Thursday legends - Skinner 10

by Quintin Jardine

  'I have been so ... worried about you,' she whispered. 'I have had the most terrible feeling since yesterday morning. I've been imagining the most awful things.'

  'Well, you can stop that right now,' he said, quietly, grinning as they looked at each other, as if for the first time, Karen frowning as she saw his swollen lip and the bruising on his face. 'I'm sorry, just turning up out of the blue, especially after the other day, but I had to see you; I needed very badly to see you.'

  'Why?' she asked him.

  'So that I could be absolutely certain, beyond the last shadow of a doubt, that I am still alive. And so that I could tell you something ... and ask you something.'

  "There's a coincidence,' she murmured.

  'Pack a bag,' he said.

  'Where are we going?'

  'Somewhere I should have taken you a while ago.' 'How much should I pack? How long are we going away for?'

  'That's up to you. Pack as much as you like. But do it now; this can't wait any longer.'

  'All right, I'll pack office clothes for Monday.'

  He followed her into her bedroom, watching as she made selections from her drawers and wardrobe, fitting them into a big soft hold-all, and folding her work suit carefully on top. He grinned as he saw her police uniform hanging on the rail, and her cap on a shelf above. On impulse he reached for it and sent it spinning into a corner of the room.

  'Why do we dress our women officers like waitresses in Miss Cranston's tea room?' he chuckled.

  'Careful,' she protested, 'I might need that next week.'

  'Why should you?'

  'Because I'm not going to work for you any more.' 'How did you know I was going to fire you?' She closed the zipper on her hold-all, dropped it on to the floor and reached for him, taking hold of the top button of his crisp new white shirt. He caught her hand, gently. 'Not here. Let's go.'

  She locked up and he led her outside, carrying the bag and squeezing it into the tiny boot of the MGF, which had already attracted the attention of a traffic warden. He showed the man his warrant card and shooed him away.

  'Where are we going?' she asked him as he turned out into Nicolson Street. He gave her no answer, only a smile but she knew anyway. He drove urgently, as fast as he could through the Saturday afternoon traffic, cutting along Chambers Street, along King George IV Bridge to the Mound, down the hill and across Princes Street, along George Street and round Charlotte Square and finally down Belford Road and into Dean Village.

  His garage door was open; he drove straight inside.

  'I am so sorry, Karen,' he said, as he took her bag from the boot, 'that I have never brought you to this house before. It's typical of the blind, stupid and thoughtless way I've treated you.'

  She shook her head. 'Not you alone. We've treated each other in exactly the same way.'

  He took her hand and led her out of the garage, into the house and upstairs, to the living room. To his paintings. She had never seen them before. She gazed around his gallery. 'Andy,' she exclaimed, 'these are lovely.'

  'This is the second part of my life-support system.'

  'How long-have you had them?'

  'I've been collecting for years, on and off. It was only when I moved here that they came together for me like this. They create something; I don't know what it is, only that I feel more at home among them than anywhere I've ever been before.'

  'Okay,' she said, asking the begged question. 'What's the first part of your life-support system?' 'You are.'

  She felt warmth that was almost orgasmic flood through her whole body and struggled in vain to keep it from showing on her face.

  'Oh yes? And when did this come to you?'

  'I began to realise about three days ago, but it came to me as a great certainty when I knew I was going to die. You guessed right, Karen; I've been in trouble. Serious, life-threatening trouble of my own making. It was very bad, and then it got worse, until there came a point when all common sense told me that there was no way out. I felt Death descending upon me and, as it did, all that filled my mind was you.

  'I saw your face, I felt you with me and I knew all at once that, whatever logic told me about my situation, I could not die. So I declined Death's kind offer - You know how Death is always depicted as a great robed skeleton with a scythe? Actually he's a thin bloke with a gun - and eventually Bob Skinner turned up and, as he does, made everything all right'

  'What happened to Death?' she whispered.

  'He went away; for good. All that he's left me is a compulsion to brush my teeth every couple of hours. That'll pass, though.

