Thursday legends - Skinner 10

by Quintin Jardine

  Martin showed his warrant card, briefly, so that none of the other workmen could see. 'Gus,' he said in a friendly voice. 'We need to talk. Come on along with us.'

  'What for?' Morrison growled.

  'We want to buy you lunch, that's all.' One to each arm, gently but securely, they walked him across to the Mondeo.

  27

  'I think I should close down the headquarters van, Mario,' said Maggie Rose, 'and base the investigation out of Haddington from now on.'

  Her husband nodded across the table at which he and Stevie Steele were sitting. Their faces were streaked with dirt and their clothes were dusty. Each was in the process of emptying a can of lager; four more lay in a bag at their feet.

  'You might as well, Chief Inspector. I've dug up as much of North Berwick as I'm about to. What a wasted day!'

  'Not exactly,' the Sergeant ventured. 'That desk might have gone for auction with a gun in it, and those keys too if you hadn't known about that drawer.'

  'No,' said McGuire. 'Absolutely not. The furniture specialist in any sale-room would have looked for that drawer right away. I'd rather it was us found the gun than him, though; that could have been embarrassing. We might have had a struggle keeping it out of the papers.'

  'Aye,' laughed Steele. 'The Evening News is getting everywhere just now. Did you see their story yesterday on that other investigation. There was some very specific stuff in that. The guy who wrote that story, Blacklock: he's big Jack McGurk's brother-in-law. Did you know that?'

  'I did not. I do know that big Jack better not have been talking to him, though. There are only three guys in this organisation allowed to speak to the press, and he's not one of them.' He considered his point for a moment. 'No, make that four; I suppose the Chief Constable can, too.'

  McGuire drained his can, tore another open, then glanced at his wife once more. 'Did you get anything on the serial number of the pistol?'

  'Drew a blank,' she said. 'Or should that be fired a blank? It isn't one of ours - it would have been posted missing if it was anyway - and it isn't registered to anyone in the UK. I suppose Alec must have acquired it on his travels and neglected to hand it in.'

  'One more for us, then. We'll register it and keep it in our armoury.'

  Maggie frowned at him. 'Not necessarily. We'll have to test fire a bullet from it; who knows, it might be a match for one in another open investigation somewhere, one with an untraced firearm.'

  'We'll do no such bloody thing ... Ma'am,' he retorted.

  'But we have to! It's standard procedure.'

  'It is not standard procedure to find an illegal hand-gun in the possession of a deceased former Special Branch commander. Suppose your test firing did come up with a match, in another force's area? What a can of fucking worms that would open!' He tapped the table. 'Tell you something, among the three of us. From what I've learned about Alec Smith, finding a match is not one hundred per cent impossible. No-one's testing that gun.'

  Steele looked from one to the other, not wishing to be caught in the middle of a marital row between two senior officers.

  'You can't take that decision,' Maggie protested.

  'I just did. And if Brian Mackie was sitting in that chair, instead of sunning himself on the Costa de la bloody Luz, he'd agree with me all the way. So will Big Bob, when I tell him.'

  She scowled at him. 'Secret bloody policemen,' she muttered; but she had been Bob Skinner's exec, and she knew at once that her husband was right.

  'Talking about the Boss,' she said, changing the subject. 'I heard something on the grapevine today. You know there's been a small round of promotions?'

  'Aye, Jack McGurk, for one.'

  'Well, Neil's come through too. He's been made up to DI.' Mario's face lit up. 'Hey, that's great. Does that mean he's moving on?'

  'No, the Boss wants to keep him in his office for as long as he can, so he's promoted him in post.'

  'That's smashin'.' He frowned for a second. 'No consolation, but smashin' nonetheless. Olive would have been dead chuffed for him.'

  'So will Lauren and Spence be.'

  'Yeah.'

  For a while they sat in silence, until Steele broke it. 'Those keys,' he said. 'Has the check on tenants of small office premises thrown up anything?'

  'No,' answered Rose. 'There are one or two vacant around the county, but the rest are all accounted for. Whatever those keys are for, I'm sure that they are not for an office around here.

