07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  Reaching for his underwear, the journalist looked up at him. ‘This is a fucking fit-up,’ he shouted, almost in tears.

  ‘No, mate,’ the Inspector replied. ‘It’s just your unlucky day, that’s all.’ He turned to McIlhenney, who was holding Joanne Virtue by the left arm, gently but securely. ‘Neil, call Fettes for a team of technicians. We’ll need to find out what that talc really is. Tell them to get a formal search warrant too: we’d better take the place apart just in case Mr Salmon has any other goodies hidden away.’

  The Sergeant nodded. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll ask for some uniforms to stand guard at the door till they get here. That way we can take these two back to the shop quicker. Wouldn’t do to keep Mr Martin waiting.’

  ‘Martin?’ Salmon bleated. ‘He’s behind this?’

  ‘What dae youse mean, take us both back?’ Joanne Virtue protested. ‘Ah’m an innocent bystander.’

  McIlhenney laughed out loud. ‘Joanne,’ he boomed, ‘you haven’t been fuckin’ innocent for about twenty-five years!’

  17

  Even before his appointment as Head of CID - indeed, from his days as Bob Skinner’s Executive Officer - Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin had come to know the Edinburgh press corps well. He had seen them amused; he had seen them bored; he had seen them at their most cynical, and at their most constructive.

  But in all that time, he could not recall ever having seen them on the edge of their seats. On his instruction, Alan Royston had called a press briefing, to announce ‘an important development in the McGrath case’.

  Sunday or not, 10.30 a.m. or not, the conference room was full. As Martin, impassive, sat down at the blue-covered table, facing the cameras, the room fell silent.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Late yesterday evening, at his home, Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner received a telephone call from a man. The caller did not identify himself. He said simply that he had the child and that he was alive. Then he ended the call.

  ‘Our telecommunications experts have been unable to trace the phone from which the call was made, so we have no way of identifying the caller, or of knowing for sure whether the message was genuine. However, we are proceeding on the basis that the anonymous man was indeed the kidnapper. If we take his statement at face value, then Mark McGrath is alive.’

  As he paused, a forest of hands shot up. As always, he took John Hunter, the senior journalist, first.

  ‘Andy, did he say anything else?’ asked the veteran.

  ‘He said that we would hear from him again, that’s all.’

  ‘He made no ransom demand then?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘None at all. The call lasted seconds, and that’s all there was to it.’

  From the side of the room a woman, brandishing a television microphone, broke in. ‘Did Mr Skinner take the call himself, or was it Ms Masters?’

  The detective frowned at her, but answered. ‘He took it himself. And his recollection is quite clear. A record was made there and then.’

  ‘Do you have any clue at all about where the call came from?’ called a man from the back of the room.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid. We do know it didn’t come from a mobile, and we know that it wasn’t international. But other than that, it could have been made from any telephone in the UK.’

  ‘Are you expecting a ransom demand, eventually?’ asked John Hunter.

  The Head of CID raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a possibility. If the man had a reason other than money for abducting the child, there’s no indication of it.’

  ‘D’you think you’ll find the wee boy alive, Andy?’ Hunter sounded weary, as if he had been at too many briefings such as this.

  ‘We can only hope, John. We can only hope. Meantime, every police force in the country is taking part in the search. There are no available resources unused. If this man has any compassion, or any sense, for that matter, he’ll simply release Mark. If he doesn’t, he’ll be hunted down like a rabid animal.’

  He looked round the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think there’s anything I can add, so if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  The woman with the television mike raised her hand. ‘Mr Martin, can you tell us if there are any developments on Mr Skinner’s situation?’

  The blond detective took a deep breath, and clenched his teeth. ‘As you must know, the Chief Constable issued a statement last night, deprecating the conduct of the Spotlight, and saying that the DCC’s private life was his own business.’

  ‘Well,’ she persisted, ‘do you or he have any response to the statement issued subsequently by several members of the Police Board saying that they intend to bring the matter up at the next meeting, and to move that Mr Skinner be disciplined?’