  'And you know what? You're still there, filling my mind, with your strength, and your warmth, and your goodness and your sheer bloody niceness. He tapped his chest. 'You've been in here for a while now, but I was too stupid to figure it out, hell-bent on making a virtue out of loneliness. It took Sarah Skinner, who is my best friend after you and Bob, to tell it to me straight.

  'Now it's just so bloody obvious.'

  She looked at him. That's what you had to tell me?'

  'Not all of it.'

  'What else, then?'

  'I had to tell you I love you, before I could die.'

  'And what do you want to ask me?'

  'Forswearing all others, I wanted, want, to ask you to marry me. You saved my life, now I'd like you to live the rest of it with me. What d' you say?'

  She frowned at him and his heart sank. 'I have to choose my words carefully here,' she began. 'I love you too. Yes.'

  They gave simultaneous gasps of exultation and relief. The space between them closed in a second as they locked in an embrace.

  'When?' she murmured.

  'Soon as we can.'

  'Can I stay here from now on?'

  'Too right. We'll find a new place though; one that's ours together. This place has picked up some bad memories already, just like the last one.'

  'That's all they are, though, memories. I've got my own, remember. We can live with them, no problem.' She reached for the top button of his shirt once again; this time he made no move to stop her.

  'What about the job?' she asked. '... Sir.'

  'You're not going back to my office, that's for sure. Do you want to chuck it?'

  She nodded. 'Yes. It might suit the McGuires - they're zealots - but one copper in the house will be enough for us. I trained as a teacher before I joined up. I'll do some supply work, maybe ... until I get pregnant, that is.'

  He put his forehead against hers as she pulled his shirt free. 'Let's attend to that right now, shall we?'

  52

  That was a bombshell, was it not?' Bob Skinner gazed after the little red car as it turned out of the driveway, half an hour after noon on Sunday. 'When he phoned I thought he was just coming to return the clothes I lent him.'

  Sarah smiled. 'A bombshell maybe; but think of the man who left here yesterday, then look at the Andy who's just left now. When did you last see him as happy as that?'

  'Maybe never,' Bob conceded. 'Maybe not even when he was engaged to our Alex. But still... don't you think that this could all be a hysterical reaction to what happened to him on Friday?'

  'He didn't seem hysterical to me. Nor did she. No, I'm going to take it at face value; I'm going to be pleased for them both. I don't know Karen very well, but I've heard a few stories about her from you and others. Nobody has ever failed to make the point that she is a thoroughly nice woman. She will add a stability to his personal life that's never really been there before. You just watch him go from now on.'

  He looked at her, a little doubtfully. 'Okay, Sarah. But he must have some recovery to get through still.'

  'With which she can only help him,' she replied. 'Andy is a very strong man, both mentally and physically. The only worthwhile things you can do for him are to fix him up with some private counselling with Kevin O'Malley, to head off any possibility of post traumatic stress, and to wish him and Karen the best of luck.'

  'He's got both of those. Christ, after seeing it
, I think McGuire and I should have counselling too.'

  'Hah! This from the man who swore he'd never again let O'Malley or anyone else inside his head. No, you take those two boys for a walk, as you said you would; that's the best form of counselling. While you're doing that, I will phone Alex, as Andy asked me to.'

  Bob nodded. 'You're right.' He called back into the house. 'Mark, Jazz, come on.' He picked up his younger son's carry-frame, slipped his arms through the straps and fastened it across his chest.

  The two boys came rushing through the hall: Mark, incredibly bright for a boy just verging on eight, cut out already for academia rather than athletics; James Andrew, still short of three but a toddler no more, a sturdy child with his mother's eyes and the promise of developing his father's physique.

  'Where are we going, Uncle Bob?' asked Mark, the adopted son. 'The beach?'

  'The beach will be mobbed today; no, we'll go for a long walk round by Luffness to West Fenton, then back up to the village. You can see the horses and the cattle, and look out for the different sorts of birds, then look them up in your book when we get home.'