  'The bank statements gave us nothing either; it was nearly all domestic stuff, the routine standing orders and bills, money going out to his daughter through a university branch of Lloyds TSB in Birmingham - she must still be a student. The only thing we couldn't nail down completely was an annual payment of twelve hundred pounds to a firm of solicitors in Dundee, but Alec told the bank manager when he set up the debit that it was money for his wife.'

  She looked at Mario. 'I think we should talk to the wife, don't you?'

  'Aye. All due deference to the Chief, but when he saw her he didn't know the questions to ask. We should see her again, right enough.'

  'Okay. You two do that tomorrow then; go to Penicuik or wherever and see her.'

  McGuire shook his head. 'Hold on a minute there, Chief Inspector. This is becoming a threat to national security. I'm only involved in this investigation because it's Alec. I'm Special Branch Commander, so I have to spend some time commanding the bloody thing; plus I've asked for Alice Cowan as from tomorrow morning. I've already got the Head of CID picking up two suspects for me; I cannot go tear-arsing out on what is probably just a follow-up interview.'

  'I suppose not,' she conceded. 'You do it alone then, Stevie. Just confirm that standing order was a token maintenance payment for her, and see if she knows about those photographs - and if she has any idea what they're about.'

  'Aye,' said her husband, 'and ask her if he knows where he walked his dog. At the moment it looks as if Alec just buried his stuff. Maybe he got it to do the digging!'

  'If that's right,' said Maggie, flashing one of her rare on-duty smiles, 'that dog'll be the first bloody witness we've found in this case!'

  28

  'I wasn't kidding about lunch,' said Martin. He laid a tray on the table; two large filled rolls, a Mars bar and a mug of coffee with two sugar lumps and a spoon beside it. 'Corned beef and pickle all right?' he asked. 'I wasn't sure about the sugar.'

  Gus Morrison glared up at him, then at the food, suspiciously. 'It's all right,' Sammy Pye assured him. 'I've just got the rolls myself from a place across the street.'

  'Don't worry,' the Head of CID continued, cheerfully, 'they're not laced with a truth drug or anything like that. We're not that subtle: we'll just batter the truth out of you if we have to, won't we, Sammy?' He held his hands up, quickly. 'Only joking, only joking. Now go on, dig in.'

  Morrison reached out and picked up a flour-dusted roll, squinted at it, then took a bite. 'Ah want a lawyer,' he mumbled through a mouthful of corned beef and pickle. They were the first words he had spoken, from the moment they had left the depot to their arrival at the St Leonard's divisional HQ, chosen because of its link to the Smith case.

  'I'm sure you do, Gus, and if it comes to the bit you'll have one; but you don't need one yet, you see. We just want to ask you a few things.' He sat back and waited, watching in silence as the blue-chinned man munched his way through the rolls, added the sugar lumps to his coffee, stirred it, then tore off the Mars bar wrapping.

  'Fuckn' bastards. Fuckn' bastards,' he muttered under his breath, shoulders hunched, staring down at the table top. 'Aye after us, fuckn' bastards.'

  'What was that, Gus?' Pye asked. The man shot him a sideways glance. 'Nothin'.' He looked back at Martin. 'What's this about then?' he asked, his eyes clear suddenly, his voice lucid.

  'Do you remember a man called Smith?' the Head of CID asked.

  'Do I remember a man called Smith? I remember a hundred men called Smith, Officer. There was Tarn Smith, who had the corner shop
when I was a boy. There was Dandy Smith, who was in my class at primary school and got run over by a bus. There was Mary Smith, in the jail ... his real name was Michael, but he was called that because he bent over in the showers. There was ...'

  'Did he bend over for you?' Martin asked suddenly, still smiling. 'Did you go queer in the nick?'

  Morrison blinked. 'No,' he boomed. 'Certainly not. It was the wee hard men who did that. The mentality you see. They had to show who the top dogs were, in every way they could; so they buggered the likes of Mary to do it.'

  'Did they bugger you?'

  The laugh was so sudden, so sharp, so dismissive, that the detective almost reacted to it. 'Bugger me? Bugger big Gus? Did they buggery!' He laughed again, at his own sad humour.

  'Ah. Sorry, it was just that I thought, with Wendy topping herself...'

  Something seemed to swim behind Morrison's eyes; another creature, in there.

