Thursday Legends
Page 24
an anxious Dan Pringle, and maybe even ACC Haggerty, wondering what's
going on with the Academy investigation."
"Good point. I'd better get back and crack the whip even harder over
George."
Rose looked up at him from behind her desk; she was still smiling. "Do
that anyway, but I've got some more good news for you. I've just had
the result of the check I told you I was going to run with BT. I've
also had Adam Broadley confirm with Andrea that she didn't have any
other calls on Friday.. . apart from the one from God, that is. It
seems that as the ads used to say, He's every one-to-one you've ever
had. When He called Andrea, He used His mobile. And guess what else?
When He's not presiding over all of creation, He's a trainee solicitor
with Candela and Finch."
Thirty-Six.
Although he lived by the sea, and owned a villa in Spain where people
cast lines into any stretch of running water, Bob Skinner had never
been a fisherman. Standing thigh-deep in water, waiting for hours for
a shortsighted salmon to make a fatal mistake, may have been fine for
the Queen Mother, but it had never held any attraction for him. His
sporting tastes were all much more physical.
Nevertheless, he knew how serious a business salmon fishing was in
Scotland, and, with the royal connections, how powerful a lobby its
enthusiasts could be.
Skipper Williamson was doing well out of them, that was for sure. His
fishing hotel, called Fir Park Lodge ... a nod, Skinner knew, to the
football club that had started him on the road .. . was situated not
far north of Perth, near the town of Birnam.
Skinner had found it without difficulty on several of the many websites
that attract anglers from around the world to Perthshire throughout the
salmon season. He had driven north in Sarah's Freelander rather that
his own BMW, in case there was a need for four-wheel-drive capability,
but the hotel was easily accessible.
He had found it without difficulty; now, sat in a lay-by on the A9, he
could see it clearly as he looked down through a gap in the trees. He
trained his binoculars on its main entrance, then used their zoom to
pan out. Fir Park Lodge stood in several acres of ground. It was a
nineteenth-century, grey stone country house, with a turret on each of
its four corners. There was a wide lawn in front, and to the left a
car park, in which stood two big Toyota off-roaders and a minibus.
Beyond them Skinner saw a Rolls Royce and a small white Mercedes
A-class. He zoomed in again, and saw the house in miniature, on a
corporate crest on the Merc's front door panel.
From the vehicles he guessed that Skipper Williamson had guests, and
that they were probably at lunch, before heading back to the river.
Behind the Lodge, he could see it sparkle; his web research had told
him that Williamson owned rights on that stretch of the Tay, but that
his visitors, placed with him by a variety of tour companies, were
ferried around to other beats and other rivers.
He sat in the Freelander and waited. The call from Mitch Laidlaw had
come through on his cellphone an hour earlier, but he had forgotten it
already. Now that his job was secure, it was no longer his top
priority.
Skinner had done some research on Cecil "Skipper' Williamson. Through
a contact in the General Register Office, introduced to him by his
friend Jim Glossop, before his retirement, he had learned that he was
fifty-nine years old, and that he had been married briefly in his late
thirties and early forties. That marriage had ended on grounds of
irretrievable breakdown. The big detective found himself wondering
why.
He sat in Sarah's car with only a very rough plan of action. He had
thought of simply walking into the hotel and introducing himself to
Williamson, to see if that would trigger a panic in the man, but had
discarded that. If the man had been responsible for his brother's
death, or even if he had simply disposed of his body for some bizarre
reason, it was likely that he would be expecting a visit from someone,
sooner or later.
He had thought also of interviewing a member of the hotel staff. He
had run a check that morning through a private contact in the
Department of Social Security, and knew that Fir Park Lodge had five
full-time employees, a resident housekeeper, two kitchen-maids, a
waitress and a handyman. His name was Angus dAbo, and a few years
before he had done time in Perth Prison for housebreaking. He wondered
whether Skipper would know that.
Before he braced dAbo, though, if he did, there was something he wanted
to do first. He had visited the Mother well Times, where the helpful
editor had found a photograph of Skipper Williamson from his archives,
the only one the paper held. It was thirty-three years old, and it had
been on newsprint, one of a sea of faces in a pre-season team picture.
