07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘No, but that’s not a give-away any more. They did away with “Press button A” years ago, on most of them.’

  The younger man raised an eyebrow. ‘Hey, maybe he used a credit card.’

  Skinner glowered across the table. ‘Andy, son, I know it’s past midnight, and that we’re clutching at some very short straws, but really . . .’

  Martin sipped his coffee. ‘Miracles happen.’

  ‘No they bloody don’t!’ Skinner slapped the table, gently. ‘Look, it’s been a mind-fucker of a night, but let’s get a grip of ourselves and start thinking and acting like the serious coppers we are.

  ‘I asked you out here so that the two of us could have a brainstorm, before we call in the Cavalry, so let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Can I join in too?’ asked Pamela from the doorway. ‘Or is this for General Staff only.’

  Bob grinned at her, as she leaned against the jamb wearing a teeshirt and his long towelling bathrobe. ‘Aye, come on in, Sergeant, even though you’re out of uniform.’

  She looked at him in football top and shorts, then at Martin, in denims, raised her eyebrows in a gesture which said ‘Oh yes?’, then joined them at the table.

  ‘Right,’ said Skinner. ‘There are all sorts of potential implications which we can draw from this call. Let’s see if we can nail them all down.’

  ‘A question first, surely,’ Pamela interrupted. ‘Was the call genuine? Could it have been a crank?’

  ‘That’s possible. But if it was a crank, bear in mind that the call was made to an ex-directory number. That means that the perpetrator is either one of my inner circle, with access to that number, or he’s gone to some trouble, and possibly some risk, to get it.

  ‘No,’ he said, emphatically, ‘I’ve no doubt that the call was genuine. Anyway we have to assume that it was, until we know otherwise. So okay, not a hoax. Next?’

  ‘Why to you?’ asked Martin. ‘Why did the guy give a personal message to you? I’ve been the front man in this investigation all along? You’ve never been involved publicly.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Good one. Ideas? Pam?’

  She hesitated. ‘Well, you are pretty well known. Think police, think Edinburgh, think Bob Skinner. It could be no more than that, except . . .’

  ‘. . . except,’ said Martin, ‘that it’s public knowledge that you have a special connection with this child. After the Lammermuirs air disaster, when wee Mark was the only survivor - which proves incidentally,’ he interjected, triumphantly, ‘that miracles do happen - it was you who rescued him from the sinking cockpit of the plane, in the middle of a reservoir.

  ‘That was all over the papers at the time. Everybody knows about you saving that wee boy’s life.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So . . . It could explain why the kidnapper would choose to make contact with you.’

  Skinner smiled, and his eyes narrowed. ‘And could it explain why he took the child?’

  Martin stared at him. ‘You mean, could he have taken the child as an act of revenge against you?’

  ‘Well? Could he? You’ll concede I’ve made a few potential enemies over the years.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Even leaving out the ghosts of the dead ones.’

  ‘Okay, suppose someone wants to hurt me,’ the DCC went on. ‘What are his choices?

  ‘He could come at me in person. But maybe he lacks the physical capability, the resources, or just the bottle for that. He could target my daughter. But she lives with you, and you’re as dangerous a customer as I am. He could target my wife and son. But they’re a long way off, in the States.

  ‘So, how does he do something that’s going to hurt me to the heart?’ Skinner paused. ‘Maybe, just maybe, he remembers last year’s publicity; he remembers the bond between me and wee Mark, and he says, “That’s the way.” So he keeps Leona’s house under observation; he traces her movements; he waits, and he waits; he picks his time, and he kidnaps Mark. Not Skinner’s son, but a surrogate.’

  Pamela touched his arm. ‘But why kill the mother?’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘Not Sarah, but a surrogate,’ he said, quietly, then paused. ‘What do you think of the proposition, Chief Superintendent? Sergeant?’

  Martin frowned, then rose from the table. ‘Let me think about it for a minute,’ he said, moving towards the living room. ‘Pam,’ he smiled over his shoulder. ‘How about some more coffee? You are on my staff, after all.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ she said smartly, as Skinner followed his friend out of the kitchen.

