‘But look here, you keep in touch with your sources. Anything you can find out would be welcome.’
‘Yes, sir. Equally, if anything does occur to you . . .’
Skinner glowered at him. ‘Alan,’ he said, in a grinding tone. ‘That little bastard of a journalist is not going to make me into a goldfish. There are aspects of my life that are going to stay private, even from you.’
36
Maggie Rose clung to Brian Mackie with her right arm as tightly as she had ever held her husband. The difference was that she was wearing walking clothes and hopping on her left foot.
Together, they crested the rise above the caravan until they were in full sight of anyone who happened to be watching from inside. They were approaching from the opposite direction to the farmhouse, an injured rambler and her escort, in search of help.
The tourer was long and white, with a television aerial on top, and it looked virtually new. Two windows faced them, above the tow-bar and the gas bottle which sat upon it, and on what would have been the off-side on the road. Behind both, curtains were partly drawn.
They looked at the van only occasionally as they approached, but neither could see any signs of occupancy. As they approached, Mackie called out. ‘Hello. Anyone there?’ He and Rose watched carefully for signs of anyone moving inside, but saw not as much as a tremor.
Soon they reached the door, which was accessed by three portable steps. ‘Lean against the van, love,’ said the Superintendent, loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be inside. ‘I’ll knock.’
He stood on the middle step and rapped the door firmly with the knuckles of his left hand. His jacket was open, giving him instant access to his pistol in its holster, beneath his left armpit.
The silence from within the caravan was unbroken. He knocked again. Finally, he waved a hand in the air, as a sign to the hidden watchers, reached up and tried the handle of the door. To his surprise and that of Rose, it swung open, outwards, at his touch.
Instinctively, both officers drew their guns. ‘I’m going in, Maggie,’ said Mackie, and a moment later launched himself through the doorway, into the living area inside.
The caravan was empty, or so it seemed. There was a toilet cubicle in one corner, and a tall cupboard beside the door. Mackie opened both and looked inside, then checked the sliding doors of the storage areas under the window seats.
‘Okay, Maggie,’ he called out at last. ‘It’s empty. Signal Andy, would you please.’
Outside, Rose waved both arms above her head in an all-clear gesture. Twenty-one men, all but one in uniform, stood up awkwardly from their concealment in the heather. Handing his carbine to the man closest to him, Martin bounded down the slope towards her, and together they joined Mackie in the suspect van.
Martin looked round, carefully. ‘It’s as clean as a whistle, isn’t it? There’s not a sign of occupancy.’
Mackie lifted the metal lid which covered the burners of the gas hob. ‘This has been cleaned,’ he said. ‘You can still smell the Flash.’
‘So have all the other work-surfaces,’ said Rose. ‘Within the last couple of days, probably. There’s barely a sign of dust.’ She opened the cubicle door once more and checked inside. ‘The chemical toilet’s been emptied too, but there’s bleach in the pan, so it has been used.’
‘Radio communications are hopeless up here,’ said Martin, stepping back to the door. ‘Inspector,’ he called outside. ‘Send someone back to the farmhouse. Use Mr Carr’s phone to order a team of technicians up here.’ He turned back to Mackie and Rose. ‘This guy’s been very efficient, but let’s turn the place over quickly ourselves, just in case he’s missed something.’
Each taking one third of the caravan, the three detectives began to search quickly and efficiently, looking inside empty drawers, behind curtains, inside the oven, under the movable squabs of the window seats for any scrap which might lead them eventually to the identity of the man who had brought the vehicle to its isolated parking place.
‘Nothing this end,’ called Maggie Rose from near the door, after ten minutes.
‘Me neither,’ said Mackie, from the kitchen area.
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘Nowt here either that I can see.’ As he spoke he made to pick up the squab of the seat beneath the end window, but it was secure. He tugged either end to make sure that it was indeed immovable, and was about to turn away when his eye was caught by a glint, just where the upholstery nestled against the wall. He leaned forward and forced a gap with his right index finger, working away until he freed an object.
