07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  She leaned away from him, trying to see his face in the faint light which crept into her bedroom from the city outside. ‘Bob,’ she said, with surprise in her voice. ‘I’d never have put you down for a supporter of capital punishment.’

  She saw the gleam of his white teeth as he smiled. ‘That’s the thing,’ he muttered, more gently now. ‘I’m not, in the judicial sense. I couldn’t hurt a fly in cold blood. But in the heat of action, there’s something in me that takes over. Between you and me, it scares me shitless. I’m just glad I’m on the right side of the fence.’

  He drew her to him once more. ‘But enough of this black talk. Let me feel the warmth of your body, and let’s both get some sleep. For at six thirty, we’re both off out again, in the vain hope of finding wee Mark.

  ‘I saved his life once before, you know. I pray that I or one of Skinner’s finest gets the chance to do so again.’

  7

  ‘I’ve sent Pamela to be an observer at the post-mortem,’ said Martin, casually. The search for Mark McGrath had just been declared exhausted, and the Head of CID and Skinner were sharing an early lunch in the senior officers’ dining room.

  The DCC felt his stomach churn, involuntarily, but all that his colleague saw was the raising of his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s part of the job, Bob. She has to take her turn. Young Pye’s gone with her.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Skinner. ‘She’s on your team.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘Listen Andy,’ he began. ‘Will you and Alex be free this evening?’

  Martin looked at him. ‘Aye, sure. Are you fed up eating alone? Is that it?’

  The DCC shook his head. ‘No. There’s something I’ve got . . .’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The voice came from the doorway. Both detectives glanced across, to see a tall thin man in a sergeant’s uniform. ‘You told me to let you know, Mr Martin, when the media were ready,’ said William Rowland, Alan Royston’s deputy.

  The DCS stood up at once. ‘Yes, thanks Bill.’ He looked down at Skinner. ‘I’m going to carry on taking the briefings, sir, until you’ve resolved the Royston situation. It wouldn’t be fair to leave it to Sergeant Rowland.’

  ‘Fair enough. Listen, will you get someone to tell Royston to be in my office at ten on Monday morning. I’d better have it out with the guy.’

  Martin nodded. ‘I think that’s best.’ He headed towards the door, where Rowland still waited.

  ‘Come to dinner tonight, why don’t you?’ He paused, and said, ‘Our place; make it around half-seven. That’ll give us time to get ready. To tell you the truth, I think Alex has been working herself up to talk to you about . . . well, everything. I know she’s not happy about the situation between you and Sarah. Those two are like sisters, you know.’

  Skinner grunted. ‘Tell me about it! That’s part of the problem. But my daughter’s right, I haven’t been talking to her nearly enough.’ He picked up his coffee. ‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’

  8

  ‘What are the chances of finding the child alive, Chief Superintendent?’

  The radio reporter looked barely more than a child himself. Looking at him, Andy Martin wondered whether he might be on a work-experience placement, used by the station as a cheap way of providing Saturday news cover.

  ‘There’s every chance, Mr . . .?’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Braden, sir.’

  ‘. . . Mr Braden. In fact, we’re very hopeful of finding Mark alive. Our ground search has run its course, and so far we’ve had plenty of support from the public. Sooner or later we’ll get a lead.

  ‘What I am doing today is renewing my request to property-owners to check garages and outbuildings - anywhere that a frightened child might be hiding. Also, I’m asking everyone who was in the Trinity area of Edinburgh on Friday afternoon to think hard, just in case they saw anything unusual, particularly if it involved a child and a grey car.’

  The boy looked eagerly at the detective. ‘Is that your most positive lead so far, a grey car?’

  ‘To be unusually frank with you, it’s our only lead so far.’

  John Hunter waved a hand. ‘So kidnap’s now becoming a probability, is it, Andy?’

  Martin nodded. ‘With every passing minute. We’re being as positive as we can in our search, of course. If you’re an innocent motorist in a grey car, I apologise in advance for the inconvenience of being stopped by the police. But I’m sure you’ll realise that we’re only doing what’s necessary.’