  In the other room, Martin was waiting, his smile gone. ‘Bob, I accept your theory. Not as a main line of investigation, perhaps, but as a credible scenario. However, should you be right, have you thought of another implication which flows from it?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The younger man paused. ‘The proposition that Leona might have been attacked instead of Sarah. After this weekend’s publicity, if that is true, the killer has a new target.’ He jerked a thumb towards the kitchen.

  Skinner’s face darkened. ‘Whistling Christ, Andy, you’re right!’ He nodded, absently, to himself. ‘From now on, she’d better not leave my side.’ And then, like sunlight over a field as a cloud blows away, his expression changed as a new thought came to him.

  ‘Unless,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘He’s already using Pam to hurt me. Think of it. For the past few months she’s hardly been out of my sight while we’ve been off duty, or out of yours while she’s been at work. In reality, that would make her an even tougher target than Sarah or Alex. But suppose, my enemy’s been watching me, he’s seen the two of us together, and made the connection.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin, comprehending, racing alongside Skinner’s thinking. ‘We know all about Salmon and his story, but we don’t know his source. Suppose the kidnapper tipped off Salmon, put him on your trail.’

  ‘That figures, Andy. The wee bastard’s never had a decent exclusive of his own before. He could even have used it to land his job on the Spotlight.’

  ‘And something else,’ added the Chief Superintendent. ‘Salmon called you tonight, and so did the kidnapper; both on your ex-directory number. Is it possible that the kidnapper gave Salmon the number?’

  It had become a game now, one they had often played before, chasing an idea, worrying at it, throwing in possibilities, adding tints and colours until a picture emerged. Skinner beamed. ‘Or did Salmon give it to him,’ he asked, ‘even without knowing why he would use it?’

  His friend shook his head. ‘Don’t let’s stop there, Bob? Let’s give that slimeball the benefit of no doubt at all. Or did Salmon know why he would use it?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe that,’ said Skinner, doubtfully, ‘not even of him.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Martin, as Pamela came into the room carrying a cafetière, ‘but it gives us all the reason we need, and more, to arrest the wee bastard. And in the process to leak - accidentally of course - the name of the man who’s assisting us with our investigation of a murder and kidnap.’

  Bob threw back his big grey-mopped head and laughed, heartily, for what seemed to each of the others to be the first time in an age. ‘Oh yes,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m going to love that. Especially when I play my tape back to him.’

  Andy and Pamela stared at him. ‘What tape?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Something even you didn’t know, mate . . . and, incidentally, which the pair of you still don’t know, even after tonight.

  ‘It’s an open secret now that, as the Secretary of State’s security adviser, I’m part of MI5. But the fact that all MI5 off icers’ home phones are tapped: that’s a very closed secret indeed!’

  He punched Martin gently on the shoulder. ‘Let’s nick him, pal. I suggest that you have McGuire do it: he’s hard enough to frighten stone, and besides, being lifted by Special Branch always concentrates the mind.’ He smiled, as an afterthought came to him. ‘Tell Mario to take McIlhenney with him, just for added effect.

>   ‘Have them pick him up, tomorrow morning, over breakfast. Then you and McGuire chew him around good and proper. Lean on him, pressure him for the name of the person who gave him my unlisted number. Let him think we’re after him for bribery; don’t tell him about the kidnapper’s call.

  ‘I want to spring that on him myself. After an hour or two, I’ll come in and play my tape. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I ask him to convince us that he isn’t in cahoots with a killer.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Okay, save for one thing. I don’t think it would be wise - or even proper - for you to take part in any interview with Salmon. You’ve got a personal involvement with him and a very public grudge against him. I’ll play your tape to him, don’t worry about that.’

  The big DCC grunted. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s a pity though. I really want to see that wee sod piss his pants.’

  16

  The building in which Salmon’s flat was located was a dingy affair, in a part of Leith which seemed to have escaped the process of yuppification by which much of the old port has been transformed. The door to the street was unsecured and the wide, dusty stairway smelled strongly of urine.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mario,’ muttered McIlhenney. ‘Places like this make a case for more public lavvies.’