‘What’s this, then?’ he muttered to himself. It was in fact a piece of foil, folded over double. As he straightened it a slip of brown waxy paper fell out.
He picked it up and spread out the foil. ‘Look at this,’ he said to his colleagues. ‘Transway. It’s the cover off a “rich and creamy” yoghurt, complete with best-before date, five days hence.’ He looked at the paper. ‘Half a Mars bar label. And,’ he said, almost triumphantly, ‘there’s a bar code on it.’
‘Where’s the nearest Transway supermarket?’ asked Mackie.
‘Haddington,’ said Martin and Rose in unison. The DCS handed over both items to the Superintendent, holding each carefully by the corner. ‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘that you take the wrapper down there, and find out what they can tell you from that bar code.
‘I don’t imagine it’ll identify the transaction, but it should tell you whether they sold it and when. The technicians can have a look at the yoghurt top. If they can get a print off it, I’ll bet you it was left by Mark McGrath.’
Maggie Rose looked at him, astutely. ‘D’you think Mark planted those deliberately, hoping that we’d find them eventually?’
‘God knows,’ said Martin. ‘He’s a clever and resourceful wee boy, no doubt, but that might be expecting too much of him.’
Rose smiled as she remembered her first encounter with the missing child. ‘I only hope,’ she said earnestly, ‘that we have a chance to ask him.’
37
‘What’s wrong?’ Pamela asked from the kitchen doorway. She was leaning against the jamb, wrapped in her short dressing-gown, looking anxiously at Skinner.
He was reading the Scotsman, which he had picked up from the corner newsagent’s towards the end of his early-morning run. His teeshirt and shorts were plastered to him, soaked with sweat.
‘Hey, Bob,’ she called, as he failed to answer her. ‘Remember me, the woman you sleep with? I live here. Now, what’s wrong?’
He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled apologetically. ‘Ach, it’s the bloody press again, love. They didn’t like being kicked out of the Police Board meeting yesterday, so they’re having another indirect pop at me.’
‘What are they saying?’
He folded the paper, and threw it down on to the work-surface. ‘They’ve given some space to Aggie Maley’s beef about the way the meeting was run, and her criticism of the Topham woman. In the process they’ve rehashed all that shite from the weekend, and said that my position remains “difficult”, as they put it.’
She crossed the kitchen and took his arm, squeezing it. ‘Don’t let it get to you. It was predictable that they’d carry something. What page was it on?’
‘Five.’
‘There you are then,’ she said, in an encouraging tone. ‘Alan was right. The story’s running out of steam. We’re not Page One news any more.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t care to be Page Anything news, thanks. Not in this way, at least.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look Bob,’ she ventured, hesitantly. ‘Would it be better for you if we were to call it a day?’
‘No it would not,’ he retorted sharply. The frown turned into a scowl. ‘That would make me look like an even bigger shit. I run into some embarrassing personal publicity, and I react by giving you the elbow. Even I’d hate me if I did that.’
‘We wouldn’t need to make a public announcement about it,�
�� Pam argued. ‘I could get a transfer to another force, and be gone from out of your hair.’
Skinner looked down at her. ‘I agree with you about a transfer. To tell you the truth,’ he said apologetically, ‘I’ve already put out feelers in Fife and Central. I was choosing my moment to talk to you about it. It would be much more . . . How do I put it? . . . Much more, comfortable, if we were with different forces, and, frankly, it’s easier to transfer a sergeant than a Deputy Chief.’
‘I understand that, and I don’t mind, really. Make it Central if you can, though. I’d prefer a more urban force than Fife.’ She paused. ‘But don’t duck the main issue. It isn’t about how you’d look, it’s about what’s best. We always said that this arrangement had no strings, and that it was based on mutual physical attraction rather than anything deeper.’ She turned him round to face her. ‘Would it be better for you then, if I called it a day?’
He smiled at her, lightly, for the first time that morning. ‘That’s what you want, is it?’
A silence hung between them, as Pam gazed at him, solemnly. At last her eyes dropped to his chest. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No it’s not. I want you; and I don’t feel any guilt about it, either.’