  He looked at the assembled media. ‘That’s all I have for you today, folks. Same time tomorrow, unless anything breaks. If that happens you’ll be contacted.’

  John Hunter fell into step with the detective as he left the room. ‘Where’s Royston?’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Martin whispered in return.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ The old journalist paused. ‘Listen, Andy. I saw that wee shite Salmon in the bar of the Bank Hotel last night, after you had flung him out of here. He wasn’t letting on why, but he looked as happy as a two-cocked dog in a stand of trees.

  ‘He’s up to something, and whatever it is, I have a feeling that your lot aren’t going to like it.’

  9

  Joseph Hutchison, Professor of Pathology at Edinburgh University, knew Deputy Chief Constable Skinner well enough to know of his loathing of post-mortem examinations. So when he recognised the big policeman, despite his surgical gown and cap, as soon as he stepped into the theatre, it was natural for him to look up in surprise.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ said the twinkling-eyed little scientist. ‘This is a rare honour, having you visit my workshop.’

  Skinner grunted a response, as he strode over to stand between Pamela Masters and Sammy Pye, who seemed to be positioned as far as possible from the post-mortem table. Clearly, the examination had been under way for some time. He glanced down at Pamela: she was slightly pale, and her cheekbones stood out a little more than usual, but otherwise she was impassive.

  ‘Any surprises for me, Joe?’ Skinner asked. ‘Or haven’t you got that far yet?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Hutchison, ‘I’ve got that far. As even the good Dr Banks could work out, death was due to strangulation by ligature. The hyoid bone was crushed. The ligature was so tight that the blood supply to the brain would have been cut off at once, causing unconsciousness, prior to death.’ He paused, coughing suddenly.

  ‘I’ve examined the major internal organs. All healthy and undamaged. I’m just looking at the brain now.’ He held it up, so that the police observers could see its swirling surface patterns, slicked with blood and fluid. In spite of himself, Skinner looked away. ‘As you can see,’ continued the Professor, ‘no obvious damage here either, other than that consistent with a sudden stoppage of the blood supply.’ He paused again.

  ‘There were other injuries, of course. Four broken ribs, all left side, ruptured left eardrum, left zygotic bone fractured - all indicative of a severe beating by a right-handed attacker, pounding on her face and body repeatedly with his fist. However, none of these would have contributed to death. They were either gratuitous, or they were an attempt to subdue the victim, prior to the sexual assaults.

  ‘I’d say they were simply sadistic, actually, because the first thing the man did was to tie up the victim. There’s a big bruise to the small of her back, consistent with the attacker having thrown her to the ground, knelt on her, really hard, as he bound her wrists securely with the electrical cord your people say was used.’

  ‘How about the blood on her fingernails, Joe?’ Skinner asked. ‘Will we get any joy there?’

  ‘Hah,’ said the Professor. ‘My first piece of bad news, I’m afraid. The lab will have to confirm this, but I surmise that those samples were from the victim herself. There are marks on her back, near those made by the electrical plug, which conform to her nails having been crushed into her own tissue.’

  ‘Damn it!’ said the policeman. ‘Still, there’ll be other traces.’


  There was a long silence. ‘That is the really bad news, my friend. There aren’t.’

  ‘Eh? But what about the sexual injuries? Surely to Christ he . . .’

  The little pathologist shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s frustrating, I know.

  ‘The woman was sexually attacked, by a fairly large man, and repeated penetration took place. She was sodomised first, I’d say, very painfully. Much, but not all of the blood came from the rupturing of vessels around the anus, the rest from tearing around the vagina. The muscles in these areas were all cramped and constricted, indicating that the victim resisted throughout every attack, even at the cost of added suffering, and even if ultimately unsuccessfully.

  ‘Yet there are no traces of semen.’ The little pathologist looked up and across at Skinner. ‘That’s the trouble with the information superhighway, I’m afraid, Bob. There’s far too much information about. Even the stupidest criminals know about DNA tracing, and can work out some fairly obvious ways of avoiding it.

  ‘This one probably used a condom.’