The journalist had photocopied it, extracted Williamson, and blown up
his image as far as possible, but it was still grey and barely
recognisable even to someone who had known him in those days.
He had visited Mother well Football Club itself, but had found a modern
business whose records did not stretch to reserve sides from the
sixties. Other than in the passport office .. . and it would raise too
many questions if he asked there ... as far as Skinner could ascertain
there was no up-to-date photograph of the man anywhere on the public
record. Before he did anything else, he planned to take one, and to
show it to Brother Aidan. If the old cleric identified him as
Michael's visitor, then he would pick up dAbo and put the thumbscrews
on him.
He started the Freelander and pulled out on to the A9. A hundred yards
along he made a left turn on to a minor road winding downhill, away
from Birnam. A small, plain signpost marked the entrance to the Lodge
grounds. He pulled up on the verge and leaned over to recover his
camera bag from the back seat. He was fairly certain that Williamson
was at home. The Rolls was his; he had been driving it when he had
picked up a fixed penalty six months earlier.
Skinner fitted a telephoto lens to his Nikon; his plan was to hide in
the woods that surrounded the hotel and its lawn, and to snatch
photographs of every man who showed his face outside. Hopefully,
Williamson would wave his guests off after lunch, and would be easy to
spot.. . unless of course, he was fishing with them himself, which
would be, the big detective conceded, a bit of a bugger.
He locked the car and slipped into the grounds of Fir Park Lodge, past
the plain wooden sign. He left the drive at once and made his way
through the thick, untended woodland towards the big house.
He was almost there when his cellphone rang in his trouser pocket.
"Shit," he whispered, thankful that its sound was muffled. Because of
his pacemaker, he no longer carried it in the breast pocket of his
shirt, where it would have been all too audible.
He took it out quickly, and was about
to switch it off when he
remembered that he was back on the active list. There was just the
possibility that it might be the chief. He hid behind the thickest
tree he could see, and answered.
The voice in his ear sounded not a bit like Sir James Proud. It was
American; East Coast, perhaps a trace of Massachusetts. "Is that Bob
Skinner?" it asked.
"Yes," he answered, quietly, although there was no one to hear him.
Everyone was still inside the hotel.
"This is Clyde Oakdale, Bob."
Skinner frowned. Oakdale was the acting senior partner of Sarah's late
father's law firm. He was handling, personally, the winding up of Leo
and Susannah's joint estate, of which Skinner himself was co-executor.
But there was something in the lawyer's voice that told him this call
was not about an estate matter. At once, he saw the future stretching
out before him. Legal separation, a property split, a custody battle
unless he agreed to his children becoming in effect Americans, and if
he did, years of shuttling across the Atlantic to visit them, until it
all became too much trouble. "Yes, Clyde," he said wearily.
"Bob," the lawyer continued heavily, "I have some very disturbing news
for you."
"Let me guess. It's about Sarah."
"Yes it is. How did you guess?"
"Call it intuition. I think maybe you should talk to my solicitor,
rather than me."
"Bob," Oakdale exclaimed, testily, "I don't know what you mean by that,
but whatever it is, it seems we're not connecting up here. Now just
shut up, will you. By making this call I am breaking a direct client
instruction, but what the hell, you need to know, regardless. So
please listen to me.
"Sarah has been arrested."
"You what?" Skinner exploded, forgetting for the moment where he
was.
"You heard me. She is being held by the detective division of the Erie
County Sheriff's Department for questioning about the murder of Mr. Ron
Neidholm."
"Ron Neidholm? That name rings a bell." Bob frowned as he searched
his memory. "Yes, Babs Walker told me about him. Pro foot baller he
and Sarah had a thing at college."
"That's the man. Big Ron is quite a local hero, hence there's a real
shit-storm about his killing. I've tried to speak to Brad Dekker, the
sheriff, but he won't take my calls."
"What happened?"
"At about nine yesterday evening, the police were called by neighbours
to a disturbance in Mr. Neidholm's house. They found him dead in the
kitchen, with a knife in his chest, and Sarah standing over the body.
When she calmed down she told them that she had found him like that,
but they arrested her straight away and took her in."
"And she's still there?"
"Yes. They're talking about charging her."
"Where are you? You're with her, aren't you?"
"I'm a civil lawyer, Bob. I have John Vranic, our firm's top courtroom
attorney, there with her."
