ve said, I’m very neat. My files are in such good order because I’ve summarised all my older ones and destroyed a lot of paper, or archived it in the cellar at the front under the pavement, which I’ve had water-proofed.

  ‘My diary is meticulous. So are my personal habits and my dress. I use good quality soap and shampoo, not over-priced designer stuff. I bathe or shower at least twice a day - and perhaps not always alone, because there are three big towels on the heated rail. I buy most of my bras, knickers and tights at Marks & Spencer, and my working clothes at Jenners. I use storecards and chargecards rather than cash or cheques, with direct debit arrangements with my bank.

  ‘I’m reserved and elegant, but I can be a bit sexy too, because I have a collection of rather more exotic underwear, and one or two designer evening dresses that are guaranteed to attract attention. I’d say that I like sex, but only as a shared experience. By that I mean, if I may be blunt that I like making love but not screwing. When I dress sexy it’s for my partner’s pleasure as much as mine.