  He loaded Jazz into the carrier, up and over his head, then set off down the drive on the forced march. Beyond the gate, Hill Road was lined with parked cars; he saw a red Ford, a silver Toyota, a big black off-roader of some sort with impenetrable smoked glass windows, a Mercedes, and more lined all the way up the slope past the Diddler's house. It had been abandoned finally by the journalists who had kept vigil there the night before, hoping for a glimpse of the grieving Edith. The vehicles were parked all the way up to the golf course gate. Either the Bents car park was full, or drivers were avoiding the small charge. Whatever, Skinner noted mentally, there was trouble heading the way of the local traffic warden.

  He forgot the nuisance almost at once as he walked the boys out, down Sandy Loan, right and across the main street then westward, out of the village. Mark chatted incessantly as they headed down and round the bend in the road, Jazz joining in as they reached the part where the walkway was wider and he could be lifted safely out of his carrier. Eventually, they passed Luffness New Golf Club with its commemorative cairn outside, passed the sweeping Luffness corner itself, and turned into the rarely used road which twisted through the farmland and up to West Fenton.

  'This is where we saw the albino squirrel, Uncle Bob, remember?' Mark called out, walking with Jazz a few paces in front. Bob smiled as he remembered the odd little animal, with its pink eyes.

  'Want to see it, Dad,' James Andrew shouted. 'Want to see it.'

  'I doubt if it will still be here, son,' he answered. 'It was so white that it might as well have been wearing a sign saying "Eat me" on its back. There are hawks and owls around here, looking for small game like that.' Never in his life, had Bob Skinner told a 'cute furry animal' story to any of his children; he believed in teaching them about nature rather than cartoon characters.

  They walked on, past the stream which ran on their left through a narrow stretch of woods, round a curve, past an isolated, white, art deco house, planted bizarrely on the edge of the fertile farmland like a great iced cake, then out into a straight stretch of road, between two flat fields, one ploughed, the other sowed.

  'What's that, Uncle Bob?' There was something subdued about the boy's tone.

  'Barley. It'll be harvested in August then sold to a brewer.'

  They walked on until they reached the old railway bridge; the railway itself had been gone for sixty years, but the bridge over the ghost line still stood, fulfilling no function other than to offer a better view of Gullane from its crest. Bob picked up Jazz and reinstalled him in his carrier, for the climb at least.

  They stopped at the top, and looked back up towards the village, even though Mark could barely see over the iron parapet. 'Uncle Bob,' he asked as they walked on. Jazz was still in his carrier, his brother a few yards in front, so Skinner strained to hear. 'Will that albino squirrel really be dead?'

  He cursed himself for a fool at his abruptness. The child's parents had met violent ends; death was still a dangerous topic with him.

  'Maybe yes, maybe no,' he replied as they descended the far slope of the bridge.

  Change the subject. What? Anything. 'What do you want to be when you grow up, Mark?'

  'Alive.'

  The maturity, the perception, the sadness of the boy's response; all of them stunned him, left him staring speechless at the back of his little bowed head.

  'You will be, son, you will be,' he promised.

  And then a sound broke in, the sudden revving of an engine, a big powerful engine. Tyres screamed as they took a grip of the rough, tarmac road, gathering pace. He swung round, looking back over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the big, black vehicle and the sun reflecting off its dark, smoked windscreen, a quick blinding flash as it roared over the hump of the railway bridge and hurtled downwards, racing straight and unmistakably for him.

  As fast as he could, yet feeling as if he was running on soft sand rather than tarmac, he turned back and raced towards Mark. He stretched out his right hand and scooped the boy up, throwing him up and over the roadside fence and the bush which was twined through it, into the field beyond. Then, in the same movement, with the roar of the car sounding ever louder in his ears he threw himself, and his burden, after him.

  He was in mid-air when he felt the blow on his left leg, harder than a Mcllhenney tackle; it spun him round in his flight, sending him even further through the air, even further into the sanctuary of the field.