‘Then enough of such talk. As for me, I’m not going to do anything to satisfy the likes of Aggie Maley or Noel Salmon.’
She frowned. ‘That’s your main reason for staying with me? Not giving them satisfaction?’
He growled at her, playfully. ‘Don’t cross-examine me, lady,’ he said. ‘More skilled counsel than you have tried and failed. I have many reasons for staying with you.’ In a single movement he slid her robe from her shoulders, leaving it lying at her feet. ‘Let me show you a couple.’ He picked her up and headed for the bedroom.
He was looking down at her, lying waiting for him, and peeling off his shorts when the phone rang. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he shouted, ‘why does this always happen when I’ve got a hard-on?’ He sat, naked, on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes!’
‘Mr Skinner? David Hewlett, here, in Private Office.’
The policeman recognised the smooth tones of the Secretary of State for Scotland’s private secretary. ‘You’re early, David,’ he said. ‘It’s barely gone seven o’clock. Which office are you at?’
‘Edinburgh. We took the sleeper up from London,’ the civil servant replied. ‘Mr Skinner, the boss was wondering it you could come in to see him this morning, to give him a progress report on the McGrath murder investigation. He has a special interest, with Mrs McGrath being a fellow Member of Parliament.’
‘Of course,’ said Skinner. ‘I’ll look in before I go to Fettes?’
‘That’s good. When can we expect you?’
He looked round at Pam. ‘Better give me a couple of hours.’
38
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t available yesterday,’ said Graham Ross, the manager of the Haddington Transway supermarket. ‘These quality training days are mandatory for all staff. We really are in the most competitive retail environment these days.
‘Anyway, I’m here now. What can I do for you?’
‘I need any information that you can give me on a couple of items that I hope were bought from your store,’ said Maggie Rose. From her pocket, she removed the foil yoghurt top and the portion of Mars bar wrapper which they had found in the caravan, each now encased in a clear plastic folder. She passed them across Mr Ross’ small desk.
The balding manager peered at each through his spectacles. He held up the yoghurt foil. ‘This is from a multi-pack, rather than an individual item sale. The only thing I can tell you is that from the “use by” date, wherever it was sold, it wasn’t any earlier than Tuesday of last week.’
‘That’s a start,’ said DCI Rose. ‘How about the wrapper? It has a bar code.’
Ross nodded. ‘That’s more hopeful. Gimme a minute.’ He stood up and strode from the office.
In fact, he was gone for almost ten minutes. By the time he returned, DCI Rose was fidgeting impatiently in her chair, but his smile soothed her annoyance at once.
‘Yes,’ he said, even before sitting down. ‘It is one of ours. It was sold at nine forty-three last Wednesday morning, eight days ago.’ He handed over a long slip of paper. ‘This is a record of the transaction.’
The policewoman looked at him. ‘How did the buyer pay?’ she asked eagerly.
‘By cash. I take it you were hoping it was by Switch or credit card.’
‘Can’t have everything, I suppose.’ She ran her eye down the slip. ‘Tinned soup, corned beef, bread, Flora, tinned meatballs, tinned sweetcorn, four-pack of yoghurt, another tin of soup, milk, eggs, bacon, coffee, six-pack of Coke.’
‘It’s as if the buyer was going camping, isn’t it?’ the manager suggested.
‘Oh, he was,’ said Maggie Rose, forcefully. ‘He was.’
39
The zeal that comes from newly acquired but long-anticipated power still shone in the eyes of Dr Bruce Anderson, Secretary of State for Scotland. He stood as Skinner entered his office in St Andrew’s House, Scotland’s seat of national government, and came towards him, hand outstretched.
‘Hello, Bob,’ he welcomed him, with a reassuring smile.
‘Wonder if this was his bedside manner when he was in practice?’ Skinner mused. ‘Good morning, Secretary of State,’ he replied, shaking the proffered hand. He had learned from bitter experience that it was best to keep his relationship with his ministerial boss on a formal footing.
