Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘My reading list shows that I’m a very thoughtful person. I don’t throw books away. Some I read over and over again. I like Tolkein, I like Leon Uris. I like Solzhenitsyn. I like Tom Sharpe’s early novels, the one that take the piss out of the South African police, but I ignore the rest of his stuff because I think it’s sexist.

  ‘My taste in music is broad, but I’m no musician. I like strong memorable melodies, from Mozart to Mendelssohn, or Marley to Morrison. It says what I think as well as now I feel. There’s a Marley on my player right now, with three songs programmed — this is true, sir, it must have been like that since the last time she walked out - “Buffalo Soldiers”, “Get Up, Stand Up”, and “Redemption Song”, all of them strong political statements.

  ‘As an advocate, I’m part of the establishment. Yet when I conside my taste in literature and in music, I have to admit to myself that I’m drawn to the side of the poor people. I’m for what I regard as good against evil, and some of my beliefs and causes would be regarded as pretty left wing. If I felt something strongly enough, I’d go all the way. I have the determination to do that.’

  ‘You sound like quite a lady, Rachel Jameson. Are you a strong person?’

  ‘Yes, I think I am. Not physically brave perhaps, but morally strong.

  ‘Are you loyal?’

  ‘Absolutely. If you’re my friend, you’re my friend for life and I’ll do anything I can to help you.’

  Skinner looked down at the serious face. ‘Are you sure that none of Maggie Rose has crept into this analysis?’

  She smiled. ‘Quite sure, sir. I like Georgette Heyer, Len Deighton, Wet Wet Wet and Joan Armatrading. My favourite clothes are denim. As for sex, I prefer reading about it to doing it. I’ll give to the RSPCA, but not Greenpeace. I’m an out-and-out realist, not a closet idealist. We couldn’ have been less alike.’

  Skinner continued to study her for a few moments. ‘Maggie, I have a feeling that you have just given this investigation its first big push forward. I don’t know why, or how, but I do.’

  Then he swept back to business. ‘That’s what you’ve picked up from her knicker drawer and record collection. Does anything shout at you so far from her papers?’

  ‘Yes, sir, one thing. We’ve found desk diaries here dating back to 1986, meticulously kept, with ticks for completed engagements and everything. But this year’s diary is missing. Either it was in her briefcase, or it was taken from here by our man. I’d say that’s more likely. The earlier diaries aren’t the sort you carry around. They’re detailed, the sort you would keep at base, with your Filofax for quick reference.

  ‘Only there’s no Filofax here, and I’d bet this lady had one.’

  Skinner nodded his agreement. ‘Could her desk diary be with her clerk up at the Faculty?’

  ‘Not very likely, sir. The earlier ones aren’t just business records. There’s some very personal stutt there too. They show when she met Mortimer, weekends away, and so on. There’s even a date a while back not long after she met Mortimer, with “M” and two big crosses along side. I think I can guess what they signified. You don’t leave that sort of thing at your office, do you?’

  Skinner grinned briefly, bringing a slight flush to Maggie’s face. ‘No: personally. I’ll ask Aileen to confirm that tomorrow, but I’m sure you’re right. Advocates’ clerks maintain business diaries for each person in their stable, and they never leave the office, as a rule.

  ‘Have you discussed this with what’s his name, Paddy Pavarotti?’

  ‘No, sir, he didn’t look at the diaries, and I didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Good. Don’t. There’s no need for him to know. The implications of this could be more serious than you can imagine, so don’t talk about it even to Brian.

  ‘At this stage, only Andy and I need to know.’

  53

  As Skinner and Martin left the neat little garden flat, the mid-afternoon sun hung low in the western sky. Martin carried Rachel Jameson’s address book. As they drove back towards Fettes Avenue, Skinner told him of Maggie Rose’s discovery.

  ‘Does she know that would confirm everything we suspect?’