  ‘Sorry, lady,’ said Martin, evenly and emphatically. ‘Mr Royston will deal with your questions from now on. I have to be off. I have business in another part of the building.’

  As he strode towards the door, he caught the eye of John Hunter, and nodded, so quickly and unobtrusively that no-one else saw. The old man rose and followed him from the room. Quickly, before any other reporters emerged, Martin ushered him up the short flight of stairs which led to the command corridor.

  ‘I thought you might like to know, old pal,’ the detective said, as the door clicked shut behind them. ‘We’ve got Noel Salmon in custody, under investigation for corruption. Also, when we lifted him, the silly wee bugger had in his possession something which I’m sure that tests will prove to be cocaine.’

  Hunter whistled. ‘What a shame, eh? What’s the corruption about?’

  ‘Bob had another call last night on his unlisted phone number, as well as the one from the kidnapper. It was from Noel Salmon. We want to know how he got the number. Specifically, whether he bunged anyone to give it to him. And we want to know whether he gave it to anyone else.’

  The old reporter was quick on the uptake. ‘Jesus wept!’ he whispered. ‘You don’t think . . .’

  18

  Joanne Virtue looked up as the door of the interview room opened. In a corner stood a female officer in uniform, staring fixedly at the wall opposite. As Detective Chief Superintendent Martin entered, with Inspector McGuire following behind, she stiffened and came to attention.

  ‘You can leave us, Constable,’ said the Head of CID, quietly. The woman nodded and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Hello, Jo,’ the blond detective began, with a smile. ‘Don’t take this personally, but I’d hoped I wouldn’t see you again.’

  The prostitute snorted as he sat down. ‘Nobody’s forcin’ yis tae see me, Mr Martin,’ she said, in a heavy Glasgow accent, still hard at the edges despite her years in Edinburgh. ‘There’s nothin’ ah can tell yis about that fella.’

  ‘Let’s just see about that. When did you meet him?’

  ‘Last night, in a boozer off Constitution Street.’

  ‘You’d never met him before?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘Okay,’ said Martin, believing her. He had known the big blonde whore since he was a beat constable, and had a policeman’s grudging respect for her as a basically honest working woman.

  ‘What was he doing when you bumped into him?’ he asked.

  ‘Waving his wad around. Ah got talkin’ tae him and he waved some of it in ma direction.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it was a bit risky, going to his place?’ asked McGuire.

  ‘Naw. Nae danger. Ah’ve been on the game long enough tae ken the dodgy ones. Wee whit’s his name’s hermless.’

  The Inspector looked her in the eye. ‘Did you do any coke?’

  She glanced from McGuire to Martin. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Ah’m a tart, no’ a dope fiend.’

  ‘Did you see Salmon using?’ asked the chief superintendent.

  Joanne nodded. ‘Aye. We were hardly in the door before he got out his wee poke and cut himself a line.’ She snorted. ‘Just as well ah didnae fancy ony.
The stingy wee bastard never even offered!’

  McGuire leaned across the table. ‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’

  ‘Did he no’ just! He said he wis a reporter, wi’ a big international magazine.’

  ‘Anything else? Anything about his work?’

  She looked at the detectives, a little cautiously. ‘Aye,’ she said at last. ‘He kept goin’ on about this big story he was workin’ on. He said it was about your boss, Mr Skinner, and that once it was all out he’d be out of a job, and more.’

  ‘Give me that exactly, Joanne,’ said Martin. ‘The actual words he used.’

  ‘That’s whit he said, Mr Martin. “He’ll be out of a job, and more.” And he smiled when he said it, real nasty like. Usually ah don’t chat tae the punters, not at all. Ah’m there for copulation, no’ conversation. But even so, ah asked him what he meant. He wouldnae tell me though. “Buy my paper for the next couple of weeks and find out.” That wis all he’d say.’

  ‘Did he let slip anything else?’