‘Politicians are a bit like rottweilers,’ Proud Jimmy had warned him, when he had accepted his appointment as security adviser to the Scottish Office. ‘Just when you think they’re domesticated, they can turn round and bite your bloody hand off.’
‘Have a seat, have a seat,’ said Anderson, looking fresh despite his night on the sleeper. ‘You’ll take coffee?’
‘No thank you, sir,’ said the policeman, sitting on a low chair facing the Secretary of State’s desk. He glanced round the wood-panelled room, which he had come to know so well. ‘I’ve just had breakfast.’
‘Okay. Then let’s get down to business. I’m really asking you this as Deputy Chief in Edinburgh, not as my adviser. What can you tell me about Leona McGrath’s murder? It’s nearly a week now, and still no arrest. My parliamentary colleagues are badgering me about it incessantly . . . especially the Tories, since she was their last MP in Scotland. So, how are things going?’
Skinner frowned. ‘As well as can be expected, I’d say. The killer didn’t leave us any forensic evidence at the scene . . . none that we’ve been able to find so far, at any rate . . . and he’s been very efficient in covering his tracks.
‘However,’ he went on, ‘we’ve had some excellent technical help from an outside agency, and that led to us tracing a caravan where the man held young Mark after the abduction. There was a serial number on the van. It was stolen last week from a dealership near Penicuik.’
‘Did it have number plates?’ asked Anderson.
‘Phoney,’ Skinner replied. ‘We’ve put out a country-wide alert for any vehicle with that number, but if the killer had one set of fictitious plates, then he’ll have two, and he’ll have swapped over by now.’
‘How do you know that they were there?’
Skinner smiled, grimly. ‘Like the murder scene, the place was wiped clean. However we found two food labels stuffed down the back of a cushion. One of them was foil, and had the boy’s right thumbprint on it, very clearly. We’re checking, even as I speak, with the supermarket where we hope the items were bought, but I’ll tell you now, that it won’t help us identify the killer. If he was there, he’ll have paid cash.’
‘So,’ said the Secretary of State. ‘Another dead end.’
‘Not quite. Now we have an accurate description of the man, and a good witness who can draw a photofit for us. Also, where it’s been surmise before, thanks to a fingerprint on an item, we now know for sure that the child was in that
caravan, alive. The usual motive for child-stealing is ransom. Whatever the purpose here, I believe that there will be a further message from the man, and I expect that it will be addressed to me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because of the lengths to which he went to contact me, personally, on Saturday evening. He could have taken his pick from dozens of working phone boxes all over East Lothian or Berwick, yet he came to Gullane to make his call from my very own doorstep. Whether it was risk-taking for thrills, or simply his way of rubbing my nose in it, it was thought out, deliberate, and directed at me.
‘This is personal, I tell you. This man is a ghost from somewhere in my past, only he’s a very live one.’
Anderson frowned. ‘I take it that you’re looking into all the people who might have grudges against you.’
‘Of course, but without success so far.’
The Secretary of State nodded. ‘I see.’ He swung round in his swivel chair and stared out of the window, across towards Calton Hill.
‘Bob,’ he said, at last, without looking round, ‘don’t you feel that it would be better if you were able to give one hundred per cent of your time to this investigation?’
Skinner thought of Proud Jimmy, and felt a tightening around his wrist, like the phantom jaws of a rottweiler.
‘No, sir,’ he replied, evenly, ‘I do not. I have an excellent Head of CID, in day-to-day charge and reporting to me. Added to that, if I am a linking factor in this crime, the arguments are all against me being informed personally.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Anderson continued, ‘I might feel happier.’
The detective felt his jaw tighten, and his eyes narrow, quite involuntarily. If Anderson had been looking at him, he might have felt less assured.
‘Secretary of State,’ he said evenly. ‘Please don’t play games with me. And most of all, don’t patronise me. I don’t honestly give a fuck about your happiness.
‘If you’ve got something to say, then please, as they say in American Football, let’s skip the bullshit and go straight to the nut-cutting.’
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