Ànd was she going out or coming home?'
`Coming home.
Ànd you didn't see her leave after that?'
No. I don't think she's been to her work for a couple of weeks. At least I haven't heard any taxis after midnight.'
`Has there been any sound from upstairs since last Friday?'
`Not at all. But I never hear anything from above. This is a good building. There's a layer of ash between the floors. That's what they did in those days. No noise gets through that. Are you sure her doorbell was working?'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes, quite sure. Has Mrs Plenderleith had any visitors lately?'
Mrs Angus thought for a moment or two. 'She hardly ever had visitors. But I did see her leaving with a man last Wednesday. It would have been early afternoon. Then she came back alone, an hour later.'
`What did he look like?' asked Martin.
`Well he'd be about your size, I'd have said. Very well dressed: one of those expensive shiny suits. Beautifully groomed. Looked like a very nice man. Maybe a friend of Mr Plenderleith?'
Neither detective responded to the heavily loaded question in her tone. Skinner simply smiled. The quality of Tony Manson's tailoring had been a legend in his lifetime. 'Thank you, Mrs Angus.'
Àndy, let's try again upstairs. Maybe Mrs Plenderleith was asleep last time.'
The sentinel of 492 Morningside Road peered after them as they disappeared once more into the tiled close.
They trotted up the stone stairway. Linda Plenderleith's green front door was on the first landing. Skinner pressed the brass button of the doorbell once more, leaning on it for several seconds. He and Martin stood in silence for almost a minute, listening for any sound within the flat, but hearing none. Skinner frowned at Martin. He tried the door handle, but the Yale lock was dropped. Suddenly he crouched down and, flipping up the letter-box, peered into the narrow hall. He shoved his nose into the rectangular opening, and sniffed deeply. Then, without a word, he stood upright once more, took a pace backwards, sprang up, and slammed the heel of his right shoe powerfully against the shiny brass circle of the door's Yale lock.
With a sound of ripping wood, the door burst open.
As soon as he stepped into the hall, Martin realised that it was the unmistakable smell of death which had alerted Skinner. They followed it into a bedroom, facing out on to Morningside Road, and found her there.
Where Tony Manson's ending had been clean, almost bloodless, Linda Plenderleith had been butchered.
She was sprawled on her back, naked, on the bed. The duvet had been thrown across the room, and lay against the wall on the right. The pillows were crimson. The sheets were crumpled, saturated with blood, and in one place stained with faeces.
Martin took a deep breath and stepped towards the body. Skinner followed slowly suppressing his revulsion and looking round the room. He saw, on the tiny dressing-table unit, a small framed photograph of a red-haired woman and a tall man. He noticed that one of the three doors of the white wardrobe unit lay open and saw, discarded on the floor before it, a bloody sweatshirt and a pair of black jeans. A pink dressing-gown had been thrown across a canvas director chair which faced the dressing mirror. Finally he steeled himself and stepped up beside Martin to look closely at what had been Linda Plenderleith.
The bloodless, pale-blue lips were beginning to shrink back from the teeth, giving them a look of protuberance. Already, with its sunken cheeks, the woman's face had taken on a skull-like appearance. The eyes were half open, but only the whites showed. The red hair was swept back, or had been pulled back, from the high forehead. The skin, where it was not smeared with blood, was exceptionally pale, almost translucent.
Skinner leaned over the carcass. As he studied it, he spoke to Martin, to maintain his detachment more than anything else. 'I think I can count six wounds to the throat. A big, crescent-shaped slash from ear to ear, probably not deep enough to do the job. Then three shorter deep cuts on the right side, and two on the left. It looks as if he straddled her, jerked her head back by the hair, and just hacked away until the blood was pumping. Look at that streak up the headboard and on to the wall. That must have happened when he hit the main artery.'
He looked more closely at the wall, his eyes widening. `Jesus Christ, Andy. Look at that. The daft bastard must have pushed against the wall when he was getting off her. That looks like a perfect left-hand print.'
Martin followed his pointing finger, and nodded agreement. 'Incredible. Whoever it was must have been in a complete frenzy. He certainly wasn't thinking about making things hard for us.