  Mario McGuire shook his dark Latin head. ‘People who pish up closes will always pish up closes, you know that.’ He paused, and grinned. ‘What happened to the “sir” by the way?’

  ‘Fuck off, Inspector. That’s for when there are people around. Don’t let this SB stuff go to your head. I suppose you call your wife “ma’am” all the time, eh?’

  ‘What else would I call a senior officer? You know DCI Rose: she’s a stickler for formality. “Excuse me, ma’am, would you please pass the marmalade.” That’s normal across our breakfast table. Or “Excuse me, ma’am, is there any chance of a shag?” That’s for after dinner.’

  The big sergeant chuckled. ‘It’s lucky you’re not in Admin, then, or you’d have to fill out a requisition.’

  ‘Aye,’ said McGuire, laughing himself. ‘Another fuckin’ chitty!’

  ‘Married life’s agreeing with you, then?’ said McIlhenney, as they climbed the dirty stairs, away from the rankness of the street level.

  ‘To my slight surprise, it is. I’ll tell you, as an old pal, I was a wee bit scared when we tied the knot. The Italian side of my lineage isn’t big on divorce. I needn’t have worried though. Mags is one in a million.

  ‘We’re a couple of lucky bastards, you and I, Neil. All those fish in the sea yet I land her, and you land Olive; exceptional women both of them.’

  The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s true what you say; about my Olive too,’ he said at last. ‘Exceptional. Out of every million fish or so, you can expect to find a Great White Shark.’

  ‘Aw come on, Neil,’ McGuire protested. ‘You can kid the rest of them, but not me. I remember those Sunday lunches Olive used to cook for me when I was young, free and single. And I remember she had you eating them out of her hand.’

  McIlhenney shrugged his shoulders and smiled, sheepishly. ‘Fair enough,’ he chuckled, ‘but don’t tell anyone else, okay. I’ve got her image to protect, ken.’

  In the seconds of silence which followed, as they climbed past the second floor, scanning the nameplate on each door, his smile faded. ‘It’s a shame about the Big Man though, Mario, isn’t it?’ he said at last.

  ‘Depends what you mean,’ replied McGuire. ‘I know a few guys would give their back teeth to be banging Pam Masters. It’s a shame about them being all over the papers though . . .

  ‘As this guy Salmon’s going to find out,’ he added, grimly.

  ‘No,’ countered the Sergeant. ‘I mean it’s a shame about him and Sarah. I thought that pair were set for life. I just can’t imagine what happened to split them up.’

  ‘Him bangin’ Pam Masters could have had just a wee bit to do with it!’

  ‘Maybe now it could, but I’m pretty certain that didn’t start till after they separated. There was some other reason for him moving out when he did. Don’t know what it was, though.’

  McGuire drew a deep breath as they reached the fourth, and top, floor of the tenement building. ‘Did you know about him and Masters?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I suspected. Being his PA and all, I picked up the odd hint.’

  ‘What’s she like? I don’t really know her.’

  McIlheney shrugged again. ‘Pam? She’s okay. She’s bright, although I wouldn’t put her in Maggie’s league. She’s efficient too. I know that, having taken over from her. It’s just . . . Och, she’s no Sarah, that’s all.’ He glanced at his colleague. ‘What does Maggie think of her? She worked for her for a while, didn’t she?’

  McGuire nodded. ‘She hasn’t said much. I just get the impression that she doesn’t think she’s a real copper - know what I mean? Mags isn’t too struck on late entrants to the force. She definitely doesn’t approve of her and the boss, though. I can tell you that. When she saw the paper this morning, she’d a face like thunder.’

  The Sergeant winced. ‘A few folk’ll think that way, I fear. Tell you what I think, Mario. It’s the first wrong move I’ve ever known Big Bob make.’

  He glanced across the landing, lit by a glass cupola above, to a mauve-painted door. ‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘Salmon. That’s the boy’s flat.’ He looked at McGuire once again. ‘Quiet or noisy?’ he asked.

  The black-haired policeman grinned, wickedly. ‘What do you think? Let’s give the neighbours something to talk about!’

  He stepped up to the door and pounded on its wooden panel with the side of his heavy fist. ‘Police,’ he roared. ‘Open up!’