  'Wendy never thought... Wendy? Wendy! It was the other way around!' His voice rose. 'I know what happened! All those fucking bull dykes in that bloody place, never leaving her alone and the screws - aye, know why they call them screws? - and wee Wendy. She was soft and weak and a gentle lassie and very private. Kept herself to herself you know what I mean, women's things; and it all got too much for her, and they killed her up there, the fucking bastards ...' He broke off, his chest heaving, gasping for breath.

  Martin rose and put two strong hands on the man's shoulders, holding him down in his chair. 'Fuckn' bastards. Fuckn' bastards,' he mumbled.

  'Gus, that is pure fantasy,' said the Head of CID. 'It never happened; none of it. Wendy wasn't abused in prison; she became depressed. She saw counsellors there; she told them that what you had got her into, all that Free Scotland nonsense, had ruined her life. She was put on medication, but she didn't take it; they found it afterwards, after she hanged herself with her sheets, leaving a letter to you blaming you for everything.'

  Morrison writhed in his grip; trying to stand, but Martin held him down. 'Balls,' he snarled. 'Fuckn' bastards bent her mind.' The voice, rising again, grating. 'Wendy was a good wee soldier, a good wee Scottish soldier. She and I, we did it; others talked, others marched up and fuckn' down but we did it. And those fuckn' traitorous bastards watchin' us all the time, watchin' us, watchin' us! Chief fuckn' bastard Chief fuckn' Inspector Alec fuckn' Smith ...'

  Martin slapped him across the face, hard, to stop the flow of spit-flecked vitriol. 'How did you know that Smith?' he snapped. 'He was never named in court. He never interviewed you after your arrest. How did you know that man called Smith among the hundred?'

  As the man's hysteria subsided, he released his grip and sat down, facing his subject across the table once more, watching the eyes as they cleared. 'He wasn't as clever as he thought,' Morrison said, evenly, lucid once more. 'They followed us, sure, him and Gavigan; only Gavigan wasn't too hot at it.' He smiled, boastfully. 'So we turned the tables, Wendy and I. We followed him; and he led us to his boss, and we followed him too. Found out where he lived, who he was, what schools his kids went to, everything.'

  'You couldn't have been that smart. Smith caught you trying to blow up that pylon.'

  This time the laugh was a pure animal snarl. 'Caught us? Caught us? Framed us! Framed us! We told the papers about Smith and Gavigan; sent an anonymous letter to the Sunday Post telling them what they were. Never published it. Next thing Smith and Gavigan picked us up, with a gun. Took us up Sutra, with the gun. Made us handle gelignite, with the gun. Made us stand beside this pylon and took photos as if they had been watching us. Then they took us to the police station and charged us.

  'We never blew up any pylon, Wendy and me. We were crucified. Chief fuckn' Inspector bastard Smith hammered home the nails.'

  Martin stared at the man, unblinking, in the long silence which followed. 'When did you see him again?' he asked at last. 'After you got out, I mean.'

  Morrison's mood was fragile once more. 'In the Ford garage next to the depot,' he said, quietly. 'Saw him looking at a car. I was going off shift so I followed him again; out to North Berwick. Wee house there, on the beach.'

  'And did you crucify him?'

  'Crucify? Crucify?'

  'DCI Smith was killed, Gus,' said Martin, quietly. 'He was murdered in his home last Friday evening. It's been all over the papers.'

  'Don't read the papers. Hate the papers. The papers betrayed Wendy and me. Sold us to Chief fuckn' Inspector bastard Smith.'

  'Did you kill him, Gus?'

  The eyes flashed again; the creature back, swimming inside.

  'No.' A mumble. 'But I wish I had. Fuckn' bastard. Fuckn' bastards you all.'

  Martin gazed at him as he sat there, big shoulders hunched round. Then he stood and patted him on the arm, gently.

  'Why didn't you tell the story in your defence at your trial?' he asked.

  'Lawyer wouldn't believe me.'

  'No,' the detective sighed. 'I don't suppose he would. I do, though. Wait here for a bit, Gus. We'll look after you.'

  Signalling Pye to follow, he left the room. A uniformed constable stood outside. 'Get in there,' he ordered, 'and sit with him.'As the door closed, he led the way along the corridor to Brian Mackie's empty office.

  'What are you going to do, sir?' his young assistant asked.