  He lay there for a second, aware of Mark crying beside him. He tried to stand, to catch a glimpse of the vehicle's number plate as it roared away, but his leg was numb, and gave way under him. And then he realised that the carrier on his back was empty. He looked around and saw Jazz, yards away, lying on his back in a ploughed rut, motionless, looking up at the sky.

  Desperately, he crawled and scrambled across the field towards him, over the newly turned land, until he reached him. Ignoring the growing pain in his leg, he pushed himself to his knees.

  There was a light smile on the little boy's lips as he gazed upwards. Bob's mouth twisted into the start of a scream .. .

  Until James Andrew looked at him and chortled. 'That was good, Dad. Can we do it again?'

  53

  Janine Bryant had insisted that Pringle meet her at the Daybelge offices in Melville Street. He assumed that she did not want a policeman, even one out of uniform, calling at her home on a Sunday, but when he arrived for their appointment, he found that the place was a hive of activity.

  'All of the partners and the senior people are in,' the tall, trim woman told the Superintendent, as she carried two cups of coffee into the main meeting room, laying them on white coasters on the long table. 'Mr Johnston-White has been appointed acting head of the firm, and he's instructed everyone to call round their contacts and reassure them that our operations and strategies will be unaffected by Mr Shearer's death.'

  She frowned. 'Whether or not they believe us; that's something else.'

  'Won't Mrs Shearer have a say in what happens?' the detective asked. 'I've been assuming that her husband's share of the business will pass to her.'

  'It's not as simple as that,' said Ms Bryant. 'The firm has a Keyman insurance policy in place which provides funds for the purchase of the interests of a deceased partner, and the partnership agreement incudes an undertaking to sell which is binding on the heirs.

  'Not that Edith will be thinking about that right now, though. I spoke to her this morning before I came here. The poor woman; she's distraught. We all are, of course, but for her ... Their son is catching a flight from Sydney around now, but it'll be the middle of tomorrow before he gets home.'

  'Give me the flight time,' Pringle said. 'I'll have a car meet him and take him out to Gullane.'

  He sipped his coffee, then picked up a chocolate digestive biscuit. 'So Mrs Shearer will be looked after by the firm?' he continued.

  'Mmm.' The secretary nodd
ed. 'That's the theory of it. There is one big practical difficulty, though. The Keyman policy pays out at various levels, depending upon who the deceased partner is, but there's a cap of five million pounds. That's the amount which will be available to Mrs Shearer.

  'The problem is that when he died, Mr Shearer was about to conclude the sale of the partnership to the Golden Crescent Bank of Malaysia for eighty-five million pounds. Since he owned sixty per cent of the partnership equity, that rather makes a nonsense of the Keyman policy cap.

  'The surviving partners are still keen that the sale should go ahead. In fact, Mr Johnston-White is flying to Kuala Lumpur tonight for a meeting with the Golden Crescent people. If it does, then Mr Shearer's estate will benefit accordingly. But if it doesn't... it can still be argued that the negotiations have established a valuation of his holding which is far in excess of the sum available from the Keyman policy.

  'The business is cash-rich, but it couldn't afford an extra forty-five million pounds, not to buy back its own equity, at any rate.'

  'I see what you mean,' murmured the detective, through his moustache.

  'Who knew about this deal?' he asked.

  'The industry has known for some time that Golden Crescent was in the market for an independent British fund manager, to kick-start a European expansion programme. There have been newspaper references, and, obviously, as the leading investment house in Scotland, Daybelge has been the subject of a lot of speculation.

  'Other firms have been mentioned too, of course. Mr Shearer was aware that Golden Crescent had been talking seriously to another Edinburgh house, but he saw them off.'

  'How important was Mr Shearer personally to this deal?'

  Janine Bryant looked into her coffee cup as if it was tea, and she was trying to read the future in its leaves. 'We'll find that out when Mr Johnston-White gets to Kuala Lumpur. He's worried enough to be taking Mr Laidlaw, our solicitor, and one of his partners along. My feeling is that he was almost essential. Golden Crescent may well look elsewhere.'