Who's your money on? Was this the same bloke who did Manson? Or could this have been Tony getting even with the woman for blackmailing him?'
Skinner stood up from the woman's body and walked away.
Àndy, son, you know how much I detest jumping to conclusions, but big Lennie is a stick-on fucking certainty for this one. And I say that without even having confirmed that he's out of jail. Take a gander in here.' Martin looked around. Skinner was standing by the wardrobe units.
`There's man's stuff in here, and it's not Tony Manson's. Cheap suits, jeans, bomber jackets, all XL size. This is Lennie's kit. And look at these things on the floor. He's dumped his bloodstained stuff and changed clothes. Look at this, too.
Beckoning Martin to follow, Skinner stepped slowly alongside a trail of brownish smudges on the smoke-grey carpet, taking care not to tread on any of them. They led out of the bedroom into the hall, and from there into a long narrow bathroom. On the white PVC
flooring, the brown stains were quite clearly dried blood. An electric shower was plumbed into the wall above the bath taps, and a white plastic curtain hung from a rectangular rail. A big pale-blue towel lay discarded across the toilet seat. Skinner moved carefully into the room, and looked into the bath. The safety mat had trapped some of the water from the shower. It was pink, matching that trapped in the channel between the white tiling and the edge of the tub. On the soap, in its dish, Skinner could see clearly a large, rusty-brown thumb-print.
He shook his head. 'God, he must have been covered in it! You're right, Andy. He must have been out of his tree. Wonder how long he knew. I wonder who told him about Manson and what he'd done to her. Get on the phone, Andy, and call the scene-of-crime people down here right away.'
As Martin took out his mobile phone, so Skinner pulled his own from his pocket. He searched his memory for a number, recalled it without reference to his diary, and dialled it in. `Room 35, please.'
There was a pause, then, 'Sarah Skinner.'
`Hello, my love. How are you and Jazz?'
`We're great. Jazz is out like a light. I've just fed him. God, what an appetite. I don't know how I'm going to keep up with him.'
Even in his grim surroundings, Skinner laughed. 'Listen, let me take your mind off your mammaries for a bit. I'm at another murder scene. There's a connection with Tony Manson.
After your critique of Banks's performance on Sunday, I don't want to call him in on this one.
I need to know with authority when the victim here died. Looking at her, I'd say she's been dead for two days at the very least, but I need to know for certain whether she could have been killed by the same person who did Tony Manson. If the answer is yes, then it looks as if all the pieces fit. Who else would you recommend?'
There was a drawn-out silence on the other end. 'No one. Send a car for me.'
`Sarah, you're kidding!'
The hell I am. Look, I'm fit as a flea. Jazz is going to sleep for three or four hours. Where are you?'
`Morningside Road.'
Èven better. That's only a mile or so from here. Now, come on, get that car down here, or you'll just have to call in old horse-doctor Banks!'
Twelve
By the time that she arrived at 492 Morningside Road, Sarah's outright enthusiasm had been watered down into a strange mix of pleasure and agitation; pleasure at being back in action after her pregnancy-enforced lay-off, but a brand-new a
nd totally unexpected restlessness over her first separation from her first-born.
A grim-faced constable stood at the entrance to the close. Another, even more solemn, guarded the door to Linda Plenderleith's flat. Sarah identified herself to each, and was admitted to the little apartment. Skinner, meeting her in the hall, caught her mood at once.
Àre you feeling guilty about rushing down here?'
She smiled ruefully. 'It's nature, I suppose. I mean, I know he couldn't be in better hands. It's just . . . I don't know, didn't expect it, that's all. I mean, he's sleeping, and I'll only be a couple of hours.
Bob smiled. 'Make that ten minutes, if you like. Come through and have a look.' He was reaching out to open the bedroom door for Sarah, when his mobile phone sounded.
The caller was Alison Higgins. 'I've run both those checks you ordered, sir. Linda Plenderleith's flat was owned by a company called Samson Properties, 'registered number SC122783, directors Anthony Manson and Richard Cocozza.