  ‘ You can be sure of it. She has a fine mind, has our Maggie. She’s figured ut that it proves that Rachel didn’t kill herself, and that the person who did has been into that flat removing any leads. She’s been told in confidence, along with every one else involved in the Balerno search that Yobatu turned out to be as daft as a brush, and that he’s been shipped very quietly to a laughing academy in Japan. She knows that Kenny Duff has pinned the break-ins down to December the ninth at the earliest - after Yobatu was lifted. Her mind’s working away; so she can guess that Yobatu was set up. But what she can’t know is how far that could lead us, to the possibility of the Foreign Secretary and the Lord Advocate being parties to the frame.’

  Martin whistled. ‘You don’t really think that, do you, boss?’

  ‘No, that needn’t follow. As I told Shi-Bachi, there was a ring of unpleasant truth in what Allingham and Wilson said at that meeting. Diplomatic immunity is a valuable principle, and I can understand the Foreign Office not wanting that boat rocked.

  ‘But the theft of that diary, and the break-in at Mortimer’s place make it certain that we are on the track of something solid here.’

  Martin turned the car into Howe Street. ‘One thing, boss. Whoever our guy is, he’s a really clever bastard. So why didn’t he conceal the fact of the searches?’

  ‘Yes, I’m asking myself that one. Plain carelessness is one answer. Another is that with Yobatu firmly in the frame, he didn’t see the need. He couldn’t have known about the wills, or the joint executor. If it hadn’t been for Kenny Duff, these break-ins would probably have been reported separately, to different shifts at Gayfield. Or maybe they wouldn’t have been reported at all. We’ve had a slice of luck there, I think.’

  He paused for a moment, in reflection, and went on: ‘You’re right, Andy. This is an extremely clever sod, and we’re back in this game only by the skin of our teeth. He’s left one unavoidable lead, by stealing Rachel’s briefcase, and he’s made one major mistake, leaving his mark on Mortimer’s.

  ‘We’ve just got to hope that he’s made others and that the trail isn’t wiped completely clean from here on.

  ‘You take that address book of Rachel’s, and I’ll take Mortimer’s Filofax. Let’s disregard for now every listing of full name and addresses in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Start off by looking for entries that might be usual or cryptic in any way.’

  Martin turned into the Fettes Avenue car park and pulled up beside Skinner’s Granada.

  The tall man climbed out. Ducking his head back through the passenger door he said, ‘I’m off home. You should do the same, but don’t forget your evening reading.’

  On impulse, Skinner walked back to Stockbridge. At his brisk pace it took ten minutes. He and Sarah had marked their engagement by an exchange of keys. For the first time in his life, he let himself into the apartment.

  ‘I’m home!’ he called from the hall to the warm flat.

  Fresh food smells drifted from the kitchen. Sarah emerged, with her hair tied high and her shoulders bare. She wore a long wrap-round apron, a pair of sandals, and nothing else. She stood on tip-toe and kissed him.

  ‘God, I must get used to this new situation!’ she whispered. ‘You coul have had Andy with you, or anyone.’ Bob grinned and wound his arms around her, grasping a firm buttock in each hand.

  ‘Hungry?’ she asked softly. It was a loaded question.

  Later, Bob wearing a leisure suit and Sarah still in her apron, but worn over a tee-shirt and denims, they cooked the meal which Sarah had been preparing earlier. They ate at the rectangular pine kitchen table, following the stir-fry with fruit salad taken from the freezer, and opting for Swan low alcohol lager rather than wine.

  While they ate, nothing was said about the investigation. It was only after Bob had poured their coffee that Sarah asked him about it.
<
br />   ‘What did you achieve today, my darling?’

  ‘Today we’ve only built the machine and set it in motion. Now the hard part begins.’

  He paused for a moment, staring into his coffee mug, then looked up at Sarah as she leaned across the table, her chin resting in her cupped hand.

  ‘I made a heavy point about secrecy this morning. I told the team not to talk to anyone about what they’re doing; and I meant anyone, wives and or sweethearts included. Now I want to break my own rule. I feel I’ve got to tell you all about it.’

  Sarah dropped her hand from her chin and looked into his eyes, frown ing slightly. ‘Of course you do. And you should. Bob, you’re not like th team. Only you and Andy know the whole story. And you think that you might be involved in something tremendous, and awful. You know for sure it’s highly dangerous. You’re wrapped up in it. If you don’t have some sort of confessional, a safe, secure sounding board, you coulc become obsessive about it. This is your doctor speaking.