"Can't he get her released on bail? I mean.. . Oh, this is fucking
nonsense!"
"The District Attorney's office is not being compliant on this one,"
said Oakdale. "The DA is a friend of mine, so he went a little further
with me than they have with John. Her prints are on the knife, Bob, as
clear as day."
"You're kidding me."
"I wish I was." As the lawyer paused, Skinner heard the sound of a
door opening across the lawn. He ignored it, instead he started
marching back towards the road. "Bob," Oakdale went on, "Sarah didn't
want me to call you. I can't think why, but she said she didn't want
you involved. But I had to call you, for the children's sake if
nothing else. If necessary I can justify it ethically through your
position as co-executor of her parents' will'
"Fuck ethics," the policeman snarled. "If you hadn't I'd have killed
you. Tell your man Vranic from me to get her out of there. Put the
whole estate up as a bail bond if you have to, but get her released."
He came to the public road, and broke into a run towards the car. "I'll
be out there just as soon as I can, by tomorrow morning your time at
the latest.
"You call Dekker, or Eddie Brady, his chief of detectives. You tell
whichever of them you get that I am coming and that when I get there, I
want to see every scrap of their case against my wife."
"I'll do that," said Oakdale, 'and I'll do everything I can to get her
bail today, even if I have to put her before a judge to do it. You
just try to stay calm."
"Calm? Fuck calm, that's long gone. I'll work on staying merely
angry, and you can tell Brad Dekker that too. See you."
He unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel, just as the two Toyota
Landcruisers pulled out of the Fir Park Lodge driveway. Skinner cast
not a glance in their direction; he was fully occupied calling up a
number on his phone.
A few seconds later, his call was answered. "Neil," he said urgently,
'this is Bob. I should call McGurk with this, but I don't know him
well enough. Besides, it's more personal than business. Shit, it's
all personal. I'm in Perthshire; I have to call in on Andy, then I'm
back down the road, pronto. I want you to get on to the travel agent
and book me on the first possible flight to New York, with onward
connection to Buffalo; economy, business class, first, I don't care,
just get me on it. If you can, get my keys from Alex ... she's in her
Edinburgh office .. . and go out to Gullane, pick up my passport, and
pack me some clothes."
Not even when his anger over the threat to his job was at its hottest,
had Neil Mcllhenney ever heard his friend so agitated. "Okay, Bob,
I'll do all that. But what is it? What's up?"
"I'll tell you when I see you, man. Right now, I don't have the time
.. ." his voice shook with rage '... or the self-control. Better you
don't know anyway; that way Alex can't bully it out of you. This is
something I'll have to tell her in person too."
Thirty-Seven./
"I appreciate the urgency of your enquiries, Superintendent," said
David Candela, 'but couldn't this have waited until close of business?
Couldn't you have interviewed the chap at home?"
"I could also have sent my colleague Detective Sergeant Regan," Maggie
Rose answered. "George would have marched straight up to your
reception desk, flashed his warrant card, and demanded to see Mr.
Sheringham there and then. That's his style; I find him quite a useful
blunt instrument when I'm dealing with an awkward customer. With you
involved though, Mr. Candela, I thought it would be more appropriate
if I came along myself, with Inspector Steele, and asked you to arrange
for us to speak to the man in private."
The autocratic senior partner was mollified. "Yes, of course," he said
at once. "I appreciate your discretion. You say this is a purely
routine interview?"
"It is. If it was otherwise we'd be seeing him on our premises, not
yours."
"I'm sure. Very well, let me show you to one of our conference rooms,
"Thanks. Since we're being discreet, before you do that, could you
tell us something about him? For example, is he quiet or extrovert?"
"I don't really know a lot about him," Candela confessed. He leaned
back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Steele glanced
around his office, taking it in. There was a flat-screen computer
terminal on a corner of the big desk, yet somehow it seemed to be
balanced on the other side by a photo of a man in uniform, set in an
ornate antique frame. The total effect was surprisingly traditional in
a modern building, as if it had been designed to give the feel of
two-hundred-year-old values in a twenty-first-century environment.
"Young Sheringham is one of our last round of graduate recruits. That
means he'll be bright. You can assume that, because we rarely take