And Leonard Plenderleith was released from Shotts Prison, on parole, on Saturday morning.
Get this: they were expecting to be short-staffed at the prison over the weekend, so they let him out a day early. The officer on gate duty remembers that he was picked up by a small, fat, dark-haired man driving a white Astra GSi:
`Thanks, Superintendent. Small, fat and dark, eh. Can we find out—?'
Ì have done, sir. Richard Cocozza drives a white Astra GSi.'
`Nice one. Perhaps you could arrange for Mr Cocozza to join us at Torphichen Place. I'm looking forward to watching that slimy wee bastard sweat. Let me know when you pick him up. You and I will interview him together. Ask Roy Old to sit in too, and I'll arrange for Andy Martin and Maggie Rose to be there as well. We'll terrify him by weight of numbers if nothing else!'
Skinner ended the call, and put the miniature phone back in its customary place in the pocket of his shirt. Sarah was still standing beside him at the door to Linda Plenderleith's bloody bedroom.
`Come on, then,' he said. 'Have a look at the mess, and tell me what you think. The technicians have barely started yet, so mind what you touch.'
She gave him her best withering look as he opened the door. A photographer was at work beside the bed, taking close-up shots of the wounds to the neck. Sarah knew him well from other crime scenes. 'Excuse me please, Dave,' she said as she approached.
The man looked up, surprised by the sound of her voice. `Doc! What're you doing here?
Haven't you just had a—?'
She stopped him with a smile and a nod, and stepped up to the bed. She leaned close to the body and looked at the face and at the cuts on the neck. She touched the flesh of the abdomen to test the temperature, and lifted one of the hands to judge the rigidity of the joints. Then she leaned over the groin, probing, testing, exploring gently. The woman's legs were spread apart in a V shape. Sarah looked closely at the inside of her thighs, then quickly at each of the upper arms.
She stood up and walked over to the discarded clothing on the floor. 'Can I touch these?' she asked Skinner.
`Sure, but put them back more or less where they were.'
She picked up the underpants, and looked at them inside and out. She lifted them to her nose and sniffed. Next she examined the shirt, and finally, the jeans.
Replacing the last garment as close as possible to its original position, she stood up and turned back to face Skinner.
`Three days, at least. She was killed not less than three days ago. That would make it Saturday.'
Àfternoon?'
`Just about spot on, I'd say. But no later.'
`No possibility of early Sunday morning?'
`No way. It'll take the autopsy to confirm it, but I know I'm right.'
`So I can go on believing that the man who did this could have gone on to kill Manson?'
`Sure. Who do you think it was?'
The husband. Just released from jail. While he was inside, Manson gave his wife gainful employment as a prostitute.'
Sarah nodded. 'Is that so? Well, I'd say he spent his time in the pen thinking about all this, and planning it. Know what he did? He made love to her, then he did that. It wasn't forcible sex — not rape. Look where her dressing-gown is. I'd say she put it there, rather than him.
He's horny . . . he's just out of jail after how long?'
`Five years,' Skinner responded.
`Jesus, yes, he's horny. He throws the duvet across the room, he lays her on the bed. He doesn't bother to undress. He's in too much of a hurry, although there's another reason. He just undoes his belt and unzips his jeans — or she does — frees his penis, and enters her straight away. Her pubic hair is matted. There's semen dried in it. There are other semen stains on his underpants, and on his shirt. This is when it gets really calculated. They've just made love. She's lying back, maybe saying how good it was, how much she's missed him.
But she hasn't seen the knife. This wasn't a spur-of-the moment thing. All along, he meant to kill her. He took the knife into the bedroom with him.
`Why didn't she see it?'
`Because it was in the back pocket of his jeans. It could have been something small: a Stanley knife, say. It could have been any size, but one thing I do know: it was pointed. Look at the jeans. They're new. Well, on the back, right-hand pocket, near the bottom, you'll find a tear. I think that he slipped the knife into that pocket, and its point went through the cloth. It was there all the time he was humping her. When he's finished, when he's got his rocks off, the bastard . .
For a second her professional mask slipped and a woman's outrage at sexual violence showed through.