  McIlhenney leaned against the door, listening. ‘He’s switched the tranny off.’ The two policemen stood, waiting.

  After almost a minute, the Inspector thumped the door again. ‘Come on! Open up or we’ll kick it in.’

  The Sergeant pressed his ear to the panel once more. ‘He’s coming,’ he said, suddenly leaning back.

  They heard the rattle of a security chain being slipped, then a key turned in the lock, and the mauve door swung open.

  ‘What d’youse . . .’ The words died in the woman’s throat as she stared at McIlhenney, in recognition. She was tall and blonde, in her mid-thirties. Her face was not unattractive, but bony, and the lines around the eyes had been carved not by laughter but by life. Her hair was dishevelled, and her make-up only a memory of the night before. As she looked at McIlhenney, her right hand rose involuntarily, clutching the long teeshirt which she wore and pulling it up, in the process, to the edge of immodesty.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, in a resigned tone. ‘No’ you again.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the Sergeant. ‘If it isn’t Joanne Virtue, lady of the night. The Big Easy herself. And what, my good woman, would you be doing here?’

  The blonde struggled to recover her composure. Belligerence flickered in her eyes. ‘Ah live here,’ she said, with an attempt at boldness.

  ‘Like fuck you do, Joanne,’ said McIlhenney, patiently. ‘You live down by the waterfront, as you and I both know. Now go and tell Mr Salmon that - like you - the polis await his pleasure.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Salmon?’

  ‘Your punter,’ said McGuire.

  ‘Aw. Is that his name? He just telt me it was Noel.’

  McIlhenney’s patience, a scarce and fragile commodity at the best of times, ran out. ‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers,’ he said, marching past the prostitute and into the flat.

  ‘Salmon! Where are you?’ he bellowed, throwing open the nearest door, to the right off the hallway. He looked quickly into an untidy, stale-smelling bedroom. A black dress, bra and tights were thrown over a chair and men’s clothing lay strewn across the floor, but the room was empty.

  The big detective looked over his shoulder at Joanne Virtue. She shrugged her shoulders and pointed, briefly, at a door on the other si
de of the hall. McIlhenney nodded, and with a grim smile, stepped across and threw it open.

  A naked man stood, with his back to him, bent over the toilet bowl, pumping at the handle as if that would make the cistern refill faster. ‘Whatever you’re doing, Salmon,’ said Mario McGuire from the doorway, ‘stop it right now!’

  The man turned and looked at the two policemen, then grabbed a towel and fastened it round his middle. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted, his face contorted with a mixture of fear and frustration. ‘What do you think you’re doing? You’ve no right!’

  McGuire smiled. ‘We’re here to see you, Mr Salmon, in connection with a potential security leak, which we have reason to believe may involve the corrupt obtaining of an unlisted telephone number. As for our entering your premises, Miss Virtue invited us.’ He looked over his shoulder at the woman. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Joanne Virtue nodded, avoiding Salmon’s glare.

  ‘You having trouble wi’ your bog, Noel?’ asked McIlhenney. ‘Isn’t it flushing properly?’

  He stepped across the small bathroom and peered into the toilet bowl, with an expression of distaste. ‘There’s nothing I dislike more than skidmarks in the lavvie,’ he said. ‘You’re a dirty wee bastard, aren’t you . . . in every respect.’

  His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. ‘That’s pretty pathetic, chuckin’ talcum powder down it to freshen it up.

  ‘It is talcum powder, isn’t it?’

  Oblivious of his covering towel, as it unfastened and fell to the floor, Salmon spun round and grabbed the handle of the cistern. But before he could twist it to flush, McIlhenney seized his wrist in a grip like a vice. ‘Let go,’ he said, in an even tone, ‘or I’ll break your fucking hand off.’

  The man, white-faced, released the handle. The sergeant spun him around and propelled him out of the bathroom and through to the bedroom. ‘Get dressed, friend; we can hardly take you out like that.’

  ‘Noel Salmon,’ said McGuire, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything . . .’ He administered the rest of the formal caution in a stiff, formal tone, speaking clearly and ensuring that he was word perfect, in the form the law required.