  As Martin looked at him, Pye saw the anger burning in him. 'I'm going to get that poor bastard a solicitor, and then I'm going to have Kevin O'Malley talk to him.'

  Who's Kevin O'Malley?'

  'He's the best head doctor I know. Morrison needs his help.' 'D'you think he did kill DCI Smith, sir?' 'I don't know. If he did, Kevin will find out for us.' His eyes locked on to Pye. 'While he's doing that, I want you to find

  Tommy Gavigan and bring him to me. Morrison might have been fantasising all that stuff about the gun and the frame-up; but it rang true to me.

  'If it was, then there will be some crucifying done ... and I've got the hammer and nails ready.'

  29

  'Yes, my name is still Bridget Smith, Sergeant. Alec and I were never divorced.' The widow was not dressed for the part; she wore light blue cotton slacks and a diaphanous, flowery top which showed more than a suggestion of a white Broderie Anglais bra. She was tall, with only a slight thickening at the waist, only a slight hint of a pot below, a strong firm chin and blonde hair, cut short; well cut too.

  Edging thirty himself, Steele always found it difficult to assess the age of an older woman, but he guessed, from Alec Smith's age and from her reported twenty-something offspring, that she could not be far short of the fifty mark. Well-preserved fifty, though. Working at it; proud of it. Looking at her, he wondered what the late DCI Smith could have done to drive her away.

  He glanced around the living room of the little house, a Wimpey semi-detached, 1970s vintage. It felt comfortable, lived-in, and looked as if she had made only a token effort to tidy up for his visit.

  Mrs Smith laid a mug of coffee on a small table, one of a set, beside his chair. It was well used but looked like solid teak; she did not use a coaster, he noticed.

  'I'm glad you could see me so quickly,' he began, as an icebreaker.

  'Not a problem,' she replied, in a light, cultured Edinburgh accent, not a cut-glass Morningside job. 'I work from home. I run a little market-research business, working for advertising agencies mainly, but retail groups too, and sometimes public bodies; I have a project for LEEL at the moment. Occasionally we do face-to-face interviews, but mostly it's telephone work.

  'Have you heard of LEEL?' she asked suddenly.

  'Vaguely'

  She laughed. 'That's what most respondents say. Maybe I can interview you after you've interviewed me. Ahh, but you're not a small businessman, are you?'

  'No,' Steele grinned, put at ease by her style, 'I'm a large policeman.'

  'And you're here to talk to me about another one. I thought the Chief Constable's visit was purely of the condolence variety; so I've been half-expecting someone else. Wha
t do you want to ask me? Whether I killed him or not?'

  'I was assuming that you didn't; according to the Chief you and your partner were out with friends last Friday evening. We've checked that already.'

  Bridget Smith raised her eyebrows. 'Did he indeed? His interview technique must be better than I thought. I don't even remember him asking me that, far less telling him.'

  'That's how he got to be Chief Constable.' Steele took a sip from his mug. 'There are a few things about your husband, Mrs Smith, that we're still trying to get a grip of. Although he was a police officer for over thirty years, there's still a lot about him that we don't know. He was a very private man in the office - an asset, maybe, given the job he did ...'

  'He was a very private man at home too, Sergeant. What job did he do?'

  'You mean he never talked to you about it?'

  'Never. I knew what rank he was, that he was a detective and where he worked, but he never talked about his work. I was never allowed to phone him at the office either. When his father died, nine years ago, I had to go through the main switchboard to find him, and they had him call me back.'

  Her voice lowered, and suddenly she seemed less vibrant, more vulnerable. 'Alec never talked to me at all, Mr Steele ... well, hardly ever. It wasn't so bad in the early years, when we were going out together, when the kids were young, but as his career progressed he became more and more remote. He didn't speak about the house; to me, or John, or Susan even ... and if he had a favourite, it was her. He didn't want to do things; for five years before I left we did not do a single thing together, go out for dinner, go to the theatre, go to parties. I used to get invitations; Alec always turned them down. As for him ... I've heard that policemen do have balls, but I never heard about them from Alec. Never once did he offer to take me to a police social function; we were at a formal event once, but that was all.' She looked down quickly into her lap, her voice faltering for the first time. 'For the last six years of our marriage we didn't have sex: not at all.