`Just when she's telling him he's Superman, he grabs her hair, forces her head back, pulls the knife, and does that. He's never cut anyone's throat before, so the first cut is the big one. The song's wrong, you know. The first cut is rarely the deepest. Maybe she gets off a scream, but she doesn't have time to struggle. The fingers aren't clenched. When the first cut doesn't kill her, when he finds that it isn't as easy as that, he just starts hacking away, to finish her off as quickly as he can. He isn't thinking any more. He cuts deep, on either side of the throat, to make sure. Eventually he hits the big one, and the blood spurts. It goes everywhere. Up the wall, all over the bed, all over him. She blacks out as soon as the blood supply to her brain stops, and she's dead in seconds after that. He's got blood all over his clothes. So he strips them off, washes . . .?'
She glanced at Skinner for confirmation.
`Yes, he took a shower.'
`Mmm. Then he changes into clean stuff and off, presumably, he goes on his merry way. And you think his merry way took him to kill Manson?'
Skinner nodded.
Ìt fits, I suppose. Have you found the murder weapon?'
`No, but come here and look at this.' Skinner led her into the flat's spacious dining-kitchen.
There was a work surface next to the sink, and on it stood a set of kitchen knives, housed in a wooden block. One of the six slots in the block was empty. `We've got a set much like this one at home,' said Skinner. `From what I can remember the knife that fills that slot should be a big, broad-bladed job.'
`That's right. The blade is about eight inches long, and comes to a point. In our set the blade's like a razor and the point's like a needle.'
`From what you saw, could a knife like that one have killed Manson?'
Sarah nodded firmly. 'Absolutely. It had to be a blade that long. It travelled upward and ripped the heart open.'
`That looks like the answer, then. Big Lennie kills his wife then shows up at Manson's. He does the alarm. That's no problem; he's been in the nick for five years; he'll have learned how in there. Tony comes in, flushed with success at the tables. It's Big Lennie he sees in the bedroom. His jaw drops as he figures out why Big Lennie's there, and in that short time he's a dead man.'
`Where do you think he is now?'
Ì know where he is now. Last week Tony Manson gave Linda four grand. She turned it into tra
veller's cheques. We've found out that there was a seat booked on a flight from Glasgow to Alicante on Sunday in the name of L. Plenderleith. It looks as if Manson was trying to whisk her out of town before Lennie got out. Seems like he didn't quite make it. Nice windfall for Lennie, though. The traveller's cheques —unsigned we believe — and the plane ticket are gone. Britannia tell us that the ticket was used. They said that there was some confusion when a man turned up, but the surname checked and they assumed it had been a booking error. So there you have it. The whole story. Lennie gets home early, exacts a terrible and bloody revenge on Linda and Manson, and buggers off to Spain with Manson's cash and her ticket.'
Òkay, husband, if that is the obvious pattern of events — and it is glaringly obvious — then tell me why you don't believe it.'
Skinner looked at her, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. 'Who says I don't?'
Ì do. I see the telltale signs of a Skinner niggle. There's something there that doesn't fit.'
The twitch turned into a grin. 'Well, just a couple of wee things. First, why did. Manson leave her in the flat for big Lennie to find; and, second, why did Richard Cocozza, his lawyer, pick him up from Shotts prison on Saturday morning?
Tony can't give us the answers, but Cocozza can, and he sure as hell better. Otherwise I'm going to charge him with being a party to two murders! But before I see him again, my love, let's you and I go back to the Simpson, to say hello to our son.'
Thirteen
Cocozza crouched forward in his seat so suddenly that Skinner thought for an instant that the little fat man's bladder had betrayed him.
`What!' It was more squawk than speech.
`You heard me, Cocozza. You dropped Plenderleith, a violent man, at his wife's door. Why should I, or a jury for that matter, not assume that you knew he was likely to kill her, and Tony Manson, after what they had done to him while he was inside. Why shouldn't I believe that you set them up? Why shouldn't I believe that you were a party to their murders? You're the lawyer here. You know what that means. You're as guilty as big Lennie is, and I'm going to charge you with the girl's murder, at the very least!'
Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine Page 5