Anthea and I were delighted to hear about the little chap. You'll give Sarah our congratulations, won't you?'
`That's kind of you. Of course I will.'
`What's his name? What did your Scotsman notice say - again? James Andrew, that was it.
Which will it be?'
`Neither. Jazz is the name, my friend. Mark it well. He's going to be a star!'
Peter's eyes glazed for a second, while he sought an appropriate response. 'Jazz, eh.
Bob grinned at his friend's reaction, then moved him on to the evening's business. 'I have a fairly bog-standard presentation for evenings like this, Peter. The changing role of the police, then the role of the CID, that sort of thing. Alternatively I can talk about experiences: great moments in a memorable career, that sort of self-effacing stuff. Which would your members prefer, do you think?'
The latter, I should think. I'm sure they'd love to hear the inside story of that affair last year.'
Skinner smiled. 'Okay, I'll give them the blood and thunder!'
`Great!' Peter took a swig of his beer and glanced at his watch. 'Look, let's go in to supper.
Bring your pint with you.'
He stood up to lead the way, then paused. 'Oh, before I forget, there's a chap here you must meet. A new member. Apparently, he has a place in Lar Escala' — Peter's English accent rolled the vowels together as he used the Castillian form of the name — 'but he always goes in June and September. He said he was keen to meet you too. I'll introduce you after your address.
They moved into the function room which had been set aside for the meeting. Skinner, a regular speaker to Rotarians and Round Tablers, smiled to himself when he saw the two-course menu of minestrone soup and steak, standard fare at such events. The speed with which the meal was consumed was standard practice also, as if it was a chore to be completed, rather than fare to be enjoyed. Forty-three minutes after they had entered the dining room, Peter Payne introduced his guest, succinctly but generously.
Skinner rose to his feet. 'Good evening, gentlemen.' The emancipation of women in the Rotary movement was still not universal in Edinburgh. 'I have a standard opening line for events such as this. Are there any journalists in the house, and if there are, will they please identify themselves?'
The news editor of a right-wing tabloid rose, smiling, to his feet. He took a small tape-recorder from a pocket of his jacket, and ostentatiously removed the microcassette.
'That's fine, Gregor,' said Skinner, smiling. Now just keep your hands where I can see them, so I can speak as freely as I like.
As he had promised Peter Payne, his thirty-minute address contained considerable thunder and the odd drop of blood. Skinner recognised the presence of a ghoulish element in every group he addressed, however sophisticated it might be. He never pandered to it, but at the same time he took pains never to glamorise his job. Several fathers in the audience winced at one point as he described the injuries inflicted by a serial killer of children on his young victims, and others nodded as if from experience when he described the ease with which young people could be led along the path of drug-taking, from the first taste of marijuana to mainlining. As always, Skinner took care to sprinkle his speech liberally with examples of the black humour which is commonplace among policemen, from the tale of the masked and armed post-office robber who dropped his credit cards at the scene of his crime, and who had then called his bank to report the loss, to an in-house legend of a middle-aged Special Branch constable whose elevated observation post at a Royal visit had given him an entirely unexpected view of the Royal retiring room, the use of which he recorded for posterity with his 300mm telephoto lens.
Finally, he wound up by inviting questions. 'You understand I can't say anything about current investigations, but that should still leave plenty of scope.'
A plump, dark-haired man in a severely cut business suit raised a hand. 'I believe in arming the police. What's your view, Mr Skinner?'
Skinner nodded, unconsciously, at this question which he was regularly asked. 'When it's necessary, we do it and we're pretty good at judging necessity. Like most policemen, I am dead against general arming. Community relations are tricky enough to manage without making life even more difficult for our officers by hanging pistols from their waist. There's the familiarity angle too. If all our coppers had guns, pretty soon all the hoodlums would have them too. Then, night generally following day as it does, we'd have an increase in their use in muggings and in trivial situations; arguments in pubs, that sort of thing. Apart from all that, the use of firearms is a skilled business. If you're an armed and threatening bad guy, and you see me or any other officer showing a gun, you'd better be bloody careful, because we are all qualified marksmen. I've got a man in my team who could singe your eyebrows from one hundred yards.'