  The Big Easy leaned back in her chair, knitting her brows. ‘He did say that once it was all done, his source would be very happy.’

  ‘His source. No name?’

  She shook her head. ‘Naw. And he only said it the once.’

  ‘When did he say all this?’

  ‘Once we got back tae his place.’

  ‘Did he say anything in the pub?’

  ‘No’ much.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  Joanne grinned. ‘He came over tae me and started chattin’ me up. He thinks he’s God’s gift, even though he wis at the end o’ the queue when the looks were handed out. I let him go on for a bit, then Ah told him that Ah took neither Bullshit nor Barclaycard, and spelled things out for him.’

  Martin looked at her. ‘I thought you only worked the saunas, Jo.’

  She laughed, a short, hard laugh. ‘Aye, but Saturday’s ma night off! What d’ye think ah do in ma spare time, orifuckin’-gami? ’

  The Chief Superintendent grunted. ‘Nothing you do would surprise me, Miss Virtue. Did Salmon do or say anything in the pub?’

  ‘Just before we left, he went off tae make a phone call, but that’s all.’

  ‘D’you know how many calls he made?’ asked McGuire.

  ‘Just the one. I could see him from where Ah was standing.’

  Martin nodded and leaned back. ‘Okay, Jo. Nearly finished. There’s just one other thing. When Mario banged the door, what happened?’

  The woman frowned again, ransacking her memory. ‘Well he jumped off me, for a start, and switched off the radio. Then he grabbed his notebook: it’s one of those Filofax things. He took something from it, real quick like. After that he picked up what was left of the coke and dived intae the bog.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Honest.’

  The Chief Superintendent leaned back from the table. ‘Aye, Jo, I know you are. Okay, you can go. We’ll let you know if we want a formal statement.’ He pressed a buzzer on the wall. ‘Meanwhile, the WPC outside will see you out. D’you want a lift back to Leith?’

  She drew him a frosty look. ‘Me! Going hame in a polis car! That’ll be the day.’ She stood up picked up her red plastic handbag, smoothed her dress, and strode from the room.

  ‘Well,’ muttered Martin, as the door closed behind her. ‘That was interesting.’ He looked round at McGuire. ‘You sure there was no scrap of paper floating in the bog when Neil looked at it?’

  ‘Ask him, sir, but you know big McIlhenney. He wouldn’t have missed it if there had been.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s what I thought. So Mr Salmon was even more interested in flushing that page from his notebook down the toilet than he was in disposing of his cocaine. Why d’you think it was so important, Mario, eh?’

  ‘Maybe it was the name of his source, sir.’

  ‘That, or a phone number. It’s too damn bad. That piece of evidence will be out at sea by now! We’ll just have to see if we can frighten it out of him.’

  19

  ‘No! I won’t tell you who my source is. The first rule of reputable journalism is to protect the integrity of your informants.’

  ‘Salmon,’ said Andy Martin, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You could barely spell “reputable”.

  ‘Okay,’ he went on, ‘let’s try another tack. Last night you called Mr Skinner. Agreed?’

  The man shook his head, dark stubble showing on his chin. ‘No. I agree nothing.’

  ‘Have it your way, chum,’ retorted Martin. ‘We know you did.’

  Noel Salmon scowled. ‘What’s the point of all this anyway? I’ve been here for nearly four hours already, waiting for you lot. I want to go home.’

  ‘The point . . .’ said the Head of CID, pausing and looking hard across the table, ‘. . . the point is that Mr Skinner’s number, like all his telephone numbers, like mine, like Inspector McGuire’s, is ex-directory. We don’t like the thought of people - especially people like you - having open access to them, and we want to know who gave DCC Skinner’s to you.’

  He glanced at the tape recorder, at the side of the table, its red record light shining in the dim interview room. ‘Now, I ask you, formally. How did you come by Mr Skinner’s unlisted number, at his Gullane address?’

  Salmon looked up at him from behind furrowed brows. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You have the Deputy Chief Constable’s ex-directory number in your possession and you can’t remember how you got it! Who gave it to you!’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘We don’t believe you, Mr Salmon.’