  Skinner slapped the wall behind him, in sudden fury, causing both Pam Masters and Sammy Pye to start in surprise. ‘Bastard,’ he shouted, ripping off his mask. ‘The cold-blooded bastard. You sure, Joe? Not a single smear?’

  Hutchison shook his head. ‘Sorry chum. I understand your anger, but there it is. When you catch the guy, you may find that he has sexual injuries. This was a sadistic attack, extremely vicious, and the perpetrator is likely to show the effects upon his, er, person, for some time.

  ‘Even then, of course, it would be virtually impossible to link such injuries to this attack.’

  ‘Sshitt!’ hissed the DCC.

  ‘Is there nothing at all you can do?’ Detective Constable Pye asked the Professor, breaking, if not clearing, the tension in the room.

  It was Skinner who answered him, suddenly and forcefully. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is. And you’re going to do it, Joe, aren’t you?’

  The pathologist sighed. ‘Yes. You know we are. We will search the victim’s body minutely, Constable, looking for just one hair that doesn’t belong to her. We will go though the areas in which it could be lodged with, literally, a fine-tooth comb, and we will examine everything that isn’t actually rooted.

  ‘That will be a lot, but there is the real possibility that we will not find a single hair out of place, to be literal about it.’ He paused, to look up at Skinner.

  ‘Mind you, this is knock for knock, Bob. You’ll have to send Dorward’s team back to the murder scene to do exactly the same thing, to collect every loose hair for testing. Then you’ll have to eliminate her son, her housekeeper, her late husband, of whom traces will undoubtedly remain in the room, and any casual callers Mrs McGrath may have had . . . sorry to be so blunt . . . before and after her widowhood.’

  The big detective nodded. ‘We’ll do all that, Joe, and any more that’s necessary, don’t you worry. Just you go and get out your fine-tooth comb.’

  10

  ‘Can I ask you something, Bob?’

  Skinner turned to Pamela and smiled. ‘When couldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh come on! When I went to work for you at first; I couldn’t then. And now, when I see shadows cross your face when you don’t know I’m looking at you.’

  ‘That happens a lot, does it?’

  ‘Yes it does. For example, every time I find you looking at your son’s photograph, your eyes are thousands of miles away.’

  He grimaced. ‘Allow me that, Pammy, please. I miss wee Jazz every moment of every day. Missing him’s become a part of me, but it doesn’t affect our relationship. Come on, what did you want to ask me?’

  She looked around the kitchen of Skinner’s bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue, not far from the police headquarters building. ‘Why have you never brought me here before?’

  He looked her straight in the eye as he replied: ‘Because this is the home I made with Sarah. The furniture in it we bought together. The swing on the tree outside I made for our son.

  ‘Gullane’s different. That’s the home I made with Myra, years ago. You know about her, all about her life and death. It seems natural for you and I to be together there, or for that matter at your place. But I haven’t felt right about bringing you here, not until now. That’s the truth of it.’

  She looked at him, solemnly, and nodded. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. And I understand it. So why have you brought me here this afternoon?’

  He smiled back at her. ‘Because this evening I’m going to begin to do what I promised you. I’m going to have dinner with Alex and Andy, and I’m going to tell them that you and I are seeing each other.

  ‘Then tomorrow, I’m going to have lunch with the Chief in the New Club, and tell him the same thing.

  ‘Finally, tomorrow night, I’m going to phone Sarah and talk things though with her. I’m going to ask her if she wants a divorce.’

  ‘What if she says no?’

  ‘At that point, I’ll tell her about us. I’m sorry if that seems devious or even cowardly, but I’d sooner that Sarah and I divorce because she’s thought it through and wants to than because I’m putting a gun to her head.’

  He saw her eyes narrow. ‘You’re guilty about me, aren’t you?’

  He shook his head at once. ‘I have a clear conscience. My mother might not have seen it that way, but I do. Sarah and I had parted before you came on the scene. But I do care for her, and I want to be as gentle on her as I can.’

  ‘What if she tells you she has another man?’

  ‘I’ll say, fair enough.’

  ‘But you’ll hurt inside.’