He turned to indicate his host. 'Now, look for example, at the place where Peter and I live in Spain. I'm relaxed about the Guardia, but the local police carry guns, and that scares me witless. There's a young fellow patrols the beaches. He has a bike and he wears shorts and trainers as part of his uniform. His job takes him into the midst of crowds of children, yet he carries a gun. They use girls on traffic duty. Their uniforms don't even fit properly, but they carry bloody great .38 magnums. God forbid that any of them should ever think 'to draw a weapon. I'd bet you that none of them could hit an elephant in the arse if they were holding its tail! Those young traffic girls would dislocate their wrists if they fired those things they carry. That's what general arming of police means, and I hope we never see it here. Right now, I have guns when I need them . . . and in normal times that is a rare occurrence.'
A bald man at a table twenty feet from Skinner raised a hand. 'How does a policeman feel when he kills a man?'
Skinner shrugged. 'I can tell you how he — or she — should feel. Concerned, and personally upset. It's a hell of a serious thing. But if the officer has acted properly and professionally, then that concern will be countered by the knowledge that the criminal committed effective suicide by putting himself in that killing situation.'
`Mr Skinner.' A bulky man in a tweed jacket, with heavy eyebrows and a beard, broke in over his answer. 'Wasn't it the case that one of your officers shot and killed a man last year as he was leaving a crime scene, but the unarmed victim was shot in the back? What do you say to that?'
There was a smile on Skinner's lips as he answered, but his eyes were suddenly icy cold. 'I say that was the finest shot I have ever seen in my life.'
He paused for several seconds to allow his answer to sink in, holding the bearded man in his gaze. Then, 'You seem well read, sir. In which case I'd ask you to recall that the criminal in question had just killed a number of people, including one of my officers. And I expect you realise that in such circumstances it was the duty of the police to ensure that man did not escape us to kill again. I'd have made that shot myself, if I had the skill and the necessary weapon.
`Have you ever shot anyone?' asked the man in the business suit.
Skinner nodded.
`How did you feel?'
`Better than he did.
Peter Payne sensed that the mood needed lightening. `Come on, colleagues, let's have another question. Anyone want to ask about traffic wardens?'
`Sorry,' said Skinner. 'You are definitely not allowed to shoot them. Although, on occasion . .
Welcome laughter lightened the atmosphere.
Towards the rear of the room, a thin, middle-aged man raised a hand. 'Mr Skinner, could you say something about the level of co-operation these days between European police forces?'
`Yes. I'd say it's getting better — certainly within the EU. We're finding that it's easier for police colleagues in different countries to get together to solve problems. We're all working harder at it, I think. For example, my head of Special Branch now has general responsibility for international relations. And only this week, as you may have read, I was able to send a detective to Spain to advise the Guardia Civil in their search
for a man we want to talk to back here about a current murder investigation.
`When he's caught, will it be easy to get him back?'
`Sure. The Spanish won't want to feed him for any longer than they have to.'
The questioner smiled. 'Can you tell me, if a person in this country feels that he may have been the victim of dishonesty in another country, can he make a complaint here?'
`Technically, no. As an investigator, I work for the Crown Office and the Procurator Fiscal. If the crime occurs abroad, then the complaint should be raised in that country. In practice, if anyone on my patch feels that they may have been stitched up in a foreign country, then my department will certainly listen to them. If it is warranted, we might even raise the complaint on their behalf . . . unofficially of course.'
The bald man raised a hand again. 'Mr Skinner, about the traffic wardens . .
The question session ran on for a little longer, growing more light-hearted by the minute, until Peter Payne drew it to a close, eliciting a final round of applause for Bob's contribution to the evening. As the gathering broke up, Skinner noticed that the thin man who had spoken from the back of the room seemed to be holding back as if waiting. Peter Payne spotted him in the same moment, and beckoned him across.
`Bob, this is the chap I mentioned earlier,' he said as the man approached.
`Greg Pitkeathly,' said the thin man, shaking Skinner's hand.