  ‘But there’s one other thing. I’m part of the team too. I saw what was done to those four people. I had to poke around in the mess. So I have a personal interest in seeing that this animal, whoever he is, is rounded up and put away.’

  Bob smiled at her intensity, taking her hand. ‘Thanks, love. I’d almost forgotten that you’ve been in since the dirty start of this business.’

  He crossed to the fridge, took out two more cans of Swan, popped the top of each and handed one to Sarah. Across the table, he told her of the beginning of the search, of the importance of Kenny Duff’s discovery of the break-ins, of Maggie Rose’s perceptive analysis of Rachel, anc finally, of her discovery of the theft of the current diary.

  By the time he had finished, Sarah had grown sombre. ‘So there was some kind of plot. And all those people were killed in cold blood, not by some crazy man. Horrible!’ She shuddered.

  ‘Let me help. You mentioned Mike Mortimer’s Filofax. Let’s look at it together.’

  They moved through to the living room and sat together on the comfort able yellow settee. Bob opened the brown leather binding and held the book so that Sarah could read it with him. Inside the front cover, ther was a card in a clear plastic holder. The words ‘Happy birthday, 4/6/94 All my love, Rachel’ were written in blue fountain ink in an elegan hand. The leather still smelled new. The pages, held by a ring-binder, wer arranged in four sections, diary, addresses, information and financial. Bob opened the financial section.

  Mortimer had been a careful man. Every financial transaction involv ing payment by cheque or credit card was recorded, along with cash withdrawals, and set against receipts. Several incoming payments were marked in the ledger with the letters ‘FS’. ‘What do you think that means?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘It’s probably Faculty Services, the company that manages advocates business and collects their fees. Nearly all work goes through it.’

  At the end of each month the amount was totalled. Any surplus over a minimum balance of E500 was marked ‘Transfer to SA’. Mortimer had been saving over £2000 per month out ofincome.

  ‘That’s quite a surplus,’ said Sarah.

  ‘The taxman will want his share,’ said Bob. ‘All practising advocates are self-employed.

  ‘I wonder where his savings record is.’ He flicked through the rest of the financial section, but found nothing. ‘This is a current account. It’s his cash book, ready for his accountant to argue the case for some spend-. ing to be treated as business expenses. Somewhere there’s got to be a bank-book, or a building society account, where we can cross-check these transfers.’

  He left the financial section and opened Information. It began with personal details, and listed personal advisers.

  ‘Good lad,’ Bob muttered, ‘this’ll save us some digging.’ He read down the list. ‘Lawyers,Curle, Anthony and Jarvis. Accountants, Mohamed King and Co. Insurance adviser, W. D. Kidd. Doctor, dentist, tailor. Her we are, Stockbroker, Brown Aston, Glasgow. Bank, Royal Bank of Scotland, St Andrew Square. Building Society, Abbey National, Hanover Street ... Couldn’t be better.’

  The rest of the information section was made up of street maps and rail timetables, showing city destinations in Scotland from Wick to Ayr, all places where the High Court of Justiciary sits on circuit. Inevitably there was also a map of the London Underground network.

  Thumb-flip initial index markers ran down the side of the address section Bob opened it at the first page. ‘Adams, John, LIB, Aitken, William... He flicked through the pages. The listings were in strict alphabetical order except where an entry had been made after the compilation of the directory.

  They read carefully through the pages. The methodical Mortimer ha noted professions beside each entry. Those without such designations were Bob guessed, purely social acquaintances. They would be the first to be followed up.

  ‘M’ and ‘N’ were together in the seventh section. The index made no allowance for Scotland’s proliferation of ‘Macs’ and so the section was fatter than any other in the book. ’MacAndrew, tailor.’ began the listing, which ran through to ’MacWilliam, Roger, Bank Manager‘, and on into ‘Mabon, Peter LIB.’ The last entry on the page was ‘Madigan & Co, Architects.’

  Bob’s eye tracked to the top of the next page. He read the first entry ‘Napley, Eleanor. Advocate.’ He frowned. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Sarah’s attention had wandered. She snapped back to wakefulness.