  ‘If I do, love, that’s where it’ll stay. Now, let’s talk about something else.’

  To his surprise, she frowned, and a different shadow crossed her face. ‘Remember when I dropped my car off at my place, I went up to check the flat?’

  Bob nodded.

  ‘There was a message on the answering machine. From Alan Royston.’

  He snorted. ‘Royston? Your ex? Did he want you to ask me to let him off the hook?’

  She shook her head, vigorously. ‘Don’t be daft. He doesn’t know about us, any more than anyone else does. No, he didn’t leave any message, other than for me to call him as soon as possible. He sounded funny, though - anxious, I mean. What should I do?’

  ‘Nothing!’ said Skinner, vehemently. ‘Don’t call him back under any circumstances. I’m interviewing him on Monday morning, to give him a chance to explain himself. I’m still undecided what to do about him. If you speak to him at all there’s a danger that you could compromise both of us.

  ‘In fact, till I have dealt with him, don’t even mention the bugger’s name to me. For now, Royston’s another subject that’s off limits!’

  11

  The Saturday evening traffic in Leith was unusually heavy, a result in part at least, Skinner guessed, of the police flagging down and questioning the driver of every grey car in sight.

  Having dropped Pamela at her home, after promising to return to tell her of his confession to his daughter and her fiancé, he was fifteen minutes behind schedule when he arrived at the flat near Haymarket which Andy Martin and Alexis Skinner now shared.

  As he reached for the bell, the heavy front door swung open, and Alex appeared. She was wearing light cotton jeans, a yellow teeshirt, and a very serious expression.

  ‘Hello darlin’,’ said Bob, holding out a bottle of red wine, wrapped in green tissue. ‘Sorry I’m late. The traffic was murder. Did you see me arrive, then, from your perch over the street?’

  She nodded, kissed him on the cheek as he entered the hall, then put a hand on his chest, to stop him. ‘Pops,’ she said. ‘There’s someone here to see you. He wouldn’t say what it’s about, till you got here, but I think it’s a problem.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Come on through. You’ll see.’ She led her father into the living room of the second-floor flat, with its bay window overlooking the st
reet. Andy Martin was standing at the fireplace, looking down in silence at a man seated on the couch, his back to the door. Even from that angle, hunched nervously in his seat, Skinner recognised Alan Royston.

  He glared across the room. ‘What is this, Andy?’ he asked, with an edge of menace.

  ‘Search me, Bob,’ said Martin, as Royston rose to his feet. ‘Alan phoned about three-quarters of an hour ago, to ask if I knew where you were. He said that it was very important that he saw you at once. So I told him that if he was prepared to risk being chucked out of the window, he’d better come here.’

  The media relations manager turned, nervously, to face Skinner. He was clutching a document case, fashioned of supple, black leather. ‘I’m sorry about this, sir. I had no choice, even allowing for my situation. There’s no way I could have referred this to Bill Dowling, or anyone other than you.’ He paused. ‘Look, could we speak in private?’

  The DCC shook his head. He had no idea what the man wanted, but all of a sudden he felt as if a black cloud was gathering above him, and preparing itself to rain, very hard. ‘No way, Alan. If you’ve got bad news for me, it won’t be anything my family can’t hear. But if it is about your situation, as you call it, my daughter will show you the door.’

  Royston shook his head, and began to unzip the document case. Instinct, as much as anything else, made Skinner hold up a hand.

  ‘Wait just a minute, please.’ He looked across at Alex, standing now, by Andy’s side. ‘Before we hear anything, there’s something that I have to say. I came here this evening to tell you something that I should have told you both before. For the last couple of months, since just after Sarah and I separated formally, I’ve been having a relationship with Pam Masters.’

  As he looked at his daughter, she gazed at the floor and nodded. ‘I know, Pops,’ she said, as though they were the only people in the room. ‘I drove out to Gullane one Friday night, about three weeks ago, to surprise you; to cheer you up. I was just turning into the Green when I saw Pamela jump out of her car and run into the cottage, carrying what looked like an overnight bag.’