`Pleased to meet you,' said Skinner.
`Tell me, am I right in thinking that your questions back there had some purpose to them?'
The man smiled, and nodded. 'Afraid so. I rather think I've been defrauded. Probably in Spain, but I'm not certain. Is there someone who'll speak to me?'
Ìf it's in Spain, and you're a L'Escala dweller, that makes it almost personal. I'll take a look at it myself.'
`That's very good of you. If you're sure of that, I've got a file on it all. When can I let you see it?'
`Well, if it'll keep till Tuesday, I'll be back in my office then. Why don't you call my secretary tomorrow and fix a time. Tell her where we met.'
Pitkeathly's thin face broke into a smile of gratitude. 'That's very good of you. I'll look forward to telling you my story. It seems almost too obvious to be a fraud but, the way the figures add up, I don't see any other answer.'
`Well, let's find out on Tuesday. I must go now, I'm in danger of being absent without leave!'
He shook Peter Payne's hand and hurried off, leaving Pitkeathly staring in some surprise at his disappearing back.
Seventeen
When Bob returned to Fairyhouse Avenue, he found the scene already set in the nursery for the ritual of Jazz Skinner's first bathtime before guests in his new home.
Sarah's advance planning had been meticulous. The yellow plastic bath was in place, held in its collapsible frame beside a low changing table, and a simple wooden stool stood between the two. Andy Martin and Alex had arrived ahead of schedule and, to Sarah's surprise, together in Alex's car. They stood in a corner of the bright nursery and looked on as the new mother undressed her infant, dumped his disposable nappy, wrapped around its colourful contents, in a lined bin beneath the table, and gave him a preliminary wipe before lowering him carefully into the warm water.
Jazz chuckled as the water lapped over his skin, and he kicked his long, strong legs in pleasure, splashing his mother's apron, and his father's slacks. When the waves subsided, Sarah washed him gently with Johnson's soap. It was only when she began to shampoo his dark hair that the baby's equanimity was broken, as he screwed up his eyes and whimpered.
When she had rinsed off the last of the suds, she looked up at Bob. `How'm I doing then, Dad?'
Well, as the only person here with relevant experience, I'd say you were doing okay. So would Jazz, I think.' With the annoyance of the suds behind him, the baby had resumed his energetic kicking. 'Better get him out of there before he empties the bath!'
Òkay. You can do the next bit.' Sarah lifted him from the bath and laid him on a soft fluffy blue towel which Bob had spread on the table. She stood to the side and watched as her husband dressed his son for the night, greasing his bottom liberally with Vaseline before fitting the bulky disposable nappy, then easing him — arms first, then legs — into the one-piece white sleep-suit. All the time, he spoke to Jazz in a matter-of-fact way. 'It amazes me, you know, wee pal, looking at that last nappy, how the stuff you get out of your mother converts into the stuff that comes out of you. I suppose there are some things in life that it's better not to know. What d'you think?'
Jazz blew a bubble in response. Bob nodded. 'Yes, I suppose that's as good an answer as any!'
Sarah smiled. As he lifted up the baby with both hands, supporting his head as he passed him to Alex, she reflected on the change that fatherhood had wrought in Bob Skinner. The troubled man of the summer before had vanished. Bob seemed to have despatched his private demons. Sarah hoped that they were gone for good.
Alex's laughter broke her mood. 'Hey, brother, wrong chest!' As she cradled the baby in her arms his mouth was searching, puckering, feeling for her breast through her shirt.
Sarah reached out her arms. 'It's that time again, Jazz. Come to Momma.' She took the baby from Alex and walked over to a low seat by the window, flicking open the buttons of her blouse as she went. Seated, and holding Jazz in the crook of her left arm, she tugged at the hooks of her nursing bra.
`Goddam contraption! Necessary though, Alex. One doesn't want them to start the long journey south before their time.' She freed her left breast, and Jazz set to feeding at once, sucking hungrily. As she settled back in her chair, Sarah's eye was caught by Andy Martin, edging self-consciously towards the door. 'What's the matter, Andy? Never seen one of these things before?'