  ‘There’s something wrong here. There are no Mortimers in this directory.’

  ‘Maybe he knew them off by heart?’

  ‘Love, this guy has listed his girlfriend, his own office number, his building society, everyone. There’s even an entry for “Lewis, John. Department store”. This is more than an address book, it’s a record of a life. He’s not going to leave his family out.

  ‘And what about the Dean?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘David Murray, QC, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. He isn’t listed either, yet Peter Cowan is, not just as an advocate, but as Clerk of Faculty

  ‘Someone’s been here before us. There’s a page missing!’

  Sarah squeezed his arm. ‘Are you sure? The family couldn’t be listed somewhere else?’

  ‘They could, but they aren’t.’ He reached for Sarah’s Mickey Mouse telephone and dialled a seven digit number. ‘Andy? Bob here. Have you been into Rachel’s address book yet? Well get into your wee red motor and bring it round. I want to look at it, and to show you something.’

  Less than fifteen minutes later, the door buzzer sounded. Skinner picked up the entryphone receiver in the hall and pressed the button which unlocked the street door. He opened the front door just as Martin boundec on to the landing outside, Rachel Jameson’s address book in his hand.

  Skinner led him into the living room, where Sarah waited with three mugs of coffee and a box of After Eight mints. Skinner showed him Mortimer’s Filofax, and the ‘M’ entries which came to a sudden stop.

  ‘See what I mean Andy? Who’s the important “M”, who’s been removed? Is he our man, or is it another victim, one that we don’t know about; an accident, maybe, like Rachel was meant to be? Let’s see Rachel’s address book.’

  Martin handed him the long red directory, opening it at the ‘M’ section as he did so. Skinner looked at it closely. The entries were less detailed than those in the Filofax, and the ‘M’ and ‘Mac’ surnames were in random order. He tound Mortimer’s listing simply under ‘Mike’ and below it a listing for ‘J. Mortimer’, with no address, only the Clydebank telephone number which he had used earlier in the day. There too, was David Murray’s home address and telephone number. It was only when he turned the page that Skinner noticed something odd.

  A long straight cut appeared, close to the spine of the book. He pressed it as flat as he could on the coffee table, and ran his finger between the pages. Suddenly he pulled his finger back as he felt the sharp pain of a paper cut. He sucked the blood which welled from the fine sli
t at the tip of his index finger, then ran his middle finger over the page again, crosswise this time. He bent the book open until the front and back of the red cover were touching.

  ‘There you are. You can hardly see it, but a page has been cut out. You’ve got to be looking really hard to notice that it’s gone. If he hadn’t nicked the next page with his knife, and if I hadn’t been looking as closely as I did at the “M”s I wouldn’t have found it.

  ‘So there it is. Our mystery entry has been taken out of each one.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just take the books?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘That would have been spotted, especially with all the financial information in Mortimer’s Filofax. No, just take a page from each and no one will notice. That’s what our man reckoned. Anyway, he thinks we’ve bought Yobatu. All he’s doing here is housekeeping, tidying up. He doesn’t really expect that there’ll be a detailed search.’

  ‘Remember, he did pinch Rachel’s diary,’ said Martin. ‘Maybe there was too much in that for him to cut out. Have you checked the diary sectior of the Filofax?’

  ‘Not yet. Let’s have a look now.’

  He picked up the brown leather book and reopened it. The first five; months of the day-per-page had been discarded. Martin looked startled until Skinner showed him the date on the gift card set inside the front cover.

  The entries began on Tuesday 6 June, and continued daily from then on. Typically of Mortimer, they were concise, but full of detail: until Monday 20 June and Tuesday 21 June. Martin stated the obvious. ‘It’ not there.’

  A small piece of paper was caught in one of the six steel clips of the ring-binder, snagged as the page had been removed.

  Skinner stopped reading the detail of the entries. Instead, he flicke through the pages, searching for more gaps. ‘October the fifteenth and sixteenth; they’re gone.’ He shook his head. ‘A very thorough individ ual. We’ve been lucky to get this tar. Now it looks like we’re stuc again.’