  ‘Tough!’

  ‘That could be,’ said Martin, quietly. ‘Let’s get this straight. You recall very clearly who gave you that number, but you don’t intend to tell us. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have it your way.’

  ‘We will. Did you pay someone to give it to you?’

  ‘No.’>

  The DCS paused. ‘Think carefully about that answer. If we find out later that you did, it’ll go hard for you.’

  Salmon paled slightly, wringing his hands together. ‘Look, I didn’t pay anyone for the number, okay. It was given to me.’

  ‘By the same person who gave you the information on Mr Skinner on which your story in the Spotlight is based?’

  The little reporter opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.

  ‘Mr Salmon refuses to answer,’ said Martin in an aside to the tape. He glanced at McGuire. ‘But let’s make the assumption that the sources are one and the same. I ask you again, who was your informant?’

  Salmon stared down at the table. ‘Nothing to say. Can I go now?’

  ‘No, sir, you may not. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re being held on suspicion of being in possession of a Class A drug.’

  ‘Aw come on,’ the man whined, ‘a wee bit of coke!’ Almost as soon as the words left his mouth he turned and stared at the tape.

  Martin smiled. ‘That’s right, Noel.’ He nodded. ‘A wee bit of cocaine . . . but enough to land you in front of the Sheriff. How do you think your many friends in the media will handle your court appearance? D’you think they won’t report it because you’re one of their number? I don’t think so.’

  The detective paused for a second. ‘And what about your new employers at the Spotlight?’ he continued. ‘I’ve been reading some back numbers. Know what your magazine’s official policy is? That all drug traffickers should be executed, and that all users should get five years. Do you think you’ll be working for them after you’re convicted for possession? Do you think you’ll be working for anyone?

  ‘All I have to do is file a report to the Fiscal, and professionally you’re a goner.’

  He paused again. ‘Of course, if you were to tell me who gave you Bob Skinner’s ex-directory number, maybe I’d think twice about it.’

  For the first time, a trace of desperation showed in Noel Sal
mon’s expression. He chewed his lip for a second or two, weighing up his options. Finally he sighed. ‘I don’t know who my source is,’ he said. It was almost a moan.

  ‘Sure you don’t,’ said Martin, easily.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ the man protested. ‘I had a letter, a few weeks back. It was anonymous. All it said was that if I kept an eye on Skinner, I’d find that he was straying from the straight and narrow. I thought it was crap at first, but just for fun - and because I hate the big bastard - I followed him. It didn’t take me long to find out about the Masters bird.

  ‘She was staying at his place in Gullane most nights. When they weren’t there, they were at hers. I kept an eye on them, looking for some juicy pictures to back up the story. Eventually I got them. Juicy was hardly the word - him in the buff, and her bent over him like she was sucking his cock.’

  Suddenly Martin was grim-faced. ‘This anonymous tipster. Ever had anything from him before?’

  Salmon shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What did you do with the letter?’

  ‘I binned it, long ago.’

  ‘So what was the piece of paper you were so keen to get rid of when I thumped on your door?’ asked McGuire.

  The man’s eyebrows narrowed for a second. ‘Ah, the tart told you that, did she?’ he said. ‘That had nothing to do with Skinner.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  Salmon shook his head. ‘Nothing to say.’ A gleam came into his eye, developing quickly into a smile. ‘Did the tart tell you it was her coke?’

  Martin laughed; short, sharp and hard. ‘No, she did not. She said it was yours, as we both know it was.’

  The little man spread his palms wide. ‘And I say that it was hers; that she brought it into my flat and offered me some before we had it off. I refused, of course.’

  The Head of CID sighed. ‘And you’ll say that when Mario thumped your door you panicked and flushed it down the bog.’

  Salmon nodded. ‘That’s right. So charge me. I’ll plead not guilty; she’ll tell her story and I’ll tell mine. Is a jury going to convict me on the word of a prostitute?’