`Sure, but always in pairs, and never in use.'
`Get accustomed to it, then, man. This here is Nineties woman.' She paused, then looked up again, struck by a sudden thought. I'm sorry, you two. Everybody here's been fed but you.
Alex, take Andy downstairs and find yourselves some supper.'
`Thanks, Sarah,' said Andy, 'but we've got a table booked at the Loon Fung for nine-thirty. I thought that Alex could use some lemon chicken to give her a break from all that studying.'
Sarah thrust out her bottom lip in a petulant gesture. `Lucky Alex. That just makes me think of the downside of this here bundle of joy. My social life's his from now on.'
`Hah!' said Alex. 'I weep for you. I'm sitting finals in two weeks, while you're off to Spain.'
`Yeah,' said Bob. life's a bitch, kid.
`Well, make up for it. Get us a drink. I'll call a taxi for nine-twenty.'
Bob led the way downstairs. He disappeared into the kitchen, and re-emerged with three uncapped bottles of Sol beer.
`The Loon Fung, eh,' he said, grinning, as he handed them round. 'Should I be giving you the heavy father routine, Martin?'
`Don't you dare!' said Alex with a sharp edge to her voice which was not entirely affected —
and which took Bob by surprise. Ì'm Nineties woman, too. Anyway, Andy's . . . well, Andy's
. . . Andy. He's my mate. Isn't that right Superintendent?' Martin smiled and nodded sheepishly, his green eyes shining. He looked suddenly younger than thirty-something, just as Alex could be taken for mid rather than early twenties.
Bob grinned and shrugged his shoulders. 'Sure, what the hell. I keep forgetting that Andy's known you since you were smoking in the bike sheds.'
Alex looked at him, surprised. 'How did you . . .?'
`Don't be daft, kid. Everyone smokes in the bike shed when they're eleven!'
Andy laughed and took a mouthful of beer. 'When are you going to Spain?'
Ì'm back in the office on Tuesday. There's a Police Board meeting on Wednesday, and I'm standing in for the Chief, so I'll go in on the day before to brief myself. I'm in for the rest of the week, then we head off on the following Tuesday.'
`How are you travelling?'
`By car
, slowly. You know me, normally I just blaze down there. But this time, with the baby, we'll have a couple of overnight stops: on the ferry and then down in France. Sarah's never been to Cherbourg, so we're taking that route. It's a nice drive at this time of year.'
`Will you see Maggie out there?'
`Not unless the Spanish find Big Lennie. If they don't she'll be back by then. I'll be in the shit if they do turn up our man. Sarah'll kill me if I have to go down to Alicante. Apart from it being our first holiday with Jazz, I've promised her I'll do some writing when I'm out there.
I'm taking my Powerbook.'
`Have you indeed! Memoirs?'
`Not yet. No, it'll be the theory and practice of police and security work. This is the age of open government and it should be the age of open policing too, as far as we can manage. But the public don't have the faintest idea of what our job's really like. All they know comes from fictional characters, and all of them are still at chief inspector rank in their fifties. It hasn't dawned on the public that if these guys were that fucking clever they'd have made chief super at least! Anyway, as for Maggie, she's well south of L'Escala, and she should be back before I leave. I think big Brian Mackie's a bit huffy that she got to go instead of him. But when I said to him " Que tal, senor? " and he said "Eh?" in response, he sort of blew his case out of the water!'
Àny feedback yet?'
`Give the woman a chance. She only got there this afternoon. Anyway, big Lennie's had a three-day start on us. Chances are he's cashed up and he's in South America already.'
The doorbell rang.
`That must be your taxi. Have a nice meal. And don't be late home, girl!'
Alex glared at him over her shoulder as she headed for the door.
Eighteen
When did Maggie's report come in?'
`She faxed yesterday morning from the Guardia Civil office in Alicante. I was going to send it out to you, but Ruth vetoed that idea!'
Skinner laughed. 'She's a good girl, my secretary. She sees herself as my personal Rottweiler.
Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine Page 7